Time of the Twins

by Margaret Weis

  But that was not what made the kender open his eyes wide. Crysania had changed! Gone were the plain, unadorned white robes, the severe hair style. She was dressed as the other female clerics in white robes, but these were decorated with fine embroidery. Her arms were bare, though a slender golden band adorned one, enhancing the pure whiteness of her skin. Her hair fell from a central part to sweep down around her shoulders with feathery softness. There was a flush of color in her cheeks, her eyes were warm and their gaze lingered on the black-robed figure that sat across from her, his back to Tas.

  “Humpf,” said the kender with interest. “Tika was right.”

  “I don’t know why I come here,” Tas heard Crysania say after a moment’s pause.

  I do, the kender thought gleefully, quickly moving his ear back to the keyhole so he could hear better.

  Her voice continued. “I am filled with such hope when I come to visit you, but I always leave depressed and unhappy. I plan to show you the ways of righteousness and truth, to prove to you that only by following those ways can we hope to bring peace to our world. But you always turn my words upside down and inside out.”

  “Your questions are your own,” Tas heard Raistlin say, and there was another rustling sound, as if the mage moved closer to the woman. “I simply open your heart so that you may hear them. Surely Elistan counsels against blind faith.…”

  Tas heard a sarcastic note in the mage’s voice, but apparently Crysania did not detect it, for she answered quickly and sincerely, “Of course. He encourages us to question and often tells us of Goldmoon’s example—how her questioning led to the return of the true gods. But questions should lead one to better understanding, and your questions only make me confused and miserable!”

  “How well I know that feeling.” Raistlin murmured so softly that Tas almost didn’t hear him. The kender heard Crysania move in her chair and risked a quick peep. The mage was near her, one hand resting on her arm. As he spoke those words, Crysania moved nearer him, impulsively placing her hand over his. When she spoke, there was such hope and love and joy in her voice that Tas felt warm all over.

  “Do you mean that?” Crysania asked the mage. “Are my poor words touching some part of you? No, don’t look away! I can see by your expression that you have thought of them and pondered them. We are so alike! I knew that the first time I met you. Ah, you smile again, mocking me. Go ahead. I know the truth. You told me the same thing, in the Tower. You said I was as ambitious as you were. I’ve thought about it, and you’re right. Our ambitions take different forms, but perhaps they are not as dissimilar as I once believed. We both live lonely lives, dedicated to our studies. We open our hearts to no one, not even those who would be closest to us. You surround yourself with darkness, but, Raistlin, I have seen beyond that. The warmth, the light …”

  Tas quickly put his eye back to the keyhole. He’s going to kiss her! he thought, wildly excited. This is wonderful! Wait until I tell Caramon.

  “Come on, fool!” he instructed Raistlin impatiently as the mage sat there, his hands on Crysania’s arms. “How can he resist?” the kender muttered, looking at the woman’s parted lips, her shining eyes.

  Suddenly Raistlin let loose of Crysania and turned away from her, abruptly rising out of his chair. “You had better go,” he said in a husky voice. Tas sighed and drew away from the door in disgust. Leaning against the wall, he shook his head.

  There was the sound of coughing, deep and harsh, and Crysania’s voice, gentle and filled with concern.

  “It is nothing,” Raistlin said as he opened the door. “I have felt unwell for several days. Can you not guess the reason?” he asked, pausing with the door half ajar. Tas pressed back against the wall so they wouldn’t see him, not wanting to interrupt (or miss) anything. “Haven’t you felt it?”

  “I have felt something,” Crysania murmured breathlessly. “What do you mean?”

  “The anger of the gods,” Raistlin answered, and it was obvious to Tas that this wasn’t the answer Crysania had hoped for. She seemed to droop. Raistlin did not notice, but continued on. “Their fury beats upon me, as if the sun were drawing nearer and nearer to this wretched planet. Perhaps that is why you are feeling depressed and unhappy.”

  “Perhaps,” murmured Crysania.

