Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

“My only regret is that I leave no one truly capable of taking over after me,” Elistan shook his head. “Garad is a good man. Too good. I see the makings of another Kingpriest in him. But he doesn’t understand yet that the balance must be maintained, that we are all needed to make up this world. Is that not so, Dalamar?”

To Tanis’s surprise, the dark elf nodded his head. He had cast his hood aside and had been able to drink some of the red wine the clerics brought to him. Color had returned to his face, and his hands trembled no longer. “You are wise, Elistan,” the mage said softly. “I wish others were as enlightened.”

“Perhaps it is not wisdom so much as the ability to see things from all sides, not just one,” Elistan turned to Tanis. “You, Tanis, my friend. Did you not notice and appreciate the view as you came?” He gestured feebly to the window, through which the Tower of High Sorcery was plainly visible.

“I’m not certain I know what you mean.” Tanis hedged, uncomfortable as always about sharing his feelings.

“Yes, you do, Half-Elven,” Elistan said with a return of his old crispness. “You looked at the Tower and you looked at the Temple and you thought how right it was they should be so near. Oh, there were many who argued long against this site for the Temple. Garad and, of course, Lady Crysania—”

At the mention of that name, Dalamar choked, coughed, and set the wine glass down hurriedly. Tanis stood up, unconsciously beginning to pace the room—as was his custom—when, realizing that this might disturb the dying man, he sat back down again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

“Has there been word of her?” he asked in a low voice.

“I am sorry, Tanis,” Elistan said gently, “I did not mean to distress you. Truly, you must stop blaming yourself. What she did, she chose to do of her own free will. Nor would I have had it otherwise. You could not have stopped her, nor saved her from her fate—whatever that may be. No, there has been no word of her.”

“Yes, there has,” Dalamar said in a cold, emotionless voice that drew the immediate attention of both men in the room. “That is one reason I called you together.”

“You called!” Tanis repeated, standing up again. “I thought Elistan asked us here. Is your Shalafi behind this? Is he responsible for this woman’s disappearance?” He advanced a step, his face beneath his reddish beard flushed. Dalamar rose to his feet, his eyes glittering dangerously, his hand stealing almost imperceptibly to one of the pouches he wore upon his belt. “Because, by the gods, if he has harmed her, I’ll twist his golden neck—”

“Astinus of Palanthas,” announced a cleric from the doorway.

The historian stood within the doorway. His ageless face bore no expression as his gray-eyed gaze swept the room, taking in everything, everyone with a minute attention to the detail that his pen would soon record. It went from the flushed and angry face of Tanis, to the proud, defiant face of the elf, to the weary, patient face of the dying cleric.

“Let me guess,” Astinus remarked, imperturbably entering and taking a seat. Setting a huge book down upon a table, he opened it to a blank page, drew a quill pen from a wooden case he carried with him, carefully examined the tip, then looked up. “Ink, friend,” he said to a startled cleric, who after a nod from Elistan—left the room hurriedly. Then the historian continued his original sentence.

“Let me guess. You were discussing Raistlin Majere.”

“It is true,” Dalamar said. “I called you here.”

The dark elf had resumed his seat by the fire. Tanis, still scowling, went back to his place near Elistan. The cleric, Garad, returning with Astinus’s ink, asked if they wanted anything else. The reply being negative, he left, sternly adding, for the benefit of those in the room, that Elistan was unwell and should not be long disturbed.

“I called you here, together,” Dalamar repeated, his gaze upon the fire. Then he raised his eyes, looking directly at Tanis. “You come at some small inconvenience. But 1 come, knowing that I will suffer the torment all of my faith feel trodding upon this holy ground. But it is imperative that I speak to you, all of you, together. I knew Elistan could not come to me. I knew Tanis Half-Elven would not come to me. And so I had no choice but to—”

“Proceed,” Astinus said in his deep, cool voice. “The world passes as we sit here. You have called us here together. That is established. For what reason?”

Dalamar was silent for a moment, his gaze going back once again to the fire. When he spoke, he did not look up.

“Our worst fears are realized,” he said softly. “He has been successful.”

Come home... .

The voice lingered in his memory. Someone kneeling beside the pool of his mind, dropping words into the calm, clear surface. Ripples of consciousness disturbed him, woke him from his peaceful, restful sleep.

“Come home... . My son, come home.”

Opening his eyes, Raistlin looked into the face of his mother.

Smiling, she reached out her hand and stroked back the wispy, white hair that fell down across his forehead. “My poor son,” she murmured, her dark eyes soft with grief and pity and love. “What they did to you! I watched. I’ve watched for so long now. And I’ve wept. Yes, my son, even the dead weep. It is the only comfort we have. But all that is over now. You are with me. Here you can rest... .”

Raistlin struggled to sit up. Looking down at himself, he saw—to his horror—that he was covered with blood. Yet he felt no pain, there seemed to be no wound. He found it hard to take a breath, and he gasped for air.

“Here, let me help you,” his mother said. She began to loosen the silken cord he wore around his waist, the cord from which hung his pouches, his precious spell components. Reflexively, Raistlin thrust her hand aside. His breath came easier. He looked around.

“What happened? Where am I?” He was vastly confused. Memories of his childhood came to him. Memories of two childhoods came to him! His... and someone else’s! He looked at his mother, and she was someone he knew and she was a stranger.

“What happened?” he repeated irritably, beating back the surging memories that threatened to overthrow his grasp on sanity.

“You have died, my son,” his mother said gently. “And now you are here with me.”

“Died!” Raistlin repeated, aghast.

Frantically he sorted through the memories. He recalled being near death... How was it that he had failed? He put his hand to his forehead and felt... flesh, bone, warmth... And then he remembered...

The Portal!

“No,” he cried angrily, glaring at his mother. “That’s impossible.”

“You lost control of the magic, my son,” his mother said, reaching out her hand to touch Raistlin again. He drew away from her. With the slight, sad smile—a smile he remembered so well—she let her hand drop back in her lap. “The field shifted, the forces tore you apart. There was a terrible explosion, it leveled the Plains of Dergoth. The magical fortress of Zhaman collapsed.” His mother’s voice shook. “The sight of your suffering was almost more than I could bear.”

“I remember,” Raistlin whispered, putting his hands to his head. “I remember the pain... but...”

He remembered something else, too—brilliant bursts of multicolored lights, he remembered a feeling of exultation and ecstasy welling up in his soul, he remembered the dragon’s heads that guarded the Portal screaming in fury, he remembered wrapping his arms around Crysania.

Standing up, Raistlin looked around. He was on flat, level ground—a desert of some sort. In the distance he could see mountains. They looked familiar—of course! Thorbardin! The dwarven kingdom. He turned. There were the ruins of the fortress, looking like a skull devouring the land in its eternally grinning mouth. So, he was on the Plains of Dergoth. He recognized the landscape.