Time of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  The great elven cleric stretched out his hand. Denubis felt blessed with a sense of peace and understanding he had never before experienced, even in the presence of the Kingpriest. Bowing his head, he reached out and took Loralon’s hand. But, as he did so, he could not help weeping.…

  Crysania sat in a corner of the Kingpriest’s sumptuous Hall of Audience, her hands folded calmly in her lap, her face pale but composed. Looking at her, no one would have guessed the turmoil in her soul. No one, perhaps, except one man, who had entered the room unnoticed by anyone and who now stood in a shadowy alcove, watching Crysania.

  Sitting there, listening to the musical voice of the Kingpriest, hearing him discuss important matters of state with his ministers, hearing him go from politics to solving the great mysteries of the universe with other ministers, Crysania actually blushed to think she had even considered approaching him with her petty questions.

  Words of Elistan’s came to her mind. “Do not go to others for the answers. Look in your own heart, search your own faith. You will either find the answer or come to see that the answer is with the gods themselves, not with man.”

  And so Crysania sat, preoccupied with her thoughts, searching her heart. Unfortunately, the peace she sought eluded her. Perhaps there were no answers to her questions, she decided abruptly. Then she felt a hand on her arm. Starting, Crysania looked up.

  “There are answers to your questions, Revered Daughter,” said a voice that sent a thrill of shocked recognition through her nerves, “there are answers, but you refuse to listen to them.”

  She knew the voice, but—looking eagerly into the shadows of the hood, she could not recognize the face. She glanced at the hand on her shoulder, thinking she knew that hand. Black robes fell around it, and her heart lurched. But there were no silver runes upon the robes, such as he wore. Once more, she stared into the face. All she could see was the glitter of hidden eyes, pale skin.… Then the hand left her shoulder and, reaching up, turned back the front of the hood.

  At first, Crysania felt bitter disappointment. The young man’s eyes were not golden, not shaped like the hourglass that had become his symbol. The skin was not tinted gold, the face was not frail and sickly. This man’s face was pale, as if from long hours of study, but it was healthy, even handsome, except for its look of perpetual, bitter cynicism. The eyes were brown, clear and cold as glass, reflecting back all they saw, revealing nothing within. The man’s body was slender, but well-muscled. The black, unadorned robes he wore revealed the outline of strong shoulders, not the stooped and shattered frame of the mage. And then the man smiled, the thin lips parted slightly.

  “It is you!” Crysania breathed, starting up from her chair.

  The man placed his hand upon her shoulder again, exerting a gentle pressure that forced her back down. “Please, remain seated, Revered Daughter,” he said. “I will join you. It is quiet here, and we can talk without interruption.” Turning, he motioned with a graceful gesture and a chair that had been across the room suddenly stood next to him. Crysania gasped slightly and glanced around the room. But, if anyone else had noticed, they were all studiously intent upon ignoring the mage. Looking back, Crysania found Raistlin watching her in amusement, and she felt her skin grow warm.

  “Raistlin,” she said formally, to cover her confusion, “I am pleased to see you.”

  “And I am pleased to see you, Revered Daughter,” he said in that mocking voice that grated on her nerves. “But my name is not Raistlin.”

  She stared at him, flushing even more now in her embarrassment. “Forgive me,” she said, looking intently at his face, “but you reminded me strongly of someone I know—once knew.”

  “Perhaps this will clear up the mystery,” he said softly. “My name, to those around here, is Fistandantilus.”

  Crysania shivered involuntarily, the lights in the room seemed to darken. “No,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “that cannot be! You came back … to learn from him!”

  “I came back to become him,” Raistlin replied.

  “But … I’ve heard stories. He’s evil, foul—” She drew away from Raistlin, her gaze fixed on him in horror.

  “The evil is no more,” Raistlin replied. “He is dead.”

  “You?” The word was a whisper.

  “He would have killed me, Crysania,” Raistlin said simply, “as he has murdered countless others. It was my life or his.”

  “We have exchanged one evil for another,” Crysania answered in a sad, hopeless voice. She turned away.

