Test of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  “A dark elf!” Tanis said in astonishment, speaking before he thought. He flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. “It’s just that I’ve never met—”

  “One of my kind?” Dalamar finished smoothly, a faint smile upon his cold, handsome, expressionless elven features. “No, I don’t suppose you would have. We who are ‘cast from the light,’ as they say, do not often venture onto the sunlit planes of existence.” His smile grew warmer, suddenly, and Tanis saw a wistful look in the dark elf’s eyes as their gaze went to the grove of aspens where he had been standing. “Sometimes, though, even we grow homesick.”

  Tanis’s gaze, too, went to the aspens—of all trees most beloved of the elves. He smiled, too, feeling much more at ease. Tanis had walked his own dark roads, and had come very near tumbling into several yawning chasms. He could understand.

  “The hour for my appointment draws near,” he said. “And, from what you said, I gather that you are somehow involved in this. Perhaps we should continue—”

  “Certainly.” Dalamar seemed to recollect himself. He followed Tanis onto the green lawn without hesitation. Tanis, turning, was considerably startled, therefore, to see a swift spasm of pain contort the elf’s delicate features and to see him flinch, visibly.

  “What is it?” Tanis stopped. “Are you unwell? Can I help—”

  Dalamar forced his pain-filled features into a twisted smile. “No, Half-Elven,” he said. “There is nothing you can do to help. Nor am I unwell. Much worse would you look, if you stepped into the Shoikan Grove that guards my dwelling place.”

  Tanis nodded in understanding, then, almost unwillingly, glanced into the distance at the dark, grim Tower that loomed over Palanthas. As he looked at it, a strange impression came over him. He looked back at the plain white Temple, then over again at the Tower. Seeing them together, it was as if he were seeing each for the first time. Both looked more complete, finished, whole, than they had when viewed separately and apart. This was only a fleeting impression and one he did not even think about until later. Now, he could only think of one thing—

  “Then you live there? With Rai—With him?” Try as he might, Tanis knew he could not speak the archmage’s name without bitter anger, and so he avoided it altogether.

  “He is my Shalafi,” answered Dalamar in a pain-tightened voice.

  “So you are his apprentice,” Tanis responded, recognizing the elven word for Master. He frowned. “Then what are you doing here? Did he send you?” If so, thought the half-elf, I will leave this place, if I have to walk back to Solanthas.

  “No,” Dalamar replied, his face draining of all color. “But it is of him we will speak.” The dark elf cast his hood over his head. When he spoke, it was obviously with intense effort. “And now, I must beg of you to move swiftly. I have a charm, given me by Elistan, that will help me through this trial. But it is not one I care to prolong.”

  Elistan giving charms to black-robed magic-users? Raistlin’s apprentice? Absolutely mystified, Tanis agreeably quickened his steps.

  “Tanis, my friend!”

  Elistan, cleric of Paladine and head of the church on the continent of Ansalon, reached out his hand to the half-elf. Tanis clasped the man’s hand warmly, trying not to notice how wasted and feeble was the cleric’s once strong, firm grip. Tanis also fought to control his face, endeavoring to keep the feelings of shock and pity from registering on his features as he stared down at the frail, almost skeletal, figure resting in a bed, propped up by pillows.

  “Elistan—” Tanis began warmly.

  One of the white-robed clerics hovering near their leader glanced up at the half-elf and frowned.

  “That is, R-revered Son”—Tanis stumbled over the formal title—“you are looking well.”

  “And you, Tanis Half-Elven, have degenerated into a liar,” Elistan remarked, smiling at the pained expression Tanis tried desperately to keep off his face.

  Elistan patted Tanis’s sun-browned hand with his thin, white fingers. “And don’t fool with that ‘Revered Son’ nonsense. Yes, I know it’s only proper and correct, Garad, but this man knew me when I was a slave in the mines of Pax Tharkas. Now, go along, all of you,” he said to the hovering clerics. “Bring what we have to make our guests comfortable.”

  His gaze went to the dark elf who had collapsed into a chair near the fire that burned in Elistan’s private chambers. “Dalamar,” Elistan said gently, “this journey cannot have been an easy one for you. I am indebted to you that you have made it. But, here in my quarters you can, I believe, find ease. What will you take?”

