Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends)

by Tracy Hickman

  “Well, we got inside, though not quite the way I expected,” Caramon muttered. “Did you hear what they were saying?”

  “No, not after ‘cu-cut’ … after that word. You had part of your hand over my ears,” Tas said accusingly.

  “They … they sounded like … the ladies invited m-men here for-for … you know.…”

  “Look, Caramon,” Tas said, exasperated. “You got your sign. They let us in. They were probably just teasing you. You know how gullible you are. You’ll believe anything! Tika’s always saying so.”

  A memory of Tika came to Caramon’s mind. He could hear her say those very words, laughing. It cut him like a knife. Glaring at Tas, he shoved the memory away immediately.

  “Yeah,” he said bitterly, flushing, “you’re probably right. They’re having their joke on me. And I fell for it, too! But”—he lifted his head and, for the first time, looked around at the splendor of the Temple. He began to realize where he was—this holy place, this palace of the gods. Once more he felt the reverence and awe he had experienced as he stood gazing at it, bathed in Solinari’s radiant light—“you’re right—the gods have given us our sign!”

  There was a corridor in the Temple where few came and, of those that did, none went voluntarily. If forced to come here on some errand, they did their business quickly and left as swiftly as possible.

  There was nothing wrong with the corridor itself. It was just as splendid as the other halls and corridors of the Temple. Beautiful tapestries done in muted colors graced its walls, soft carpets covered its marble floors, graceful statues filled its shadowy alcoves. Ornately carved wooden doors opened off of it, leading to rooms as pleasingly decorated as other rooms in the Temple. But the doors opened no longer. All were locked. All the rooms were empty—all except one.

  That room was at the very far end of the corridor, which was dark and silent even in the daytime. It was as if the occupant of this one room cast a pall over the very floor he walked, the very air he breathed. Those who entered this corridor complained of feeling smothered. They gasped for breath like someone dying inside a burning house.

  This room was the room of Fistandantilus. It had been his for years, since the Kingpriest came to power and drove the magic-users from their Tower in Palanthas—the Tower where Fistandantilus had reigned as Head of the Conclave.

  What bargain had they struck—the leading powers of good and of evil in the world? What deal had been made that allowed the Dark One to live inside the most beautiful, most holy place on Krynn? None knew, many speculated. Most believed it was by the grace of the Kingpriest, a noble gesture to a defeated foe.

  But even he—even the Kingpriest himself—did not walk this corridor. Here, at least, the great mage reigned in dark and terrifying supremacy.

  At the far end of the corridor stood a tall window. Heavy plush curtains were drawn over it, blotting out the sunlight in the daytime, the moons’ rays at night. Rarely did light penetrate the curtains’ thick folds. But this night, perhaps because the servants had been driven by the Head of Household to clean and dust the corridor, the curtains were parted the slightest bit, letting Solinari’s silver light shine into the bleak, empty corridor. The beams of the moon the dwarves call Night Candle pierced the darkness like a long, thin blade of glittering steel.

  Or perhaps the thin, white finger of a corpse, Caramon thought, looking down that silent corridor. Stabbing through the glass, the finger of moonlight ran the length of the carpeted floor and, reaching the length of the hall, touched him where he stood at the end.

  “That’s his door,” the kender said in such a soft whisper Caramon could barely hear him over the beating of his own heart. “On the left.”

  Caramon reached beneath his cloak once more, seeking the dagger’s hilt, its reassuring presence. But the handle of the knife was cold. He shuddered as he touched it and quickly withdrew his hand.

  It seemed a simple thing, to walk down this corridor. Yet he couldn’t move. Perhaps it was the enormity of what he contemplated—to take a man’s life, not in battle, but as he slept. To kill a man in his sleep—of all times, the time we are most defenseless, when we place ourselves in the hands of the gods. Was there a more heinous, cowardly crime?

  The gods gave me a sign, Caramon reminded himself, and sternly he made himself remember the dying Barbarian. He made himself remember his brother’s torment in the Tower. He remembered how powerful this evil mage was when awake. Caramon drew a deep breath and grasped the hilt of the dagger firmly. Holding it tightly, though he did not draw it from his belt, he began to walk down the still corridor, the moonlight seeming now to beckon him on.

