Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

“Kit?” It was Tanis’s turn to look amused. Dalamar sneered slightly.

“Oh, yes, Half-Elven. I know Kitiara every bit as well as you do.”

But the sarcastic tone in the dark elf’s voice faltered, twisting unconsciously to one of bitterness. His slender hands clenched. Tanis nodded in sudden understanding, feeling, oddly enough, a strange kind of sympathy for the young elf.

“So she has betrayed you, too,” Tanis murmured softly. “She pledged you her support. She said she would be there, stand beside you. When Raistlin returned, she would fight at your side.”

Dalamar rose to his feet, his black robes rustling around him. “I never trusted her,” he said coldly, but he turned his back upon them and stared intently into the flames, keeping his face averted. “I knew what treachery she was capable of committing, none better. This came as no surprise.”

But Tanis saw the hand that gripped the mantelpiece turn white.

“Who told you this?” Astinus asked abruptly. Tanis started. He had almost forgotten the historians presence. “Surely not the Dark Queen. She would not care about this.”

“No, no.” Dalamar appeared confused for a moment. His thoughts had obviously been far away. Sighing, he looked up at them once more. “Lord Soth, the death knight, told me.”

“Soth?” Tanis felt himself losing his grip on reality.

Frantically his brain scrambled for a handhold. Mages spying on mages. Clerics of light aligned with wizards of darkness. Dark trusting light, turning against darkness. Light turning to the dark...

“Soth has pledged allegiance to Kitiara!” Tanis said in confusion. “Why would he betray her?”

Turning from the fire, Dalamar looked into Tanis’s eyes. For the span of a heartbeat, there was a bond between the two, a bond forged by a shared understanding, a shared misery, a shared torment, a shared passion. And, suddenly, Tanis understood, and his soul shriveled in horror.

“He wants her dead,” Dalamar replied.

The young boy walked down the streets of Solace. He was not a comely boy, and he knew it—as he knew so much about himself that is not often given children to know. But then, he spent a great deal of time with himself, precisely because he was not comely and because he knew too much.

He was not walking alone today, however. His twin brother, Caramon, was with him. Raistlin scowled, scuffing through the dust of the village street, watching it rise in clouds about him. He may not have been walking alone, but in a way he was more alone with Caramon than without him. Everyone called out greetings to his likeable, handsome twin. No one said a word to him. Everyone yelled for Caramon to come join their games. No one invited Raistlin. Girls looked at Caramon out of the corners of their eyes in that special way girls had. Girls never even noticed Raistlin.

“Hey, Caramon, wanna play King of the Castle?” a voice yelled.

“You want to, Raist?” Caramon asked, his face lighting up eagerly. Strong and athletic, Caramon enjoyed the rough, strenuous game. But Raistlin knew that if he played he would soon start to feel weak and dizzy. He knew, too, that the other boys would argue about whose team had to take him.

“No. You go ahead, though.”

Caramon’s s face fell. Then, shrugging, he said, “Oh, that’s all right, Raist. I’d rather stay with you.”

Raistlin felt his throat tighten, his stomach clenched. “No, Caramon,” he repeated softly, “it’s all right. Go ahead and play.”

“You don’t look like you’re feeling good, Raist,” Caramon said. “It’s no big deal. Really. C’mon, show me that new magic trick you learned—the one with the coins—”

“Don’t treat me like this!” Raistlin heard himself screaming. “I don’t need you! I don’t want you around! Go ahead! Go play with those fools! You’re all a pack of fools together! I don’t need any of you!”

Caramon’s face crumbled. Raistlin had the feeling he’d just kicked a dog. The feeling only made him angrier. He turned away.

“Sure, Raist, if that’s what you want,” Caramon mumbled.

Glancing over his shoulder, Raistlin saw his twin run off after the others. With a sigh, trying to ignore the shouts of laughter and greeting, Raistlin sat down in a shady place and, drawing one of his spellbooks from his pack, began to study. Soon, the lure of the magic drew him away from the dirt and the laughter and the hurt eyes of his twin. It led him into an enchanted land where he commanded the elements, he controlled reality... .

The spellbook tumbled from his hands, landing in the dust at his feet. Raistlin looked up, startled. Two boys stood above him. One held a stick in his hand. He poked the book with it, then, lifting the stick, he poked Raistlin, hard, in the chest.

You are bugs, Raistlin told the boys silently. Insects. You mean nothing to me. Less than nothing. Ignoring the pain in his chest, ignoring the insect life standing before him, Raistlin reached out his hand for his book. The boy stepped on his fingers.

Frightened, but now more angry than afraid, Raistlin rose to his feet. His hands were his livelihood. With them, he manipulated the fragile spell components, with them he traced the delicate arcane symbols of his Art in the air.

“Leave me alone,” he said coldly, and such was the way he spoke and the look in his eye that, for an instant, the two boys were taken aback. But now a crowd had gathered. The other boys left their game, coming to watch the fun. Aware that others were watching, the boy with the stick refused to let this skinny, whining, sniveling bookworm have the better of him.

“What’re ya going to do?” the boy sneered. “Turn me into a frog?”

There was laughter. The words to a spell formed in Raistlin’s mind. It was not a spell he was supposed to have learned yet, it was an offensive spell, a hurting spell, a spell to use when true danger threatened. His Master would be furious. Raistlin smiled a thin-lipped smile. At the sight of that smile and the look in Raistlin’s eyes, one of the boys edged backward.

“Let’s go,” he muttered to his companion.

But the other boy stood his ground. Behind him, Raistlin could see his twin standing among the crowd, a look of anger on his face.

Raistlin began to speak the words—and then he froze. No! Something was wrong! He had forgotten! His magic wouldn’t work! Not here! The words came out as gibberish, they made no sense. Nothing happened! The boys laughed. The boy with the stick raised it and shoved it into Raistlin’s stomach, knocking him to the ground, driving the breath from his body.

He was on his hand and knees, gasping for air. Somebody kicked him. He felt the stick break over his back. Somebody else kicked him. He was rolling on the ground now, choking in the dust, his thin arms trying desperately to cover his head. Kicks and blows rained in on him.

“Caramon!” he cried. “Caramon, help me!”

But there was only a deep, stern voice in answer. “You don’t need me, remember.”

A rock struck him in the head, hurting him terribly. And he knew, although he couldn’t see, that it was Caramon who had thrown it. He was losing consciousness. Hands were dragging him along the dusty road, they were hauling him to a pit of vast darkness and cold, icy cold. They would hurl him down there and he would fall, endlessly, through the darkness and the cold and he would never, never hit the bottom, for there was no bottom...

Crysania stared around. Where was she? Where was Raistlin? He had been with her only moments before, leaning weakly on her arm. And then, suddenly, he had vanished and she had found herself alone, walking in a strange village.

Or was it strange? She seemed to recall having been here once, or at least someplace like this. Tall vallenwoods surrounded her. The houses of the town were built in the trees. There was an inn in a tree. She saw a signpost.