“ ‘Borrow’ the object the night before,” Raistlin had counseled him. “The storm will be frightening, and Caramon might take it into his head to leave. Besides, it will be easiest for you to slip into the room known as the Sacred Chamber of the Temple unnoticed while the storm rages. The storm will end in the morning, and then the Kingpriest and his ministers will begin the processional. They will be going to the Sacred Chamber, and it is there that the Kingpriest will make his demands of the gods.
“You must be in the chamber and you must activate the device at the very moment the Kingpriest ceases to speak—”
“How will it stop it?” Tas interrupted eagerly. “Will I see it shoot a ray of light up to heaven or something? Will it knock the Kingpriest flat?”
“No,” Raistlin answered, coughing softly, “it will not—um—knock the Kingpriest flat. But you are right about the light.”
“I am?” Tas’s mouth gaped open. “I just guessed! That’s fantastic! I must be getting good at this magic stuff.”
“Yes,” Raistlin replied dryly, “now, to continue before I was interrupted—”
“Sorry, it won’t happen again,” Tas apologized, then shut his mouth as Raistlin glared at him.
“You must sneak into the Sacred Chamber during the night. The area behind the altar is lined with curtains. Hide there and you will not be discovered.”
“Then I’ll stop the Cataclysm, go back to Caramon, and tell him all about it! I’ll be a hero—” Tas stopped, a sudden thought crossing his mind. “But, how can I be a hero if I stop something that never started? I mean, how will they know I did anything if I didn’t—”
“Oh, they’ll know.…” said Raistlin softly.
“They will? But I still don’t see—Oh, you’re busy, I guess. I suppose I should go? All right. Say, well, you’re leaving after this is all over,” Tas said, being rather firmly propelled toward the door by Raistlin’s hand on his shoulder. “Where are you going?”
“Where I choose,” said Raistlin.
“Could I come with you?” Tas asked eagerly.
“No, you’ll be needed back in your own time,” Raistlin answered, staring at the kender very strangely—or so Tas thought at the time. “To look after Caramon.…”
“Yes, I guess you’re right.” The kender sighed. “He does take a lot of looking after.” They reached the door. Tas regarded it for a moment, then looked up wistfully at Raistlin. “I don’t suppose you could … sort of swoosh me somewhere, like you did the last time? It’s great fun.…”
Checking a sigh, Raistlin obligingly “swooshed” the kender into a duck pond, to Tas’s vast amusement. The kender couldn’t recall, in fact, when Raistlin had been so nice to him.
It must be because of my ending the Cataclysm, Tas decided. He’s probably really grateful, just doesn’t know how to express it properly. Or maybe he’s not allowed to be grateful since he’s evil.
That was an interesting thought and one Tas considered as he waded out of the pond and went, dripping, back to the arena.
Tas recalled it again as he left the arena the night before the Cataclysm that wasn’t going to happen, but his thoughts about Raistlin were rudely interrupted. He hadn’t realized quite how bad the storm had grown and was somewhat amazed at the ferocity of the wind that literally picked him up and slammed him back against the stone wall of the arena when he first darted outside. After pausing a moment to recover his breath and check to see if anything was broken, the kender picked himself up and started off toward the Temple again, the magical device firmly in hand.
This time, he had presence of mind enough to hug the buildings, finding that the wind didn’t buffet him so there. Walking through the storm proved to be rather an exhilarating experience, in fact. Once lightning struck a tree next to him, smashing it to smithereens. (He had often wondered, what exactly was a smithereen?) Another time he misjudged the depth of the water running in the street and found himself being washed down the block at a rapid rate. This was amusing and would have been even more fun if he had been able to breathe. Finally, the water dumped him rather abruptly in an alley, where he was able to get back onto his feet and continue his journey.
Tas was almost sorry to reach the Temple after so many adventures, but—reminding himself of his Important Mission—he crept through the garden and made his way inside. Once there, it was, as Raistlin had predicted, easy to lose himself in the confusion created by the storm. Clerics were running everywhere, trying to mop up water and broken glass from shattered windows, relighting blown out torches, comforting those who could no longer stand the strain.