  He felt a presence behind him, so close that, when he stopped, Tas bumped into him.

  “Stay here,” Caramon ordered.

  “No—” Tas began to protest, but Caramon hushed him.

  “You’ve got to. Someone has to stand on watch at this end of the corridor. If anyone comes, make a noise or something.”

  “But—”

  Caramon glared down at the kender. At the sight of the big man’s grim expression and cold, emotionless glare, Tas gulped and nodded. “I-I’ll just stand over there, in that shadow.” He pointed and crept away.

  Caramon waited until he was certain Tas wouldn’t “accidentally” follow him. But the kender hunched miserably in the shadow of huge, potted tree that had died months ago. Caramon turned and continued on.

  Standing next to the brittle skeleton whose dry leaves rustled when the kender moved, Tas watched Caramon walk down the hallway. He saw the big man reach the end, stretch out a hand, and wrap it around the door handle. He saw Caramon give it a gentle push. It yielded to his pressure and opened silently. Caramon disappeared inside the room.

  Tasslehoff began to shake. A horrible, sick feeling spread from his stomach throughout his body, a whimper escaped his lips. Clasping his hand over his mouth so that he wouldn’t yelp, the kender pressed himself up against the wall and thought about dying, alone, in the dark.

  Caramon eased his big body around the door, opening it only a crack in case the hinges should squeak. But it was silent. Everything in the room was silent. No noise from anywhere in the Temple came into this chamber, as if all life itself had been swallowed by the choking darkness. Caramon felt his lungs burn, and he remembered vividly the time he had nearly drowned in the Blood Sea of Istar. Firmly, he resisted the urge to gasp for air.

  He paused a moment in the doorway, trying to calm his racing heart, and looked around the room. Solinari’s light streamed in through a gap in the heavy curtains that covered the window. A thin sliver of silver light slit the darkness, slicing through it in a narrow cut that led straight to the bed at the far end of the room.

  The chamber was sparsely furnished. Caramon saw the shapeless bulk of a heavy black robe draped over a wooden chair. Soft leather boots stood next to it. No fire burned in the grate, the night was too warm. Gripping the hilt of the knife, Caramon drew it slowly and crossed the room, guided by the moon’s silver light.

  A sign from the gods, he thought, his pounding heartbeat nearly choking him. He felt fear, fear such as he had rarely experienced in his life—a raw, gut-wrenching, bowel-twisting fear that made his muscles jerk and dried his throat. Desperately, he forced himself to swallow so that he wouldn’t cough and wake the sleeper.

  I must do this quickly! he told himself, more than half afraid he might faint or be sick. He crossed the room, the soft carpet muffling his swift footsteps. Now he could see the bed and the figure asleep within it. He could see the figure clearly, the moonlight slicing a neat line across the floor, up the bedstead, over the coverlet, slanting upward to the head lying on the pillow, its hood pulled over the face to blot out the light.

  “Thus the gods point my way,” Caramon murmured, unaware that he was speaking. Creeping up to the side of the bed, he paused, the dagger in his hand, listening to the quiet breathing of his victim, trying to detect any change in the deep, even rhythm that would tell h
im he had been discovered.

  In and out … in and out … the breathing was strong, deep, peaceful. The breathing of a healthy young man. Caramon shuddered, recalling how old this wizard was supposed to be, recalling the dark tales he had heard about how Fistandantilus renewed his youth. The man’s breathing was steady, even. There was no break, no quickening. The moonlight poured in, cold, unwavering, a sign.…

  Caramon raised the dagger. One thrust—swift and neat—deep in the chest and it would be over. Moving forward, Caramon hesitated. No, before he struck, he would look upon the face—the face of the man who had tortured his brother.

  No! Fool! a voice screamed inside Caramon. Stab now, quickly! Caramon even lifted the knife again, but his hand shook. He had to see the face! Reaching out a trembling hand, he gently touched the black hood. The material was soft and yielding. He pushed it aside.

  Solinari’s silver moonlight touched Caramon’s hand, then touched the face of the sleeping mage, bathing it in radiance. Caramon’s hand stiffened, growing white and cold as that of a corpse as he stared down at the face on the pillow.