  I am losing her! Raistlin realized instantly. Silently, he regarded her. She had shifted in her chair, turning her face from him. He could see her profile, cold and pure as Solinari’s light. Coolly he studied her, much as he studied the small animals that came under his knife when he probed for the secrets of life itself. Just as he stripped away their skins to see the beating hearts beneath, so he mentally stripped away Crysania’s outer defenses to see her soul.

  She was listening to the beautiful voice of the Kingpriest, and on her face was a look of profound peace. But Raistlin remembered her face as he had seen it on entering. Long accustomed to observing others and reading the emotions they thought they hid, he had seen the slight line appear between her black eyebrows, he had seen her gray eyes grow dark and clouded.

  She had kept her hands in her lap, but he had seen the fingers twist the cloth of her gown. He knew of her conversation with Denubis. He knew she doubted, that her faith was wavering, teetering on the edge of the precipice. It would take little to shove her over the edge. And, with a bit of patience on his part, she might even jump over of her own accord.

  Raistlin remembered how she had flinched at his touch. Drawing near her, he reached out and took hold of her wrist. She started and almost immediately tried to break free of his hold. But his grip was firm. Crysania looked up into his eyes and could not move.

  “Do you truly believe that of me?” Raistlin asked in the voice of one who has suffered long and then returned to find it was all for nothing. He saw his sorrow pierce her heart. She tried to speak, but Raistlin continued, twisting the knife in her soul.

  “Fistandantilus planned to return to our time, destroy me, take my body, and pick up where the Queen of Darkness left off. He plotted to bring the evil dragons under his control. The Dragon Highlords, like my sister, Kitiara, would have flocked to his standard. The world would be plunged into war, once again,” Raistlin paused. “That threat is now ended,” he said softly.

  His eyes held Crysania, just as his hand held her wrist. Looking in them, she saw herself reflected in their mirrorlike surface. And she saw herself, not as the pale, studious, severe cleric she had heard herself called more than once, but as someone beautiful and caring. This man had come to her in trust and she had let him down. The pain in his voice was unendurable, and Crysania tried once again to speak, but Raistlin continued, drawing her ever nearer.

  “You know my ambitions,” he said. “To you, I opened my heart. Is it my design to renew the war? Is it my desire to conquer the world? My sister, Kitiara, came to me to ask this very thing, to seek my help. I refused, and you, I fear, paid the consequences.” Raistlin sighed and lowered his eyes. “I told her about you, Crysania, and of your goodness and your power. She was enraged and sent her death knight to destroy you, thinking to end your influence over me.”

  “Do I have influence over you then?” Crysania asked softly, no longer trying to break free of Raistlin’s hold. Her voice trembled with joy. “Can I dare hope that you have seen the ways of the church and—”

  “The ways of this church?” Raistlin asked, his voice once again bitter and mocking. Withdrawing his hand abruptly, he sat back in his chair, gathering his black robes about him and regarding Crysania with a sneering smile.

  Embarrassment, anger, and guilt stained Crysania’s cheeks a faint pink, her gray eyes darkened to deep blue. The color in her cheeks spread to her lips and suddenly she was beautiful, something Raistlin noticed without m
eaning to. The thought annoyed him beyond all bounds, threatening to disrupt his concentration. Irritably, he pushed it away.

  “I know your doubts, Crysania,” he continued abruptly. “I know what you have seen. You have found the church to be far more concerned with running the world than teaching the ways of the gods. You have seen its clerics double-dealing, dabbling in politics, spending money for show that might have fed the poor. You thought to vindicate the church, when you came back; to discover that others caused the gods in their righteous anger to hurl the fiery mountain down upon those who forsook them. You sought to blame … magic-users, perhaps.”

  Crysania’s flush deepened, she could not look at him and turned her face away, but her pain and humiliation were obvious.

  Raistlin continued mercilessly. “The time of the Cataclysm draws near. Already, the true clerics have left the land.… Yes, didn’t you know? Your friend, Denubis, has gone. You, Crysania, are the only true cleric left in the land.”