He had no idea where the Sacred Chamber was, but there was nothing he enjoyed more than wandering around strange places. Two or three hours (and several bulging pouches later), he ran across a room that precisely matched Raistlin’s description.
No torches lit the room; it was not being used at present, but flashes of lightning illuminated it brightly enough for the kender to see the altar and the curtains Raistlin had described. By this time, being rather fatigued, Tas was glad to rest. After investigating the room and finding it boringly empty, he made his way past the altar (empty as well) and ducked behind the curtains, rather hoping (even if he was tired) to find some kind of secret cave where the Kingpriest performed holy rites forbidden to the eyes of mortal men.
Looking around, he sighed. Nothing. Just a wall, covered by curtains. Sitting down behind the curtains, Tas spread out his cloak to dry, wrung the water out of his topknot, and—by the flashes of lightning coming through the stained glass windows—began to sort through the interesting objects that had made their way into his pouches.
After a while, his eyes grew too heavy to keep open and his yawns were beginning to hurt his jaws. Curling up on the floor, he drifted off to sleep, only mildly annoyed by the booming of the thunder. His last thought was to wonder if Caramon had missed him yet and, if so, was he very angry? …
The next thing Tas knew, it was quiet. Now, why that should have startled him out of perfectly sound sleep was at first a complete mystery. It was also somewhat of a mystery as to where he was, exactly, but then he remembered.
Oh, yes. He was in the Sacred Chamber of the Temple of the Kingpriest of Istar. Today was the day of the Cataclysm, or it would have been. Perhaps, more accurately, today wasn’t the day of the Cataclysm. Or today had been the day of the Cataclysm. Finding this all very confusing—altering time was such a bother—Tas decided not to think about it and to try to figure out, instead, why it was so quiet.
Then, it occurred to him. The storm had stopped! Just like Raistlin said it would. Rising to his feet, he peeked out from between the curtains into the Sacred Chamber. Through the windows, he could see bright sunlight. Tas gulped in excitement.
He had no idea what time it was but, from the brilliance of the sunlight, it must be close to midmorning. The processional would start soon, he remembered, and would take a while to wind through the Temple. The Kingpriest had called upon the gods at High Watch, when the sun reached its zenith in the sky.
Sure enough, just as Tas was thinking about it, bells pealed out, right above him, it seemed, their clanging startling him more than the thunder. For a moment he wondered if he might be doomed to go through life hearing nothing but bonging sounds ring in his ears. Then the bells in the tower above stopped and, after a few moments more, so did the bells in his head. Heaving a sigh of relief, he peeked out between the curtains into the Chamber again and was just wondering if there was a chance someone might come back here to clean when he saw a shadowy figure slip into the room.
Tas drew back. Keeping the curtains open only a crack, he peered through with one eye. The figure’s head was bowed, its steps were slow and uncertain. It paused a moment to lean against one of the stone benches that flanked the altar as if too tired to continue further, then it sank down to its knees. Though it was dressed in white robes like nearly everyone in the Temple, Tas thought this figure looked familiar, so, when he was fairly ce
rtain the figure’s attention wasn’t on him, he risked widening the opening.
“Crysania!” he said to himself with interest. “I wonder why she’s here so early?” Then he was seized with a sudden overwhelming disappointment. Suppose she was here to stop the Cataclysm as well! “Drat! Raistlin said I could,” Tas muttered.
Then, he realized she was talking—either to herself or praying—Tas wasn’t sure which. Crowding as close to the curtain as he dared, he listened to her soft words.
“Paladine, greatest, wisest god of eternal goodness, hear my voice on this most tragic of days. I know I cannot stop what is to come. And, perhaps it is a sign of a lack of faith that I even question what you do. All I ask is this—help me to understand! If it is true that I must die, let me know why. Let me see that my death will serve some purpose. Show me that I have not failed in all I came back here to accomplish.
