Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

“I had no choice!” Par-Salian snapped, his blue eyes flashing.

“Our time was running out. The world’s time was running out. The young man had to take the Test and assimilate what he had learned. I could delay no longer.”

Caramon stared from one to the other. “You knew Raist was in some kind of danger when you brought him here?”

“There is always danger,” Par-Salian answered. “The Test is designed to weed out those who might be harmful to themselves, to the Order, to the innocents in the world.” He put his hand to his head, rubbing his brows. “Remember, too, that the Test is designed to teach as well. We hoped to teach your brother compassion to temper his selfish ambition, we hoped to teach him mercy, pity. And, it was, perhaps, in my eagerness to teach that I made a mistake. I forgot Fistandantilus.”

“Fistandantilus?” Caramon said in confusion. “What do you mean—forgot him? From what you’ve said, that old mage is dead.”

“Dead? No.” Par-Salian’s face darkened. “The blast that killed thousands in the Dwarven Wars and laid waste a land that is still devastated and barren did not kill Fistandantilus. His magic was powerful enough to defeat death itself. He moved to another plane of existence, a plane far from here, yet not far enough. Constantly he watched, biding his time, searching for a body to accept his soul. And he found that body—your brother’s.”

Caramon listened in tense silence, his face deathly white.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tas saw Bupu start edging backward. He grabbed her hand and held onto her tightly, keeping the terrified gully dwarf from turning and fleeing headlong out of the hall.

“Who knows what deal the two made during the Test? None of us, probably.” Par-Salian smiled slightly. “I know this. Raistlin did superbly, yet his frail health was failing him. Perhaps he could have survived the final test—the confrontation with the dark elf—if Fistandantilus had not aided him. Perhaps not.”

“Aided him? He saved his life?”

Par-Salian shrugged. “We know only this, warrior—it was not any of us who left your brother with that gold-tinted skin. The dark elf cast a fireball at him, and Raistlin survived. Impossible, of course—”

“Not for Fistandantilus,” interrupted the red-robed mage.

“No,” Par-Salian agreed sadly, “not for Fistandantilus. I wondered at the time, but I was not able to investigate. Events in the world were rushing to a climax. Your brother was himself when he came out of the Test. More frail, of course, but that was only to be expected. And I was right”—Par-Salian cast a swift, triumphant glance around the semi-circle—“he was strong in his magic! Who else could have gained power over a dragon orb without years of study?”

“Of course,” the red-robed mage said, “he had help from one who’d had years of study.”

Par-Salian frowned and did not answer.

“Let me get this straight,” Caramon said, glowering at the white-robed mage. “This Fistandantilus... took over Raistlin’s soul? He’s the one that made Raistlin take the Black Robes.”

“Your brother made his own choice,” Par-Salian spoke sharply. “As did we all.”

“I don’t believe it!” Caramon shouted. “Raistlin didn’t make this decision. You’re lying—all of you! You tortured my brother, and then one of your old wizards claimed what was left of his body!” Caramon’s words boomed through the chamber and sent the shadows dancing in alarm.

Tas saw Par-Salian regard the warrior grimly, and the kender cringed, waiting for the spell that would sizzle Caramon like a spitted chicken. It never came. The only sound was Caramon’s ragged breathing.

“I’m going to get him back,” Caramon said finally, tears gleaming in his eyes. “If he can go back in time to meet this old wizard, so can I. You can send me back. And when I find Fistandantilus, I’ll kill him. Then Raist will be...” He choked back a sob, fighting for control. “He’ll be Raist again. And he’ll forget all this nonsense about challenging th—the Queen of Darkness and... becoming a god.”

The semi-circle broke into chaos. Voices raised, clamboring in anger. “Impossible! He’ll change history! You’ve gone too far, Par-Salian—”

The white-robed mage rose to his feet and, turning, stared at every mage in the semi-circle, his eyes going to each individually. Tas could sense the silent communication, swift and searing as lightning.

Caramon wiped his hand across his eyes, staring at the mages defiantly. Slowly, they all sank back into their seats. But Tas saw hands clench, he saw faces that were unconvinced, faces filled with anger. The red-robed mage stared at Par-Salian speculatively, one eyebrow raised. Then he, too, sat back. Par-Salian cast a final, quick glance around the Conclave before he turned to face Caramon.

“We will consider your offer,” Par-Salian said. “It might work. Certainly, it is not something he would expect—” Dalamar began to laugh.

“Expects’?” Dalamar laughed until he could scarcely breathe. “He planned all of this! Do you think this great idiot”—he waved at Caramon—“could have found his way here by himself? When creatures of darkness pursued Tanis Half-Elven and Lady Crysania—pursued but never caught them—who do you think sent them? Even the encounter with the death knight, an encounter plotted by his sister, an encounter that could have wrecked his plans—my Shalafi has turned to his own advantage. For, undoubtedly you fools will send this woman, Lady Crysania, back in time to the only ones who can heal her—the Kingpriest and his followers. You will send her back in time to meet Raistlin! Not only that, you’ll even provide her with this man—his brother—as bodyguard. Just what the Shalafi wants.”

Tas saw Par-Salian’s clawlike fingers clench over the cold stone arms of his chair, the old man’s blue eyes gleamed dangerously.

“We have suffered enough of your insults, Dalamar,” Par-Salian said. “I begin to think your loyalty to your Shalafi is too great. If that is true, your usefulness to this Conclave is ended.”

Ignoring the threat, Dalamar smiled bitterly. “My Shalafi—” he repeated softly, then sighed. A shudder convulsed his slender body, he gripped the torn robes in his hand and bowed his head. “I am caught in the middle, as he intended,” the dark elf whispered. “I don’t know who I serve anymore, if anyone.” He raised his dark eyes, and their haunted look made Tas’s heart ache. “But I know this—if any of you came and tried to enter the Tower while he was gone, I would kill you. That much loyalty I owe him. Yet, I am just as frightened of him as you are. I’ll help you, if I can.”

Par-Salian’s hands relaxed, though he still continued to regard Dalamar sternly. “I fail to understand why Raistlin told you of his plans? Surely he must know we will move to prevent him from succeeding in his terrifying ambitions.”

“Because—like me—he has you where he wants you,” Dalamar said. Suddenly he staggered, his face pale with pain and exhaustion. Par-Salian made a motion, and a chair materialized out of the shadows. The dark elf slumped into it. “You must go along with his plans. You must send this man back into time”—he gestured at Caramon—“along with the woman. It is the only way he can succeed—”

“And it is the only way we can stop him,” Par-Salian said, his voice low. “But why Lady Crysania? What possible interest could he have in one so good, so pure—”

“So powerful,” Dalamar said with a grim smile. “From what he has been able to gather from the writings of Fistandantilus that still survive, he will need a cleric to go with him to face the dread Queen. And only a cleric of good has power enough to defy the Queen and open the Dark Door. Oh, Lady Crysania was not the Shalafi’s first choice. He had vague plans to use the dying Elistan—but I won’t relate that. As it turned out, however, Lady Crysania fell into his hands—one might say literally. She is good, strong in her faith, powerful—”