Bells. Bells broke the stillness. Startled, Crysania sat up in bed, looking around wildly. Then, remembering the face she had seen, remembering the warmth of his body and the comfort she had found there, she put her aching head in her hands and wept.
Tasslehoff, on waking, at first felt disappointment. Today was Yule, he remembered, and also the day Raistlin said Dire Things would begin to happen. Looking around in the gray light that filtered through their window, the only dire thing Tas saw was Caramon, down on the floor, huffing and puffing his way grimly through morning exercises.
Although Caramon’s days were filled with weapons’ practice, working out with his team members, developing new parts of their routine, the big man still fought a never-ending battle with his weight. He had been taken off his diet and allowed to eat the same food as the others. But the sharp-eyed dwarf soon noticed that Caramon was eating about five times more than anyone else!
Once, the big man had eaten for pleasure. Now, nervous and unhappy and obsessed by thoughts of his brother, Caramon sought consolation in food as another might seek consolation in drink. (Caramon had, in fact, tried that once, ordering Tas to sneak a bottle of dwarf spirits in to him. But, unused to the strong alcohol, it had made him violently sick—much to the kender’s secret relief.)
Arack decreed, therefore, that Caramon could eat only if he performed a series of strenuous exercises each day. Caramon often wondered how the dwarf knew if he missed a day, since he did them early in the morning before anyone else was up. But Arack did know, somehow. The one morning Caramon had skipped the exercises, he had been denied access to the mess hall by a grinning, club-wielding Raag.
Growing bored with listening to Caramon grunt and groan and swear, Tas climbed up on a chair, peering out the window to see if there was anything dire happening outside. He felt cheered immediately.
“Caramon! Come look!” he called in excitement. “Have you ever seen a sky that peculiar shade before?”
“Ninety-nine, one hundred,” puffed the big man. Then Tas heard a large “ooof.” With a thud that shook the room, Caramon flopped down on his now rock-hard belly to rest. Then the big man heaved himself up off the stone floor and came to look out the barred window, mopping the sweat from his body with a towel.
Casting a bored glance outside, expecting nothing but an ordinary sunrise, the big man blinked, then his eyes opened wide.
“No,” he murmured, draping the towel around his neck and coming to stand behind Tas, “I never did. And I’ve seen some strange things in my time, too.”
“Oh, Caramon!” Tas cried, “Raistlin was right. He said—”
“Raistlin!”
Tas gulped. He hadn’t meant to bring that up.
“Where did you see Raistlin?” Caramon demanded, his voice deep and stern.
“In the Temple, of course,” Tas answered as if it were the most common thing in the world. “Didn’t I mention I went there yesterday?”
“Yes, but you—”
“Well, why else would I go except to see our friends?”
“You never—”
“I saw Lady Crysania and Raistlin. I’m sure I mentioned that. You never do listen to me, you know,” Tas complained, wounded. “You sit there on that bed, every night, brooding and sulking and talking to yourself. ‘Caramon,’ I could say, ‘the roof’s caving in,’ and you’d say, ‘That’s nice, Tas.’ ”
“Look, kender, I know that if I had heard you mention—”
“Lady Crysania, Raistlin, and I had a wonderful little chat,” Tas hurried on, “all about Yule—by the way, Caramon, you should see how beautifully they’ve decorated the Temple! It’s filled with roses and everbloom and, say, did I remember to give you that candy? Wait, it’s right over there in my pouch. Just a minute”—the kender tried to jump off the chait but Caramon had him cornered—“well, I guess it can wait. Where was I? Oh, yes”—seeing Caramon scowl—“Raistlin and Lady Crysania and I were talking and, oh, Caramon! It’s so exciting. Tika was right, she’s in love with your brother.”
Caramon blinked, having completely lost the thread of the conversation, which Tas, being rather careless with his pronouns, didn’t help.
