War of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  Scowling, his own face flushed an ugly red, Caramon turned to face his twin.

  Raistlin coolly regarded his brother with his mirrorlike eyes. There was no expression on his face, as there had been no expression in his voice when he spoke upon first entering. But Caramon had seen, for a split second, the eyes crack. The glimpse of the dark and burning jealousy inside appalled him, hitting him an almost physical blow. But the look was gone instantly, leaving Caramon to doubt if he had truly seen it. Only the tight, knotted feeling in the pit of his stomach and the sudden bitter taste in his mouth made him believe it had been there.

  “What news?” he growled, clearing his throat.

  “Messengers have arrived from the south,” Raistlin said.

  “Yes?” Caramon prompted, as his brother paused.

  Casting off his hood, Raistlin stepped forward, his gaze holding his brother’s gaze, binding them together, making the resemblance between them strong. For an instant, the mage’s mask dropped.

  “The dwarves of Thorbardin are preparing for war!” Raistlin hissed, his slender hand clenching into a fist. He spoke with such intense passion that Caramon blinked at him in astonishment and Crysania raised her head to regard him with concern.

  Confused and uncomfortable, Caramon broke free of his brother’s feverish stare and turned away, pretending to shuffle some maps on the map table. The warrior shrugged. “I don’t know what else you expected,” he said coolly. “It was your idea, after all. Talking of hidden wealth. We’ve made no secret of the fact that’s where we’re headed. In fact, it’s practically become our recruiting slogan! ‘Join up with Fistandantilus and raid the mountain!’ ”

  Caramon tossed this off thoughtlessly, but its effect was startling. Raistlin went livid. He seemed to try to speak, but no intelligible sounds came from his lips, only a blood-stained froth. His sunken eyes flared, as the moon on an ice-bound lake. His fist still clenched, he took a step toward his brother.

  Crysania sprang to her feet. Caramon—truly alarmed—took a step backward, his hand closing over the hilt of his sword. But, slowly and with a visible effort, Raistlin regained control. With a vicious snarl, he turned and walked from the tent, his intense anger still so apparent, however, that the guards shivered as he passed them.

  Caramon remained standing, lost in confusion and fear, unable to comprehend why his brother had reacted as he did. Crysania, too, stared after Raistlin in perplexity until the sound of shouting voices outside the tent roused both of them from their thoughts. Shaking his head, Caramon walked over to the entrance. Once there, he half-turned but did not look at Crysania as he spoke.

  “If we are truly preparing for war,” he said coldly, “I can’t take time to worry about you. As I have stated before, you won’t be safe in a tent by yourself. So you’ll continue to sleep here. I’ll leave you alone, you may be certain of that. You have my word of honor.”

  With this, he stepped outside the tent and began conferring with his guards.

  Flushing in shame, yet so angry she could not speak, Crysania remained in the tent for a moment to regain her composure. Then she, too, walked from the tent. One glance at the guards’ faces and she realized at once that, despite the fact that she and Caramon had kept their voices low, part of their conversation had been overheard.

  Ignoring the curious, amused glances, she looked around quickly and saw the flutter of black robes disappearing into the forest. Returning to the tent, she caught up her cloak and, tossing it hurriedly around her shoulders, headed off in the same direction.

  Caramon saw Crysania enter the woods near the edge of camp. Though he had not seen Raistlin, he had a pretty good idea of why Crysania was headed in that direction. He started to call to her. Though he did not know of any real danger lurking in the scraggly forest of pine trees that stood at the base of the Garnet Mountains, in these unsettled times, it was best not to take chances.

  As her name was on his lips, however, he saw two of his men exchange knowing looks. Caramon had a sudden vivid picture of himself calling after the cleric like some love-sick youth, and his mouth snapped shut. Besides, here was Garic coming up, followed by a weary-looking dwarf and a tall, dark-skinned young man decked out in the furs and feathers of a barbarian.

  The messengers, Caramon realized. He would have to meet with them. But—His gaze went once more to the forest. Crysania had vanished. A premonition of danger seized Caramon. It was so strong that he almost crashed through the trees after her, then and there. Every warrior’s instinct called to him. He could put no name to his fear, but it was there, it was real.

