Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

“You cannot stop me,” Dalamar said, and there was no emotion in his voice. “I said before—I would give my soul to study with such as he. And now, though it costs me my life, I will stay with him. He expects me back. He leaves me in charge of the Tower of High Sorcery in his absence.”

“He leaves you to guard?” the red-robed mage said dubiously. “You, who have betrayed him?”

“He knows me,” Dalamar said bitterly. “He knows he has ensnared me. He has stung my body and sucked my soul dry, yet I will return to the web. Nor will I be the first.” Dalamar motioned down at the still, white form lying on the pallet before him. Then, half-turning, the dark elf glanced at Caramon. “Will I, brother?” he said with a sneer.

At last, Caramon seemed driven to action. Angrily shaking Bupu loose from his foot, the warrior took a step forward, both the kender and the gully dwarf crowding close behind him.

“Who is this?” Caramon demanded, scowling at the dark elf. “What’s going on? Who are you talking about?”

Before Par-Salian could answer, Dalamar turned to face the big warrior.

“I am called Dalamar,” the dark elf said coldly. “And I speak of your twin brother, Raistlin. He is my master. I am his apprentice. I am, in addition, a spy, sent by this august company you see before you to report on the doings of your brother.”

Caramon did not answer. He may not have even heard. His eyes—wide with horror—were fixed on the dark elf’s chest. Following Caramon’s gaze, Tas saw five burned and bloody holes in Dalamar’s flesh. The kender swallowed, feeling suddenly queasy.

“Yes, your brother’s hand did this,” Dalamar remarked, guessing Caramon’s thoughts. Smiling grimly, the dark elf gripped the torn edges of his black robes with his hand and pulled them together, hiding the wounds. “It is no matter,” he muttered, “it was no more than I deserved.”

Caramon turned away, his face so pale Tas slipped his hand in the big man’s hand, fearing he might collapse. Dalamar regarded Caramon with scorn.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Didn’t you believe him capable of this’?” The dark elf shook his head in disbelief, his eyes swept the assemblage before him. “No, you are like the rest of them. Fools... all of you, fools!”

The mages murmured together, some voices angry, some fearful, most questioning. Finally, Par-Salian raised his hand for silence.

“Tell us, Dalamar, what he plans. Unless, of course, he has forbidden you to speak of it.” There was a note of irony in the mage’s voice that the dark elf did not miss.

“No,” Dalamar smiled grimly. “I know his plans. Enough of them, that is. He even asked that I be certain and report them to you accurately.”

There were muttered words and snorts of derision at this.

But Par-Salian only looked more concerned, if that were possible. “Continue,” he said, almost without voice.

Dalamar drew a breath.

“He journeys back in time, to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when the great Fistandantilus was at the height of his power. It is my Shalafi’s intention to meet this great mage, to study with him, and to recover those works of Fistandantilus we know were lost during the Cataclysm. For my Shalafi believes, from what he has read in the spellbooks he took from the Great Library at Palanthas, that Fistandantilus learned how to cross the threshold that exists between god and men. Thus, the great wizard was able to prolong his life after the Cataclysm to fight the Dwarven Wars. Thus, he was able to survive the terrible explosion that devastated the lands of Dergoth. Thus, was he able to live until he found a new receptacle for his soul.”

“I don’t understand any of this! Tell me what’s going on!” Caramon demanded, striding forward angrily. “Or I’ll tear this place down around your miserable heads! Who is this Fistandantilus? What does he have to do with my brother?”

“Shhh,” Tas said, glancing apprehensively at the mages.

“We understand, kenderken,” Par-Salian said, smiling at Tas gently. “We understand his anger and his sorrow. And he is right—we owe him an explanation.” The old mage sighed. “Perhaps what I did was wrong. And yet—did I have a choice? Where would we be today if I had not made the decision I made?”

Tas saw Par-Salian turn to look at the mages who sat on either side of him, and suddenly the kender realized Par-Salian’s answer was for them as much as for Caramon. Many had cast back their hoods and Tas could see their faces now. Anger marked the faces of those wearing the black robes, sadness and fear were reflected in the pale faces of those wearing white. Of the red robes, one man in particular caught Tas’s attention, mainly because his face was smooth, impassive, yet the eyes were dark and stirring. It was the mage who had doubted Raistlin’s power. It seemed to Tas that it was to this man in particular that Par-Salian directed his words.

“Over seven years ago, Paladine appeared to me.” Par-Salian’s eyes stared into the shadows. “The great god warned me that a time of terror was going to engulf the world. The Queen of Darkness had awakened the evil dragons and was planning to wage war upon the people in an effort to conquer them. ‘One among your Order you will choose to help fight this evil,’ Paladine told me. ‘Choose well, for this person shall be as a sword to cleave the darkness. You may tell him nothing of what the future holds, for by his decisions, and the decisions of others, will your world stand or fall forever into eternal night.’”

Par-Salian was interrupted by angry voices, coming particularly from those wearing the black robes. Par-Salian glanced at them, his eyes flashing. Within that moment, Tas saw revealed the power and authority that lay within the feeble old mage.

“Yes, perhaps I should have brought the matter before the Conclave,” Par-Salian said, his voice sharp. “But I believed then—as I believe now—that it was my decision alone. I knew well the hours that the Conclave would spend bickering, I knew well none of you would agree! I made my decision. Do any of you challenge my right to do so?”

Tas held his breath, feeling Par-Salian’s anger roll around the hall like thunder. The Black Robes sank back into their stone seats, muttering. Par-Salian was silent for a moment, then his eyes went back to Caramon, and their stern glance softened.

“I chose Raistlin,” he said.

Caramon scowled. “Why?” he demanded.

“I had my reasons,” Par-Salian said gently. “Some of them I cannot explain to you, not even now. But I can tell you this—he was born with the gift. And that is most important. The magic dwells deep within your brother. Did you know that, from the first day Raistlin attended school, his own master held him in fear and awe. How does one teach a pupil who knows more than the teacher? And combined with the gift of magic is intelligence. Raistlin’s mind is never at rest. It seeks knowledge, demands answers. And he is courageous—perhaps more courageous than you are, warrior. He fights pain every day of his life. He has faced death more than once and defeated it. He fears nothing—neither the darkness nor the light. And his soul...” Par-Salian paused. “His soul burns with ambition, the desire for power, the desire for more knowledge. I knew that nothing, not even the fear of death itself, would stop him from attaining his goals. And I knew that the goals he sought to attain might well benefit the world, even if he, himself, should choose to turn his back upon it.”

Par-Salian paused. When he spoke, it was with sorrow. “But first he had to take the Test.”

“You should have foreseen the outcome,” the red-robed mage said, speaking in the same mild tone. “We all knew he was waiting, biding his time...”