  “Wine,” the dark elf managed to reply through lips that were stiff and ashen. Tanis saw the elf’s hands tremble on the arm of the chair.

  “Bring wine and food for our guests.” Elistan told the clerics who were filing out of the room, many casting glances of disapproval at the black-robed mage. “Escort Astinus here at once, upon his arrival, then see that we are not disturbed.”

  “Astinus?” Tanis gaped. “Astinus, the Chronicler?”

  “Yes, Half-Elven,” Elistan smiled once again. “Dying lends one special significance. ‘They stand in line to see me, who once would not have glanced my way.’ Isn’t that how the old man’s poem went? There now, Half-Elven. The air is cleared. Yes, I know I am dying. I have known for a long time. My months dwindle to weeks. Come, Tanis. You have seen men die before. What was it you told me the Forestmaster said to you in Darken Wood—‘we do not mourn the loss of those who die fulfilling their destinies.’ My life has been fulfilled, Tanis—much more than I could ever have imagined.” Elistan glanced out the window, out to the spacious lawns, the flowering gardens, and—far in the distance—the dark Tower of High Sorcery.

  “It was given me to bring hope back to the world, Half-Elven,” Elistan said softly. “Hope and healing. What man can say more? I leave knowing that the church has been firmly established once again. There are clerics among all the races now. Yes, even kender.” Elistan, smiling, ran a hand through his white hair. “Ah,” he sighed, “what a trying time that was for our faith, Tanis! We are still unable to determine exactly what all is missing. But they are a good-hearted, good-souled people. Whenever I started to lose patience, I thought of Fizban—Paladine, as he revealed himself to us—and the special love he bore your little friend, Tasslehoff.”

  Tanis’s face darkened at the mention of the kender’s name, and it seemed to him that Dalamar looked up, briefly, from where he had been staring into the dancing flames. But Elistan did not notice.

  “My only regret is that I leave no one truly capable of taking over after me,” Elistan shook his head. “Garad is a good man. Too good. I see the makings of another Kingpriest in him. But he doesn’t understand yet that the balance must be maintained, that we are all needed to make up this world. Is that not so, Dalamar?”

  To Tanis’s surprise, the dark elf nodded his head. He had cast his hood aside and had been able to drink some of the red wine the clerics brought to him. Color had returned to his face, and his hands trembled no longer. “You are wise, Elistan,” the mage said softly. “I wish others were as enlightened.”

  “Perhaps it is not wisdom so much as the ability to see things from all sides, not just one,” Elistan turned to Tanis. “You, Tanis, my friend. Did you not notice and appreciate the view as you came?” He gestured feebly to the window, through which the Tower of High Sorcery was plainly visible.

  “I’m not certain I know what you mean.” Tanis hedged, uncomfortable as always about sharing his feelings.

  “Yes, you do, Half-Elven,” Elistan said with a return of his old crispness. “You looked at the Tower and you looked at the Temple and you thought how right it was they should be so near. Oh, there were many who argued long against this site for the Temple. Garad and, of course, Lady Crysania—”

  At the mention of that name, Dalamar choked, coughed, and set the wine glass down hurriedly. Tanis stood up, unconsciously beginning to pace the room—as was his custom—when, realizing
that this might disturb the dying man, he sat back down again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

  “Has there been word of her?” he asked in a low voice.

  “I am sorry, Tanis,” Elistan said gently, “I did not mean to distress you. Truly, you must stop blaming yourself. What she did, she chose to do of her own free will. Nor would I have had it otherwise. You could not have stopped her, nor saved her from her fate—whatever that may be. No, there has been no word of her.”

  “Yes, there has,” Dalamar said in a cold, emotionless voice that drew the immediate attention of both men in the room. “That is one reason I called you together.”

  “You called!” Tanis repeated, standing up again. “I thought Elistan asked us here. Is your Shalafi behind this? Is he responsible for this woman’s disappearance?” He advanced a step, his face beneath his reddish beard flushed. Dalamar rose to his feet, his eyes glittering dangerously, his hand stealing almost imperceptibly to one of the pouches he wore upon his belt. “Because, by the gods, if he has harmed her, I’ll twist his golden neck—”

  “Astinus of Palanthas,” announced a cleric from the doorway.