“No, I don’t mean Tika’s in love with your brother,” Tas amended, seeing Caramon’s confusion. “I mean Lady Crysania’s in love with your brother! It was great fun. I was sort of leaning against Raistlin’s closed door, resting, waiting for them to finish their conversation, and I happened to glance in the keyhole and he almost kissed her, Caramon! Your brother! Can you imagine! But he didn’t.” The kender sighed. “He practically yelled at her to leave. She did, but she didn’t want to, I could tell. She was all dressed up and looked really pretty.”
Seeing Caramon’s face darken and the preoccupied look steal over it, Tas began to breathe a bit easier. “We got to talking about the Cataclysm, and Raistlin mentioned how Dire Things would begin happening today—Yule—as the gods tried to warn the people to change.”
“In love with him?” Caramon muttered. Frowning, he turned away, letting Tas slip off the chair.
“Right. Unmistakably,” the kender said glibly, hurrying over to his pouch and digging through it until he came to the batch of sweetmeats he had brought back. They were half-melted, sticking together in a gooey mass, and they had also acquired an outer coating of various bits and pieces from the kender’s pouch, but Tas was fairly certain Caramon would never notice. He was right. The big man accepted the treat and began to eat without even glancing at it.
“He needs a cleric, they said,” Caramon mumbled, his mouth full. “Were they right, after all? Is he going to go through with it? Should I let him? Should I try to stop him? Do I have the right to stop him? If she chooses to go with him, isn’t that her choice? Maybe that would be the best thing for him,” Caramon said softly, licking his sticky fingers. “Maybe, if she loves him enough.…”
Tasslehoff sighed in relief and sank down on his bed to wait for the breakfast call. Caramon hadn’t thought to ask the kender why he’d gone to see Raistlin in the first place. And Tas was certain now, that he’d never remember he hadn’t. His secret was safe.…
The sky was clear that Yule day, so clear it seemed one could look up into the vast dome that covered the world and see realms beyond. But, though everyone glanced up, few cared to fix their gazes upon it long enough to see anything. For the sky was indeed “a peculiar shade,” as Tas said—it was green.
A strange, noxious, ugly green that, combined with the stifling heat and the heavy, hard-to-breathe air, effectively sucked the joy and merriment out of Yule. Those forced to go outside to attend parties hurried through the sweltering streets, talking about the odd weather irritably, viewing it as a personal insult. But they spoke in hushed voices, each feeling a tiny sliver of fear prick their holiday spirit.
The party inside the Temple was somewhat more cheerful, being held in the Kingpriest’s chambers that were shut away from the outside world. None could see the strange sky, and all those who came within the presence of the Kingpriest felt their irritation and fear melt away. Away from Raistlin, Crysania was once again under the Kingpriest’s spell and sat near him a long time. She did not speak, she simply let his shining presence comfort her and banish the dark, nighttime thoughts. But she, too, had seen the green sky. Remembering Raistlin’s words, she tried to recall what she had heard of the Thirteen Days.
But it was all children’s tales that were muddled together with the dreams she had had last night. Surely, she thought, the Kingpriest will notice! He will heed the warnings.… She willed time to change or, if that were not possible, she willed the Kingpriest innocent. Sitting within his light, she banished from her mind the picture she had seen of the frightened mortal with his pale blue, darting eyes. She saw a strong man, denouncing the ministers who had deceived him, an innocent victim of their treachery.…
The crowd at the arena that day was sparse, most not caring to sit out beneath the green sky, whose color deepened and darkened more a
nd more fearfully as the day wore on.
The gladiators themselves were uneasy, nervous, and performed their acts half-heartedly. Those spectators who came were sullen, refusing to cheer, cat-calling and hurling gibes at even their favorites.
“Do you often have such skies?” Kiiri asked, glancing up with a shudder as she and Caramon and Pheragas stood in the corridors, awaiting their turn in the arena. “If so, I know why my people choose to live beneath the sea!”
“My father sailed the sea,” growled Pheragas, “as did my grandfather before him, as did I, before I tried to knock some sense into the first mate’s head with a belaying pin and got sent here for my pains. And I’ve never seen a sky this color. Or heard of one either. It bodes ill, I’ll wager.”