  It was not the face of an ancient evil wizard, scarred with countless sins. It was not even the face of some tormented being whose life had been stolen from his body to keep the dying mage alive.

  It was the face of a young magic-user, weary from long nights of study at his books, but now relaxed, finding welcome rest. It was the face of one whose tenacious endurance of constant pain was marked in the firm, unyielding lines about the mouth. It was a face as familiar to Caramon as his own, a face he had looked upon in sleep countless times, a face he had soothed with cooling water.…

  The hand holding the dagger stabbed down, plunging the blade into the mattress. There was a wild, strangled shriek, and Caramon fell to his knees beside the bed, clutching at the coverlet with fingers curled in agony. His big body shook convulsively, wracked with shuddering sobs.

  Raistlin opened his eyes and sat up, blinking in Solinari’s bright light. He drew his hood over his eyes once more, then, sighing in irritation, reached out and carefully removed the dagger from his brother’s nerveless grip.

  CHAPTER

  9

  his was truly stupid, my brother,” said Raistlin, turning the dagger over in his slender hands, studying it idly. “I find it hard to believe, even of you.”

  Kneeling on the floor by the bedside, Caramon looked up at his twin. His face was haggard, drawn and deathly pale. He opened his mouth.

  “ ‘I don’t understand, Raist,’ ” Raistlin whined, mocking him.

  Caramon clamped his lips shut, his face hardened into a dark, bitter mask. His eyes glanced at the dagger his brother still held. “Perhaps it would have been better if I hadn’t drawn aside the hood,” he muttered.

  Raistlin smiled, though his brother did not see him.

  “You had no choice,” he replied. Then he sighed and shook his head. “My brother, did you honestly think to simply walk into my room and murder me as I slept? You know what a light sleeper I am, have always been.”

  “No, not you!” Caramon cried brokenly, lifting his gaze. “I thought—” He could not go on.

  Raistlin stared at him, puzzled for a moment, then suddenly began to laugh. It was horrible laughter, ugly and taunting, and Tasslehoff—still standing at the end of the hall—clasped his hands over his ears at the sound, even as he began creeping down the corridor toward it to see what was going on.

  “You were going to murder Fistandantilus!” Raistlin said, regarding his brother with amusement. He laughed again at the thought. “Dear brother,” he said, “I had forgotten how entertaining you could be.”

  Caramon flushed, and rose unsteadily to his feet.

  “I was going to do it … for you,” he said. Walking over to the window, he pulled aside the curtain and stared moodily out into the courtyard of the Temple that shimmered with pearl and silver in Solinari’s light.

  “Of course you were,” Raistlin snapped, a trace of the old bitterness creeping into his voice. “Why did you ever do anything, except for me?”

  Speaking a sharp word of command, Raistlin caused a bright light to fill the room, gleaming from the Staff of Magius that leaned against the wall in a corner. The mage threw back the coverlet and rose from his bed. Walking over to the grate, he spoke another word and flames leaped up from the bare stone. Their orange light beat upon his pale, thin face and was reflected in the clear, brown eyes.

  “Well, you are late, my brother,” Raistlin continued, holding his hands out to warm them at the blaze, flexing and exercising his supple fingers. “Fistandantilus is dead. By my hands.”

  Caramon turned around sharply to stare at his brother, caught by the odd tone in Raistlin’s voice. But his brother remained standing by the fire, staring into the flames.

  “You thought to walk in and stab him as he slept,” Raistlin murmured, a grim smile on his thin lips. “The greatest mage who ever lived—up until now.”

  Caramon saw his brother lean against the mantelpiece, as if suddenly weak.

  “He was surprised to see me,” said Raistlin softly. “And he mocked me, as he mocked me in the Tower. But he was afraid. I could see it in his eyes.

  “ ‘So, little mage,’ ” Fistandantilus sneered, ‘and how did you get here? Did the great Par-Salian send you?’

  “ ‘I came on my own,’ I told him. ‘I am the Master of the Tower now.’

  “He had not expected that. ‘Impossible,’ he said, laughing. ‘I am the one whose coming the prophecy foretold. I am master of past and present. When I am ready, I will return to my property.’

