Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

The half-elf nodded brusquely, glad his beard hid his tears. Not that he was ashamed of them. Elves revere life above all things, holding it to be the most sacred of the gifts from the gods. Elves do not hide their feelings, as do humans. But Tanis feared the sight of his grief might upset Elistan. He knew the good man’s one regret in dying lay in the knowledge that his death would bring such bitter sorrow to those left behind.

Tanis and his guide passed through an inner chamber where stood Garad and other Revered Sons and Daughters, heads bowed, speaking words of comfort to each other. Beyond them, a door was shut. Everyone’s glance strayed to that door, and Tanis had no doubt who lay beyond it. Looking up on hearing Tanis enter, Garad himself crossed the room to greet the half-elf.

“We are so glad you could come,” the older elf said cordially. He was Silvanesti, Tanis recognized, and must have been one of the first of the elven converts to the religion that they had, long ago, forgotten. “We feared you might not return in time.”

“This must have been sudden,” Tanis murmured, uncomfortably aware that his sword—which he had forgotten to take off—was clanking, sounding loud and harsh in such peaceful, sorrowful surroundings. He clapped his hand over it.

“Yes, he was taken gravely ill the night you left,” Garad sighed. “I do not know what was said in that room, but the shock was great. He has been in terrible pain. Nothing we could do would help him. Finally, Dalamar, the wizard’s apprentice”—Garad could not help but frown—“came to the Temple. He brought with him a potion that would, he said, ease pain. How he came to know of what was transpiring, I cannot guess. Strange things happen in that place.” He glanced out the window to where the Tower stood, a dark shadow, defiantly denying the sun’s bright light.

“You let him in?” Tanis asked, startled.

“I would have refused,” Garad said grimly. “But Elistan gave orders that he should be allowed entry. And, I must admit, his potion worked. The pain left our master, and he will be granted the right to die in peace.”

“And Dalamar?”

“He is within. He has neither moved nor spoken since he came, but sits silently in a corner. Yet, his presence seems to comfort Elistan, and so we permit him to stay.”

I’d like to see you try to make him leave, Tanis thought privately, but said nothing. The door opened. People looked up fearfully, but it was only the acolyte who had knocked softly and who was conferring with someone on the other side. Turning, he beckoned to Tanis.

The half-elf entered the small, plainly furnished room, trying to move softly, as did the clerics with their whispering robes and padded slippers. But his sword rattled, his boots clomped, the buckles of his leather armor jingled. He sounded, to his ears, like an army of dwarves. His face burning, he tried to remedy matters by walking on tiptoe. Elistan, turning his head feebly upon the pillow, looked over at the half-elf and began to laugh.

“One would think, my friend, that you were coming to rob me,” Elistan remarked, lifting a wasted hand and holding it out to Tanis.

The half-elf tried to smile. He heard the door shut softly behind him and he was aware of a shadowy figure darkening one corner of the room. But he ignored all this. Kneeling beside the bed of the man he had helped rescue from the mines of Pax Tharkas, the man whose gentle influence had played such an important role in his life and in Laurana’s, Tanis took the dying man’s hand and held it firmly.

“Would that I were able to fight this enemy for you, Elistan,” Tanis said, looking at the shrunken white hand clasped in his own strong, tanned one.

“Not an enemy, Tanis, not an enemy. An old friend is coming for me.” He withdrew his hand gently from Tanis’s grasp, then patted the half-elf’s arm. “No, you don’t understand. But you will, someday, I promise. And now, I did not call you here to burden you with saying good-bye. I have a commission to give to you, my friend.” He motioned. The young acolyte came forward, bearing a wooden box, and gave it into Elistan’s s hands. Then, he retired, returning to stand silently beside the door.

The dark figure in the corner did not move.

Lifting the lid of the box, Elistan removed a folded piece of pure white parchment. Taking Tanis’s hand, he placed the parchment in the half-elf’s palm, then closed his fingers over it.

“Give this to Crysania,” he said softly. “If she survives, she is to be the next head of the church.”

Seeing the dubious, disapproving expression come onto Tanis’s face, Elistan smiled. “My friend, you have walked in darkness—none know that better than I. We came near losing you, Tanis. But you endured the night and faced the daylight, strengthened by the knowledge that you had gained. This is what I hope for Crysania. She is strong in her faith, but, as you yourself noted, she lacks warmth, compassion, humanity. She had to see with her own eyes the lessons that the fall of the Kingpriest taught us. She had to be hurt, Tanis, and hurt deeply, before she would be able to react with compassion to the hurt of others. Above all, Tanis, she had to love.”

Elistan closed his eyes, his face, drawn with suffering, filled with grief. “I would have chosen differently for her, my friend, had I been able. I saw the road she walked. But, who questions the ways of the gods? Certainly not I. Although” opening his eyes, he looked up at Tanis, and the half-elf saw a glint of anger in them—“I might argue with them a bit.”

Tanis heard, behind him, the soft step of the acolyte. Elistan nodded. “Yes, I know. They fear that visitors tire me. They do, but I will find rest soon enough.” The cleric closed his eyes, smiling.

“Yes, I will rest. My old friend is coming to walk with me, to guide my feeble steps.”

Rising to his feet, Tanis cast a questioning glance at the acolyte, who shook his head.

“We do not know of whom he speaks,” the young cleric murmured. “He has talked of little else but this old friend. We thought, perhaps, it might be you—”

But Elistan’s s voice rose clearly from his bed. “Farewell, Tanis Half-Elven. Give my love to Laurana. Garad and the others”—he nodded toward the doorway—“know of my wishes in this matter of the succession. They know that I have entrusted this to you. They will help you all they can. Goodbye, Tanis. May Paladine’s blessing be with you.”

Tanis could say nothing. Reaching down, he pressed the cleric’s hand, nodded, struggled to speak, and at last gave up. Turning abruptly, he walked past the dark and silent figure in the corner and left the room, his vision blinded by tears.

Garad accompanied him to the front entrance of the Temple. “I know what Elistan has charged you with,” the cleric said, “and, believe me, I hope with all my heart his wishes come to pass. Lady Crysania is, I understand, on some sort of pilgrimage that could prove very dangerous?”

“Yes,” was all Tanis could trust himself to answer.

Garad sighed. “May Paladine be with her. W e are praying for her. She is a strong woman. The church needs such youth and such strength if it is to grow. If you need any help, Tanis, please know that you can call upon us.”

The half-elf could only mutter a polite reply. Bowing, Garad hurried back to be with his dying master. Tanis paused a moment near the doorway in an effort to regain control of himself before stepping outside. As he stood there, thinking over Elistan’s words, he became aware of an argument being carried on near the Temple door.

“I am sorry, sir, but I cannot permit you to go inside,” a young acolyte was saying firmly.

“But I tell you I’m here to see Elistan,” returned a querulous, crotchety voice.