  Yet, he could not rush off, leaving these emissaries, while he went chasing after a girl. His men would never respect him again. He could send a guard, but that would make him look almost as foolish. There was no help for it. Let Paladine look after her, if that was what she wanted. Gritting his teeth, Caramon turned to greet the messengers and lead them into his tent.

  Once there, once he had made them comfortable and had exchanged formal and meaningless pleasantries, once food had been brought and drinks poured, he excused himself and slipped out the back.…

  Footsteps in the sand, leading me on.…

  Looking up, I see the scaffold, the hooded figure with its head on the block, the hooded figure of the executioner, the sharp blade of the axe glinting in the burning sun.

  The axe falls, the victim’s severed head rolls on the wooden platform, the hood comes off—

  “My head!” Raistlin whispered feverishly, twisting his thin hands together in anguish.

  The executioner, laughing, removes his hood, revealing—

  “My face!” Raistlin murmured, his fear spreading through his body like a malign growth, making him sweat and chill by turns. Clutching at his head, he tried to banish the evil visions that haunted his dreams continually, night after night, and lingered to disturb his waking hours as well, turning all he ate or drank to ashes in his mouth.

  But they would not depart. “Master of Past and Present!” Raistlin laughed hollowly—bitter, mocking laughter. “I am Master of nothing! All this power, and I am trapped! Trapped! Following in his footsteps, knowing that every second that passes has passed before! I see people I’ve never seen, yet I know them! I hear the echo of my own words before I speak them! This face!” His hands pressed against his cheeks. “This face! His face! Not mine! Not mine! Who am I? I am my own executioner!”

  His voice rose to a shriek. In a frenzy, not realizing what he was doing, Raistlin began to claw at his skin with his nails as though his face were a mask, and he could tear it from his bones.

  “Stop! Raistlin, what are you doing? Stop, please!”

  He could barely hear the voice. Firm but gentle hands grasped his wrists, and he fought them, struggling. But then the madness passed. The dark and frightful waters in which he had been drowning receded, leaving him calm and drained. Once more, he could see and feel and hear. His face stung. Looking down, he saw blood on his nails.

  “Raistlin!” It was Crysania’s voice. Lifting his gaze, he saw her standing before him, holding his hands away from his face, her eyes wide and filled with concern.

  “I’m all right,” Raistlin said coldly. “Leave me alone!” But, even as he spoke, he sighed and lowered his head again, shuddering as the horror of the dream washed over him. Pulling a clean cloth from a pocket, he began to dab at the wounds on his face.

  “No, you’re not,” Crysania murmured, taking the cloth from his shaking hand and gently touching the bleeding gouges. “Please, let me do this,” she said, as he snarled something unintelligible. “I know you won’t let me heal you, but there is a clear stream near. Come, drink some water, rest and let me wash these”

  Sharp, bitter words were on Raistlin’s lips. He raised a hand to thrust her away. But then he realized that he didn’t want her to leave. The darkness of the dream receded when she was with him. The touch of warm, human flesh was comforting after the cold fingers of death.

  And so, he nod
ded with a weary sigh.

  Her face pale with anguish and concern, Crysania put her arm around him to support his faltering steps, and Raistlin allowed himself to be led through the forest, acutely conscious of the warmth and the motion of her body next to his.

  Reaching the bank of the stream, the archmage sat down upon a large, flat rock, warmed by the autumn sun. Crysania dipped her cloth in the water and, kneeling next to him, cleaned the wounds on his face. Dying leaves fell around them, muffling sound, falling into the stream to be whisked away by the water.

  Raistlin did not speak. His gaze followed the path of the leaves, watching as each clung to the branch with its last, feeble strength, watching as the ruthless wind tore it from its hold, watching as it swirled in the air to fall into the water, watching as it was carried off into oblivion by the swift-running stream. Looking past the leaves into the water, he saw the reflection of his face wavering there. He saw two long, bloody marks down each cheek, he saw his eyes—no longer mirrorlike, but dark and haunted. He saw fear, and he sneered at himself derisively.