  “But the fear grew in his eyes, even as he spoke, for he read my thoughts. ‘Yes,’ I answered his unspoken words, ‘the prophecy did not work as you hoped. You intended to journey from the past to the present, using the lifeforce you wrenched from me to keep you alive. But you forgot, or perhaps you didn’t care, that I could draw upon your spiritual force! You had to keep me alive in order to keep sucking out my living juices. And—to that end—you gave me the words and taught me to use the dragon orb. When I lay dying at Astinus’s feet, you breathed air into this wretched body you had tortured. You brought me to the Dark Queen and beseeched her to give me the Key to unlock the mysteries of the ancient magic texts I could not read. And, when you were finally ready, you intended to enter the shattered husk of my body and claim it for your own.’ ”

  Raistlin turned to face his brother, and Caramon stepped back a pace, frightened at the hatred and fury he saw burning within the eyes, brighter than the dancing flames of the fire.

  “So he thought to keep me weak and frail. But I fought him! I fought him!” Raistlin repeated softly, intently, his gaze staring far away. “I used him! I used his spirit and I lived with the pain and I overcame it! ‘You are master of the past,’ I told him, ‘but you lack the strength to get into the present. I am master of the present, about to become master of the past!’ ”

  Raistlin sighed, his hand dropped, the light flickered in his eyes and died, leaving them dark and haunted. “I killed him,” he murmured, “but it was a bitter battle.”

  “You killed him? They-they said you came back to learn from him,” Caramon stammered, confusion twisting his face.

  “I did,” Raistlin said softly. “Long months I spent with him, in another guise, revealing myself to him only when I was ready. This time, I sucked him dry!”

  Caramon shook his head. “That’s impossible. You didn’t leave until the same time we did, that night.… At least that’s what the dark elf said—”

  Raistlin shook his head irritably. “Time to you, my brother. is a journey from sunrise to sunset. Time to those of us who have mastered its secrets is a journey beyond suns. Seconds become years, hours—millennia. I have walked these halls as Fistandantilus for months now. These last few weeks I have traveled to all the Towers of High Sorcery—those still standing, that is—to study and to learn. I have been with Lorac, in the elven kingdom, and taught him to us
e the dragon orb—a deadly gift, for one as weak and vain as he. It will snare him, later on. I have spent long hours with Astinus in the Great Library. And, before that, I studied with the great Fistandantilus. Other places I have visited, seeing horrors and wonders beyond your imagining. But, to Dalamar, for example, I have been gone no more than a day and a night. As have you.”

  This was beyond Caramon. Desperately, he sought to grab at some fraction of reality.

  “Then … does this mean that you’re … all right, now? I mean, in the present? In our time?” He gestured. “Your skin isn’t gold anymore, you’ve lost the hourglass eyes. You look … like you did when you were young, and we rode to the Tower, seven years ago. Will you be like that when we go back?”

  “No, my brother,” Raistlin said, speaking with the patience one uses explaining things to a child. “Surely Par-Salian explained this? Well, perhaps not. Time is a river. I have not changed the course of its flow. I have simply climbed out and jumped in at a point farther upstream. It carries me along its course. I—”

  Raistlin stopped suddenly, casting a sharp glance at the door. Then, with a swift motion of his hand, he caused the door to burst open and Tasslehoff Burrfoot tumbled inside, falling down face first.

  “Oh, hullo,” Tas said, cheerfully picking himself up off the floor. “I was just going to knock.” Dusting himself off, he turned eagerly to Caramon. “I have it figured out! You see—it used to be Fistandantilus becoming Raistlin becoming Fistandantilus. Only now it’s Fistandantilus becoming Raistlin becoming Fistandantilus, then becoming Raistlin again. See?”

  No, Caramon did not. Tas turned around to the mage. “Isn’t that right, Raist—”

  The mage didn’t answer. He was staring at Tasslehoff with such a queer, dangerous expression in his eyes that the kender glanced uneasily at Caramon and took a step or two nearer the warrior—just in case Caramon needed help, of course.

  Suddenly Raistlin’s hand made a swift, slight, summoning motion. Tasslehoff felt no sensation of movement, but there was a blurring in the room for half a heartbeat, and then he was being held by his collar within inches of Raistlin’s thin face.