“No!” the young man cried, his hand wrapping around hers so tightly it hurt. “I am a cleric, too, a cleric of the Seeker gods. I tried to heal my people”—his voice cracked—“but there … there was nothing I could do. They died!” His eyes closed in agony. “I prayed! The gods … didn’t answer.”
“That’s because these gods you pray to are false gods,” Crysania said earnestly, reaching out to smooth back the young man’s sweat-soaked hair. Opening his eyes, he regarded her intently. He was handsome, Crysania saw, in a serious, scholarly fashion. His eyes were blue, his hair golden.
“Water,” he murmured through parched lips. She helped him sit up. Thirstily, he drank from the bowl, then she eased him back down on the bed. Staring at her still, he shook his head, then shut his eyes wearily.
“You know of Paladine, of the ancient gods?” Crysania asked softly.
The young man’s eyes opened, there was a gleam of light in them. “Yes,” he said bitterly. “I know of them. I know they smashed the land. I know they brought storms and pestilence upon us. I know evil things have been unleashed in this land. And then they left. In our hour of need, they abandoned us!”
Now it was Crysania’s turn to stare. She had expected denial, disbelief, or even total ignorance of the gods. She knew she could handle that. But this bitter anger? This was not the confrontation she had been prepared to face. Expecting superstitious mobs, she had found instead a mass grave and a dying young cleric.
“The gods did not abandon us,” she said, her voice quivering in her earnestness. “They are here, waiting only for the sound of a prayer. The evil that came to Krynn man brought upon himself, through his own pride and willful ignorance.”
The story of Goldmoon healing the dying Elistan and thereby converting him to the ancient faith came vividly to Crysania filling her with exultation. She would heal this young cleric, convert him.…
“I am going to help you,” she said. “Then there will be time to talk, time for you to understand.”
Kneeling down beside the bed once more, she clasped the medallion she wore around her neck and again began, “Paladine—”
A hand grabbed her roughly, hurting her, breaking her hold on the medallion. Startled, she looked up. It was the young cleric. Half-sitting up, weak, shivering with fever, he still stared at her with a gaze that was intense but calm.
“No,” he said steadily, “you must understand. You don’t need to convince me. I believe you!” He looked up into the shadows above him with a grim and bitter smile. “Yes, Paladine is with you. I can sense his great presence. Perhaps my eyes have been opened the nearer I approach death.”
“This is wonderful!” Crysania cried ecstatically. “I can—”
“Wait!” The cleric gasped for breath, still holding her hand. “Listen! Because I believe I refuse … to let you heal me.”
“What?” Crysania stared at him, uncomprehending. Then, “You’re sick, delirious,” she said firmly. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” he replied. “Look at me. Am I rational? Yes?”
Crysania, studying him, had to nod her head.
“Yes, you must admit it. I am … not delirious. I am fully conscious, comprehending.”
“Then, why—?”
“Because,” he said softly, each breath coming from him with obvious pain, “if Paladine is here—and I believe he is, now—then why is he … letting this happen! Why did he let my people die? Why does he permit this suffering? Why did he cause it? Answer me!” He clutched at her angrily. “Answer me!”
Her own questions! Raistlin’s questions! Crysania felt her mind stumbling in confused darkness. How could she answer him, when she was searching so desperately for these answers herself?
Through numb lips, she repeated Elistan’s words: “We must have faith. The ways of the gods cannot be known to us, we cannot see—”
Lying back down, the young man shook his head wearily and Crysania herself fell silent, feeling helpless in the face of such violent, intense anger. I’ll heal him anyway, she determined. He is sick and weak in mind and body. He cannot be expected to understand.…
Then she sighed. No. In other circumstances, Paladine might have allowed it. The god will not grant my prayers, Crysania knew in despair. In his divine wisdom, he will gather the young man to himself and then all will be made clear.
But it could not be so now.
Suddenly, Crysania realized bleakly that time could not be altered, at least not this way, not by her. Goldmoon would restore man’s faith in the ancient gods in a time when terrible anger such as this had died, when man would be ready to listen and to accept and believe. Not before.
