Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

Casting a bored glance outside, expecting nothing but an ordinary sunrise, the big man blinked, then his eyes opened wide.

“No,” he murmured, draping the towel around his neck and coming to stand behind Tas, “I never did. And I’ve seen some strange things in my time, too.”

“Oh, Caramon!” Tas cried, “Raistlin was right. He said—”

“Raistlin!”

Tas gulped. He hadn’t meant to bring that up.

“Where did you see Raistlin?” Caramon demanded, his voice deep and stern.

“In the Temple, of course,” Tas answered as if it were the most common thing in the world. “Didn’t I mention I went there yesterday?”

“Yes, but you—”

“Well, why else would I go except to see our friends?”

“You never—”

“I saw Lady Crysania and Raistlin. I’m sure I mentioned that. You never do listen to me, you know,” Tas complained, wounded. “You sit there on that bed, every night, brooding and sulking and talking to yourself. ‘Caramon,’ I could say, ‘the roof’s caving in,’ and you’d say, ‘That’s nice, Tas.’”

“Look, kender, I know that if I had heard you mention—”

“Lady Crysania, Raistlin, and I had a wonderful little chat,” Tas hurried on, “all about Yule—by the way, Caramon, you should see how beautifully they’ve decorated the Temple! It’s filled with roses and everbloom and, say, did I remember to give you that candy? Wait, it’s right over there in my pouch. Just a minute”—the kender tried to jump off the chair, but Caramon had him cornered—“well, I guess it can wait. Where was I? Oh, yes”—seeing Caramon scowl—“Raistlin and Lady Crysania and I were talking and, oh, Caramon! It’s so exciting. Tika was right, she’s in love with your brother.”

Caramon blinked, having completely lost the thread of the conversation, which Tas, being rather careless with his pronouns, didn’t help.

“No, I don’t mean Tika’s in love with your brother,” Tas amended, seeing Caraman’s confusion. “I mean Lady Crysania’s in love with your brother! It was great fun. I was sort of leaning against Raistlin’s closed door, resting, waiting for them to finish their conversation, and I happened to glance in the keyhole and he almost kissed her, Caramon! Your brother! Can you imagine! But he didn’t.” The kender sighed. “He practically yelled at her to leave. She did, but she didn’t want to, I could tell. She was all dressed up and looked really pretty.”

Seeing Caramon’s face darken and the preoccupied look steal over it, Tas began to breathe a bit easier. “We got to talking about the Cataclysm, and Raistlin mentioned how Dire Things would begin happening today—Yule—as the gods tried to warn the people to change.”

“In love with him?” Caramon muttered. Frowning, he turned away, letting Tas slip off the chair.

“Right. Unmistakably,” the kender said glibly, hurrying over to his pouch and digging through it until he came to the batch of sweetmeats he had brought back. They were half-melted, sticking together in a gooey mass, and they had also acquired an outer coating of various bits and pieces from the kender’s pouch, but Tas was fairly certain Caramon would never notice. He was right. The big man accepted the treat and began to eat without even glancing at it.

“He needs a cleric, they said,” Caramon mumbled, his mouth full. “Were they right, after all? Is he going to go through with it? Should I let him? Should I try to stop him? Do I have the right to stop him? If she chooses to go with him, isn’t that her choice? Maybe that would be the best thing for him,” Caramon said softly, licking his sticky fingers. “Maybe, if she loves him enough...”

Tasslehoff sighed in relief and sank down on his bed to wait for the breakfast call. Caramon hadn’t thought to ask the kender why he’d gone to see Raistlin in the first place. And Tas was certain now, that he’d never remember he hadn’t. His secret was safe...

The sky was clear that Yule day, so clear it seemed one could look up into the vast dome that covered the world and see realms beyond. But, though everyone glanced up, few cared to fix their gazes upon it long enough to see anything. For the sky was indeed “a peculiar shade,” as Tas said—it was green.

A strange, noxious, ugly green that, combined with the stifling heat and the heavy, hard-to-breathe air, effectively sucked the joy and merriment out of Yule. Those forced to go outside to attend parties hurried through the sweltering streets, talking about the odd weather irritably, viewing it as a personal insult. But they spoke in hushed voices, each feeling a tiny sliver of fear prick their holiday spirit.

The party inside the Temple was somewhat more cheerful, being held in the Kingpriest’s chambers that were shut away from the outside world. None could see the strange sky, and all those who came within the presence of the Kingpriest felt their irritation and fear melt away. Away from Raistlin, Crysania was once again under the Kingpriest’s spell and sat near him a long time. She did not speak, she simply let his shining presence comfort her and banish the dark, nighttime thoughts. But she, too, had seen the green sky. Remembering Raistlin’s words, she tried to recall what she had heard of the Thirteen Days.

But it was all children’s tales that were muddled together with the dreams she had had last night. Surely, she thought, the Kingpriest will notice! He will heed the warnings... She willed time to change or, if that were not possible, she willed the Kingpriest innocent. Sitting within his light, she banished from her mind the picture she had seen of the frightened mortal with his pale blue, darting eyes. She saw a strong man, denouncing the ministers who had deceived him, an innocent victim of their treachery...

The crowd at the arena that day was sparse, most not caring to sit out beneath the green sky, whose color deepened and darkened more and more fearfully as the day wore on.

The gladiators themselves were uneasy, nervous, and per formed their acts half-heartedly. Those spectators who came were sullen, refusing to cheer, cat-calling and hurling gibes at even their favorites.

“Do you often have such skies?” Kiiri asked, glancing up with a shudder as she and Caramon and Pheragas stood in the corridors, awaiting their turn in the arena. “If so, I know why my people choose to live beneath the sea!”

“My father sailed the sea,” growled Pheragas, “as did my grandfather before him, as did I, before I tried to knock some sense into the first mate’s head with a belaying pin and got sent here for my pains. And I’ve never seen a sky this color. Or heard of one either. It bodes ill, I’ll wager.”

“No doubt,” Caramon said uncomfortably. It had suddenly begun to sink into the big man that the Cataclysm was thirteen days away! Thirteen days... and these two friends, who had grown as dear to him as Sturm and Tanis, these two friends would perish! The rest of the inhabitants of Istar meant little to him. From what he had seen, they were a selfish lot, living mainly for pleasure and money (though he found he could not look upon the children without a pang of sorrow), but these two—He had to warn them, somehow. If they left the city, they might escape.

Lost in his thoughts, he had paid little attention to the fight in the arena. It was between the Red Minotaur, so called because the fur that covered his bestial face had a distinctly reddish-brown cast to it, and a young fighter—a new man, who had arrived only a few weeks before. Caramon had watched the young man’s training with patronizing amusement.

But then he felt Pheragas, who was standing next to him, stiffen. Caramon’s gaze went immediately to the ring. “What is it?”

“That trident,” Pheragas said quietly, “have you ever seen one like it in the prop room?”