Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

“Please,” he said in elven again, “won’t you walk with me? For I am bound for the same place you go. Elistan expects us.”

Us! Tanis’s mind fumbled about in confusion. Since when did Elistan invite black-robed magic-users to the Temple of Paladine? And since when did black-robed magic-users voluntarily set foot upon these sacred grounds!

Well, the only way to find out, obviously, was to accompany this strange person and save his questions until they were alone. Somewhat confusedly, therefore, Tanis gave his instructions to the coachman. The black-robed figure stood in silence beside him, watching the carriage depart. Then Tanis turned to him.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” the half-elf said in halting Silvanesti, a language that was purer elven than the Qualinesti he’d been raised to speak.

The figure bowed, then cast aside his hood so that the morning light fell upon his face. “I am Dalamar,” he said, returning his hands to the sleeves of his robe. Few there were upon Krynn who would shake hands with a black-robed mage.

“A dark elf!” Tanis said in astonishment, speaking before he thought. He flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly. “It’s just that I’ve never met—”

“One of my kind?” Dalamar finished smoothly, a faint smile upon his cold, handsome, expressionless elven features. “No, I don’t suppose you would have. We who are ‘cast from the light,’ as they say, do not often venture onto the sunlit planes of existence.” His smile grew warmer, suddenly, and Tanis saw a wistful look in the dark elf’s eyes as their gaze went to the grove of aspens where he had been standing. “Sometimes, though, even we grow homesick.”

Tanis’s gaze, too, went to the aspens—of all trees most beloved of the elves. He smiled, too, feeling much more at ease. Tanis had walked his own dark roads, and had come very near tumbling into several yawning chasms. He could understand.

“The hour for my appointment draws near,” he said. “And, from what you said, I gather that you are somehow involved in this. Perhaps we should continue—”

“Certainly.” Dalamar seemed to recollect himself. He followed Tanis onto the green lawn without hesitation. Tanis, turning, was considerably startled, therefore, to see a swift spasm of pain contort the elf’s delicate features and to see him flinch, visibly.

“What is it?” Tanis stopped. “Are you unwell? Can I help—”

Dalamar forced his pain-filled features into a twisted smile. “No, Half-Elven,” he said. “There is nothing you can do to help. Nor am I unwell. Much worse would you look, if you stepped into the Shoikan Grove that guards my dwelling place.”

Tanis nodded in understanding, then, almost unwillingly, glanced into the distance at the dark, grim Tower that loomed over Palanthas. As he looked at it, a strange impression came over him. He looked back at the plain white Temple, then over again at the Tower. Seeing them together, it was as if he were seeing each for the first time. Both looked more complete, finished, whole, than they had when viewed separately and apart. This was only a fleeting impression and one he did not even think about until later. Now, he could only think of one thing—

“Then you live there? With Rai—With him?” Try as he might, Tanis knew he could not speak the archmage’s name without bitter anger, and so he avoided it altogether.

“He is my Shalafi,” answered Dalamar in a pain-tightened voice.

“So you are his apprentice,” Tanis responded, recognizing the elven word for Master. He frowned. “Then what are you doing here? Did he send you?” If so, thought the half-elf, I will leave this place, if I have to walk back to Solanthus.

“No,” Dalamar replied, his face draining of all color. “But it is of him we will speak.” The dark elf cast his hood over his head. When he spoke, it was obviously with intense effort. “And now, I must beg of you to move swiftly. I have a charm, given me by Elistan, that will help me through this trial. But it is not one I care to prolong.”

Elistan giving charms to black-robed magic-users? Raistlin’s s apprentice? Absolutely mystified, Tanis agreeably quickened his steps.

“Tanis, my friend!”

Elistan, cleric of Paladine and head of the church on the continent of Ansalon, reached out his hand to the half-elf. Tanis clasped the man’s hand warmly, trying not to notice how wasted and feeble was the cleric’s once strong, firm grip. Tanis also fought to control his face, endeavoring to keep the feelings of shock and pity from registering on his features as he stared down at the frail, almost skeletal, figure resting in a bed, propped up by pillows.

“Elistan—” Tanis began warmly.

One of the white-robed clerics hovering near their leader glanced up at the half-elf and frowned.

“That is, R-revered Son”—Tanis stumbled over the formal title—“you are looking well.”

“And you, Tanis Half-Elven, have degenerated into a liar,” Elistan remarked, smiling at the pained expression Tanis tried desperately to keep off his face.

Elistan patted Tanis’s sun-browned hand with his thin, white fingers. “And don’t fool with that ‘Revered Son’ nonsense. Yes, I know it’s only proper and correct, Garad, but this man knew me when I was a slave in the mines of Pax Tharkas. Now, go along, all of you,” he said to the hovering clerics. “Bring what we have to make our guests comfortable.”

His gaze went to the dark elf who had collapsed into a chair near the fire that burned in Elistan’s private chambers. “Dalamar,” Elistan said gently, “this journey cannot have been an easy one for you. I am indebted to you that you have made it. But, here in my quarters you can, I believe, find ease. What will you take?”

“Wine,” the dark elf managed to reply through lips that were stiff and ashen. Tanis saw the elf’s hands tremble on the arm of the chair.

“Bring wine and food for our guests.” Elistan told the clerics who were filing out of the room, many casting glances of disapproval at the black-robed mage. “Escort Astinus here at once, upon his arrival, then see that we are not disturbed.”

“Astinus?” Tanis gaped. “Astinus, the Chronicler?”

“Yes, Half-Elven,” Elistan smiled once again. “Dying lends one special significance. ‘They stand in line to see me, who once would not have glanced my way.’ Isn’t that how the old mans poem went? There now, Half-Elven. The air is cleared. Yes, I know I am dying. I have known for a long time. My months dwindle to weeks. Come, Tanis. You have seen men die before. What was it you told me the Forestmaster said to you in Darken Wood—‘we do not mourn the loss of those who die fulfilling their destinies.’ My life has been fulfilled, Tanis—much more than I could ever have imagined.” Elistan glanced out the window, out to the spacious lawns, the flowering gardens, and—far in the distance—the dark Tower of High Sorcery.

“It was given me to bring hope back to the world, Half-Elven,” Elistan said softly. “Hope and healing. What man can say more? I leave knowing that the church has been firmly established once again. There are clerics among all the races now. Yes, even kender.” Elistan, smiling, ran a hand through his white hair. “Ah,” he sighed, “what a trying time that was for our faith, Tanis! We are still unable to determine exactly what all is missing. But they are a good-hearted, good-souled people. Whenever I started to lose patience, I thought of Fizban—Paladine, as he revealed himself to us—and the special love he bore your little friend, Tasslehoff.”

Tanis’s face darkened at the mention of the kender’s name, and it seemed to him that Dalamar looked up, briefly, from where he had been staring into the dancing flames. But Elistan did not notice.