Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

“Events are transpiring in the outside world, Shalafi, that demand your attention.”

“Indeed?” Raistlin looked down again, absorbed in his work.

“Lady Crysania—”

Raistlin’s hooded head lifted quickly. Dalamar, reminded forcibly of a striking snake, involuntarily fell back a step before that intense gaze.

“What? Speak!” Raistlin hissed the word.

“You—you should come, Shalafi,” Dalamar faltered. “The Live Ones report...”

The dark elf spoke to empty air. Raistlin had vanished.

Heaving a trembling sigh, the dark elf pronounced the words that would take him instantly to his master’s side.

Far below the Tower of High Sorcery, deep beneath the ground, was a small round room magically carved from the rock that supported the Tower. This room had not been in the Tower originally. Known as the Chamber of Seeing, it was Raistlin’s creation.

Within the center of the small room of cold stone was a perfectly round pool of still, dark water. From the center of the strange, unnatural pond spurted a jet of blue flame. Rising to the ceiling of the chamber, it burned eternally, day and night. And around it, eternally, sat the Live Ones.

Though the most powerful mage living upon Krynn, Raistlin’s power was far from complete, and no one realized that more than the mage himself. He was always forcibly reminded of his weaknesses when he came into this room—one reason he avoided it, if possible. For here were the visible, outward symbols of his failures—the Live Ones.

Wretched creatures mistakenly created by magic gone awry, they were held in thrall in this chamber, serving their creator. Here they lived out their tortured lives, writhing in a larva-like, bleeding mass about the flaming pool. Their shining wet bodies made a horrible carpet for the floor, whose stones, made slick with their oozings, could be seen only when they parted to make room for their creator.

Yet, despite their lives of constant, twisted pain, the Live Ones spoke no word of complaint. Far better their lot than those who roamed the Tower, those known as the Dead Ones.

Raistlin materialized within the Chamber of Seeing, a dark shadow emerging out of darkness. The blue flame sparkled off the silver threads that decorated his robes, shimmered within the black cloth. Dalamar appeared beside him, and the two walked over to stand beside the surface of the still, black water.

“Where?” Raistlin asked.

“Here, M-master,” blurbled one of the Live Ones, pointing a misshapen appendage.

Raistlin hurried to stand beside it, Dalamar walking by his side, their black robes making a soft, whispering sound upon the slimy stone floor. Staring into the water, Raistlin motioned Dalamar to do the same. The dark elf looked into the still surface, seeing for an instant only the reflection of the jet of blue flame. Then the flame and the water merged, then parted, and he was in a forest. A big human male, clad in ill-fitting armor, stood staring down at the body of a young human female, dressed in white robes. A kender knelt beside the body of the woman, holding her hand in his. Dalamar heard the big man speak as clearly as if he had been standing by his side.

“She’s dead...”

“I—I’m not sure, Caramon. I think—”

“I’ve seen death often enough, believe me. She’s dead. And it’s all my fault... my fault...”

“Caramon, you imbecile!” Raistlin snarled with a curse. “What happened? What went wrong?”

As the mage spoke, Dalamar saw the kender look up quickly.

“Did you say something?” the kender asked the big human, who was working in the soil.

“No. It was just the wind.”

“What are you doing?”

“Digging a grave. We’ve got to bury her.”

“Bury her?” Raistlin gave a brief, bitter laugh. “Oh, of course, you bumbling idiot! That’s all you can think of to do!” The mage fumed. ” Bury her! I must know what happened!” He turned to the Live One. “What did you see?”

“T-they c-camp in t-trees, M-master.” Froth dribbled from the creature’s mouth, its speech was practically unrecognizable. “D-draco k-kill—”

“Draconians?” Raistlin repeated in astonishment. “Near Solace? Where did they come from?”

“D-dunno! Dunno!” The Live One cowered in terror. “I-I—”

“Shhh,” Dalamar warned, drawing his master’s attention back to the pond where the kender was arguing.

“Caramon, you can’t bury her! She’s—”

“We don’t have any choice. I know it’s not proper, but Paladine will see that her soul journeys in peace. We don’t dare build a funeral pyre, not with those dragonmen around—”

“But, Caramon, I really think you should come look at her! There’s not a mark on her body!”

“I don’t want to look at her! She’s dead! It’s my fault! We’ll bury her here, then I’ll go back to Solace, go back to digging my own grave—”

“Caramon!”

“Go find some flowers and leave me be!”

Dalamar saw the big man tear up the moist dirt with his bare hands, hurling it aside while tears streamed down his face. The kender remained beside the woman’s body, irresolute, his face covered with dried blood, his expression a mixture of grief and doubt.

“No mark, no wound, draconians coming out of nowhere...” Raistlin frowned thoughtfully. Then, suddenly, he knelt beside the Live One, who shrank away from him. “Speak. Tell me everything. I must know. Why wasn’t I summoned earlier?”

“Th-the d-draco k-kill, M-master,” the Live One’s voice bubbled in agony. “B-but the b-big m-man k-kill, too. Th-then b-big d-dark c-come! E-eyes of f-fire. I-I s-scared. I-I f-fraid f-fall in wa-water...”

“I found the Live One lying at the edge of the pool,” Dalamar reported coolly, “when one of the others told me something strange was going on. I looked into the water. Knowing of your interest in this human female, I thought you—”

“Quite right,” Raistlin murmured, cutting off Dalamar’s explanation impatiently. The mage’s golden eyes narrowed, his thin lips compressed. Feeling his anger, the poor Live One dragged its body as far from the mage as possible. Dalamar held his breath. But Raistlin’s anger was not directed at them.

“'Big dark, eyes of fire’—Lord Soth! So, my sister, you betray me,” Raistlin whispered. “I smell your fear, Kitiara! You coward! I could have made you queen of this world. I could have given you wealth immeasurable, power unlimited. But no. You are, after all, a weak and petty-minded worm!”

Raistlin stood quietly, pondering, staring into the still pond. When he spoke next, his voice was soft, lethal. “I will not forget this, my dear sister. You are fortunate that I have more urgent, pressing matters at hand, or you would be residing with the phantom lord who serves you!” Raistlin’s thin fist clenched, then—with an obvious effort—he forced himself to relax. “But, now, what to do about this? I must do something before my brother plants the cleric in a flower bed!”

“Shalafi, what has happened?” Dalamar ventured, greatly daring. “This—woman. What is she to you? I do not understand.”

Raistlin glanced at Dalamar irritably and seemed about to rebuke him for his impertinence. Then the mage hesitated. His golden eyes flared once with a flash of inner light that made Dalamar cringe, before returning to their flat, impassive stare.

“Of course, apprentice. You shall know everything. But first—”

Raistlin stopped. Another figure had entered the scene in the forest they watched so intently. It was a gully dwarf, bundled in layers and layers of bright, gaudy clothing, a huge bag dragging behind her as she walked.

“Bupu!” Raistlin whispered, the rare smile touching his lips. “Excellent. Once more you shall serve me, little one.”