Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

The Kingpriest sat at one end, surrounded by light. But, it seemed to Denubis that his eyes were becoming accustomed to the light, so to speak, for he could at last begin to recognize others with him. Here were the heads of the various orders—the Revered Sons and Revered Daughters. Known almost jokingly as “the hands and feet of the sun,” it was these who handled the mundane, day-to-day affairs of the church. It was these who ruled Krynn. But there were others here, besides high church officials. Denubis felt his gaze drawn to a corner of the Hall, the only corner, it seemed, that was in shadow.

There sat a figure robed in black, his darkness outshone by the Kingpriest’s light. But Denubis, shuddering, had the distinct impression that the darkness was only waiting, biding its time, knowing that—eventually—the sun must set.

The knowledge that the Dark One, as Fistandantilus was known around the court, was allowed within the Kingpriest’s Hall of Audience came as a shock to Denubis. The Kingpriest was trying to rid the world of evil, yet it was here—in his court! And then a comforting thought came to Denubis—perhaps, when the world was totally free of evil, when the last of the ogre races had been eliminated, then Fistandantilus himself would fall.

But even as he thought this and smiled at the thought, Denubis saw the cold glitter of the mage’s eyes turn their gaze toward him. Denubis shivered and looked away hurriedly. What a contrast there was between that man and the Kingpriest! When basking in the Kingpriest’s light, Denubis felt calm and peaceful. Whenever he happened to look into the eyes of Fistandantilus, he was reminded forcefully of the darkness within himself.

And, under the gaze of those eyes, he suddenly found himself wondering what the Kingpriest had meant by the curious statement, “who of us is truly innocent’?”

Feeling uncomfortable, Denubis walked into an antechamber where stood a gigantic banquet table.

The smell of the luscious, exotic foods, brought from all over Ansalon by worshipful pilgrims or purchased in the huge open-air markets of cities as far away as Xak Tsaroth, made Denubis remember that he had not eaten since morning. Taking a plate, he browsed among the wonderful food, selecting this and that until his plate was filled and he had only made it halfway down the table that literally groaned under its aromatic burden.

A servant brought round cups of fragrant, elven wine. Taking one of these and juggling the plate and his eating implements in one hand, the wine in the other, Denubis sank into a chair and began to eat heartily. He was just enjoying the heavenly combination of a mouthful of roast pheasant and the lingering taste of the elven wine when a shadow fell across his plate.

Denubis glanced up, choked, and bolted the remainder of the mouthful, dabbing at the wine dribbling down his chin in embarrassment.

“R-revered Son,” he stuttered, making a feeble attempt to rise in the gesture of respect that the Head of the Brethren deserved.

Quarath regarded him with sardonic amusement and waved a hand languidly. “Please, Revered Son, do not let me disturb you. I have no intention of interrupting your dinner. I merely wanted a word with you. Perhaps, when you are finished—”

“Quite... quite finished,” Denubis said hastily, handing his half-full plate and glass to a passing servant. “I don’t seem to be as hungry as I thought.” That, at least, was true. He had completely lost his appetite.

Quarath smiled a delicate smile. His thin elven face with its finely sculpted features seemed to be made of fragile porcelain, and he always smiled carefully, as if fearing his face would break.

“Very well, if the desserts do not tempt you?”

“N-no, not in the slightest. Sweets... bad for th-the digestion th-this late—”

“Then, come with me, Revered Son. It has been a long time since we talked.” Quarath took Denubis’s arm with casual familiarity—though it had been months since the cleric had last seen his superior.

First the Kingpriest, now Quarath. Denubis felt a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. As Quarath was leading him out of the Audience Hall, the Kingpriest’s musical voice rose. Denubis glanced backward, basking for one more moment in that wondrous light. Then, as he looked away with a sigh, his gaze came to rest upon the black-robed mage. Fistandantilus smiled and nodded. Shuddering, Denubis hurriedly accompanied Quarath out the door.

The two clerics walked through sumptuously decorated corridors until they came to a small chamber, Quarath’s own. It, too, was splendidly decorated inside, but Denubis was too nervous to notice any detail.

“Please, sit down, Denubis. I may call you that, since we are comfortably alone.”

Denubis didn’t know about the comfortably, but they were certainly alone. He sat on the edge of the seat Quarath offered him, accepted a small glass of cordial which he didn’t drink, and waited. Quarath talked of inconsequential nothings for a few moments, asking after Denubis’s work—he translated passages of the Disks of Mishakal into his native language, Solamnic—and other items in which he obviously wasn’t the least bit interested.

Then, after a pause, Quarath said casually, “I couldn’t help but hear you questioning the Kingpriest.”

Denubis set his cordial down on a table, his hand shaking so he barely avoided spilling it. “I... I was... simply concerned... about—about the young man... they arrested erroneously,” he stammered faintly.

Quarath nodded gravely. “Very right, too. Very proper. It is written that we should be concerned about our fellows in this world. It becomes you, Denubis, and I shall certainly note that in my yearly report.”

“Thank you, Revered Son,” Denubis murmured, not certain what else to say.

Quarath said nothing more but sat regarding the cleric opposite with his slanted, elven eyes.

Denubis mopped his face with the sleeve of his robe. It was unbelievably hot in this room. Elves had such thin blood.

“Was there something else?” Quarath asked mildly.

Denubis drew a deep breath. “My lord,” he said earnestly, “about that young man. Will he be released? And the kender?” He was suddenly inspired. “I thought perhaps I could be of some help, guide them back to the paths of good. Since the young man is innocent—”

“Who of us is truly innocent?” Quarath questioned, looking at the ceiling as if the gods themselves might write the answer there for him.

“I’m certain that is a very good question,” Denubis said meekly, “and one no doubt worthy of study and discussion, but this young man is, apparently innocent—at least as innocent as he’s likely to be of anything—” Denubis stopped, slightly confused.

Quarath smiled sadly. “Ah, there, you see?” he said, spreading his hands and turning his gaze upon the cleric. “The fur of the rabbit covers the tooth of the wolf, as the saying goes.”

Leaning back in his chair, Quarath once again regarded the ceiling. “The two are being sold in the slave markets tomorrow.”

Denubis half rose from his chair. “What? My lord—”

Quarath’s gaze instantly fixed itself upon the cleric, freezing the man where he stood.

“Questioning? Again?”

“But... he’s innocent!” was all Denubis could think of to say.

Quarath smiled again, this time wearily, indulgently.

“You are a good man, Denubis. A good man, a good cleric. A simple man, perhaps, but a good one. This was not a decision we made lightly. We questioned the man. His accounts of where he came from and what he was doing in Istar are confused, to say the least. If he was innocent of the girl’s injuries, he undoubtedly has other crimes that are tearing at his soul. That much is visible upon his face. He has no means of support, there was no money on him. He is a vagrant and likely to turn to thievery if left on his own. We are doing him a favor by providing him with a master who will care for him. In time, he can earn his freedom and, hopefully, his soul will have been cleansed of its burden of guilt. As for the kender—” Quarath waved a negligent hand.