“Grant that I may stay here, unseen, and listen to what no mortal ever heard and lived to relate—the words of the Kingpriest. He is a good man, too good, perhaps.” Crysania’s head sank into her hands. “My faith hangs by a thread,” she said so softly Tas could barely hear. “Show me some justification for this terrible act. If it is your capricious whim, I will die as I was intended to, perhaps, among those who long ago lost their faith in the true gods—”
“Say not that they lost their faith, Revered Daughter,” came a voice from the air that so startled the kender he nearly fell through the curtains. “Say, rather, that their faith in the true gods was replaced by their faith in false ones—money, power, ambition.…”
Crysania raised her head with a gasp that Tas echoed, but it was the sight of her face, not the sight of a shimmering figure of white materializing beside her, that made the kender draw in his breath. Crysania had obviously not slept for nights, her eyes were dark and wide, sunken into her face. Her cheeks were hollow, her lips dry and cracked; She had not bothered to comb her hair—it fell down about her face like black cobwebs as she stared in fear and alarm at the strange, ghostly figure.
“Who-who are you?” she faltered.
“My name is Loralon. And I have come to take you away. You were not intended to die, Crysania. You are the last true cleric now on Krynn and you may join us, who left many days ago.
“Loralon, the great cleric of Silvanesti,” Crysania murmured. For long moments, she looked at him, then, bowing her head, she turned away, her eyes looking toward the altar. “I cannot go,” she said firmly, her hands clasped nervously before her as she knelt. “Not yet. I must hear the Kingpriest. I must understand.…”
“Don’t you understand enough already?” Loralon asked sternly. “What have you felt in your soul this night?”
Crysania swallowed, then brushed back her hair with a trembling hand. “Awe, humility,” she whispered. “Surely, all must feel that before the power of the gods.…”
“Nothing else?” Loralon pursued. “Envy, perhaps? A desire to emulate them? To exist on the same level?”
“No!” Crysania answered angrily, then flushed, averting her face.
“Come with me now, Crysania,” Loralon persisted. “A true faith needs no demonstrations, no justification for believing what it knows in its heart to be right.”
“The words my heart speaks echo hollow in my mind,” Crysania returned. “They are no more than shadows. I must see the truth, shining in the clear light of day! No, I will not leave with you. I will stay and hear what he says! I will know if the gods are justified!”
Loralon regarded her with a look that was more pitying than angry. “You do not look into the light, you stand in front of it. The shadow you see cast before you is your own. The next time you will see clearly, Crysania, is when you are blinded by darkness … darkness unending. Farewell, Revered Daughter.”
Tasslehoff blinked and looked around. The old elf was gone! Had he ever really been there? the kender wondered uneasily. But he must have, because Tas could still remember his words. He felt chilled and confused. What had he meant? It all sounded so strange. And what had Crysania meant—being sent here to die?
Then the kender cheered up. Neither of them knew that the Cataclysm wasn’t going to happen. No wonder Crysania was feeling gloomy and out of sorts.
“She’ll probably perk up quite a bit when she finds out that the world isn’t going to be devastated after all,” Tas said to himself.
And then the kender heard distant voices raised in song. The processional! It was beginning. Tas almost whooped in excitement. Fearing discovery, he quickly covered his mouth with his hands. Then he took a last, quick peek out at Crysania. She sat forlornly, cringing at the sound of the music. Distorted by distance, it was shrill, harsh, and unlovely. Her face was so ashen Tas was momentarily alarmed, but then he saw her lips press together firmly, her eyes darken. She stared, unseeing, at her folded hands.
“You’ll feel better soon,” Tas told her silently, then the kender ducked back behind the curtain to remove the wonderful magical device from his pouch. Sitting down, he held the device in his hands, and waited.