Her failure overwhelmed her. Still kneeling by the bed, she bowed her head in her hands and asked to be forgiven for not being willing to accept or understand.
Feeling a hand touch her hair, she looked up. The young man was smiling wanly at her.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently, his fever-parched lips twitching. “Sorry … to disappoint you.”
“I understand,” Crysania said quietly, “and I will respect your wishes.”
“Thank you,” he replied. He was silent. For long moments, the only sound that could be heard was his labored breathing. Crysania started to stand up, but she felt his hot hand close over hers. “Do one thing for me,” he whispered.
“Anything,” she said, forcing herself to smile, though she could barely see him through her tears.
“Stay with me tonight … while I die.…”
CHAPTER
6
limbing the stairs leading up to the scaffold. Head bowed. Hands tied behind my back. I struggle to free myself, even as I mount the stairs, though I know it is useless—I have spent days, weeks, struggling to free myself, to no avail.
The black robes trip me. I stumble. Someone catches me, keeps me from falling, but drags me forward, nonetheless. I have reached the top. The block, stained dark with blood, is before me. Frantically now I seek to free my hands! If only I can loosen them! I can use my magic! Escape! Escape!
“There is no escape!” laughs my executioner, and I know it is myself speaking! My laughter! My voice! “Kneel, pathetic wizard! Place your head upon the cold and bloody pillow!”
No! I shriek with terror and rage and fight desperately, but hands grab me from behind. Viciously, they force me to my knees. My shrinking flesh touches the chill and slimy block! Still I wrench and twist and scream and still they force me down.
A black hood is drawn over my head … but I can hear the executioner coming closer, I can hear his black robes rustling around his ankles, I can hear the blade being lifted … lifted.…
“Raist! Raistlin! Wake up!”
Raistlin’s eyes opened. Staring upward, dazed and wild with terror, he had no idea for a moment where he was or who had wakened him.
“Raistlin, what is it?” the voice repeated.
Strong hands held him firmly, a familiar voice, warm with concern, blotting out the whistling scream of the executioner’s falling axe blade.…
“Caramon!” Raistlin cried, clutching at his brother. “Help me! Stop them! Don’t let them murder me! Stop them! Stop them!”
“Shhhh, I won’t let them do anything to you, Raist,” Caramon murmured, holding his brother close, stroking the soft brown hair. “Shhh, you’re all right. I’m here … I’m here.”
Laying his head on Caramon’s chest, hearing his twin’s steady, slow heartbeat, Raistlin gave a deep, shuddering sigh. Then he closed his eyes against the darkness and sobbed like a child.
“Ironic, isn’t it?” Raistlin muttered bitterly some time later, as his brother stirred up the fire and set an iron pot filled with water on it to boil. “The most powerful mage who has ever lived, and I am reduced to a squalling babe by a dream!”
“So you’re human,” Caramon grunted, bending over the pot, watching it closely with the rapt attention all pay to the business of forcing water to boil more quickly. He shrugged.
“You said it yourself.”
“Yes … human!” Raistlin repeated savagely, huddled, shivering, in his black robes and traveling cloak.
Caramon glanced at him uneasily at this, remembering what Par-Salian and the other mages had told him at the Conclave held in the Tower of High Sorcery. Your brother intends to challenge the gods! He seeks to become a god himself!
But even as Caramon looked at his brother, Raistlin drew his knees up close to his body, rested his hands upon his knees, and laid his head down upon them wearily. Feeling a strange choking sensation in his throat, vividly remembering the warm and wonderful feeling he had experienced when his brother had reached out to him for comfort, Caramon turned his attention back to the water.
Raistlin’s head snapped up, suddenly.
“What was that?” he asked at the same time Caramon, hearing the sound as well, rose to his feet.
“I dunno,” Caramon said softly, listening. Padding soft-footed, the big man moved with surprising swiftness to his bedroll, grasped his sword, and drew it from its scabbard.