  The historian stood within the doorway. His ageless face bore no expression as his gray-eyed gaze swept the room, taking in everything, everyone with a minute attention to the detail that his pen would soon record. It went from the flushed and angry face of Tanis, to the proud, defiant face of the elf, to the weary, patient face of the dying cleric.

  “Let me guess,” Astinus remarked, imperturbably entering and taking a seat. Setting a huge book down upon a table, he opened it to a blank page, drew a quill pen from a wooden case he carried with him, carefully examined the tip, then looked up. “Ink, friend,” he said to a startled cleric, who—after a nod from Elistan—left the room hurriedly. Then the historian continued his original sentence. “Let me guess. You were discussing Raistlin Majere.”

  “It is true,” Dalamar said. “I called you here.”

  The dark elf had resumed his seat by the fire. Tanis, still scowling, went back to his place near Elistan. The cleric, Garad, returning with Astinus’s ink, asked if they wanted anything else. The reply being negative, he left, sternly adding, for the benefit of those in the room, that Elistan was unwell and should not be long disturbed.

  “I called you here, together,” Dalamar repeated, his gaze upon the fire. Then he raised his eyes, looking directly at Tanis. “You come at some small inconvenience. But I come, knowing that I will suffer the torment all of my faith feel trodding upon this holy ground. But it is imperative that I speak to you, all of you, together. I knew Elistan could not come to me. I knew Tanis Half-Elven would not come to me. And so I had no choice but to—”

  “Proceed,” Astinus said in his deep, cool voice. “The world passes as we sit here. You have called us here together. That is established. For what reason?”

  Dalamar was silent for a moment, his gaze going back once again to the fire. When he spoke, he did not look up.

  “Our worst fears are realized,” he said softly. “He has been successful.”

  CHAPTER

  2

  Come home.…

  The voice lingered in his memory. Someone kneeling beside the pool of his mind, dropping words into the calm, clear surface. Ripples of consciousness disturbed him, woke him from his peaceful, restful sleep.

  “Come home.… My son, come home.”

  Opening his eyes, Raistlin looked into the face of his mother.

  Smiling, she reached out her hand and stroked back the wispy, white hair that fell down across his forehead. “My poor son,” she murmured, her dark eyes soft with grief and pity and love. “What they did to you! I watched. I’ve watched for so long now. And I’ve wept. Yes, my son, even the dead weep. It is the only comfort we have. But all that is over now. You are with me. Here you can rest.…”

  Raistlin struggled to sit up. Looking down at himself, he saw—to his horror—that he was covered with blood. Yet he felt no pain, there seemed to be no wound. He found it hard to take a breath, and he gasped for air.

  “Here, let me help you,” his mother said. She began to loosen the silken cord he wore around his waist, the cord from which hung his pouches, his precious spell components. Reflexively, Raistlin thrust her hand aside. His breath came easier. He looked around.

  “What happened? Where am I?” He was vastly confused. Memories of his childhood came to him. Memories of two childhoods came to him! His … and someone else’s! He looked at his mother, and she was someone he knew and she was a stranger.

  “What happened?” he repeated irritably, beating back the surging memories that threatened to overthrow his grasp on sanity.

  “You have died, my son,” his mother said gently. “And now you are here with me.”

  “Died!” Raistlin repeated, aghast.

  Frantically he sorted through the memories. He recalled being near death.… How was it that he had failed? He put his hand to his forehead and felt … flesh, bone, warmth … And then he remembered.…

  The Portal!

  “No,” he cried angrily, glaring at his mother. “That’s impossible.”

  “You lost control of the magic, my son,” his mother said, reaching out her hand to touch Raistlin again. He drew away from her. With the slight, sad smile—a smile he remembered so well—she let her hand drop back in her lap. “The field shifted, the forces tore you apart. There was a terrible explosion, it leveled the Plains of Dergoth. The magical fortress of Zhaman collapsed.” His mother’s voice shook. “The sight of your suffering was almost more than I could bear.”

