Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

But, though the gloved hand that held the jewel shook, it never wavered. The fleshless fingers did not stop her. The faces with their gaping mouths howled in vain for her warm blood. Slowly, the oak trees continued to part before Kitiara, the branches bending back out of the way.

There, standing at the trail’s end, was Raistlin.

“I should kill you, you damned bastard!” Kitiara said through numb lips, her hand on the hilt of her sword.

“I am overjoyed to see you, too, my sister,” Raistlin replied in his soft voice.

It was the first time brother and sister had met in over two years. Now that she was out from among the darkness of the trees, Kitiara could see her brother, standing in Solinari’s pale light. He was dressed in robes of the finest black velvet. Hanging from his slightly stooped, thin shoulders, they fell in soft folds around his slender body. Silver runes were stitched about the hood that covered his head, leaving all but his golden eyes in shadow. The largest rune was in the center—an hourglass. Other silver runes sparkled in the moons’ light upon the cuffs of his wide, full sleeves. He leaned upon the Staff of Magius, its crystal, which flamed into light only upon Raistlin’s command—dark and cold, clutched in a golden dragon’s claw.

“I should kill you!” Kitiara repeated, and, before she was quite aware of what she did, she cast a glance at the death knight, who seemed to form out of the darkness of the grove. It was a glance, not of command, but of invitation—an unspoken challenge.

Raistlin smiled, the rare smile that few ever saw. It was, however, lost in the shadows of his hood.

“Lord Soth,” he said, turning to greet the death knight.

Kitiara bit her lip as Raistlin’s hourglass eyes studied the undead knight’s armor. Here were still the graven symbols of a Knight of Solamnia—the Rose and the Kingfisher and the Sword—but all were blackened as if the armor burned in a fire.

“Knight of the Black Rose,” continued Raistlin, “who died in flames in the Cataclysm before the curse of the elfmaid you wronged dragged you back to bitter life.”

“Such is my tale,” the death knight said without moving. “And you are Raistlin, master of past and present, the one foretold.”

The two stood, staring at each other, both forgetting Kitiara, who—feeling the silent, deadly contest being waged between the two—forgot her own anger, holding her breath to witness the outcome.

“Your magic is strong,” Raistlin commented. A soft wind stirred the branches of the oak trees, caressed the black folds of the mage’s robes.

“Yes,” said Lord Soth quietly. “I can kill with a single word. I can hurl a ball of fire into the midst of my enemies. I rule a squadron of skeletal warriors, who can destroy by touch alone. I can raise a wall of ice to protect those I serve. The invisible is discernible to my eyes. Ordinary magic spells crumble in my presence.”

Raistlin nodded, the folds of his hood moving gently.

Lord Soth stared at the mage without speaking. Walking close to Raistlin, he stopped only inches from the mage’s frail body. Kitiara’s breath came fast.

Then, with a courtly gesture, the cursed Knight of Solamnia placed his hand over that portion of his anatomy that had once contained his heart.

“But I bow in the presence of a master,” Lord Soth said.

Kitiara chewed her lip, checking an exclamation.

Raistlin glanced over at her quickly, amusement flashing in his golden, hourglass eyes.

“Disappointed, my dear sister?”

But Kitiara was well accustomed to the shifting winds of fate. She had scouted out the enemy, discovered what she needed to know. Now she could proceed with the battle. “Of course not, little brother,” she answered with the crooked smile that so many had found so charming. “After all, it was you I came to see. It’s been too long since we visited. You look well.”

“Oh, I am, dear sister,” Raistlin said. Coming forward, he put his thin hand upon her arm. She started at his touch, his flesh felt hot, as though he burned with fever. But—seeing his eyes intent upon her, noting every reaction—she did not flinch. He smiled.

“It has been so long since we saw each other last. What, two years? Two years ago this spring, in fact,” he continued, conversationally, holding Kitiara’s arm within his hand. His voice was filled with mockery. “It was in the Temple of the Queen of Darkness at Neraka, that fateful night when my queen met her downfall and was banished from the world—”

“Thanks to your treachery,” Kitiara snapped, trying, unsuccessfully, to break free of his grip. Raistlin kept his hand upon Kitiara’s arm. Though taller and stronger than the frail mage, and seemingly capable of breaking him in two with her bare hands, Kitiara—nevertheless—found herself longing to pull away from that burning touch, yet not daring to move.

Raistlin laughed and, drawing her with him, led her to the outer gates of the Tower of High Sorcery.

“Shall we talk of treachery, dear sister? Didn’t you rejoice when I used my magic to destroy Lord Ariakas’s shield of protection, allowing Tanis Half-Elven the chance to plunge his sword into the body of your lord and master? Did not I—by that action—make you the most powerful Dragon Highlord in Krynn?”

“A lot of good it has done me!” Kitiara returned bitterly. “Kept almost a prisoner in Sanction by the foul Knights of Solamnia, who rule the lands all about! Guarded day and night by golden dragons, my every move watched. My armies scattered, roaming the land...”

“Yet you came here,” Raistlin said simply. “Did the gold dragons stop you? Did the Knights know of your leaving?”

Kitiara stopped on the path leading to the tower, staring at her brother in amazement. “Your doing?”

“Of course!” Raistlin shrugged. “But, we will talk of these matters later, dear sister,” he said as they walked. “You are cold and hungry. The Shoikan Grove shakes the nerves of the most stalwart. Only one other person has successfully passed through its borders, with my help, of course. I expected you to do well, but I must admit I was a bit surprised at the courage of Lady Crysania—”

“Lady Crysania!” Kitiara repeated, stunned. “A Revered Daughter of Paladine! You allowed her—here?”

“I not only allowed her, I invited her,” Raistlin answered imperturbably. “Without that invitation and a charm of warding, of course, she could never have passed.”

“And she came?”

“Oh, quite eagerly, I assure you.” Now it was Raistlin who paused. They stood outside the entrance to the Tower of High Sorcery. Torchlight from the windows shone upon his face. Kitiara could see it clearly. The lips were twisted in a smile, his flat golden eyes shone cold and brittle as winter sunlight. “Quite eagerly,” he repeated softly.

Kitiara began to laugh.

Late that night, after the two moons had set, in the still dark hours before the dawn, Kitiara sat in Raistlin’s study, a glass of dark-red wine in her hands, her brows creased in a frown.

The study was comfortable, or so it seemed to look upon. Large, plush chairs of the best fabric and finest construction stood upon hand-woven carpets only the wealthiest people in Krynn could afford to own. Decorated with woven pictures of fanciful beasts and colorful flowers, they drew the eye, tempting the viewer to lose himself for long hours in their beauty. Carved wooden tables stood here and there, objects rare and beautiful—or rare and ghastly—ornamented the room.

But its predominant feature were the books. It was lined with deep wooden shelves, holding hundreds and hundreds of books. Many were similar in appearance, all bound with a nightblue binding, decorated with runes of silver. It was a comfortable room, but, despite a roaring fire blazing in a huge, gaping fireplace at one end of the study, there was a bone-chilling cold in the air. Kitiara was not certain, but she had the feeling it came from the books.