“No doubt,” Caramon said uncomfortably. It had suddenly begun to sink into the big man that the Cataclysm was thirteen days away! Thirteen days … and these two friends, who had grown as dear to him as Sturm and Tanis, these two friends would perish! The rest of the inhabitants of Istar meant little to him. From what he had seen, they were a selfish lot, living mainly for pleasure and money (though he found he could not look upon the children without a pang of sorrow), but these two—He had to warn them, somehow. If they left the city, they might escape.
Lost in his thoughts, he had paid little attention to the fight in the arena. It was between the Red Minotaur, so called because the fur that covered his bestial face had a distinctly reddish-brown cast to it, and a young fighter—a new man, who had arrived only a few weeks before. Caramon had watched the young man’s training with patronizing amusement.
But then he felt Pheragas, who was standing next to him, stiffen. Caramon’s gaze went immediately to the ring. “What is it?”
“That trident,” Pheragas said quietly, “have you ever seen one like it in the prop room?”
Caramon stared hard at the Red Minotaur’s weapon, squinting against the harsh sun blazing in the green-glazed sky. Slowly, he shook his head, feeling anger stir inside of him. The young man was completely outclassed by the minotaur, who had fought in the arena for months and who, in fact, was rivaling Caramon’s team for the championship. The only reason the young man had lasted as long as he had was the skilled showmanship of the minotaur, who blundered around in a pretended battle rage that actually won a few laughs from the audience.
“A real trident. Arack intends to blood the young man, no doubt,” Caramon muttered. “Look there, I was right,” pointing to three bleeding scratches that suddenly appeared on the young man’s chest.
Pheragas said nothing, only flicked a glance at Kiiri, who shrugged.
“What is it?” Caramon shouted above the roar of the crowd. The Red Minotaur had just won by neatly tripping up his opponent and pinning him to the mat, thrusting the points of the trident down around his neck.
The young man staggered to his feet, feigning shame, anger, and humiliation as he had been taught. He even shook his fist at his victorious opponent before he stalked from the arena. But, instead of grinning as he passed Caramon and his team, enjoying a shared joke on the audience, the young man appeared strangely preoccupied and never looked at them. His face was pale, Caramon saw, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. His face twisted with pain, and he had his hand clasped over the bloody scratches.
“Lord Onygion’s man,” Pheragas said quietly, laying a hand on Caramon’s arm. “Count yourself fortunate, my friend. You can quit worrying.”
“What?” Caramon gaped at the two in confusion. Then he heard a shrill scream and a thud from within the underground tunnel. Whirling around, Caramon saw the young man fall into a writhing heap on the floor, clutching his chest and screaming in agony.
“No!” Kiiri commanded, holding onto Caramon. “Our turn next. Look, Red Minotaur comes off.”
The minotaur sauntered past them, ignoring them as that race ignores all it considers beneath them. The Red Minotaur also walked past the dying young man without a glance. Arack came scurrying down the tunnel, Raag behind. With a gesture, the dwarf ordered the ogre to remove the now lifeless body.
Caramon hesitated, but Kiiri sank her nails into his arm, dragging him out into the hideous sunlight. “The score for the Barbarian is settled,” she hissed out of the corner of her mouth. “Your master had nothing to do with it, apparently. It was Lord Onygion, and now he and Quarath are even.”
The crowd began to cheer and the rest of Kiiri’s words were lost. The spectators had begun to forget their oppression at the sight of their favorite trio. But Caramon didn’t hear them. Raistlin had told him the truth! He hadn’t had anything to do with the Barbarian’s death. It had been coincidence, or perhaps the dwarf’s perverted idea of a joke. Caramon felt a sensation of relief flow over him.
He could go home! At last he understood. Raistlin had tried to tell him. Their paths were different, but his brother had the right to walk his as he chose. Caramon was wrong, the magic-users were wrong, Lady Crysania was wrong. He would go home and explain. Raistlin wasn’t harming anyone, he wasn’t a threat. He simply wanted to pursue his studies in peace.
