Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

“No, it is better,” he said firmly, not wanting to see her young faith bruised, as his had been. Taking her hand, he leaned forward. “I’m just a middle-aged old man, my dear. And middle-aged old men don’t like change. That’s all. To us, everything was better in the old days. Why”—he chuckled—“even the water tasted better, it seems. I’m not used to modern ways. It’s hard for me to understand. The church is doing a world of good, my dear. It’s bringing order to the land and structure to society—”

“Whether society wants it or not,” Crysania muttered, but Denubis ignored her.

“It’s eradicating evil,” he continued, and suddenly the story of that knight—that Lord Soth—floated to the top of his mind, unbidden. He sank it hurriedly, but not before he had lost his place in his lecture. Lamely, he tried to pick it up again, but it was too late.

“Is it?” Lady Crysania was asking him. “Is it eradicating evil? Or are we like children, left alone in the house at night, who light candle after candle to keep away the darkness. We don’t see that the darkness has a purpose—though we may not understand it—and so, in our terror, we end up burning down the house!”

Denubis blinked, not understanding this at all; but Crysania continued, growing more and more restless as she talked. It was obvious, Denubis realized uncomfortably, that she had kept this pent up inside her for weeks.

“We don’t try to help those who have lost their way find it again! We turn our backs on them, calling them unworthy, or we get rid of them! Do you know”—she turned on Denubis—“that Quarath has proposed ridding the world of the ogre races?”

“But, my dear, ogres are, after all, a murderous, villainous lot—” Denubis ventured to protest feebly.

“Created by the gods, just as we were,” Crysania said. “Do we have the right, in our imperfect understanding of the great scheme of things, to destroy anything the gods created?”

“Even spiders?” Denubis asked wistfully, without thinking. Seeing her irritated expression, he smiled. “Never mind. The ramblings of an old man.”

“I came here, convinced that the church was everything good and true, and now I—I—” She put her head in her hands.

Denubis’s heart ached nearly as much as his head. Reaching out a trembling hand, he gently stroked the smooth, blue-black hair, comforting her as he would have comforted the daughter he never had.

“Don’t feel ashamed of your questioning, child,” he said, trying to forget that he had been feeling ashamed of his. “Go, talk to the Kingpriest. He will answer your doubts. He has more wisdom than I.”

Crysania looked up hopefully.

“Do you think—”

“Certainly.” Denubis smiled. “See him tonight, my dear. He will be holding audience. Do not be afraid. Such questions do not anger him.”

“Very well,” Crysania said, her face filled with resolve. “You are right. It’s been foolish of me to wrestle with this myself, without help. I’ll ask the Kingpriest. Surely, he can make this darkness light.”

Denubis smiled and rose to his feet as Crysania rose. Impulsively, she leaned over and kissed him gently on the cheek. “Thank you, my friend,” she said softly. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Watching her walk from the still, sunlit room, Denubis felt a sudden, inexplicable sorrow and, then, a very great fear. It was as if he stood in a place of bright light, watching her walk into a vast and terrible darkness. The light around him grew brighter and brighter, while the darkness around her grew more horrible, more dense.

Confused, Denubis put his hand to his eyes. The light was real! It was streaming into this room, bathing him in a radiance so brilliant and beautiful that he couldn’t look upon it. The light pierced his brain, the pain in his head was excruciating. And still, he thought desperately, I must warn Crysania, I must stop her...

The light engulfed him, filling his soul with its radiant brilliance. And then, suddenly, the bright light was gone. He was once more standing in the sunlit room. But he wasn’t alone. Blinking, trying to accustom his eyes to the darkness, he looked around and saw an elf standing in the room with him, observing him coolly. The elf was elderly, balding, with a long, meticulously groomed, white beard. He was dressed in long, white robes, the medallion of Paladine hung about his neck. The expression on the elf’s face was one of sadness, such sadness that Denubis was moved to tears, though he had no idea why.

“I’m sorry,” Denubis said huskily. Putting his hand to his head, he suddenly realized it didn’t hurt anymore. “I-I didn’t see you come in. Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?”

“No, I have found the one I seek,” the elf said calmly, but still with the same sad expression, “if you are Denubis.”

“I am Denubis,” the cleric replied, mystified. “But, forgive me, I can’t place you—”

“My name is Loralon,” said the elf.

Denubis gasped. The greatest of the elven clerics, Loralon had, years ago, fought Quarath’s rise to power. But Quarath was too strong. Powerful forces backed him. Loralon’s words of reconciliation and peace were not appreciated. In sorrow, the old cleric had returned to his people, to the wondrous land of Silvanesti that he loved, vowing never to look upon Istar again.

What was he doing here?

“Surely, you seek the Kingpriest,” Denubis stammered, “I’ll—”

“No, there is only one in this Temple I seek and that is you, Denubis,” Loralon said. “Come, now. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Journey!” Denubis repeated stupidly, wondering if he were going mad. “That’s impossible. I’ve not left Istar since I came here, thirty years—”

“Come along, Denubis,” said Loralon gently.

“Where? How? I don’t understand—” Denubis cried. He saw Loralon standing in the center of the sunlit, peaceful room, watching him, still with that same expression of deep, unutterable sadness. Reaching up, Loralon touched the medallion he wore around his neck.

And then Denubis knew. Paladine gave his cleric insight. He saw the future. Blanching in horror, he shook his head.

“No,” he whispered. “That is too dreadful.”

“All is not decided. The scales of balance are tipping, but they have not yet been upset. This journey may be only temporary, or it may last for time beyond reckoning. Come, Denubis, you are needed here no longer.”

The great elven cleric stretched out his hand. Denubis felt blessed with a sense of peace and understanding he had never before experienced, even in the presence of the Kingpriest.

Bowing his head, he reached out and took Loralon’s hand. But, as he did so, he could not help weeping...

Crysania sat in a corner of the Kingpriest’s sumptuous Hall of Audience, her hands folded calmly in her lap, her face pale but composed. Looking at her, no one would have guessed the turmoil in her soul. No one, perhaps, except one man, who had entered the room unnoticed by anyone and who now stood in a shadowy alcove, watching Crysania.

Sitting there, listening to the musical voice of the Kingpriest, hearing him discuss important matters of state with his ministers, hearing him go from politics to solving the great mysteries of the universe with other ministers, Crysania actually blushed to think she had even considered approaching him with her petty questions.

Words of Elistan’s came to her mind. “Do not go to others for the answers. Look in your own heart, search your own faith. You will either find the answer or come to see that the answer is with the gods themselves, not with man.”

And so Crysania sat, preoccupied with her thoughts, searching her heart. Unfortunately, the peace she sought eluded her. Perhaps there were no answers to her questions, she decided abruptly. Then she felt a hand on her arm. Starting, Crysania looked up.