Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

This was beyond Caramon. Desperately, he sought to grab at some fraction of reality.

“Then... does this mean that you’re... all right, now? I mean, in the present? In our time?” He gestured. “Your skin isn’t gold anymore, you’ve lost the hourglass eyes. You look... like you did when you were young, and we rode to the Tower, seven years ago. Will you be like that when we go back?”

“No, my brother,” Raistlin said, speaking with the patience one uses explaining things to a child. “Surely Par-Salian explained this? Well, perhaps not. Time is a river. I have not changed the course of its flow. I have simply climbed out and jumped in at a point farther upstream. It carries me along its course. I—”

Raistlin stopped suddenly, casting a sharp glance at the door. Then, with a swift motion of his hand, he caused the door to burst open and Tasslehoff Burrfoot tumbled inside, falling down face first.

“Oh, hullo,” Tas said, cheerfully picking himself up off the floor. “I was just going to knock.” Dusting himself off, he turned eagerly to Caramon. “I have it figured out! You see—it used to be Fistandantilus becoming Raistlin becoming Fistandantilus. Only now it’s Fistandantilus becoming Raistlin becoming Fistandantilus, then becoming Raistlin again. See?”

No, Caramon did not. Tas turned around to the mage. “Isn’t that right, Raist—”

The mage didn’t answer. He was staring at Tasslehoff with such a queer, dangerous expression in his eyes that the kender glanced uneasily at Caramon and took a step or two nearer the warrior—just in case Caramon needed help, of course.

Suddenly Raistlin’s hand made a swift, slight, summoning motion. Tasslehoff felt no sensation of movement, but there was a blurring in the room for half a heartbeat, and then he was being held by his collar within inches of Raistlin’s thin face.

“Why did Par-Salian send you?” Raistlin asked in a soft voice that “shivered” the kender’s skin, as Flint used to say.

“Well, he thought Caramon needed help, of course and—” Raistlin’s grip tightened, his eyes narrowed. Tas faltered. “Uh, actually, I don’t think he, uh, really intended to s-send me.” Tas tried to twist his head around to look beseechingly at Caramon, but Raistlin’s grip was strong and powerful, nearly choking the kender. “It—it was, more or less, an accident, I guess, at least as far as he was c-concerned. And I could t-talk better if you’d let me breathe... every once in awhile.”

“Go on!” Raistlin ordered, shaking Tas slightly.

“Raist, stop—” Caramon began, taking a step toward him, his brow furrowed.

“Shut up!” Raistlin commanded furiously, never taking his burning eyes off the kender. “Continue.”

“There—there was a ring someone had dropped... well, maybe not dropped—” Tas stammered, alarmed enough by the expression in Raistlin’s eyes into telling the truth, or as near as was kenderly possible. “I-I guess I was sort of going into someone else’s room, and it f-fell in—into my pouch, I suppose, because I don’t know how it got there, but when th—the red-robed man sent Bupu home, I knew I was next. And I couldn’t leave Caramon! So I-I said a prayer to F-Fizban—I mean Paladine—and I put the ring on and—poof!”—Tas held up his hands—“I was a mouse!”

The kender paused at this dramatic moment, hoping for an appropriately amazed response from his audience. But Raistlin’s eyes only dilated with impatience and his hand twisted the kender’s collar just a bit more, so Tas hurried on, finding it increasingly difficult to breathe.

“And so I was able to hide,” he squeaked, not unlike the mouse he had been, “and sneaked into Par-Salian’s labra-labora-lavaratory—and he was doing the most wonderful things and the rocks were singing and Crysania was lying there all pale and Caramon looked terrified and I couldn’t let him go alone—so... so...” Tas shrugged and looked at Raistlin with disarming innocence, “here I am...”

Raistlin continued clutching him for a moment, devouring him with his eyes, as if he would strip the skin from his bones and see inside his very soul. Then, apparently satisfied, the mage let the kender drop to the floor and turned back to stare into the fire, his thoughts abstracted.

“What does this mean?” he murmured. “A kender—by all the laws of magic forbidden! Does this mean the course of time can be altered? Is he telling the truth? Or is this how they plot to stop me?”

“What did you say?” Tas asked with interest, looking up from where he sat on the carpet, trying to catch his breath. “The course of time altered? By me? Do you mean that I could—”

Raistlin whirled, glaring at the kender so viciously that Tas shut his mouth and began edging his way back to where Caramon stood.

“I was sure surprised to find your brother. Weren’t you?” Tas asked Caramon, ignoring the spasm of pain that crossed Caramon’s face. “Raistlin was surprised to see me, too, wasn’t he? That’s odd, because I saw him in the slave market and I assumed he must have seen us—”

“Slave market!” Caramon said suddenly. Enough of this talk about rivers and time. This was something he could understand! “Raist—you said you’ve been here months! That means you are the one who made them think I attacked Crysania! You’re the one who bought me! You’re the one who sent me to the Games!”

Raistlin made an impatient gesture, irritated at having his thoughts interrupted.

But Caramon persisted. “Why!” he demanded angrily. “Why that place?”

“Oh, in the name of the gods, Caramon!” Raistlin turned around again, his eyes cold. “What possible use could you be to me in the condition you were in when you came here? I need a strong warrior where we’re going next—not a fat drunk.”

“And... and you ordered the Barbarian’s death?” Caramon asked, his eyes flashing. “You sent the warning to what’s-his-name—Quarath?”

“Don’t be a dolt, my brother,” Raistlin said grimly. “What do I care for these petty court intrigues? Their little, mindless games? If I wanted to do away with an enemy, his life would be snuffed out in a matter of seconds. Quarath flatters himself to think I would take such an interest in him.”

“But the dwarf said—”

“The dwarf hears only the sound of money being dropped into his palm. But, believe what you will.” Raistlin shrugged. “It matters little to me.”

Caramon was silent long moments, pondering. Tas opened his mouth—there were at least a hundred questions he was dying to ask Raistlin—but Caramon glared at him and the kender closed it quickly. Caramon, slowly going over in his mind all that his brother had told him, suddenly raised his gaze.

“What do you mean—‘where we go next’?”

“My counsel is mine to keep,” Raistlin replied. “You will know when the time comes, so to speak. My work here progresses, but it is not quite finished. There is one other here besides you who must be beaten down and hammered into shape.”

“Crysania,” Caramon murmured. “This has something to do with challenging the—the Dark Queen, doesn’t it? Like they said? You need a cleric—”

“I am very tired, my brother,” Raistlin interrupted. At his gesture, the flames in the fireplace vanished. At a word, the light from the Staff winked out. Darkness, chill and bleak, descended on the three who stood there. Even Solinari’s light was gone, the moon having sunk behind the buildings. Raistlin crossed the room, heading for his bed. His black robes rustled softly. “Leave me to my rest. You should not remain here long in any event. Undoubtedly, spies have reported your presence, and Quarath can be a deadly enemy. Try to avoid getting yourself killed. It would annoy me greatly to have to train another bodyguard. Farewell, my brother. Be ready. My summons will come soon. Remember the date.”