  Crysania stared at Raistlin in shock. “That’s … impossible,” she whispered. Her eyes glanced around the room. And she could hear, for the first time, the conversations of those gathered in knots away from the Kingpriest. She heard talk of the Games, she heard arguments over the distribution of public funds, the routing of armies, the best means to bring a rebellious land under control—all in the name of the church.

  And then, as if to drown out the other, harsh voices, the sweet, musical voice of the Kingpriest welled up in her soul, calming her troubled spirit. The Kingpriest was here, still. Turning from the darkness, she looked toward his light and felt her faith, once more strong and pure, rise up to defend her. Coolly, she looked back at Raistlin.

  “There is still goodness in the world,” she said sternly. Standing she started to leave. “As long as that holy man, who is surely blessed of the gods, rules, I cannot believe that the gods visited their wrath upon the church. Say, rather, it was on the world for ignoring the church,” she continued, her voice low and passionate. Raistlin had risen as well and, watching her intently, moved nearer to her.

  She did not seem to notice but kept on. “Or for ignoring the Kingpriest! He must foresee it! Perhaps even now he is trying to prevent it! Begging the gods to have mercy!”

  “Look at this man,” Raistlin whispered, “ ‘blessed’ of the gods.” Reaching out, the mage took hold of Crysania with his strong hands and forced her to face the Kingpriest. Overwhelmed with guilt for having doubted and angry with herself for having carelessly allowed Raistlin to see within her, Crysania angrily tried to free herself of his hold, but he gripped her firmly, his fingers burning into her skin.

  “Look!” he repeated. Shaking her slightly, he made her raise her head to look directly into the light and glory that surrounded the Kingpriest.

  Raistlin felt the body he held so near his own start to tremble, and he smiled in satisfaction. Moving his black-hooded head near hers, Raistlin whispered in her ear, his breath touching her cheek.

  “What do you see, Revered Daughter?”

  His only answer was a heartbroken moan.

  Raistlin’s smile deepened. “Tell me,” he persisted.

  “A man.” Crysania faltered, her shocked gaze on the Kingpriest. “Only a human man. He looks weary and … and frightened. His skin sags, he hasn’t slept for nights. Pale blue eyes dart here and there in fear—” Suddenly, she realized what she had been saying. Acutely aware of Raistlin’s nearness, the warmth and the feel of the strong, muscled body beneath the soft, black robes, Crysania broke free of his grip.

  “What spell is this you have cast over me?” she demanded angrily, turning to confront him.

  “No spell, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said quietly. “I have broken the spell he weaves around himself in his fear. It is that fear which will prove his undoing and bring down destruction upon the world.”

  Crysania stared at Raistlin wildly. She wanted him to be lying, she willed him to be lying. But then she realized that, even if he was, it didn’t matter. She could no longer lie to herself.

  Confused, frightened, and bewildered, Crysania turned around and, half-blinded by her tears, ran out of the Hall of Audience.

  Raistlin watched her go, feeling neither elation nor satisfaction at his victory. It was, after all, no more than he had expected. Sitting down again, near the fire, he selected an orange from a bowl of fruit sitting on a table and casually tore off its peel as he stared thoughtfully into the flames.

  One other person in the room watched Crysania flee the audience chamber. He watched as Raistlin ate the orange, draining the fruit of its juice first, then devouring the pulp.

  His face pale with anger vying with fear, Quarath left the Hall of Audience, returning to his own room, where he paced the floor until dawn.

  CHAPTER

  11

  t became known in later history as the Night of Doom, that night the true clerics left Krynn. Where they went and what their fate may have been, not even Astinus records. Some say they were seen during the bleak, bitter days of the War of the Lance, three hundred years later. There are many elves who will swear on all they hold dear that Loralon, greatest and most devout of the elven clerics, walked the tortured lands of Silvanesti, grieving at its downfall and blessing the efforts of those who gave of themselves to help in its rebuilding.

  But, for most on Krynn, the passing of the true clerics went unnoticed. That night, however, proved to be a Night of Doom in many ways for others.