Acting in the same moment, Raistlin’s hand closed over the Staff of Magius that lay beside him. Twisting to his feet like a cat, he doused the fire, upending the kettle over it. Darkness descended on them with a soft, hissing sound as the coals sputtered and died.
Giving their eyes time to become accustomed to the sudden change, both the brothers stood still, concentrating on their hearing.
The stream near which they were camped burbled and lapped among the rocks, branches creaked and leaves rattled as a sharp breeze sprang up, slicing through the autumn night. But what they had heard was neither wind in the trees nor water.
“There it is,” said Raistlin in a whisper as his brother came to stand beside him. “In the woods, across the stream.”
It was a scrabbling sound, like someone trying unsuccessfully to creep through unfamiliar territory. It lasted a few moments, then stopped, then began again. Either some one unfamiliar with the territory or some thing—clumsy, heavy-booted.
“Goblins!” hissed Caramon.
Gripping his sword, he and his brother exchanged glances. The years of darkness, of estrangement between them, the jealousy, hatred—everything vanished within that instant. Reacting to the shared danger, they were one, as they had been in their mother’s womb.
Moving cautiously, Caramon set foot in the stream. The red moon, Lunitari, glimmered through the trees. But it was new tonight. Looking like the wick of a pinched-out candle, it gave little light. Fearing to turn his foot upon a stone, Caramon tested each step carefully before he put his weight upon it. Raistlin followed, holding his darkened staff in one hand, resting his other lightly upon his brother’s shoulder for balance.
They crossed the stream as silently as the wind whispering across the water and reached the opposite bank. They could still hear the noise. It was made by something living, though, there was no doubt. Even when the wind died, they could hear the rustling sound.
“Rear guard. Raiding party!” Caramon mouthed, half-turning so that his brother could hear.
Raistlin nodded. Goblin raiding parties customarily sent scouts to keep watch upon the trail when they rode in to loot a village. Since it was a boring job and meant that the goblins elected had no share in the killing or the spoils, it generally fell to those lowest in rank—the least skilled, most expendable members of the party.
Raistlin’s hand closed suddenly over Caramon’s arm, halting him momentarily.
“Crysania!” the mage whispered. “The village! We must know where the raiding party is!”
Caramon scowled. “I’ll take it alive!” He indicated this with a gesture of his huge hand wrapping itself around an imaginary goblin neck.
Raistlin smiled grimly in understanding. “And I will question it,” he hissed, making a gesture of his own.
Together, the twins crept up the trail, taking care to keep in the shadows so that even the faintest glimmer of moonlight should not be reflected from buckle or sword. They could still hear the sound. Though it ceased sometimes, it always started again. It remained in the same location. Whoever or whatever it was appeared to have no idea of their approach. They drew toward it, keeping to the edges of the trail until they were—as well as they could judge—practically opposite it.
The sound, they could tell now, was in the woods, about twenty feet off the trail. Glancing swiftly around, Raistlin’s sharp eyes spotted a thin trail. Barely visible in the pale light of moon and stars, it branched off from the main one—an animal trail, probably leading down to the stream. A good place for scouts to lie hidden, giving them quick access to the main trail if they decided to attack, an easy escape route if the opposition proved too formidable.
“Wait here!” Caramon signed.
A rustle of his black hood was Raistlin’s response. Reaching out to hold aside a low, overhanging branch, Caramon entered the forest, moving slowly and stealthily about two feet away from the faint animal trail that led into it.
Raistlin stood beside a tree, his slender fingers reaching into one of his many, secret pockets, hastily rolling a pinch of sulfur up in a tiny ball of bat guano. The words to the spell were in his mind. He repeated them to himself. Even as he did this, however, he was acutely conscious of the sound of his brother’s movements.
Though Caramon was trying to be quiet, Raistlin could hear the creak of the big man’s leather armor, the metal buckles’ jingle, the crack of a twig beneath his feet as he moved away from his waiting twin. Fortunately, their quarry was continuing to make so much noise that the warrior would probably proceed unheard.…
A horrible shriek rang through the night, followed by a frightful yelling and thrashing sound, as if a hundred men were crashing through the wilderness.
