Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

But, even as he recognized it, it seemed strange to him. Everything was tinged with red, as though he were seeing all objects through blood-dimmed eyes. And, though objects looked the same as he remembered them, they were strange to him as well.

Skullcap he had seen during the War of the Lance. He didn’t remember it grinning in that obscene way. The mountains, too, were sharp and clearly defined against the sky. The sky! Raistlin drew in a breath. It was empty! Swiftly he looked in all directions. No, there was no sun, yet it was not night. There were no moons, no stars; and it was such a strange color—a kind of muted pink, the reflection of a sunset.

He looked down at the woman kneeling on the ground before him.

Raistlin smiled, his thin lips pressed together grimly. “No,” he said, and this time his voice was firm and confident.

“No, I did not die! I succeeded.” He gestured. “This is proof of my success. I recognize this place. The kender described it to me. He said it was all places he had ever been. This is where I entered the Portal, and now I stand in the Abyss.”

Leaning down, Raistlin grabbed the woman by the arm, dragging her to her feet. “Fiend, apparition! Where is Crysania? Tell me, whoever or whatever you are! Tell me, or by the gods I’ll—”

“Raistlin! Stop, you’re hurting me!”

Raistlin started, staring. It was Crysania who spoke, Crysania whose arm he held! Shaken, he loosed his grip but, within instants, he was master of himself again. She tried to pull free, but he held her firmly, drawing her near.

“Crysania?” he questioned, studying her intently.

She looked up at him, puzzled. “Yes,” she faltered. “What’s wrong, Raistlin? You’ve been talking so strangely.”

The archmage tightened his grip. Crysania cried out. Yes, the pain in her eyes was real, so was the fear.

Smiling, sighing, Raistlin put his arms around her, pressing her close against his body. She was flesh, warmth, perfume, beating heart...

“Oh, Raistlin!” She nestled close to him. “I was so frightened. This terrible place. I was all alone.”

His hand tangled in her black hair. The softness and fragrance of her body intoxicated him, filling him with desire. She moved against him, tilting her head back. Her lips were soft, eager. She trembled in his arms. Raistlin looked down at her—and stared into eyes of flame.

So, you have come home at last, my mage!

Sultry laughter burned his mind, even as the lithe body in his arms writhed and twisted... he clasped one neck of a five-headed dragon... acid dripped from the gaping jaws above him... fire roared around him... sulfurous fumes choked him. The head snaked down...

Desperately, furiously, Raistlin called upon his magic. Yet, even as he formed the words of the defensive spell chant in his mind, he felt a twinge of doubt. Perhaps the magic won’t work! I am weak, the journey through the Portal has drained my strength. Fear, sharp and slender as the blade of a dagger, pierced his soul. The words to the chant slipped from his mind. Panic flooded his body. The Queen! She is doing this! Ast takar ist... No! That isn’t right! He heard laughter, victorious laughter... .

Bright white light blinded him. He was falling, falling, falling endlessly, spiraling down from darkness into day.

Opening his eyes, Raistlin looked into Crysania’s face.

Her face, but it was not the face he remembered. It was aging, dying, even as he watched. In her hand, she held the platinum medallion of Paladine. Its pure white radiance shone brightly in the eerie pinkish light around them.

Raistlin closed his eyes to blot out the sight of the cleric’s aging face, summoning back memories of how it looked in the past—delicate, beautiful, alive with love and passion. Her voice came to him, cool, firm.

“I very nearly lost you.”

Reaching up, but without opening his eyes, he grabbed hold of the cleric’s arms, clinging to her desperately. “What do I look like? Tell me! I’ve changed, haven’t I?”

“You are as you were when I first met you in the Great Library,” Crysania said, her voice still firm, too firm—tight, tense.

Yes, thought Raistlin, I am as I was. Which means I have returned to the present. He felt the old frailty, the old weakness, the burning pain in his chest, and with it the choking huskiness of the cough, as though cobwebs were being spun in his lungs. He had but to look, he knew, and he would see the gold-tinged skin, the white hair, the hourglass eyes...

Shoving Crysania away, he rolled over onto his stomach, clenching his fists in fury, sobbing in anger and fear.

“Raistlin!” True terror was in Crysania’s voice now. “What is it? Raistlin, where are we? What’s wrong?”

“I succeeded,” he snarled. Opening his eyes, he saw her face, withering in his sight. “I succeeded. We are in the Abyss.”

Her eyes opened wide, her lips parted. Fear mingled with joy.

Raistlin smiled bitterly. “And my magic is gone.”

Startled, Crysania stared at him. “I don’t understand—”

Twisting in agony, Raistlin screamed at her. “My magic is gone! I am weak, helpless, here—in her realm!” Suddenly, recollecting that she might be listening, watching, enjoying, Raistlin froze. His scream died in the blood-tinged froth upon his lips. He looked about, warily.

“But, no, you haven’t defeated me!” he whispered. His hand closed over the Staff of Magius, lying at his side. Leaning upon it heavily, he struggled to his feet. Crysania gently put her strong arm around him, helping him stand.

“No,” he murmured, staring into the vastness of the empty Plains, into the pink, empty sky, “I know where you are! I sense it! You are in Godshome. I know the lay of the land. I know how to move about, the kender gave me the key in his feverish ramblings. The land below mirrors the land above. I will seek you out, though the journey be long and treacherous.

“Yes!”—he looked all around him—“I feel you probing my mind, reading my thoughts, anticipating all I say and do. You think it will be easy to defeat me! But I sense your confusion, too. There is one with me whose mind you cannot touch! She defends and protects me, do you not, Crysania?”

“Yes, Raistlin,” Crysania replied softly, supporting the archmage.

Raistlin took a step, another, and another. He leaned upon Crysania, he leaned upon his staff. And still, each step was an effort, each breath he drew burned. When he looked about this world, all he saw was emptiness.

Inside him, all was emptiness. His magic was gone.

Raistlin stumbled. Crysania caught him and held onto him, clasping him close, tears running down her cheeks.

He could hear laughter... .

Maybe I should give up now! he thought in bitter despair. I am tired, so very tired. And without my magic, what am I?

Nothing. Nothing but a weak, wretched child...

For long moments after Dalamar’s pronouncement, there was silence in the room. Then the silence was broken by the scratching of a pen as Astinus recorded the dark elf’s words in his great book.

“May Paladine have mercy,” Elistan murmured. “Is she with him?”

“Of course,” Dalamar snapped irritably, revealing a nervousness that all the skills of his Art could not hide. “How else do you think he succeeded? The Portal is locked to all except the combined forces of a Black-Robed wizard of such powers as his and a White-Robed cleric of such faith as hers.”

Tanis glanced from one to the other, confused. “Look,” he said angrily, “I don’t understand. What’s going on? Who are you talking about? Raistlin? What’s he done? Does it have something to do with Crysania? And what about Caramon? He’s Vanished, too. Along with Tas! I—”