Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

“Like dragon orbs?” Tas interrupted.

“Like dragon orbs,” Raistlin snapped, irritated at the interruption. “But if it did fail, you could always use it to escape at the last moment.”

“With Caramon and Crysania,” Tas added.

Raistlin did not answer, but the kender didn’t notice in his excitement. Then he thought of something.

“What if Caramon decides to leave before then?” he asked fearfully.

“He won’t,” Raistlin answered softly. “Trust me,” he added, seeing Tas about to argue.

The kender pondered again, then sighed. “I just thought of something. I don’t think Caramon will let me have the device. Par-Salian told him to guard it with his life. He never lets it out of his sight and locks it up in a chest when he has to leave. And I’m sure he wouldn’t believe me if I tried to explain why I wanted it.”

“Don’t tell him. The day of the Cataclysm is the day of the Final Bout,” Raistlin said, shrugging. “If it is gone for a short time, he’ll never miss it.”

“But, that would be stealing!” Tas said, shocked.

Raistlin’s lips twitched. “Let us say—borrowing,” the mage amended soothingly. “It’s for such a worthy cause! Caramon won’t be angry. I know my brother. Think how proud he will be of you!”

“You’re right,” Tas said, his eyes shining. “I’d be a true hero, greater than Kronin Thistleknot himself! How do I find out how to work it?”

“I’ll give you instructions,” Raistlin said, rising. He began to cough again. “Come back... in three days’ time. And now... I must rest.”

“Sure,” Tas said cheerfully, getting to his feet. “I hope you feel better.” He started for the door. Once there, however, he hesitated. “Oh, say, I don’t have a gift for you. I’m sorry—”

“You have given me a gift,” Raistlin said, “a gift of inestimable value. Thank you.”

“I have?” Tas said, astonished. “Oh, you must mean stopping the Cataclysm. Well, don’t mention it. I—”

Tas suddenly found himself in the middle of the garden, staring at the rosebushes and an extremely surprised cleric who had seen the kender apparently materialize out of nowhere, right in the middle of the path.

“Great Reorx’s beard! I wish I knew how to do that,” Tasslehoff said wistfully.

On Yule day came the first of what would be later known as the Thirteen Calamities, (note that Astinus records them in the Chronicles as the Thirteen Warnings).

The day dawned hot and breathless. It was the hottest Yule day anyone—even the elves—could remember. In the Temple, the Yule roses drooped and withered, the everbloom wreaths smelled as if they had been baked in an oven, the snow that cooled the wine in silver bowls melted so rapidly that the servants did nothing all day but run back and forth from the depths of the rock cellars to the party rooms, carrying buckets of slush.

Raistlin woke on that morning, in the dark hour before the dawn, so ill he could not rise from his bed. He lay naked, bathed in sweat, a prey to the fevered hallucinations that had caused him to rip off his robes and the bedcovers. The gods were indeed near, but it was the closeness of one god in particular—his goddess, the Queen of Darkness—that was affecting him. He could feel her anger, as he could sense the anger of all the gods at the Kingpriest’s attempt to destroy the balance they sought to achieve in the world.

Thus he had dreamed of his Queen, but she had chosen not to appear to him in her anger as might have been expected. He had not dreamed of the terrible five-headed dragon, the Dragon of All Colors and of None that would try to enslave the world in the Wars of the Lance. He had not seen her as the Dark Warrior, leading her legions to death and destruction. No, she had appeared to him as the Dark Temptress, the most beautiful of all women, the most seductive, and thus she had spent the night with him, tantalizing him with the weakness, the glory of the flesh.

Closing his eyes, shivering in the room that was cool despite the heat outdoors, Raistlin pictured to himself once again the fragrant dark hair hanging over him; he felt her touch, her warmth. Reaching up his hands, letting himself sink beneath her spell, he had parted the tangled hair—and seen Crysania’s face!

The dream ended, shattered as his mind took control once more. And now he lay awake, exultant in his victory, yet knowing the price it had cost. As if to remind him, a wrenching coughing fit seized him.

“I will not give in,” he muttered when he could breathe. “You will not win me over so easily, my Queen.” Staggering out of bed, so weak he had to pause more than once to rest, he put on the black robes and made his way to his desk. Cursing the pain in his chest, he opened an ancient text on magical paraphernalia and began his laborious search.

Crysania, too, had slept poorly. Like Raistlin, she felt the nearness of all the gods, but of her god—Paladine—most of all. She felt his anger, but it was tinged with a sorrow so deep and devastating that Crysania could not bear it. Overwhelmed with guilt, she turned away from that gentle face and began to run. She ran and ran, weeping, unable to see where she was going. She stumbled and was falling into nothingness, her soul torn with fear. Then strong arms caught her. She was enfolded in soft black robes, held near a muscular body. Slender fingers stroked her hair, soothing her. She looked into a face—

Bells. Bells broke the stillness. Startled, Crysania sat up in bed, looking around wildly. Then, remembering the face she had seen, remembering the warmth of his body and the comfort she had found there, she put her aching head in her hands and wept.

Tasslehoff, on waking, at first felt disappointment. Today was Yule, he remembered, and also the day Raistlin said Dire Things would begin to happen. Looking around in the gray light that filtered through their window, the only dire thing Tas saw was Caramon, down on the floor, huffing and puffing his way grimly through morning exercises.

Although Caramon’s days were filled with weapons’ practice, working out with his team members, developing new parts of their routine, the big man still fought a never-ending battle with his weight. He had been taken off his diet and allowed to eat the same food as the others. But the sharp-eyed dwarf soon noticed that Caramon was eating about five times more than anyone else!

Once, the big man had eaten for pleasure. Now, nervous and unhappy and obsessed by thoughts of his brother, Caramon sought consolation in food as another might seek consolation in drink. (Caramon had, in fact, tried that once, ordering Tas to sneak a bottle of dwarf spirits in to him. But, unused to the strong alcohol, it had made him violently sick—much to the kender’s secret relief.)

Arack decreed, therefore, that Caramon could eat only if he performed a series of strenuous exercises each day. Caramon often wondered how the dwarf knew if he missed a day, since he did them early in the morning before anyone else was up. But Arack did know, somehow. The one morning Caramon had skipped the exercises, he had been denied access to the mess hall by a grinning, club-wielding Raag.

Growing bored with listening to Caramon grunt and groan and swear, Tas climbed up on a chair, peering out the window to see if there was anything dire happening outside. He felt cheered immediately.

“Caramon! Come look!” he called in excitement. “Have you ever seen a sky that peculiar shade before?”

“Ninety-nine, one hundred,” puffed the big man. Then Tas heard a large “ooof.” With a thud that shook the room, Caramon flopped down on his now rock-hard belly to rest. Then the big man heaved himself up off the stone floor and came to look out the barred window, mopping the sweat from his body with a towel.