She was hungry, but it was not a hunger that required food to sustain life so much as a hunger to taste a strawberry, or a mouthful of warm, fresh-baked bread, or a sprig of mint. She did not feel thirst either, and yet she dreamed of clear running water and bubbling wine and the sharp, pungent aroma of tarbean tea. In this land, all the water was tinged reddish brown and smelled of blood.
Yet, they made progress. At least so Raistlin said. He seemed to gain in strength as Crysania grew weaker. Now it was he who helped her walk sometimes. It was he who pushed them onward without rest, passing through town after town, always nearing, he said, Godshome. The mirror-image villages of this land below blurred together in Crysania’s mind—Que-shu, Xak Tsaroth. They crossed the Abyss’s New Sea—a dreadful journey. Looking into the water, Crysania saw the horror-filled faces of all who had died in the Cataclysm staring up at her.
They landed at a place Raistlin said was Sanction. Crysania felt her weakest here, for Raistlin told her it was the center of worship for the Dark Queen’s followers. Her Temples were built far below the mountains known as the Lords of Doom. Here, Raistlin said, during the War, they had performed the evil rites that turned the unhatched children of the good dragons into the foul and twisted draconians.
Nothing further happened to them for a long while—or perhaps it was only a second. No one looked twice at Raistlin in his black robes and no one looked at Crysania at all. She might well have been invisible. They passed through Sanction easily, Raistlin growing in strength and confidence. He told Crysania they were very close now. Godshome was located somewhere to the north in Khalkist Mountains.
How he could tell any direction at all in this weird and awful land was beyond Crysania—there was nothing to guide them, no sun, no moons, no stars. It was never really night and never truly day, just some sort of dreary, reddish in-between. She was thinking of this, trudging wearily beside Raistlin, not watching where they were going since it all looked the same anyway, when, suddenly, the archmage came to a halt. Hearing his sharp intake of breath, feeling him stiffen, Crysania looked up in swift alarm.
A middle-aged man dressed in the white robes of a teacher was walking down the road toward them.…
“Repeat the words after me, remembering to give them the proper inflection.” Slowly he said the words. Slowly the class repeated them. All except one.
“Raistlin!”
The class fell silent.
“Master?” Raistlin did not bother to conceal the sneer in his voice as he said the word.
“I didn’t see your lips moving.”
“Perhaps that is because they were not moving, Master,” Raistlin replied.
If someone else in the class of young magic-users had made such a remark, the pupils would have snickered. But they knew Raistlin felt the same scorn for them that he felt for the Master, and so they glowered at him and shifted uncomfortably.
“You know the spell, do you, apprentice?”
“Certainly I know the spell,” Raistlin snapped. “I knew it when I was six! When did you learn it? Last night?”
The Master glared, his face purpled with rage. “You have gone too far this time, apprentice! You have insulted me once too often!”
The classroom faded before Raistlin’s eyes, melting away. Only the Master remained and, as Raistlin watched, his old teacher’s white robes turned to black! His stupid, paunchy face twisted into a malevolent, crafty face of evil. A bloodstone pendant appeared, hanging around his neck.
“Fistandantilus!” Raistlin gasped.
“Again we meet, apprentice. But now, where is your magic?” The wizard laughed. Reaching up a withered hand, he began fingering the bloodstone pendant.
Panic swept over Raistlin. Where was his magic? Gone! His hands shook. The words of spells tumbled into his mind; only to slip away before he could grasp hold of them. A ball of flame appeared in Fistandantilus’s hands. Raistlin choked on his fear.
The Staff! he thought suddenly. The Staff of Magius. Surely its magic will not be affected! Raising the staff, holding it before him, he called upon it to protect him. But the staff began to twist and writhe in Raistlin’s hand. “No!” he cried in terror and anger. “Obey my command! Obey!”
The staff coiled itself around his arm and it was no longer a staff at all, but a huge snake. Glistening fangs sank into his flesh.