  “Tomorrow is Yule,” Raistlin continued softly. “Thirteen days after that, the Kingpriest will make his demand. Already, he and his ministers plan for it. The gods know. They have sent him a warning—the vanishing of the clerics. But he did not heed it. Every day, from Yule on, the warning signs will grow stronger, clearer. Have you ever read Astinus’s Chronicles of the Last Thirteen Days? They are not pleasant reading, and they will be less pleasant to live through.”

  Crysania looked at him, her face brightening. “Come back with us before then,” she said eagerly. “Par-Salian gave Caramon a magical device that will take us back to our own time. The kender told me—”

  “What magical device?” Raistlin demanded suddenly, and the strange tone of his voice sent a thrill through the kender and startled Crysania. “What does it look like? How does it work?” His eyes burned feverishly.

  “I-I don’t know,” Crysania faltered.

  “Oh, I’ll tell you,” Tas offered, stepping out from against the wall. “Gee, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s just that I couldn’t help overhearing. Merry Yule to you both, by the way,” Tas extended his small hand, which no one took.

  Both Raistlin and Crysania were staring at him with the same expressions worn on the faces of those who suddenly see a spider drop into their soup at dinner. Unabashed, Tas continued prattling cheerfully, putting his hand in his pocket. “What were we talking about? Oh, the magical device. Yes, well,” Tas continued more hurriedly, seeing Raistlin’s eyes narrow in an alarming fashion, “when it’s unfolded, it’s shaped like a … a sceptre and it has a … a ball at one end, all glittering with jewels. It’s about this big.” The kender spread his hands about an arm’s length apart. “That’s when it’s stretched out. Then, Par-Salian did something to it and it—”

  “Collapsed in upon itself,” Raistlin finished, “until you could carry it in your pocket.”

  “Why, yes!” Tas said excitedly. “That’s right! How did you know?”

  “I am familiar with the object,” Raistlin replied, and Tas noticed again a strange sound to the mage’s voice, a quivering, a tenseness—fear? Or elation? The kender couldn’t tell. Crysania noticed it, too.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Raistlin didn’t answer immediately, his face was suddenly a mask, unreadable, impassive, cold. “I hesitate to say,” he told her. “I must study on this matter.” Flicking a glance at the kender—“What is it you want? Or are you simply listening at keyholes!”

  “Certainly not!” Tas said, insulted. “I came to talk to you, if you and Lady Crysania are finished, that is,” he amended hastily, his glance going to Crysania.

  She regarded him with quite an unfriendly expression, the kender thought, then turned away from him to Raistlin. “Will I see you tomorrow?” she asked.

  “I think not,” he said. “I will not, of course, be attending the Yule party.”

  “Oh, but I don’t want to go either—” Crysania began.

  “You will be expected,” Raistlin said abruptly. “Besides, I have too long neglected my studies in the pleasure of your company.”

  “I see,” Crysania said. Her own voice was cool and distant and, Tasslehoff could tell, hurt and disappointed.

  “Farewell, gentlemen,” she said after a moment, when it was apparent Raistlin wasn’t going to add anything further. Bowing slightly, she turned and walked down the dark hall, her white robes seeming to take the light away as she left.

  “I’ll tell Caramon you send your regards,” Tas called after her helpfully, but Crysania didn’t turn around. The kender turned to Raistlin with a sigh. “I’m afraid Caramon didn’t make much of an impression on her. But, then, he was all fuddled becaus
e of the dwarf spirits—”

  Raistlin coughed. “Did you come here to discuss my brother?” he interrupted coldly, “because, if so, you can leave—”

  “Oh, no!” Tas said hastily. Then he grinned up at the mage. “I came to stop the Cataclysm!”

  For the first time in his life, the kender had the satisfaction of seeing his words absolutely stun Raistlin. It was not a satisfaction he enjoyed long, however. The mage’s face went white and stiff, his mirrorlike eyes seemed to shatter, allowing Tas to see inside, into those dark, burning depths the mage kept hidden. Hands as strong as the claws of a predatory bird sank into the kender’s shoulders, hurting him. Within seconds, Tas found himself thrown inside Raistlin’s room. The door slammed shut with a shattering bang.

  “What gave you this idea?” Raistlin demanded.

  Tas shrank backward, startled, and glanced around the room uneasily, his kender instincts telling him he better look for someplace to hide.

