Time of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  Raistlin took her hand in his, the touch of his smooth flesh burned. Crysania looked into his eyes. She saw herself reflected there, a colorless woman dressed in white, her face framed by her dark, black hair.

  “You cannot do this,” Crysania whispered. “It is wrong, you must be stopped.” She held onto his hand very tightly.

  “Prove to me that it is wrong,” Raistlin answered, drawing her near. “Show me that this is evil. Convince me that the ways of good are the means of saving the world.”

  “Will you listen?” Crysania asked wistfully. “You are surrounded by darkness. How can I reach you?”

  “The darkness parted, didn’t it,” Raistlin said. “The darkness parted, and you came in.”

  “Yes …” Crysania was suddenly aware of the touch of his hand, the warmth of his body. Flushing uncomfortably, she stepped back. Removing her hand from his grasp, she absently rubbed it, as if it hurt.

  “Farewell, Raistlin Majere,” she said, without meeting his eyes.

  “Farewell, Revered Daughter of Paladine,” he said.

  The door opened and Dalamar stood within it, though Crysania had not heard Raistlin summon the young apprentice. Drawing her white hood up over her hair, Crysania turned from Raistlin and walked through the door. Moving down the gray, stone hallway, she could feel his golden eyes burning through her robes. When she arrived at the narrow winding staircase leading down, his voice reached her.

  “Perhaps Paladine did not send you to stop me, Lady Crysania. Perhaps he sent you to help.”

  Crysania paused and looked back. Raistlin was gone, the gray hall was bleak and empty. Dalamar stood beside her in silence, waiting.

  Slowly, gathering the folds of her white robes in her hand so that she did not trip, Crysania descended the stairs.

  And kept on descending … down … down … into unending sleep.

  CHAPTER

  12

  he Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth had been, for centuries, the last outpost of magic upon the continent of Ansalon. Here the mages had been driven, when the Kingpriest ordered them from the other Towers. Here they had come, leaving the Tower in Istar, now under the waters of the Blood Sea, leaving the accursed and blackened Tower in Palanthas.

  The Tower in Wayreth was an imposing structure, an unnerving sight. The outer walls formed an equilateral triangle. A small tower stood at each angle of the perfect geometric shape. In the center stood the two main towers, slanted slightly, twisting just a little, enough to make the viewer blink and say to himself—aren’t those crooked?

  The walls were built of black stone. Polished to a high gloss, it shone brilliantly in the sunlight and, in the night, reflected the light of two moons and mirrored the darkness of the third. Runes were carved upon the surface of the stone, runes of power and strength, shielding and warding; runes that bound the stones to each other; runes that bound the stones to the ground. The tops of the walls were smooth. There were no battlements for soldiers to man. There was no need.

  Far from any centers of civilization, the Tower at Wayreth was surrounded by its magic wood. None could enter who did not belong, none came to it without invitation. And so the mages protected their last bastion of strength, guarding it well from the outside world.

  Yet, the Tower was not lifeless. Ambitious apprentice magic-users came from all over the world to take the rigorous—and sometimes fatal—Test. Wizards of high standing arrived daily, continuing their studies, meeting, discussing, conducting dangerous and delicate experiments. To these, the Tower was open day and night. They could come and go as they chose—Black Robes, Red Robes, White Robes.

  Though far apart in philosophies—in their ways of viewing and of living with the world—all the Robes met in peace in the Tower. Arguments were tolerated only as they served to advance the Art. Fighting of any sort was prohibited—the penalty was swift, terrible death.

  The Art. It was the one thing that united them all. It was their first loyalty—no matter who they were, whom they served, what color robes they wore. The young magic-users who faced death calmly when they agreed to take the Test understood this. The ancient wizards who came here to breathe their last and be entombed within the familiar walls understood this. The Art—Magic. It was parent, lover, spouse, child. It was soil, fire, air, water. It was life. It was death. It was beyond death.

  Par-Salian thought of all this as he stood within his chambers in the northernmost of the two tall towers, watching Caramon and his small retinue advance toward the gates.

  As Caramon remembered the past, so, too, did Par-Salian. Some wondered if it was with regret.

