Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

Just as they shifted when we approached... how many years ago, Caramon thought. Seven? Has it only been seven years? No, he realized sadly. It’s been a lifetime, a lifetime for both of us.

As Caramon came to the edge of the wood, the mist flowed out along the ground, chilling his ankles with a cold that seared through flesh and bit into bone. The trees stared at him, their branches writhing in agony. He remembered the tortured woods of Silvanesti, and that brought more memories of his brother. Caramon stood still a moment, looking into the Forest. He could see the dark and shadowy shapes waiting for him. And there was no Raistlin to keep them at bay. Not this time.

“I was never afraid of anything until I entered the Forest of Wayreth,” Caramon said to himself softly. “I only went in last time because you were with me, my brother. Your courage alone kept me going. How can I go in there now without you? It’s magic. I don’t understand magic! I can’t fight it! What hope is there?” Caramon put his hands over his eyes to blot out the hideous sight. “I can’t go in there,” he said wretchedly. “It’s too much to ask of me!”

Pulling his sword from its sheath, he held it out. His hand shook so he nearly dropped the weapon. “Hah!” he said bitterly. “See? I couldn’t fight a child. This is too much to ask. No hope. There is no hope...”

“It is easy to have hope in the spring, warrior, when the weather is warm and the vallenwoods are green. It is easy to have hope in the summer, when the vallenwoods glitter with gold. It is easy to have hope in the fall when the vallenwoods are as red as living blood. But in the winter, when the air is sharp and bitter and the skies are gray, does the vallenwood die, warrior?”

“Who spoke?” Caramon cried, staring around wildly, clutching his sword in his trembling hand.

“What does the vallenwood do in the winter, warrior, when all is dark and even the ground is frozen? It digs deep, warrior. It sends its roots down, down, into the soil, down to the warm heart of the world. There, deep within, the vallenwood finds nourishment to help it survive the darkness and the cold, so that it may bloom again in the spring.”

“So?” Caramon asked suspiciously, backing up a step and looking around.

“So you stand in the darkest winter of your life, warrior. And so you must dig deep to find the warmth and the strength that will help you survive the bitter cold and the terrible darkness. No longer do you have the bloom of spring or the vigor of summer. You must find the strength you need in your heart, in your soul. Then, like the vallenwoods, you will grow once more.”

“Your words are pretty—” Caramon began, scowling, distrusting this talk of spring and trees. But he could not finish, his breath caught in his throat.

The Forest was changing before his eyes.

The twisting, writhing trees straightened as he watched, lifting their limbs to the skies, growing, growing, growing. He bent his head back so far he nearly lost his balance, but still he couldn’t see their tops. They were vallenwood trees! Just like those in Solace before the coming of the dragons. As he watched in awe, he saw dead limbs burst into life—green buds sprouted, burst open, blossomed into green glistening leaves that turned summer gold—seasons changing as he drew a shivering breath.

The noxious fog vanished, replaced by a sweet fragrance drifting from beautiful flowers that twined among the roots of the vallenwoods. The darkness in the forest vanished, the sun shed its bright light upon the swaying trees. And as the sunlight touched the trees’ leaves, the calls of birds filled the perfumed air.

Caramon’s eyes filled with tears. The beauty of the song pierced his heart. There was hope! Inside the Forest, he would find all the answers! He’d find the help he sought.

“Caramon!” Tasslehoff was jumping up and down with excitement. “Caramon, that’s wonderful! How did you do it? Hear the birds’? Let’s go! Quickly.”

“Crysania—” Caramon said, starting to turn back. “We’ll have to make a litter. You’ll have to help—” But before he could finish, he stopped, staring in astonishment at two white-robed figures, who glided out of the golden woods. Their white hoods were pulled low over their heads, he could not see their faces. Both bowed before him solemnly, then walked across the glade to where Crysania lay in her deathlike sleep. Lifting her still body with ease, they bore her gently back to where Caramon stood. Coming to the edge of the Forest, they stopped, turning their hooded heads, looking at him expectantly.

“I think they’re waiting for you to go in first, Caramon,” Tas said cheerfully. “You go on ahead, I’ll get Bupu.”

The gully dwarf remained standing in the center of the glade, regarding the Forest with deep suspicion, which Caramon, looking at the white-robed figures, suddenly shared.

“Who are you?” he asked.

They did not answer. They simply stood, waiting.

“Who cares who they are!” Tas said, impatiently grabbing hold of Bupu and dragging her along, her sack bumping against her heels.

Caramon scowled. “You go first.” He gestured at the white-robed figures. They said nothing, nor did they move.

“Why are you waiting for me to enter that Forest?” Caramon stepped back a pace. “Go ahead”—he gestured—“take her to the Tower. You can help her. You don’t need me—”

The figures did not speak, but one raised his hand, pointing.

“C’mon, Caramon,” Tas urged. “Look, it’s like he was inviting us!”

They will not bother us, brother... We have been invited! Raistlin’s words, spoken seven years ago.

“Mages invited us. I don’t trust ’em.” Caramon softly repeated the answer he had made then.

Suddenly, the air was filled with laughter—strange, eerie, whispering laughter. Bupu threw her arms around Caramon’s leg, clinging to him in terror. Even Tasslehoff seemed a bit disconcerted. And then came a voice, as Caramon had heard it seven years before.

Does that include me, dear brother?

The hideous apparition came closer and closer to her. Crysania was possessed by a fear such as she had never known, a fear she could never have believed existed. As she shrank back before it, Crysania, for the first time in her life, contemplated death—her own death. It was not the peaceful transition to a blessed realm she had always believed existed. It was savage pain and howling darkness, eternal days and nights spent envying the living.