  “Uh—you d-did,” Tas stammered. “Well, n-not exactly. But you said something about m-my coming back here and being able to alter time. And, I thought, st-stopping the Cataclysm would be a sort of good thing—”

  “How did you plan to do it?” Raistlin asked, and his eyes burned with a hot fire that made Tas sweat just looking into it.

  “Well, I planned to discuss it with you first, of course,” the kender said, hoping Raistlin was still subject to flattery, “and then I thought—if you said it was all right—that I would just go and talk to the Kingpriest and tell him he was making a really big mistake—one of the All Time Big Mistakes, if you take my meaning. And, I’m sure, once I explained, that he’d listen—”

  “I’m sure,” Raistlin said, and his voice was cool and controlled. But Tas thought he detected, oddly, a note of vast relief. “So”—the mage turned away—“you intend to talk to the Kingpriest. And what if he refuses to listen? What then?”

  Tas paused, his mouth open. “I guess I hadn’t considered that,” the kender said, after a moment. He sighed, then shrugged. “We’ll go home.”

  “There’s another way,” Raistlin said softly, sitting down in his chair and regarding the kender with his mirrorlike eyes. “A sure way! A way you could stop the Cataclysm without fail.”

  “There is?” Tas said eagerly. “What?”

  “The magical device,” Raistlin answered, spreading his slender hands. “Its powers are great, far beyond what Par-Salian told that idiot brother of mine. Activate it on the Day of the Cataclysm, and its magic will destroy the fiery mountain high above the world, so that it harms no one.”

  “Really?” Tas gasped. “That’s wonderful.” Then he frowned.

  “But, how can I be sure. Suppose it doesn’t work—”

  “What have you got to lose?” Raistlin asked. “If, for some reason, it fails, and I truly doubt it.” The mage smiled at the kender’s naiveté. “It was, after all, created by the highest level magic-users—”

  “Like dragon orbs?” Tas interrupted.

  “Like dragon orbs,” Raistlin snapped, irritated at the interruption. “But if it did fail, you could always use it to escape at the last moment.”

  “With Caramon and Crysania,” Tas added.

  Raistlin did not answer, but the kender didn’t notice in his excitement. Then he thought of something.

  “What if Caramon decides to leave before then?” he asked fearfully.

  “He won’t,” Raistlin answered softly. “Trust me,” he added, seeing Tas about to argue.

  The kender pondered again, then sighed. “I just thought of something. I don’t think Caramon will let me have the device. Par-Salian told him to guard it with his life. He never lets it out of his sight and locks it up in a chest when he has to leave. And I’m sure he wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain why I wanted it.”

  “Don’t tell him. The day of the Cataclysm is the day of the Final Bout,” Raistlin said, shrugging. “If it is gone for a short time, he’ll never miss it.”

  “But, that would be stealing!” Tas said, shocked.

  Raistlin’s lips twitched. “Let us say—borrowing,” the mage amended soothingly. “It’s for such a worthy cause! Caramon won’t be angry. I know my brother. Think how proud he will be of you!”

  “You’re right,” Tas said, his eyes shining. “I’d be a true hero, greater than Kronin Thistleknot himself! How do I find out how to work it?”

  “I’ll give you instructions,” Raistlin said, rising. He began to cough again. “Come back … in three days’ time. And now … I must rest.”

  “Sure,” Tas said cheerfully, getting to his feet. “I hope you feel better.” He started for the door. Once there, however, he hesitated. “Oh, say, I don’t have a gift for you. I’m sorry—”

  “You have given me a gift,” Raistlin said, “a gift of inestimable value. Thank you.”

  “I have!” Tas said, astonished. “Oh, you must mean stopping the Cataclysm. Well, don’t mention it. I—”

  Tas suddenly found himself in the middle of the garden, staring at the rosebushes and an extremely surprised cleric who had seen the kender apparently materialize out of nowhere, right in the middle of the path.

  “Great Reorx’s beard! I wish I knew how to do that,” Tasslehoff said wistfully.

  CHAPTER

  13

  n Yule day came the first of what would be later known as the Thirteen Calamities, (note that Astinus records them in the Chronicles as the Thirteen Warnings).