  No, he said silently, watching Caramon come up the path, his battlesword clanking against his flabby thighs. I do not regret the past. I was given a terrible choice and I made it.

  Who questions the gods? They demanded a sword. I found one. And—like all swords—it was two-edged.

  Caramon and his group had arrived at the outer gate. There were no guards. A tiny silver bell rang in Par-Salian’s quarters.

  The old mage raised his hand. The gates swung open.

  It was twilight when they entered the outer gates of the Tower of High Sorcery. Tas glanced around, startled. It had been morning only moments ago. Or at least it seemed like it had been morning! Looking up, he could see red rays streaking across the sky, gleaming eerily off the polished stone walls of the Tower.

  Tas shook his head. “How does anyone tell time around here?” he asked himself. He stood in a vast courtyard bounded by the outer walls and the inner two towers. The courtyard was stark and barren. Paved with gray flagstone, it looked cold and unlovely. No flowers grew, no trees broke the unrelieved monotony of the gray stone. And it was empty, Tas noticed in disappointment. There was absolutely no one around, no one in sight.

  Or was there? Tas caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, a flutter of white. Turning quickly, however, he was amazed to see it was gone! No one was there. And then, he saw, out of the corner of the other eye, a face and a hand and a red robed sleeve. He looked at it directly—and it was gone! Suddenly, Tas had the impression he was surrounded by people, coming and going, talking, or just sitting and staring, even sleeping! Yet—the courtyard was still silent, still empty.

  “These must be mages taking the Test!” Tas said in awe. “Raistlin told me they traveled all over, but I never imagined anything like this! I wonder if they can see me? Do you suppose I could touch one, Caramon, if I—Caramon?”

  Tas blinked. Caramon was gone! Bupu was gone! The white-robed figures and Lady Crysania were gone. He was alone!

  Not for long. There was a flash of yellow light, a most horrible smell, and a black-robed mage stood towering before him. The mage extended a hand, a woman’s hand.

  “You have been summoned.”

  Tas gulped. Slowly, he held out his hand. The woman’s fingers closed over his wrist. He shivered at their cold touch. “Perhaps I’m going to be magicked!” he said to himself hopefully.

  The courtyard, the black stone walls, the red streaks of sunlight, the gray flagstone, all began to dissolve around Tas, running down the edges of his vision like a rain-soaked painting. Thoroughly delighted, the kender felt the woman’s black robes wrap around him. She tucked them up around his chin.…

  When Tasslehoff came to his senses, he was lying on a very hard, very cold, stone floor. Next to him, Bupu snored blissfully. Caramon was sitting up, shaking his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs.

  “Ouch.” Tas rubbed the back of his neck. “Funny kind of accommodations, Caramon,” he grumbled, getting to his feet. “You’d think they could at least magic up beds. And if they want a fellow to take a nap, why don’t they just say so instead of sending—oh—”

  Hearing Tas’s voice break off in a strange sort of gurgle, Caramon glanced up quickly.

  They were not alone.

  “I know this place,” Caramon whispered.

  They were in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. It was so wide
that its perimeter was lost in shadow, so high that its ceiling was obscured in shadow. No pillars supported it, no lights lit it. Yet light there was, though none could name its source. It was a pale light, white—not yellow. Cold and cheerless, it gave no warmth.

  The last time Caramon had been in this chamber, the light shone upon one old man, dressed in white robes, sitting by himself in a great stone chair. This time, the light shone upon the same old man, but he was no longer alone. A half-circle of stone chairs sat around him—twenty-one to be exact. The white-robed old man sat in the center. To his left were three indistinct figures, whether male or female, human or some other race, it was difficult to tell. Their hoods were pulled low over their faces. They were dressed in red robes. To their left sat six figures, clothed all in black. One chair among them was empty. On the old man’s right sat four more red-robed figures, and—to their right, six dressed all in white. Lady Crysania lay on the floor before them, her body on a white pallet, covered with white linen.

  Of all the Conclave, only the old man’s face was visible.

  “Good evening,” Tasslehoff said, bowing and backing up and bowing and backing up until he bumped into Caramon. “Who are these people?” the kender whispered loudly. “And what are they doing in our bedroom?”