Walking out into the arena, Caramon waved back to the cheering crowd in elation.
The big man even enjoyed that day’s fighting. The bout was rigged, of course, so that his team would win—setting up the final battle between them and the Red Minotaur on the day of the Cataclysm. But Caramon didn’t need to worry about that. He would be long gone, back at home with Tika. He would warn his two friends first, of course, and urge them to leave this doomed city. Then he’d apologize to his brother, tell him he understood, take Lady Crysania and Tasslehoff back to their own time, and begin his life anew. He’d leave tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.
But it was at the moment when Caramon and his team were taking their bows after a well-acted battle that the cyclone struck the Temple of Istar.
The green sky had deepened to the color of dark and stagnant swamp water when the swirling clouds appeared, snaking down out of the vast emptiness to wrap their sinuous coils about one of the seven towers of the Temple and tear it from its foundations. Lifting it into the air, the cyclone broke the marble into fragments fine as hail and sent it rattling down upon the city in a stinging rain.
No one was hurt seriously, though many suffered small cuts from being struck by the sharp pieces of rock. The part of the Temple that was destroyed was used for study and for the work of the church. It had—fortunately—been empty during the holiday. But the inhabitants of the Temple and the city itself were thrown into a panic.
Fearing that cyclones might start descending everywhere, people fled the arena and clogged the streets in panicked efforts to reach their homes. Within the Temple, the Kingpriest’s musical voice fell silent, his light wavered. After surveying the wreckage, he and his ministers—the Revered Sons and Daughters of Paladine—descended to an inner sanctuary to discuss the matter. Everyone else hurried about, trying to clean up, the wind having overturned furniture, knocked paintings off the walls, and sent clouds of dust drifting down over everything.
This is the beginning, Crysania thought fearfully, trying to force her numb hands to quit shaking as she picked up fragments of fine china from the dining hall. This is only the beginning …
And it will get worse.
CHAPTER
14
t is the forces of evil, working to defeat me,” cried the Kingpriest, his musical voice sending a thrill of courage through the souls of those listening. “But I will not give in! Neither must you! We must be strong in the face of this threat.…”
“No,” Crysania whispered to herself in despair. “No, you have it all wrong! You don’t understand! How can you be so blind!”
She was sitting at Morning Prayers, twelve days after the First of the Thirteen Warnings had been given—but had not been heeded. Since then, reports had poured in from all parts of the continent, telling of other strange events—a new one each day.
“King Lorac reports that, in Silvanesti, the trees we
pt blood for an entire day,” the Kingpriest recounted, his voice swelling with the awe and horror of the events he related. “The city of Palanthas is covered in a dense white fog so thick people wander around lost if they venture out into the streets.
“In Solamnia, no fires will burn. Their hearths lie cold and barren. The forges are shut down, the coals might as well be ice for all the warmth they give. Yet, on the plains of Abanasinia, the prairie grass has caught fire. The flames rage out of control, filling the skies with black smoke and driving the Plainsmen from their tribal lodges.
“Just this morning, the griffons carried word that the elven city of Qualinost is being invaded by the forest animals, suddenly turned strange and savage—”
Crysania could bear it no longer. Though the women glanced at her in shock as she stood up, she ignored their glowering looks and left the Services, fleeing into the corridors of the Temple.
A jagged flash of lightning blinded her, the vicious crack of thunder immediately following made her cover her face with her hands.
“This must cease or I will go mad!” she murmured brokenly, cowering in a corner.
For twelve days, ever since the cyclone, a thunderstorm raged over Istar, flooding the city with rain and hail. The flash of lightning and peals of thunder were almost continuous, shaking the Temple, destroying sleep, battering the mind. Tense, numb with fatigue and exhaustion and terror, Crysania sank down in a chair, her head in her hands.
A gentle touch on her arm made her start in alarm, jumping up. She faced a tall, handsome young man wrapped in a sopping wet cloak. She could see the outlines of strong, muscular shoulders.
Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Page 38