Screaming, Raistlin dropped to his knees, trying desperately to free himself from the staff’s poisonous bite. But, battling one enemy, he had forgotten the other. Hearing the spidery words of magic being chanted, he looked up fearfully. Fistandantilus was gone, but in his place stood a drow—a dark elf. The dark elf Raistlin had fought in his final battle of the Test. And then the dark elf was Dalamar, hurling a fireball at him, and then the fireball became a sword, driven into his flesh by a beardless dwarf.
Flames burst around him, steel pierced his body, fangs dug into his skin. He was sinking, sinking into the blackness, when he was bathed in white light and wrapped in white robes and held close to a soft, warm breast.…
And he smiled, for he knew by the flinching of the body shielding his and the low cries of anguish, that the weapons were striking her, not him.
CHAPTER
7
ord Gunthar!” said Amothus, Lord of Palanthas, rising to his feet. “An unexpected pleasure. And you, too, Tanis Half-Elven. I assume you’re both here to plan the War’s End celebration. I’m so glad. Now we can get started on it early this year. I, that is, the committee and I believe—”
“Nonsense,” said Lord Gunthar crisply, walking about Amothus’s audience chamber and staring at it with a critical eye, already calculating—in his mind—what it would take to fortify it if necessary. “We’re here to discuss the defense of the city.”
Lord Amothus blinked at the Knight, who was peering out the windows and muttering to himself. Once he turned and snapped, “Too much glass,” which statement increased the lord’s confusion to such an extent that he could only stammer an apology and then stand helplessly in the center of the room.
“Are we under attack?” he ventured to ask hesitantly, after a few more moments of Gunthar’s reconnaissance.
Lord Gunthar cast Tanis a sharp look. With a sigh, Tanis politely reminded Lord Amothus of the warning the dark elf, Dalamar, had brought them—the probability that the Dragon Highlord, Kitiara, planned to try to enter Palanthas in order to aid her brother, Raistlin, Master of the Tower of High Sorcery, in his fight against the Queen of Darkness.
“Oh, yes!” Lord Amothus’s face cleared. He waved a delicate, deprecating hand, as though brushing away gnats. “But I don’t believe you need be concerned about Palanthas, Lord Gunthar. The High Clerist’s Tower—”
“—is being manned. I’m doubling the strength of our forces there. That’s where the major assault will come, of course. No other way into Palanthas except by sea to the north, and we rule the seas. No, it will come overland. Should matters go wrong, though, Amothus, I want Palanthas ready to defend herself. Now—”
Having mounted the horse of action, so to speak, Gunthar charged ahead. Completely riding over Lord Amothus’s murmured remonstration that perhaps he should discuss this with his generals, Gunthar galloped on, and soon left Amothus choking in the dust of troop disbursements, supply requisitions, armorment caches, and the like. Amothus gave himself for lost. Sitting down, he assumed an expression of polite interest, and immediately began to think about something else. It was all nonsense anyway. Palanthas had never been touched in battle. Armies had to get past the High Clerist’s Tower first and none—not even the great dragon armies of the last war—had been able to do that.
Tanis, watching all of this, and knowing well what Amothus was thinking, smiled grimly to himself and was just beginning to wonder how he, too, might escape the onslaught when there was a soft knock upon the great, ornately carved, gilt doors. With the look of one who hears the trumpets of the rescuing division, Amothus sprang to his feet, but before he could say a word, t
he doors opened and an elderly servant entered.
Charles had been in the service of the royal house of Palanthas for well over half a century. They could not get along without him, and he knew it. He knew everything—from the exact count of the number of wine bottles in the cellar, to which elves should be seated next to which at dinner, to when the linen had been aired last. Though always dignified and deferential, there was a look upon his face which implied that when he died, he expected the royal house to crumble down about its master’s ears.
“I am sorry to disturb you, my lord,” Charles began.
“Quite all right!” Lord Amothus cried, beaming with pleasure. “Quite all right. Please—”
“But there is an urgent message for Tanis Half-Elven,” finished Charles imperturbably, with only the slightest hint of rebuke to his master for interrupting him.