  “The old man in the center is Par-Salian,” Caramon said softly. “And we’re not in a bedroom. This is the central hall, the Hall of Mages or some such thing. You better wake up the gully dwarf.”

  “Bupu!” Tas kicked the snoring dwarf with his foot.

  “Gulphphunger spawn,” she snarled, rolling over, her eyes tightly closed. “Go way. Me sleep.”

  “Bupu!” Tas was desperate; the old man’s eyes seemed to go right through him. “Hey, wake up. Dinner.”

  “Dinner!” Opening her eyes, Bupu jumped to her feet. Glancing around eagerly, she caught sight of the twenty robed figures, sitting silently, their hooded faces invisible.

  Bupu let out a scream like a tortured rabbit. With a convulsive leap, she threw herself at Caramon and wrapped her arms around his ankle in a deathlike grip. Aware of the glittering eyes watching him, Caramon tried to shake her loose, but it was impossible. She clung to him like a leech, shivering, peering at the mages in terror. Finally, Caramon gave up.

  The old man’s face creased in what might have been a smile. Tas saw Caramon look down self-consciously at his smelly clothes. He saw the big man finger his unshaven jowls and run a hand through his tangled hair. Embarrassed, he flushed uncomfortably. Then his expression hardened. When he spoke, it was with simple dignity.

  “Par-Salian,” Caramon said, the words booming out too loudly in the vast, shadowy hall, “do you remember me?”

  “I remember you, warrior,” said the mage. His voice was soft, yet it carried in the chamber. A dying whisper would have carried in that chamber.

  He said nothing more. None of the other mages spoke. Caramon shifted uncomfortably. Finally he gestured at Lady Crysania. “I have brought her here, hoping you could help her. Can you? Will she be all right?”

  “Whether she will be all right or not is not in our hands,” Par-Salian answered. “It is beyond our skill to care for her. In order to protect her from the spell the death knight cast upon her—a spell that surely would have meant her death—Paladine heard her last prayer and sent her soul to dwell in his peaceful realms.

  Caramon’s head bowed. “It’s my fault,” he said huskily. “I-I failed her. I might have been able—”

  “To protect her?” Par-Salian shook his head. “No, warrior, you could not have protected her from the Knight of the Black Rose. You would have lost your own life trying. Is that not true, kender?”

  Tas, suddenly finding the gaze of the old man’s blue eyes upon him felt tingling sparks shoot through his body. “Y-Yes,” he stammered. “I-I saw him—it,” Tasslehoff shuddered.

  “This from one who knows no fear,” Par-Salian said mildly. “No, warrior, do not blame yourself. And do not give up hope for her. Though we ourselves cannot restore her soul to her body, we know of those who can. But, first, tell me why Lady Crysania sought us out. For we know she was searching for the Forest of Wayreth.”

  “I’m not sure.” Caramon mumbled.

  “She came because of Raistlin,” Tas chimed in helpfully. But his voice sounded shrill and discordant in the hall. The name rang out eerily. Par-Salian frowned, Caramon turned to glare at him. The mages’ hooded heads shifted slightly, as if they were glancing at each other, their robes rustled softly. Tas gulped and fell silent.

  “Raistlin,” the name hissed softly from Par-Salian’s lips. He stared at Caramon intently. “What does a cleric of good have to do with your brother? Why did she undertake this perilous journey for his sake?”

  Caramon shook his head, unwilling or unable to talk.

  “You know of his evil?” Par-Salian pursued sternly.

  Caramon stubbornly refused to answer, his gaze was fixed on the stone floor.

  “I know—” Tas began, but Par-Salian made a slight movement with his hand and the kender hushed.

  “You know that now we believe he intends to conquer the world?” Par-Salian continued, his relentless words hitting Caramon like darts. Tas could see the big man flinch. “Along with your half-sister, Kitiara—or the Dark Lady, as she is known among her troops—Raistlin has begun to amass armies. He has dragons, flying citadels. And in addition we know—”

  A sneering voice rang through the hall. “You know nothing, Great One. You are a fool!”

  The words fell like drops of water into a still pond, causing ripples of movement to spread among the mages. Startled, Tas turned, searching for the source of the strange voice, and saw, behind him, a figure emerging from the shadows. Its black robes rustled as it walked past them to face Par-Salian. At that moment, the figure removed its hood.

