Margaret Weis: Time of the Twins

For a moment, Tanis saw the vision in his mind’s eye as clearly as he had seen it two years before. Then the vision faded. Then it had been autumn. Now it was spring. The smoke was there still, the smoke of the home fires. But now it came mostly from houses built on the ground. There was the green of living, growing things, but it only seemed—in Tanis’s mind—to emphasize the black scars upon the land; scars that could never be totally erased, though here and there he saw the marks of the plow across them.

Tanis shook his head. Everyone thought that, with the destruction of the Queen’s foul temple at Neraka, the war was over. Everyone was anxious to plow over the black and burned land, scorched by dragonfire, and forget their pain.

His eyes went to a huge circle of black that stood in the center of town. Here, nothing would grow. No plow could turn the soil ravaged by dragonfire and soaked by the blood of innocents, murdered by the troops of the Dragon Highlords.

Tanis smiled grimly. He could imagine how an eyesore like that must irritate those who were working to forget. He was glad it was there. He hoped it would remain, forever.

Softly, he repeated words he had heard Elistan speak, as the cleric dedicated in solemn ceremony the High Clerist’s Tower to the memory of those knights who had died there.

“We must remember or we will fall into complacency—as we did before—and the evil will come again.”

If it is not already upon us, Tanis thought grimly. And, with that in mind, he turned and walked rapidly back down the hill.

The Inn of the Last Home was crowded that evening. While the war had brought devastation and destruction to the residents of Solace, the end of the war had brought such prosperity that there were already some who were saying it hadn’t been “such a bad thing.” Solace had long been a crossroads for travelers through the lands of Abanasinia. But, in the days before the war, the numbers of travelers had been relatively few. The dwarves—except,for a few renegades like Flint Fireforge—had shut themselves up in their mountain kingdom of Thorbardin or barricaded themselves in the hills, refusing to have anything to do with the rest of the world. The elves had done the same, dwelling in the beautiful lands of Qualinesti to the southwest and Silvanesti on the eastern edge of the continent of Ansalon.

The war had changed all that. Elves and dwarves and humans traveled extensively now, their lands and their kingdoms open to all. But it had taken almost total annihilation to bring about this fragile state of brotherhood.

The Inn of the Last Home—always popular with travelers because of its fine drink and Otik’s famous spiced potatoes—became more popular still. The drink was still fine and the potatoes as good as ever—though Otik had retired—but the real reason for the Inn’s increase in popularity was that it had become a place of some renown. The Heroes of the Lance—as they were now called—had been known to frequent this Inn in days gone by.

Otik had, in fact, before his retirement, seriously considered putting up a plaque over the table near the firepit—perhaps something like “Tanis Half-Elven and Companions Drank Here.” But Tika had opposed the scheme so vehemently (the mere thought of what Tanis would say if he caught sight of that made Tika’s cheeks burn) that Otik had let it drop. But the rotund barkeep never tired of telling his patrons the story of the night the barbarian woman had sung her strange song and healed Hederick the Theocrat with her blue crystal staff, giving the first proof of the existence of the ancient, true gods.

Tika, who took over management of the Inn upon Otik’s retirement and was hoping to save enough money to buy the business, fervently hoped Otik would refrain from telling that story again tonight. But she might have spent her hope on better things.

There were several parties of elves who had traveled all the way from Silvanesti to attend the funeral of Solostaran—Speaker of the Suns and ruler of the elven lands of Qualinesti. They were not only urging Otik to tell his story, but were telling some of their own, about the Heroes’ visit to their land and how they freed it from the evil dragon, Cyan Bloodbane.

Tika saw Otik glance her direction wistfully at this—Tika had, after all, been one of the members of the group in Silvanesti. But she silenced him with a furious shake of her red curls. That was one part of their journey she refused ever to relate or even discuss. In fact, she prayed nightly that she would forget the hideous nightmares of that tortured land.

Tika closed her eyes a moment, wishing the elves would drop the conversation. She had her own nightmares now. She needed no past ones to haunt her. “Just let them come and go quickly,” she said softly to herself and to whatever god might be listening.

It was just past sunset. More and more customers entered, demanding food and drink. Tika had apologized to Dezra, the two friends had shed a few tears together, and now were kept busy running from kitchen to bar to table. Tika started every time the door opened, and she scowled irritably when she heard Otik’s voice rise above the clatter of mugs and tongues.

“... beautiful autumn night, as I recall, and I was, of course, busier than a draconian drill sergeant.” That always got a laugh. Tika gritted her teeth. Otik had an appreciative audience and was in full swing. There would be no stopping him now. “The Inn was up in the vallenwood trees then, like the rest of our lovely city before the dragons destroyed it. Ah, how beautiful it was in the old days.” He sighed—he always sighed at this point—and wiped away a tear. There was a sympathetic murmur from the crowd. “Where was I?” He blew his nose, another part of the act. “Ah, yes. There I was, behind the bar, when the door opened...”

The door opened. It might have been done on cue, so perfect was the timing. Tika brushed back a strand of red hair from her perspiring forehead and glanced over nervously. Sudden silence filled the room. Tika stiffened, her nails digging into her hands.

A tall man, so tall he had to duck to enter the door, stood in the doorway. His hair was dark, his face grim and stern. Although cloaked in furs, it was obvious from his walk and stance that his body was strong and muscular. He cast a swift glance around the crowded Inn, sizing up those who were present, wary and watchful of danger.

But it was an instinctive action only, for when his penetrating, somber gaze rested on Tika, his stern face relaxed into a smile and he held his arms open wide.

Tika hesitated, but the sight of her friend suddenly filled her with joy and a strange wave of homesickness. Shoving her way through the crowd, she was caught in his embrace.

“Riverwind, my friend!” she murmured brokenly.

Grasping the young woman in his arms, Riverwind lifted her effortlessly, as though she were a child. The crowd began to cheer, banging their mugs on the table. Most couldn’t believe their luck. Here was a Hero of the Lance himself, as if carried on the wings of Otik’s story. And he even looked the part! They were enchanted.

For, upon releasing Tika, the tall man had thrown his fur cloak back from his shoulders, and now all could see the Mantle of the Chieftain that the Plainsman wore, its V-shaped sections of alternating furs and tooled leathers each representing one of the Plains tribes over which he ruled. His handsome face, though older and more careworn than when Tika had seen him last, was burned bronze by the sun and weather, and there was an inner joy within the man’s eyes which showed that he had found in his life the peace he had been searching for years before.

Tika felt a choking sensation in her throat and turned quickly away, but not quickly enough.