Margaret Weis: Time of the Twins

“Except those I choose to admit,” Raistlin whispered. Folding the blood-stained cloth, he tucked it back into a secret pocket of his robes. Then, reaching out, he took hold of Crysania’s hand.

“How brave you are, Revered Daughter,” he commented. “You do not tremble at my evil touch.”

“Paladine is with me,” Crysania replied disdainfully.

Raistlin smiled, a warm smile, dark and secret—a smile for just the two of them. It fascinated Crysania. He drew her near to him. Then, he dropped her hand. Resting the staff against the chair, he reached out and took hold of her head with his slender hands, placing his fingers over the white hood she wore. Now, Crysania trembled at his touch, but she could not move, she could not speak or do anything more than stare at him in a wild fear she could neither suppress nor understand.

Holding her firmly, Raistlin leaned down and brushed his blood-flecked lips across her forehead. As he did so, he muttered strange words. Then he released her.

Crysania stumbled, nearly falling. She felt weak and dizzy. Her hand went to her forehead where the touch of his lips burned into her skin with a searing pain. “What have you done?” she cried brokenly. “You cannot cast a spell upon me! My faith protects—”

“Of course.” Raistlin sighed wearily, and there was an expression of sorrow in his face and voice, the sorrow of one who is constantly suspected, misunderstood. “I have simply given you a charm that will allow you to pass through Shoikan Grove. The way will not be easy”—his sarcasm returned—“but, undoubtedly your faith will sustain you!”

Pulling his hood low over his eyes, the mage bowed silently to Crysania, who could only stare at him, then he walked toward the door with slow, faltering steps. Reaching out a skeletal hand, he pulled the bell rope. The door opened and Bertrem entered so swiftly and suddenly that Crysania knew he must have been posted outside. Her lips tightened. She flashed the Aesthetic such a furious, imperious glance that the man paled visibly, though totally unaware of what crime he had committed, and mopped his shining forehead with the sleeve of his robe.

Raistlin started to leave, but Crysania stopped him. “I-I apologize for not trusting you, Raistlin Majere,” she said softly. “And, again, I thank you for coming.”

Raistlin turned. “And I apologize for my sharp tongue,” he said. “Farewell, Revered Daughter. If you truly do not fear knowledge, then come to the Tower two nights from this night, when Lunitari makes its first appearance in the sky.”

“I will be there,” Crysania answered firmly, noting with pleasure Bertrem’s look of shocked horror. Nodding in good-bye, she rested her hand lightly on the back of the ornately carved wooden chair.

The mage left the room, Bertrem followed, shutting the door behind him.

Left alone in the warm, silent room, Crysania fell to her knees before the chair. “Oh, thank you, Paladine!” she breathed. “I accept your challenge. I will not fail you! I will not fail!”

Behind her, she could hear the sound of clawed feet, scrapping through the leaves of the forest. Tika tensed, but tried to act as if she didn’t hear, luring the creature on. Firmly, she gripped her sword in her hand. Her heart pounded. Closer and closer came the footsteps, she could hear the harsh breathing. The touch of a clawed hand fell upon her shoulder. Whirling about, Tika swung her sword and... knocked a tray full of mugs to the floor with a crash.

Dezra shrieked and sprang backward in alarm. Patrons sitting at the bar burst into raucous laughter. Tika knew her face must be as red as her hair. Her heart was pounding, her hands shook.

“Dezra,” she said coldly, “you have all the grace and brains of a gully dwarf. Perhaps you and Raf should switch places. You carry out the garbage and I’ll let him wait tables!”

Dezra looked up from where she knelt, picking broken pieces of crockery up off the floor, where they floated in a sea of beer. “Perhaps I should!” the waitress cried, tossing the pieces back onto the floor. “Wait tables yourself... or is that beneath you now, Tika Majere, Heroine of the Lance?”

Flashing Tika a hurt, reproachful glance, Dezra stood up, kicked the broken crockery out of her way, and flounced out of the Inn.

As the front door banged open, it hit sharply against its frame, making Tika grimace as she envisioned scratches on the woodwork. Sharp words rose to her lips, but she bit her tongue and stopped their utterance, knowing she would regret them later.

The door remained standing open, letting the bright light of fading afternoon flood the Inn. The ruddy glow of the setting sun gleamed in the bar’s freshly polished wood surface and sparkled off the glasses. It even danced on the surface of the puddle on the floor. It touched Tika’s flaming red curls teasingly, like the hand of a lover, causing many of the sniggering patrons to choke on their laughter and gaze at the comely woman with longing.

Not that Tika noticed. Now ashamed of her anger, she peered out the window, where she could see Dezra, dabbing at her eyes with an apron. A customer entered the open door, dragging it shut behind him. The light vanished, leaving the Inn once more in cool, half-darkness.

Tika brushed her hand across her own eyes. What kind of monster am I turning into? she asked herself remorsefully. After all, it wasn’t Dezra’s fault. It’s this horrible feeling inside of me! I almost wish there were draconians to fight again. At least then I knew what I feared, at least then I could fight it with my own hands! How can I fight something I can’t even name?

Voices broke in on her thoughts, clamoring for ale, for food. Laughter rose, echoing through the Inn of the Last Home.

This is what I came back to find. Tika sniffed and wiped her nose with the bar rag. This is my home. These people are as right and beautiful and warm as the setting sun. I’m surrounded by the sounds of love—laughter, good fellowship, a lapping dog...

Lapping dog! Tika groaned and hurried out from behind the bar.

“Raf!” she exclaimed, staring at the gully dwarf in despair.

“Beer spill. Me mop up,” he said, looking at her and cheerfully wiping his hand across his mouth.

Several of the old-time customers laughed, but there were a few, new to the Inn, who were staring at the gully dwarf in disgust.

“Use this rag to clean it up!” Tika hissed out of the corner of her mouth as she grinned weakly at the customers in apology. She tossed Raf the bar rag and the gully dwarf caught it. But he only held it in his hand, staring at it with a mystified expression.

“What me do with this?”

“Clean up the spill!” Tika scolded, trying unsuccessfully to shield him from the customer’s view with her long, flowing skirt.

“Oh! Me not need that,” Raf said solemnly. “Me not get nice rag dirty.” Handing the cloth back to Tika, the gully dwarf got down on all fours again and began to lick up the spilled beer, now mingled with tracked-in mud.

Her cheeks burning, Tika reached down and jerked Raf up by his collar, shaking him. “Use the rag!” she whispered furiously. “The customers are losing their appetites! And when you’re finished with that, I want you to clear off that big table near the firepit. I’m expecting friends—” Tika stopped.

Raf was staring at her, wide-eyed, trying to absorb the complicated instructions. He was exceptional, as gully dwarves go. He’d only been there three weeks and Tika had already taught him to count to three (few gully dwarves ever get past two) and had finally gotten rid of his stench. This new-found intellectual prowess combined with cleanliness would have made him a king in a gully dwarf realm, but Raf had no such ambitions. He knew no king lived like he did—“mopping up” spilled beer (if he were quick) and “taking out” the garbage. But there were limits to Raf’s talents, and Tika had just reached them.