  Tas felt Caramon stiffen. “What is it?” the kender whispered, unable to see.

  “A dark elf!” Caramon muttered.

  “Really?” Tas said, his eyes brightening. “You know, in all the years I’ve lived on Krynn, I’ve never seen a dark elf.” The kender started forward only to be caught by the collar of his tunic. Tas squawked in irritation, as Caramon dragged him back, but neither Par-Salian nor the black-robed figure appeared to notice the interruption.

  “I think you should explain yourself, Dalamar,” Par-Salian said quietly. “Why am I a fool?”

  “Conquer the world!” Dalamar sneered. “He does not plan to conquer the world! The world means nothing to him. He could have the world tomorrow, tonight, if he wanted it!”

  “Then what does he want?” This question came from a red-robed mage seated near Par-Salian.

  Tas, peering out around Caramon’s arm, saw the delicate, cruel features of the dark elf relax in a smile—a smile that made the kender shiver.

  “He wants to become a god,” Dalamar answered softly. “He will challenge the Queen of Darkness herself. That is his plan.”

  The mages said nothing, they did not move, but their silence seemed to stir among them like shifting currents of air as they stared at Dalamar with glittering, unblinking eyes.

  Then Par-Salian sighed. “I think you overestimate him.”

  There was a ripping, rending sound, the sound of cloth being torn apart. Tas saw the dark elf’s arms jerk, tearing open the fabric of his robes.

  “Is this overestimating him?” Dalamar cried.

  The mages leaned forward, a gasp whispered through the vast hall like a chill wind. Tas struggled to see, but Caramon’s hand held him fast. Irritably, Tas glanced up at Caramon’s face. Wasn’t he curious? But Caramon appeared totally unmoved.

  “You see the mark of his hand upon me,” Dalamar hissed. “Even now, the pain is almost more than I can bear.” The young elf paused, then added through clenched teeth. “He said to give you his regards, Par-Salian!”

  The great mage’s head bent. The hand rising to support it shook as with a palsy. He seemed old, feeble, weary. For a moment,
the mage sat with his eyes covered, then he raised his head and looked intently at Dalamar.

  “So—our worst fears are realized.” Par-Salian’s eyes narrowed questioningly. “He knows, then, that we sent you—”

  “To spy on him?” Dalamar laughed, bitterly. “Yes, he knows!” The dark elf spit the words. “He’s known all along. He’s been using me—using all of us—to further his own ends.”

  “I find this all very difficult to believe,” stated the red-robed mage in a mild voice. “We all admit that young Raistlin is certainly powerful, but I find this talk of challenging a goddess quite ridiculous … quite ridiculous indeed.”

  There were murmured assents from both halves of the semi-circle.

  “Oh, do you?” Dalamar asked, and there was a lethal softness in his voice. “Then, let me tell you fools that you have no idea of the meaning of the word power. Not as it relates to him! You cannot begin to fathom the depths of his power or to soar the heights! I can! I have seen”—for a moment Dalamar paused, his voice lost its anger and was filled with wonder—“I have seen such things as none of you have dared imagine! I have walked the realms of dreams with my eyes open! I have seen beauty to make the heart burst with pain. I have descended into nightmares—I have witnessed horrors”—he shuddered—“horrors so nameless and terrible that I begged to be struck dead rather than look upon them!” Dalamar glanced around the semi-circle, gathering them all together with his flashing, dark-eyed gaze. “And all these wonders he summoned, he created, he brought to life with his magic.”

  There was no sound, no one moved.

  “You are wise to be afraid, Great One,” Dalamar’s voice sank to a whisper. “But no matter how great your fear, you do not fear him enough. Oh, yes, he lacks power to cross that dread threshold. But that power he goes to find. Even as we speak, he is preparing himself for the long journey. Upon my return tomorrow, he will leave.”

  Par-Salian raised his head. “Your return?” he asked, shocked. “But he knows you for what you are—a spy, sent by us, the Conclave, his fellows.” The great mage’s glance went to the chair that stood empty amidst the Black Robes, then he rose to his feet. “No, young Dalamar. You are very courageous, but I cannot allow you to return to what would undoubtedly be tortured death at his hands.”