Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

Caramon opened his mouth, but he found himself talking to a door. He and Tas were standing outside in the now-dark corridor.

“That’s really incredible!” the kender said, sighing in delight. “I didn’t even feel myself moving, did you? One minute we were there, the next we’re here. Just a wave of the hand. It must be wonderful being a mage,” Tas said wistfully, staring at the closed door. “Zooming through time and space and closed doors.”

“Come on,” Caramon said abruptly, turning and stalking down the corridor.

“Say, Caramon,” Tas said softly, hurrying after him. “What did Raistlin mean—‘remember the date’? Is it his Day of Life Gift coming up or something? Are you supposed to get him a present?”

“No,” Caramon growled. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly,” Tas protested, offended. “After all, Yule-tide is in a few weeks, and he’s probably expecting a present for that. At least, I suppose they celebrate Yuletide back here in Istar the same as we celebrate it in our time. Do you think—”

Caramon came to a sudden halt.

“What is it’!” Tas asked, alarmed at the horrified expression on the big man’s face. Hurriedly, the kender glanced around, his hand closing over the hilt of a small knife he had tucked into his own belt. “What do you see? I don’t—”

“The date!” Caramon cried. “The date, Tas! Yuletide! In Istar!” Whirling around, he grabbed the startled kender. “What year is it? What year?”

“Why...” Tas gulped, trying to think. “I believe, yes, someone told me it was—962.”

Caramon groaned, his hands dropped Tas and clutched at his head.

“What is it?” Tas asked.

“Think, Tas, think!” Caramon muttered. Then, clutching at his head in misery, the big man stumbled blindly down the corridor in the darkness. “What do they want me to do? What can I do?”

Tas followed more slowly. “Let’s see. This is Yuletide, year 962 I.A. Such a ridiculously high number. For some reason it sounds familiar. Yuletide, 962... Oh, I remember!” he said triumphantly. “That was the last Yuletide right before .. right before...”

The thought took the kender’s breath away.

“Right before the Cataclysm!” he whispered.

Denubis set down the quill pen and rubbed his eyes. He sat in the quiet of the copying room, his hand over his eyes, hoping that a brief moment of rest would help him. But it didn’t. When he opened his eyes and grasped the quill pen to begin his work again, the words he was trying to translate still swam together in a meaningless jumble.

Sternly, he reprimanded himself and ordered himself to concentrate and—finally—the words began to make sense and sort themselves out. But it was difficult going. His head ached. It had ached, it seemed, for days now, with a dull, throbbing pain that was present even in his dreams.

“It’s this strange weather,” he told himself repeatedly. “Too hot for the beginning of Yule season.”

It was too hot, strangely hot. And the air was thick with moisture, heavy and oppressive. The fresh breezes had seemingly been swallowed up by the heat. One hundred miles away at Kathay, so he had heard, the ocean lay flat and calm beneath the fiery sun, so calm that no ships could sail. They sat in the harbor, their captains cursing, their cargo rotting.

Mopping his forehead, Denubis tried to continue working diligently, translating the Disks of Mishakal into Solamnic. But his mind wandered. The words made him think of a tale he had heard some Solamnic knights discussing last night—a gruesome tale that Denubis kept trying to banish from his mind.

A knight named Soth had seduced a young elven cleric and then married her, bringing her home to his castle at Dargaard Keep as his bride. But this Soth had already been married, so the knights said, and there was more than one reason to believe that his first wife had met a most foul end.

The knights had sent a delegation to arrest Soth and hold him for trial, but Dargaard Keep, it was said, was now an armed fortress—Soth’s own loyal knights defending their lord. What made it particularly haunting was that the elven woman the lord had deceived remained with him, steadfast in her love and loyalty to the man, even though his guilt had been proven.

Denubis shuddered and tried to banish the thought. There! He made an error. This was hopeless! He started to lay the quill down again, then heard the door to the copying room opening. Hastily, he lifted the quill pen and began to write rapidly.

“Denubis,” said a soft, hesitant voice.

The cleric looked up. “Crysania, my dear,” he said, with a smile.

“Am I disturbing your work? I can come back—”

“No, no,” Denubis assured her. “I am glad to see you. Very glad.” This was quite true. Crysania had a way of making him feel calm and tranquil. Even his headache seemed to lessen. Leaving his high-backed writing stool, he found a chair for her and one for himself, then sat down near her, wondering why she had come.

As if in answer, Crysania looked around the still, peaceful room and smiled. “I like it here,” she said. “It’s so quiet and, well, private.” Her smile faded. “I sometimes get tired of... of so many people,” she said, her gaze going to the door that led to the main part of the Temple.

“Yes, it is quiet,” Denubis said. “Now, at any rate. It wasn’t so, in past years. When I first came, it was filled with scribes, translating the words of the gods into languages so that everyone could read them. But the Kingpriest didn’t think that was necessary and—one by one—they all left, finding more important things to do. Except me.” He sighed. “I guess I’m too old,” he added gently, apologetically. “I tried to think of something important to do, and I couldn’t. So I stayed here. No one seemed to mind... very much.”

He couldn’t help frowning slightly, remembering those long talks with Revered Son, Quarath, prodding and poking at him to make something of himself. Eventually, the higher cleric gave up, telling Denubis he was hopeless. So Denubis had returned to his work, sitting day after day in peaceful solitude, translating the scrolls and the books and sending them off to Solamnia where they sat, unread, in some great library.

“But, enough about me,” he added, seeing Crysania’s wan face. “What is the matter, my dear? Are you not feeling well? Forgive me, but I couldn’t help but notice, these past few weeks, how unhappy you’ve seemed.”

Crysania stared down at her hands in silence, then glanced back up at the cleric. “Denubis,” she began hesitantly, “do... do you think the church is... what it should be?”

That wasn’t at all what he had expected. She had more the look of a young girl deceived by a lover. “Why, of course, my dear,” Denubis said in some confusion.

“Really?” Lifting her gaze, she looked into his eyes with an intent stare that made Denubis pause. “You have been with the church for a long time, before the coming of the Kingpriest and Quar—his ministers. You talk about the old days. You have seen it change. Is it better?”

Denubis opened his mouth to say, certainly, yes, it was better. How could it be otherwise with such a good and holy man as the Kingpriest at its head? But Lady Crysania’s gray eyes were staring straight into his soul, he realized suddenly, feeling their searching, seeking gaze bringing light to all the dark corners where he had been hiding things—he knew—for years. He was reminded, uncomfortably, of Fistandantilus.

“I—well—of course—it’s just—” He was babbling and he knew it. Flushing, he fell silent. Crysania nodded gravely, as if she had expected the answer.