“Oh,” Lord Amothus looked blank and extremely disappointed. “Tanis Half-Elven?”
“Yes, my lord,” Charles replied.
“Not for me?” Amothus ventured, seeing the rescuing division vanish over the horizon.
“No, my lord.”
Amothus sighed. “Very well. Thank you, Charles. Tanis, I suppose you had better—”
But Tanis was already halfway across the room.
“What is it? Not from Laurana—”
“This way, please, my lord,” Charles said, ushering Tanis out the door. At a glance from Charles, the half-elf remembered just in time to turn and bow to Lords Amothus and Gunthar. The knight smiled and waved his hand. Lord Amothus could not refrain from casting Tanis an envious glance, then sank back down to listen to a list of equipment necessary for the boiling of oil.
Charles carefully and slowly shut the doors behind him.
“What is it?” Tanis asked, following the servant down the hall. “Didn’t the messenger say anything else?”
“Yes, my lord.” Charles’s face softened into an expression of gentle sorrow. “I was not to reveal this unless it became absolutely necessary to free you from your engagement. Revered Son, Elistan, is dying. He is not expected to live through the night.”
The Temple lawns were peaceful and serene in the fading light of day. The sun was setting, not with fiery splendor, but with a soft, pearlized radiance, filling the sky with a rainbow of gentle color like that of an inverted sea shell. Tanis, expecting to find crowds of people standing about, waiting for news, while white-robed clerics ran here and there in confusion, was startled to see that all was calm and orderly. People rested on the lawn as usual, white-robed clerics strolled beside the flower beds, talking together in low voices or, if alone, appearing lost in silent meditation.
Perhaps the messenger was wrong or misinformed, Tanis thought. But then, as he hurried across the velvety green grass, he passed a young cleric. She looked up at him, and he saw her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. But she smiled at him, nonetheless, wiping away traces of her grief as she went on her way.
And then Tanis remembered that neither Lord Amothus, ruler of Palanthas, nor Lord Gunthar, head of the Knights of Solamnia, had been informed. The half-elf smiled sadly in sudden understanding. Elistan was dying as he had lived—with quiet dignity.
A young acolyte met Tanis at the Temple door.
“Enter and welcome, Tanis Half-Elven,” the young man said softly. “You are expected. Come this way.”
Cool shadows washed over Tanis. Inside the Temple, the signs of grieving were clear. An elven harpist played sweet music, clerics stood together, arms around each other, sharing solace in their hour of trial. Tanis’s own eyes filled with tears.
“We are grateful that you returned in time,” the acolyte continued, leading Tanis deeper into the inner confines of the quiet Temple. “We feared you might not. We left word where we could, but only with those we knew we could count upon to keep the secret of our great sorrow. It is Elistan’s wish that he be allowed to die quietly and peacefully.”
The half-elf nodded brusquely, glad his beard hid his tears. Not that he was ashamed of them. Elves revere life above all things, holding it to be the most sacred of the gifts from the gods. Elves do not hide their feelings, as do humans. But Tanis feared the sight of his grief might upset Elistan. He knew the good man’s one regret in dying lay in the knowledge that his death would bring such bitter sorrow to those left behind.
Tanis and his guide passed through an inner chamber where stood Garad and other Revered Sons and Daughters, heads bowed, speaking words of comfort to each other. Beyond them, a door was shut. Everyone’s glance strayed to that door, and Tanis had no doubt who lay beyond it.
Looking up on hearing Tanis enter, Garad himself crossed the room to greet the half-elf.
“We are so glad you could come,” the older elf said cordially. He was Silvanesti, Tanis recognized, and must have been one of the first of the elven converts to the religion that they had, long ago, forgotten. “We feared you might not return in time.”
“This must have been sudden,” Tanis murmured, uncomfortably aware that his sword—which he had forgotten to take off—was clanking, sounding loud and harsh in such peaceful, sorrowful surroundings. He clapped his hand over it.
