Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

Dalamar glanced out the window. The red moon, Lunitari, was starting to sink out of sight behind the black jagged edges of the mountains. The night was nearing its midpoint.

“You must make your journey and be back before I leave in the morning,” Raistlin continued. “There will undoubtedly be some last-minute instructions, besides many things I must leave in your care. You will be in charge here, of course, while I am gone.”

Dalamar nodded, then frowned. “You spoke of my journey, Shalafi? I am not going anywhere—” The dark elf stopped, choking as he remembered that he did, indeed, have somewhere to go, a report to make.

Raistlin stood regarding the young elf in silence, the look of horrified realization dawning on Dalamar’s face reflected in the mage’s mirrorlike eyes. Then, slowly, Raistlin advanced upon the young apprentice, his black robes rustling gently about his ankles. Stricken with terror, Dalamar could not move. Spells of protection slipped from his grasp. His mind could think of nothing, see nothing, except two flat, emotionless, golden eyes.

Slowly, Raistlin lifted his hand and laid it gently upon Dalamar’s chest, touching the young man’s black robes with the tips of five fingers.

The pain was excruciating. Dalamar’s face turned white, his eyes widened, he gasped in agony. But the dark elf could not withdraw from that terrible touch. Held fast by Raistlin’s gaze, Dalamar could not even scream.

“Relate to them accurately both what I have told you,” Raistlin whispered, “and what you may have guessed. And give the great Par-Salian my regards... apprentice!”

The mage withdrew his hand.

Dalamar collapsed upon the floor, clutching his chest, moaning. Raistlin walked around him without even a glance. The dark elf could hear him leave the room, the soft swish of the black robes, the door opening and closing.

In a frenzy of pain, Dalamar ripped open his robes. Five red, glistening trails of blood streamed down his breast, soaking into the black cloth, welling from five holes that had been burned into his flesh.

Caramon! Get up! Wake up!”

No. I’m in my grave. It’s warm here beneath the ground, warm and safe. You can’t wake me, you can’t reach me. I’m hidden in the clay, you can’t find me.

“Caramon, you’ve got to see this! Wake up!”

A hand shoved aside the darkness, tugged at him.

No, Tika, go away! You brought me back to life once, back to pain and suffering. You should have left me in the sweet realm of darkness below the Blood Sea of Istar. But I’ve found peace now at last. I dug my grave and I buried myself.

“Hey, Caramon, you better wake up and take a look at this!”

Those words! They were familiar. Of course, I said them! I said them to Raistlin long ago, when he and I first came to this forest. So how can I be hearing them? Unless I am Raistlin... Ah, that’s—

There was a hand on his eyelid! Two fingers were prying it open! At the touch, fear ran prickling through Caramon’s bloodstream, starting his heart beating with a jolt.

“Arghhhh!” Caramon roared in alarm, trying to crawl into the dirt as that one, forcibly opened eye saw a gigantic face hovering over him—the face of a gully dwarf!

“Him awake,” Bupu reported. “Here,” she said to Tasslehoff, “you hold this eye. I open other one.”

“No!” Tas cried hastily. Dragging Bupu off the warrior, Tas shoved her behind him. “Uh... you go get some water.”

“Good idea,” Bupu remarked and scuttled off.

“It—it’s all right, Caramon,” Tas said, kneeling beside the big man and patting him reassuringly. “It was only Bupu. I’m sorry, but I was—uh—looking at the... well, you’ll see... and I forgot to watch her.”

Groaning, Caramon covered his face with his hand. With Tas’s help, he struggled to sit up. “I dreamed I was dead,” he said heavily. “Then I saw that face—I knew it was all over. I was in the Abyss.”

“You may wish you were,” Tas said somberly.

Caramon looked up at the sound of the kender’s unusually serious tone. “Why? What do you mean?” he asked harshly.

Instead of answering, Tas asked, “How do you feel?”

Caramon scowled. “I’m sober, if that’s what you want to know,” the big man muttered. “And I wish to the gods I wasn’t. So there.”

Tasslehoff regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, then, slowly, he reached into a pouch and drew forth a small leather-bound bottle. “Here, Caramon,” he said quietly, “if you really think you need it.”

The big man’s eyes flashed. Eagerly, he stretched out a trembling hand and snatched the bottle. Uncorking the top, he sniffed at it, smiled, and raised it to his lips.

“Quit staring at me!” he ordered Tas sullenly.

“I’m s-sorry.” Tas flushed. He rose to his feet. “I-I’ll just go look after Lady Crysania—”

“Crysania...” Caramon lowered the flask, untasted. He rubbed his gummed eyes. “Yeah, I forgot about her. Good idea, you looking after her. Take her and get out of here, in fact. You and that vermin-ridden gully dwarf of yours! Get out and leave me alone!” Raising the bottle to his lips again, Caramon took a long pull. He coughed once, lowered the bottle, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go on,” he repeated, staring at Tas dully, “get out of here! All of you! Leave me alone!”

“I’m sorry, Caramon,” Tas said quietly. “I really wish we could. But we can’t.”

“Why?” snarled Caramon.

Tas drew a deep breath. “Because, if I remember the stories Raistlin told me, I think the Forest of Wayreth has found us.”

For a moment, Caramon stared at Tas, his blood-shot eyes wide.

“That’s impossible,” he said after a moment, his words little more than a whisper. “We’re miles from there! I—it took me and Raist... it took us months to find the Forest! And the Tower is far south of here! It’s clear past Qualinesti, according to your map.” Caramon regarded Tas balefully. “That isn’t the same map that showed Tarsis by the sea, is it?”

“It could be,” Tas hedged, hastily rolling up the map and hiding it behind his back. “I have so many...” He hurriedly changed the subject. “But Raistlin said it was a magic forest, so I suppose it could have found us, if it was so inclined.”

“It is a magic forest,” Caramon murmured, his voice deep and trembling. “It’s a place of horror.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, then—suddenly—he looked up, his face full of cunning. “This is a trick, isn’t it? A trick to keep me from drinking! Well, it won’t work—”

“It’s no trick, Caramon.” Tas sighed. Then he pointed. “Look over there. It’s just like Raistlin described to me once.”

Turning his head, Caramon saw, and he shuddered, both at the sight and at the bitter memories of his brother it brought back.

The glade they were camped in was a small, grassy clearing some distance from the main trail. It was surrounded by maple trees, pines, walnut trees, and even a few aspens. The trees were just beginning to bud out. Caramon had looked at them while digging Crysania’s grave. The branches shimmered in the early morning sunlight with the faint yellow-green glow of spring. Wild flowers bloomed at their roots, the early flowers of spring—crocuses and violets.

As Caramon looked around now, he saw that these same trees surrounded them still—on three sides. But now—on the fourth, the southern side—the trees had changed.

These trees, mostly dead, stood side-by-side, lined up evenly, row after row. Here and there, as one looked deeper into the Forest, a living tree might be seen, watching like an officer over the silent ranks of his troops. No sun shone in this Forest. A thick, noxious mist flowed out of the trees, obscuring the light. The trees themselves were hideous to look upon, twisted and deformed, their limbs like great claws dragging the ground. Their branches did not move, no wind stirred their dead leaves. But—most horrible—things within the Forest moved. As Caramon and Tas watched, they could see shadows flitting among the trunks, skulking among the thorny underbrush.