  Crysania fled the Hall of Audience of the Kingpriest in confusion and fear. Her confusion was easily explained. She had seen that greatest of beings, the Kingpriest, the man that even clerics in her own day still revered, as a human afraid of his own shadow, a human who hid himself behind spells and who let others rule for him. All of the doubts and misgivings she had developed about the church and its purpose on Krynn returned.

  As for what she feared, that she could not or would not define.

  On first leaving the Hall, she stumbled along blindly without any clear idea of where she was going or what she was doing. Then she sought refuge in a corner, dried her tears, and pulled herself together. Ashamed of her momentary loss of control, she knew at once what she had to do.

  She must find Denubis. She would prove Raistlin wrong.

  Walking through the empty corridors lit by Solinari’s waning light, Crysania went to Denubis’s chamber. This tale of vanishing clerics could not be true. Crysania had, in fact, never believed in the old legends about the Night of Doom, considering them children’s tales. Now, she still refused to believe it. Raistlin was … mistaken.

  She hurried on without pause, familiar with the way. She had visited Denubis in his chambers several times to discuss theology or history, or to listen to his stories of his homeland. She knocked on the door.

  There was no answer.

  “He’s asleep,” Crysania said to herself, irritated at the sudden shiver that shook her body. “Of course, it’s past Deep Watch. I’ll return in the morning.”

  But she knocked again and even called out softly, “Denubis.”

  Still no answer.

  “I’ll come back. After all, it’s only been a few hours since I saw him,” she said to herself again, but she found her hand on the doorknob, gently turning it. “Denubis?” she whispered, her heart throbbing in her throat. The room was dark, it faced into an inner courtyard and so the window let in nothing of the moon’s light. For a moment Crysania’s will failed her. “This is ridiculous!” she reprimanded herself, already envisioning Denubis’s embarrassment and her own if the man woke up to find her creeping into his bed chamber in the dead of night.

  Firmly, Crysania threw open the door, letting the light from the torches in the corridor shine into the small room. It was just the way he had left it—neat, orderly … and empty.

  Well, not quite empty. The man’s books, his quill pens, even his clothes were still there, as if he had just stepped out for a few minutes, intending to return directly. But the
spirit of the room was gone, leaving it cold and vacant as the stillmade bed.

  For a moment, the lights in the corridor blurred before Crysania’s eyes. Her legs felt weak and she leaned against the door. Then, as before, she forced herself to be calm, to think rationally. Firmly, she shut the door and, even more firmly, made herself walk down the sleeping corridors toward her own room.

  Very well, the Night of Doom had come. The true clerics were gone. It was nearly Yule. Thirteen days after Yule, the Cataclysm would strike. That thought brought her to a halt. Feeling weak and sick, she leaned against a window and stared unseeing into a garden bathed in white moonlight. So this was the end of her plans, her dreams, her goals. She would be forced to go back to her own time and report nothing but dismal failure.

  The silver garden swam in her sight. She had found the church corrupt, the Kingpriest apparently at fault for the terrible destruction of the world. She had even failed in her original intent, to draw Raistlin from the folds of darkness. He would never listen to her. Right now, probably, he was laughing at her with that terrible, mocking laugh.…

  “Revered Daughter?” came a voice.

  Hastily wiping her eyes, Crysania turned. “Who is there?” she asked, trying to clear her throat. Blinking rapidly, she stared into the darkness, then caught her breath as a dark, robed figure emerged from the shadows. She could not speak, her voice failed.

  “I was on my way to my chambers when I saw you standing here,” said the voice, and it was not laughing or mocking. It was cool and tinged with cynicism, but there was a strange quality to it, a warmth, that made Crysania tremble.

  “I hope you are not ill,” Raistlin said, coming over to stand beside her. She could not see his face, hidden by the shadows of the dark hood. But she could see his eyes, glittering, clear and cold in the moonlight.

  “No,” Crysania murmured in confusion and turned her face away, devoutly hoping that all traces of tears were gone. But it did little good. Weariness, strain, and her own failings overwhelmed her. Though she sought desperately to control them, the tears came again, sliding down her cheeks.