“Yes, he was taken gravely ill the night you left,” Garad sighed. “I do not know what was said in that room, but the shock was great. He has been in terrible pain. Nothing we could do would help him. Finally, Dalamar, the wizard’s apprentice”—Garad could not help but frown—“came to the Temple. He brought with him a potion that would, he said, ease pain. How he came to know of what was transpiring, I cannot guess. Strange things happen in that place.” He glanced out the window to where the Tower stood, a dark shadow, defiantly denying the sun’s bright light.
“You let him in?” Tanis asked, startled.
“I would have refused,” Garad said grimly. “But Elistan gave orders that he should be allowed entry. And, I must admit, his potion worked. The pain left our master, and he will be granted the right to die in peace.”
“And Dalamar?”
“He is within. He has neither moved nor spoken since he came, but sits silently in a corner. Yet, his presence seems to comfort Elistan, and so we permit him to stay.”
I’d like to see you try to make him leave, Tanis thought privately, but said nothing. The door opened. People looked up fearfully, but it was only the acolyte who had knocked softly and who was conferring with someone on the other side. Turning, he beckoned to Tanis.
The half-elf entered the small, plainly furnished room, trying to move softly, as did the clerics with their whispering robes and padded slippers. But his sword rattled, his boots clomped, the buckles of his leather armor jingled. He sounded, to his ears, like an army of dwarves. His face burning, he tried to remedy matters by walking on tiptoe. Elistan, turning his head feebly upon the pillow, looked over at the half-elf and began to laugh.
“One would think, my friend, that you were coming to rob me,” Elistan remarked, lifting a wasted hand and holding it out to Tanis.
The half-elf tried to smile. He heard the door shut softly behind him and he was aware of a shadowy figure darkening one corner of the room. But he ignored all this. Kneeling beside the bed of the man he had helped rescue from the mines of Pax Tharkas, the man whose gentle influence had played such an important role in his life and in Laurana’s, Tanis took the dying man’s hand and held it firmly.
“Would that I were able to fight this enemy for you, Elistan,” Tanis said, looking at the shrunken white hand clasped in his own strong, tanned one.
“Not an enemy, Tanis, not an enemy. An old friend is coming for me.” He withdrew his hand gently from Tanis’s grasp, then patted the half-elf’s arm. “No, you don’t understand. But you will, someday, I promise. And now, I did not call you here to burden you with saying good-bye. I have a commission to give to you, my friend.” He motioned. The young acolyte came forward, bearing a wooden box, and gave it into Elistan’s hands. Then, he retired, returning to stand silently beside the door.
> The dark figure in the corner did not move.
Lifting the lid of the box, Elistan removed a folded piece of pure white parchment. Taking Tanis’s hand, he placed the parchment in the half-elf’s palm, then closed his fingers over it.
“Give this to Crysania,” he said softly. “If she survives, she is to be the next head of the church.” Seeing the dubious, disapproving expression come onto Tanis’s face, Elistan smiled. “My friend, you have walked in darkness—none know that better than I. We came near losing you, Tanis. But you endured the night and faced the daylight, strengthened by the knowledge that you had gained. This is what I hope for Crysania. She is strong in her faith, but, as you yourself noted, she lacks warmth, compassion, humanity. She had to see with her own eyes the lessons that the fall of the Kingpriest taught us. She had to be hurt, Tanis, and hurt deeply, before she would be able to react with compassion to the hurt of others. Above all, Tanis, she had to love.”
Elistan closed his eyes, his face, drawn with suffering, filled with grief. “I would have chosen differently for her, my friend, had I been able. I saw the road she walked. But, who questions the ways of the gods? Certainly not I. Although”—opening his eyes, he looked up at Tanis, and the half-elf saw a glint of anger in them—“I might argue with them a bit.”
Tanis heard, behind him, the soft step of the acolyte. Elistan nodded. “Yes, I know. They fear that visitors tire me. They do, but I will find rest soon enough.” The cleric closed his eyes, smiling. “Yes, I will rest. My old friend is coming to walk with me, to guide my feeble steps.”
Test of the Twins: Legends, Volume Three (Dragonlance Legends) Page 13