  The day dawned hot and breathless. It was the hottest Yule day anyone—even the elves—could remember. In the Temple, the Yule roses drooped and withered, the everbloom wreaths smelled as if they had been baked in an oven, the snow that cooled the wine in silver bowls melted so rapidly that the servants did nothing all day but run back and forth from the depths of the rock cellars to the party rooms, carrying buckets of slush.

  Raistlin woke on that morning, in the dark hour before the dawn, so ill he could not rise from his bed. He lay naked, bathed in sweat, a prey to the fevered hallucinations that had caused him to rip off his robes and the bedcovers. The gods were indeed near, but it was the closeness of one god in particular—his goddess, the Queen of Darkness—that was affecting him. He could feel her anger, as he could sense the anger of all the gods at the Kingpriest’s attempt to destroy the balance they sought to achieve in the world.

  Thus he had dreamed of his Queen, but she had chosen not to appear to him in her anger as might have been expected. He had not dreamed of the terrible five-headed dragon, the Dragon of All Colors and of None that would try to enslave the world in the Wars of the Lance. He had not seen her as the Dark Warrior, leading her legions to death and destruction. No, she had appeared to him as the Dark Temptress, the most beautiful of all women, the most seductive, and thus she had spent the night with him, tantalizing him with the weakness, the glory of the flesh.

  Closing his eyes, shivering in the room that was cool despite the heat outdoors, Raistlin pictured to himself once again the fragrant dark hair hanging over him; he felt her touch, her warmth. Reaching up his hands, letting himself sink beneath her spell, he had parted the tangled hair—and seen Crysania’s face!

  The dream ended, shattered as his mind took control once more. And now he lay awake, exultant in his victory, yet knowing the price it had cost. As if to remind him, a wrenching coughing fit seized him.

  “I will not give in,” he muttered when he could breathe. “You will not win me over so easily, my Queen,” Staggering out of bed, so weak he had to pause more than once to rest, he put on the black robes and made his way to his desk. Cursing the pain in his chest, he opened an ancient text on magical paraphernalia and began his laborious search.

  Crysania, too, had slept poorly. Like Raistlin, she felt the nearness of all the gods, but of her god—Paladine—most of all. She felt his anger, but it was tinged with a sorrow so deep and devastating that Crysania could not bear it. Overwhelmed with guilt, she turned away from that gentle face and b
egan to run. She ran and ran, weeping, unable to see where she was going. She stumbled and was falling into nothingness, her soul torn with fear. Then strong arms caught her. She was enfolded in soft black robes, held near a muscular body. Slender fingers stroked her hair, soothing her. She looked into a face—

  Bells. Bells broke the stillness. Startled, Crysania sat up in bed, looking around wildly. Then, remembering the face she had seen, remembering the warmth of his body and the comfort she had found there, she put her aching head in her hands and wept.

  Tasslehoff, on waking, at first felt disappointment. Today was Yule, he remembered, and also the day Raistlin said Dire Things would begin to happen. Looking around in the gray light that filtered through their window, the only dire thing Tas saw was Caramon, down on the floor, huffing and puffing his way grimly through morning exercises.

  Although Caramon’s days were filled with weapons’ practice, working out with his team members, developing new parts of their routine, the big man still fought a never-ending battle with his weight. He had been taken off his diet and allowed to eat the same food as the others. But the sharp-eyed dwarf soon noticed that Caramon was eating about five times more than anyone else!

  Once, the big man had eaten for pleasure. Now, nervous and unhappy and obsessed by thoughts of his brother, Caramon sought consolation in food as another might seek consolation in drink. (Caramon had, in fact, tried that once, ordering Tas to sneak a bottle of dwarf spirits in to him. But, unused to the strong alcohol, it had made him violently sick—much to the kender’s secret relief.)

  Arack decreed, therefore, that Caramon could eat only if he performed a series of strenuous exercises each day. Caramon often wondered how the dwarf knew if he missed a day, since he did them early in the morning before anyone else was up. But Arack did know, somehow. The one morning Caramon had skipped the exercises, he had been denied access to the mess hall by a grinning, club-wielding Raag.