Raistlin started.
Then a voice shouted, “Raist! Help! Aiiihh!”
More thrashing, the sound of tree limbs snapping, a thumping sound.…
Gathering his robes around him, Raistlin ran swiftly onto the animal trail, the time for concealment and secrecy past. He could hear his brother yelling, still. The sound was muffled, but clear, not choked or as if he were in pain.
Racing through the woods, the archmage ignored the branches that slapped his face and the brambles that caught at his robes. Breaking suddenly and unexpectedly into a clearing; he stopped, crouching, beside a tree. Ahead of him, he could see movement—a gigantic black shadow that seemed to be hovering in the air, floating above the ground. Grappling with the shadowy creature, yelling and cursing horribly, was—by the sound—Caramon!
“Ast kiranann Soth-aran/Suh kali Jalaran.” Raistlin chanted the words and tossed the small ball of sulfur high above him, into the leaves of the trees. An instantaneous burst of light in the branches was accompanied by a low, booming explosion. The treetops burst into flame, illuminating the scene below.
Raistlin darted forward, the words of a spell on his lips, magical fire crackling from his fingertips.
He stopped, staring in astonishment.
Before him, hanging upside down by one leg from a rope suspended over a tree branch, was Caramon. Suspended next to him, scrabbling frantically in fear of the flames, was a rabbit.
Raistlin stared, transfixed, at his brother. Shouting for help, Caramon turned slowly in the wind while flaming leaves fell all about him.
“Raist!” He was still yelling. “Get me—Oh—”
Caramon’s next revolution brought him within sight of his astounded twin. Flushing, the blood rushing to his head, Caramon gave a sheepish grin. “Wolf snare,” he said.
The forest was ablaze with brilliant orange light. The fire flickered on the big man’s sword, which lay on the ground where he’d dropped it. It sparkled on Caramon’s shining armor as he revolved slowly around again. It gleamed in the frantic, panic-stricken eyes of the rabbit.
Raistlin snickered.
Now it was Caramon’s turn to stare in hurt astonishment at his brother. Revolving back around to face him, Caram
on twisted his head, trying to see Raistlin right side up. He gave a pitiful, pleading look.
“C’mon, Raist! Get me down!”
Raistlin began to laugh silently, his shoulders heaving.
“Damn it, Raist! This isn’t funny!” Caramon blustered, waving his arms. This gesture, of course, caused the snared warrior to stop revolving and begin to swing from side to side. The rabbit, on the other end of the snare, started swinging, too, pawing even more frantically at the air. Soon, the two of them were spinning in opposite directions, circling each other, entangling the ropes that held them.
“Get me down!” Caramon roared. The rabbit squealed in terror.
This was too much. Memories of their youth returned vividly to the archmage, driving away the darkness and horror that had clutched at his soul for what seemed like years unending. Once again he was young, hopeful, filled with dreams. Once again, he was with his brother, the brother who was closer to him than any other person had ever been, would ever be. His bumbling, thick-headed, beloved brother.… Raistlin doubled over. Gasping for air, the mage collapsed upon the grass and laughed wildly, tears running down his cheeks.
Caramon glared at him—but this baleful look from a man being held upside down by his foot simply increased his twin’s mirth. Raistlin laughed until he thought he might have hurt something inside him. The laughter felt good. For a time, it banished the darkness. Lying on the damp ground of the glade illuminated by the light of the flaming trees, Raistlin laughed harder, feeling the merriment sparkle through his body like fine wine. And then Caramon joined in, his booming bellow echoing through the forest.
Only the falling of blazing bits of tree striking the ground near him recalled Raistlin to himself. Wiping his streaming eyes, so weak from laughter he could barely stand, the mage staggered to his feet. With a flick of his hand, he brought forth the little silver dagger he wore concealed upon his wrist.
Reaching up, stretching his full height, the mage cut the rope wrapped around his brother’s ankle. Caramon plunged to the ground with a curse and thudding crash.
War of the Twins Page 20
