Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

Screaming, Raistlin dropped to his knees, trying desperately to free himself from the staff’s poisonous bite. But, battling one enemy, he had forgotten the other. Hearing the spidery words of magic being chanted, he looked up fearfully. Fistandantilus was gone, but in his place stood a drow—a dark elf. The dark elf Raistlin had fought in his final battle of the Test. And then the dark elf was Dalamar, hurling a fireball at him, and then the fireball became a sword, driven into his flesh by a beardless dwarf.

Flames burst around him, steel pierced his body, fangs dug into his skin. He was sinking, sinking into the blackness, when he was bathed in white light and wrapped in white robes and held close to a soft, warm breast...

And he smiled, for he knew by the flinching of the body shielding his and the low cries of anguish, that the weapons were striking her, not him.

“Lord Gunthar!” said Amothus, Lord of Palanthas, rising to his feet. “An unexpected pleasure. And you, too, Tanis Half-Elven. I assume you’re both here to plan the War’s End celebration. I’m so glad. Now we can get started on it early this year. I, that is, the committee and I believe—”

“Nonsense,” said Lord Gunthar crisply, walking about Amothus’s audience chamber and staring at it with a critical eye, already calculating—in his mind—what it would take to fortify it if necessary. “We’re here to discuss the defense of the city.”

Lord Amothus blinked at the Knight, who was peering out the windows and muttering to himself. Once he turned and snapped, “Too much glass,” which statement increased the lord’s confusion to such an extent that he could only stammer an apology and then stand helplessly in the center of the room.

“Are we under attack?” he ventured to ask hesitantly, after a few more moments of Gunthar’s reconnaissance.

Lord Gunthar cast Tanis a sharp look. With a sigh, Tanis politely reminded Lord Amothus of the warning the dark elf, Dalamar, had brought them—the probability that the Dragon Highlord, Kitiara, planned to try to enter Palanthas in order to aid her brother, Raistlin, Master of the Tower of High Sorcery, in his fight against the Queen of Darkness.

“Oh, yes!” Lord Amothus’s face cleared. He waved a delicate, deprecating hand, as though brushing away gnats. “But I don’t believe you need be concerned about Palanthas, Lord Gunthar. The High Clerist’s Tower—”

“—is being manned. I’m doubling the strength of our forces there. That’s where the major assault will come, of course. No other way into Palanthas except by sea to the north, and we rule the seas. No, it will come overland. Should matters go wrong, though, Amothus, I want Palanthas ready to defend herself. Now—”

Having mounted the horse of action, so to speak, Gunthar charged ahead. Completely riding over Lord Amothus’s murmured remonstration that perhaps he should discuss this with his generals, Gunthar galloped on, and soon left Amothus choking in the dust of troop disbursements, supply requisitions, armorment caches, and the like. Amothus gave himself for lost. Sitting down, he assumed an expression of polite interest, and immediately began to think about something else. It was all nonsense anyway. Palanthas had never been touched in battle. Armies had to get past the High Clerist’s Tower first and none—not even the great dragon armies of the last war—had been able to do that.

Tanis, watching all of this, and knowing well what Amothus was thinking, smiled grimly to himself and was just beginning to wonder how he, too, might escape the onslaught when there was a soft knock upon the great, ornately carved, gilt doors. With the look of one who hears the trumpets of the rescuing division, Amothus sprang to his feet, but before he could say a word, the doors opened and an elderly servant entered.

Charles had been in the service of the royal house of Palanthas for well over half a century. They could not get along without him, and he knew it. He knew everything from the exact count of the number of wine bottles in the cellar, to which elves should be seated next to which at dinner, to when the linen had been aired last. Though always dignified and deferential, there was a look upon his face which implied that when he died, he expected the royal house to crumble down about its master’s ears.

“I am sorry to disturb you, my lord,” Charles began.

“Quite all right!” Lord Amothus cried, beaming with pleasure. “Quite all right. Please—”

“But there is an urgent message for Tanis Half-Elven,” finished Charles imperturbably, with only the slightest hint of rebuke to his master for interrupting him.

“Oh,” Lord Amothus looked blank and extremely disappointed. “Tanis Half-Elven?”

“Yes, my lord,” Charles replied.

“Not for me?” Amothus ventured, seeing the rescuing division vanish over the horizon.

“No, my lord.”

Amothus sighed. “Very well. Thank you, Charles. Tanis, I suppose you had better—”

But Tanis was already halfway across the room.

“What is it? Not from Laurana—”

“This way, please, my lord,” Charles said, ushering Tanis out the door. At a glance from Charles, the half-elf remembered just in time to turn and bow to Lords Amothus and Gunthar. The knight smiled and waved his hand. Lord Amothus could not refrain from casting Tanis an envious glance, then sank back down to listen to a list of equipment necessary for the boiling of oil. Charles carefully and slowly shut the doors behind him.

“What is it?” Tanis asked, following the servant down the hall. “Didn’t the messenger say anything else?”

“Yes, my lord.” Charles’s face softened into an expression of gentle sorrow. “I was not to reveal this unless it became absolutely necessary to free you from your engagement. Revered Son, Elistan, is dying. He is not expected to live through the night.”

The Temple lawns were peaceful and serene in the fading light of day. The sun was setting, not with fiery splendor, but with a soft, pearlized radiance, filling the sky with a rainbow of gentle color like that of an inverted sea shell. Tanis, expecting to find crowds of people standing about, waiting for news, while white-robed clerics ran here and there in confusion, was startled to see that all was calm and orderly. People rested on the lawn as usual, white-robed clerics strolled beside the flower beds, talking together in low voices or, if alone, appearing lost in silent meditation. Perhaps the messenger was wrong or misinformed, Tanis thought. But then, as he hurried across the velvety green grass, he passed a young cleric. She looked up at him, and he saw her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. But she smiled at him, nonetheless, wiping away traces of her grief as she went on her way.

And then Tanis remembered that neither Lord Amothus, ruler of Palanthas, nor Lord Gunthar, head of the Knights of Solamnia, had been informed. The half-elf smiled sadly in sudden understanding. Elistan was dying as he had lived with quiet dignity.

A young acolyte met Tanis at the Temple door.

“Enter and welcome, Tanis Half-Elven,” the young man said softly. “You are expected. Come this way.”

Cool shadows washed over Tanis. Inside the Temple, the signs of grieving were clear. An elven harpist played sweet music, clerics stood together, arms around each other, sharing solace in their hour of trial. Tanis’s own eyes filled with tears.

“We are grateful that you returned in time,” the acolyte continued, leading Tanis deeper into the inner confines of the quiet Temple. “We feared you might not. We left word where we could, but only with those we knew we could count upon to keep the secret of our great sorrow. It is Elistan’s s wish that he be allowed to die quietly and peacefully.”