The processional lasted forever, at least as far as the kender was concerned. He yawned. Important Missions were certainly dull, he decided irritably, and hoped someone would appreciate what he’d gone through when it was all over. He would have dearly loved to tinker with the magical device, but Raistlin had impressed upon him that he was to leave it alone until the time came and then follow the instructions to the letter. So intent had been the look in Raistlin’s eyes and so cold his voice that it had penetrated even the kender’s careless attitude. Tas sat holding the magical object, almost afraid to move.
Then, just as he was beginning to give up in despair (and his left foot was slowing losing all sensation), he heard a burst of beautiful voices right outside the room! A brilliant light welled through the curtains. The kender fought his curiosity, but finally couldn’t resist just one peep. He had, after all, never seen the Kingpriest. Telling himself that he needed to see what was going on, he peeked through the crack in the curtains again.
The light nearly blinded him.
“Great Reorx!” the kender muttered, covering his eyes with his hands. He recalled once looking up at the sun when a child, trying to figure out if it really was a giant gold coin and, if so, how he could get it out of the sky. He’d been forced to go to bed for three days with cold rags over his eyes.
“I wonder how he does that?” Tas asked, daring to peep through his fingers again. He stared into the heart of the light just as he had stared into the sun. And he saw the truth. The sun wasn’t a golden coin. The Kingpriest was just a man.
The kender did not experience the terrible shock felt by Crysania when she saw through the illusion to the real man. Perhaps this was because Tas had no preconceived notions of what the Kingpriest should look like. Kender hold absolutely no one and nothing in awe (though Tas had to admit he felt a bit queer around the death knight, Lord Soth). He was, therefore, only mildly surprised to see that the most holy Kingpriest was simply a middle-aged human, balding, with pale blue eyes and the terrified look of a deer caught in a thicket. Tas was surprised—and disappointed.
“I’ve gone to all this trouble for nothing,” the kender thought irritably. “There isn’t going to be a Cataclysm. I don’t think this man could make me angry enough to throw a pie at him, let alone a whole fiery mountain.”
But Tas had nothing else to do (and he was really dying to work the magical device), so he decided to stick around and watch and listen. Something might happen after all. He tried to see Crysania, wondering how she felt about this, but the halo of light surrounding the Kingpriest was so bright he couldn’t see anything else in the room.
The Kingpriest walked to the front of the altar, moving slowly, his eyes darting left and right. Tas wondered if the Kingpriest would see Crysania, but apparently he was blinded by his own light as well, for his eyes passed right over her. Arriving at the altar, he did not kneel to pray, as had Crysania. Tas thought he might have sta
rted to, but then the Kingpriest angrily shook his head and remained standing.
From his vantage point behind and slightly to the left of the altar, Tas had an excellent look at the man’s face. Once again, the kender gripped the magical device in excitement. For, the look of sheer terror in the watery eyes had been hidden by a mask of arrogance.
“Paladine,” the Kingpriest trumpeted, and Tas had the distinct impression that the man was conferring with some underling. “Paladine, you see the evil that surrounds me! You have been witness to the calamities that have been the scourge of Krynn these past days. You know that this evil is directed against me, personally, because I am the only one fighting it! Surely you must see now that this doctrine of balance will not work!”
The Kingpriest’s voice lost the harsh blare, becoming soft as a flute. “I understand, of course. You had to practice this doctrine in the old days, when you were weak. But you have me now, your right arm, your true representative upon Krynn. With our combined might, I can sweep evil from this world! Destroy the ogre races! Bring the wayward humans into line! Find new homelands far away for the dwarves and kender and gnomes, those races not of your own creation—”
How insulting! Tas thought, incensed. I’ve half a mind to let them go ahead and drop a mountain on him!
“And I will rule in glory,” the Kingpriest’s voice rose to a crescendo, “creating an age to rival even the fabled Age of Dreams!” The Kingpriest spread his arms wide. “You gave this and more to Huma, Paladine, who was nothing but a renegade knight of low birth! I demand that you give me, too, the power to drive away the shadows of evil that darken this land!”
The Kingpriest fell silent, waiting, his arms upraised.
Tas held his breath, waiting, too, clutching the magical device in his hands.
Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Page 41