  “Tell me,” said Crysania hesitantly, pausing in her ministrations and placing her hand over his, “tell me what’s wrong. I don’t understand. You’ve been brooding ever since we left the Tower. Has it something to do with the Portal being gone? With what Astinus told you back in Palanthas?”

  Raistlin did not answer. He did not even look at her. The sun was warm on his black robes, her touch was warmer than the sun. But, somewhere, some part of his mind was coldly balancing, calculating—tell her? What will I gain? More than if I kept silent?

  Yes … draw her nearer, enfold her, wrap her up, accustom her to the darkness.…

  “I know,” he said finally, speaking as if reluctantly, yet—for some reason—still not looking at her as he spoke, but staring into the water, “that the Portal is in a place near Thorbardin, in the magical fortress called Zhaman. This I discovered from Astinus.

  “Legend tells us that Fistandantilus undertook what some call the Dwarfgate Wars so that he could claim the mountain kingdom of Thorbardin for his own. Astinus relates much the same thing in his Chronicles”—Raistlin’s voice grew bitter—“much the same thing! But, read between the lines, read closely, as I should have read but, in my arrogance, did not, and you will read the truth!”

  His hands clenched. Crysania sat before him, the damp, blood-stained cloth held fast, forgotten as she listened, enthralled.

  “Fistandantilus came here to do the very same thing I came here to do!” Raistlin’s words hissed with a strange, foreboding passion. “He cared nothing for Thorbardin! It was all a sham, a ruse! He wanted one thing—and that was to reach the Portal! The dwarves stood in his way, as they stand in mine. They controlled the fortress then, they controlled the land for miles around it. The only way he could reach it was to start a war so that he could get close enough to gain access to it! And, so, history repeats itself.

  “For I must do what he did.… I am doing what he did!”

  His expression bitter, he stared silently into the water.

  “From what I have read of Astinus’s Chronicles,” Crysania began, speaking hesitantly, “the war was bound to come anyway. There has long been bad blood between the hill dwarves and their cousins. You can’t blame yourself—”

  Raistlin snarled impatiently. “I don’t give a damn about the dwarves! They can sink into the Sirrion, for all I care.” Now he looked at her, coldly, steadily. “You say you have read Astinus’s works on this. If so, think! What caused the end of the Dwarfgate Wars?”

  Crysania’s eyes grew unfocused as she sought back in her mind, trying to recall. Then her face paled. “The explosion,” she said softly. “The explosion that destroyed the Plains of Dergoth. Thousands died and so did—”

  “So did Fistandantilus!” Raistlin said with grim emphasis.

  For long moments, Crysania could only stare at him. Then the full realization of what he meant sank in. “Oh, but surely not!” she cried, dropping the blood-stained cloth and clutching Raistlin’s hands with her own. “You’re not the same person! The circumstances are different. They must be! You’ve made a mistake!”

  Raistlin shook his head, smiling cynically. Gently disengaging his hand from hers, he reached out and touched her chin, raising her head so that she looked directly into his eyes. “No, the circumstances are not different. I have not made a mistake. I am caught in time, rushing forward to my own doom.”

  “How do you know? How can you be certain?”

  “I know because—one other perished with Fistandantilus that day.”

  “Who?” Crysania asked, but even before he told her she felt a dark mantle of fear settle upon her shoulders, falling around her with a rustle as soft as the dying leaves.

  “An old friend of yours,” Raistlin’s smile twisted. “Denubis!”

  “Denubis!” she repeated soundlessly.

  “Yes,” Raistlin replied, unconsciously letting his fingers trace along her firm jaw, cup her chin in his hand. “That much I learned from Astinus. If you will recall, your cleric friend was already drawn to Fistandantilus, even though he refused to admit it to himself. He had his doubts about the church, much the same as yours. I can only assume that during those final, horrifying days in Istar, Fistandantilus persuaded him to come—”

  “You didn’t persuade me,” Crysania interrupted firmly. “I chose to come! It was my decision!”