  “I remember,” Raistlin whispered, putting his hands to his head. “I remember the pain … but …”

  He remembered something else, too—brilliant bursts of multicolored lights, he remembered a feeling of exultation and ecstasy welling up in his soul, he remembered the dragon’s heads that guarded the Portal screaming in fury, he remembered wrapping his arms around Crysania.

  Standing up, Raistlin looked around. He was on flat, level ground—a desert of some sort. In the distance he could see mountains. They looked familiar—of course! Thorbardin! The dwarven kingdom. He turned. There were the ruins of the fortress, looking like a skull devouring the land in its eternally grinning mouth. So, he was on the Plains of Dergoth. He recognized the landscape. But, even as he recognized it, it seemed strange to him. Everything was tinged with red, as though he were seeing all objects through blood-dimmed eyes. And, though objects looked the same as he remembered them, they were strange to him as well.

  Skullcap he had seen during the War of the Lance. He didn’t remember it grinning in that obscene way. The mountains, too, were sharp and clearly defined against the sky. The sky! Raistlin drew in a breath. It was empty! Swiftly he looked in all directions. No, there was no sun, yet it was not night. There were no moons, no stars; and it was such a strange color—a kind of muted pink, the reflection of a sunset.

  He looked down at the woman kneeling on the ground before him.

  Raistlin smiled, his thin lips pressed together grimly.

  “No,” he said, and this time his voice was firm and confident. “No, I did not die! I succeeded.” He gestured. “This is proof of my success. I recognize this place. The kender described it to me. He said it was all places he had ever been. This is where I entered the Portal, and now I stand in the Abyss.”

  Leaning down, Raistlin grabbed the woman by the arm, dragging her to her feet. “Fiend, apparition! Where is Crysania? Tell me, whoever or whatever you are! Tell me, or by the gods I’ll—”

  “Raistlin! Stop, you’re hurting me!”

  Raistlin started, staring. It was Crysania who spoke, Crysania whose arm he held! Shaken, he loosed his grip but, within instants, he was master of himself again. She tried to pull free, but he held her firmly, drawing her near.

  “Crysania?” he questioned, studying her intently.

  She looked up at him, puzzled. “Yes,” she faltered. “What’s wrong, Raistli
n? You’ve been talking so strangely.”

  The archmage tightened his grip. Crysania cried out. Yes, the pain in her eyes was real, so was the fear.

  Smiling, sighing, Raistlin put his arms around her, pressing her close against his body. She was flesh, warmth, perfume, beating heart.…

  “Oh, Raistlin!” She nestled close to him. “I was so frightened. This terrible place. I was all alone.”

  His hand tangled in her black hair. The softness and fragrance of her body intoxicated him, filling him with desire. She moved against him, tilting her head back. Her lips were soft, eager. She trembled in his arms. Raistlin looked down at her—

  —and stared into eyes of flame.

  So, you have come home at last, my mage!

  Sultry laughter burned his mind, even as the lithe body in his arms writhed and twisted … he clasped one neck of a five-headed dragon … acid dripped from the gaping jaws above him … fire roared around him … sulfurous fumes choked him. The head snaked down.…

  Desperately, furiously, Raistlin called upon his magic. Yet, even as he formed the words of the defensive spell chant in his mind, he felt a twinge of doubt. Perhaps the magic won’t work! I am weak, the journey through the Portal has drained my strength. Fear, sharp and slender as the blade of a dagger, pierced his soul. The words to the chant slipped from his mind. Panic flooded his body. The Queen! She is doing this! Ast takar ist … No! That isn’t right! He heard laughter, victorious laughter.…

  Bright white light blinded him. He was falling, falling, falling endlessly, spiraling down from darkness into day.

  Opening his eyes, Raistlin looked into Crysania’s face.

  Her face, but it was not the face he remembered. It was aging, dying, even as he watched. In her hand, she held the platinum medallion of Paladine. Its pure white radiance shone brightly in the eerie pinkish light around them.

  Raistlin closed his eyes to blot out the sight of the cleric’s aging face, summoning back memories of how it looked in the past—delicate, beautiful, alive with love and passion. Her voice came to him, cool, firm.