  “Of course,” Raistlin said smoothly, letting go of her. He hadn’t realized what he was doing, caressing her soft skin. Now, unbidden, he felt his blood stir. He found his gaze going to her curving lips, her white neck. He had a sudden vivid image of her in his brother’s arms. He remembered the wild surge of jealousy he had felt.

  This must not happen! he reprimanded himself. It will interfere with my plans.… He started to rise, but Crysania caught hold of his hand with both of hers and rested her cheek in his palm.

  “No,” she said softly, her gray eyes looking up at him, shining in the bright sunlight that filtered through the leaves, holding him with her steadfast gaze, “we will alter time, you and I! You are more powerful than Fistandantilus. I am stronger in my faith than Denubis! I heard the Kingpriest’s demands of the gods. I know his mistake! Paladine will answer my prayers as he has in the past. Together, we will change the ending … you and I.…”

  Caught up in the passion of her words, Crysania’s eyes deepened to blue, her skin, cool on Raistlin’s hand, flushed a delicate pink. Beneath his fingers, he could feel the lifeblood pulse in her neck. He felt her tenderness, her softness, her smoothness … and suddenly he was down on his knees beside her. She was in his arms. His mouth sought her lips, his lips touched her eyes, her neck. His fingers tangled in her hair. Her fragrance filled his nostrils, and the sweet ache of desire filled his body.

  She yielded to his fire, as she had yielded to his magic, kissing him eagerly. Raistlin sank down into the soft carpet of dying leaves. Lying back, he drew Crysania down with him, holding her in his arms. The sunlight in the blue autumn sky was brilliant, blinding him. The sun itself beat upon his black robes with a unbearable heat, almost as unbearable as the pain inside his body.

  Crysania’s skin was cool to his feverish touch, her lips like sweet water to a man dying of thirst. He gave himself up to the light, shutting his eyes against it. And then, the shadow of a face appeared in his mind: a goddess—dark-haired, dark-eyed, exultant, victorious, laughing.…

  “No!” Raistlin cried. “No!” he shrieked in half-strangled tones as he hurled Crysania from him. Trembling and dizzy, he staggered to his feet.

  His eyes burned in the sunlight. The heat upon his robes was stifling, and he felt himself gasping for air. Drawing his black hood over his head, he stood, shaking, trying to regain his composure, his control.

  “Raistlin!” Crysania cried, clinging to his hand. Her voice was warm with passion. Her touch worsened the pain, even as it promised to ease it. His resolve began to crumble, the pain tore at him.�
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  Furiously, Raistlin snatched his hand free. Then, his face grim, he reached out and grasped the fragile white cloth of her robes. With a jerk, he ripped it from her shoulders, while, with the other hand, he shoved her half-naked body down into the leaves.

  “Is this what you want?” he asked, his voice taut with anger. “If so, wait here for my brother. He’s bound to be along soon!” He paused, struggling for breath.

  Lying on the leaves, seeing her nakedness reflected starkly in those mirrorlike eyes, Crysania clutched the torn cloth to her breast and stared at him wordlessly.

  “Is this what we have come here to attain?” Raistlin continued relentlessly. “I thought your aim was higher, Revered Daughter! You boast of Paladine, you boast of your powers. Did you think that this might be the answer to your prayers? That I would fall victim to your charms?”

  That shot told! He saw her flinch, her gaze waver. Closing her eyes, she rolled over, sobbing in agony, clasping her torn robe to her body. Her black hair fell across her bare shoulders, the skin of her back was white and soft and smooth.…

  Turning abruptly, Raistlin walked away. He walked rapidly and, as he walked, he felt calm return to him. The ache of passion subsided, leaving him once more able to think clearly.

  His eyes caught a glimpse of movement, a flash of armor. His smile curled into a sneer. As he had predicted, there went Caramon, setting out in search of her. Well, they were welcome to each other. What did it matter to him?

  Reaching his tent, Raistlin entered its cool, dark confines. The sneer still curled his lips but, recalling his weakness, recalling how close he’d come to failure, recalling—against his will—her soft, warm lips, it faded. Shaking, he collapsed into a chair and let his head sink into his hands.