Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

Tanis closed his eyes, leaning against the wall. He knew that voice. Memories washed over him with an intensity so painful that, for a moment, he could neither move nor speak.

“Perhaps, if you gave me your name,” the acolyte said patiently, “I could ask him—”

“I am—The name is—” The voice hesitated, sounding a bit bewildered, then muttered. “I knew it yesterday...”

Tanis heard the sound of a wooden staff thumping irritably against the Temple steps. The voice raised shrilly. “I am a very important person, young man. And I’m not accustomed to being treated with such impertinence. Now get out of my way before you force me to do something I’ll regret. I mean, you’ll regret. Well, one of us will regret it.”

“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” the acolyte repeated, his patience obviously wearing thin, “but without a name I cannot allow—”

There was the sound of a brief scuffle, then silence, then Tanis heard a truly ominous sound—the sound of pages being turned. Smiling through his tears, the half-elf walked to the door. Looking outside, he saw an old wizard standing on the Temple stairs. Dressed in mouse-colored robes, his misshapen wizard’s hat appearing ready to topple from his head at the slightest opportunity, the ancient wizard was a most disreputable sight. He had leaned the plain wooden staff he carried against the Temple wall and now, ignoring the flushed and indignant acolyte, the wizard was flipping through the pages of his spellbook, muttering “Fireball... Fireball. How does that dratted spell go?...”

Gently, Tanis placed his hand upon the acolyte’s shoulder. “He truly is an important person,” the half-elf said softly. “You can let him in. I’ll take full responsibility.”

“He is?” The acolyte looked dubious.

At the sound of Tanis’s voice, the wizard raised his head and glanced about. “Eh? Important person? Where?” Seeing Tanis, he started. “Oh, there! How do you do, sir?” He started to extend his hand, became entangled in his robes, and dropped his spellbook on his foot. Bending down to pick it up, he knocked over his staff, sending it down the steps with a clatter. In the confusion, his hat tumbled off. It took Tanis and the acolyte both to get the old man back together again.

“Ouch, my toe! Confound it! Lost my place. Stupid staff! Where’s my hat?”

Eventually, however, he was more or less intact. Stuffing the spellbook back in a pouch, he planted his hat firmly on his head. (Having attempted, at first, to do those two things in reverse order.) Unfortunately, the hat immediately slipped down, covering his eyes.

“Struck blind, by the gods!” the old wizard stated in awe, groping about with his hands. This matter was soon remedied. The young acolyte—with an even more dubious glance at Tanis—gently pushed the wizard’s hat to the back of his white-haired head. Glaring at the acolyte irritably, the old wizard turned to Tanis. “Important person? Yes, so you are... I think. Have we met before?”

“Indeed, yes,” Tanis replied. “But you are the important person I was referring to, Fizban.”

“I am?” The old wizard seemed staggered for a moment. Then, with a humpf, he glared again at the young cleric. “Well, of course. Told you so! Stand aside, stand aside,” he ordered the acolyte irritably.

Entering the Temple door, the old man turned to look at Tanis from beneath the brim of the battered hat. Pausing, he laid his hand on the half-elf’s arm. The befuddled look left the old wizard’s face. He stared at Tanis intently.

“You have never faced a darker hour, Half-Elven,” the old wizard said gravely. “There is hope, but love must triumph.” With that, he toddled off and, almost immediately, blundered into a closet. Two clerics came to his rescue, and guided him on.

“Who is he?” the young acolyte asked, staring, perplexed, after the old wizard.

“A friend of Elistan’s,” Tanis murmured. “A very old friend.”

As he left the Temple, Tanis heard a voice wail, “My hat!”

“Crysania...

There was no reply, only a low moaning sound.

“Shh. It’s all right. You have been hurt, but the enemy is gone. Drink this, it will ease the pain.”

Taking some herbs from a pouch, Raistlin mixed them in a mug of steaming water and, lifting Crysania from the bed of blood-soaked leaves upon which she lay, he held the mug to her lips. As she drank it, her face smoothed, her eyes opened.

“Yes,” she murmured, leaning against him. “That is better.”

“Now,” continued Raistlin smoothly, “you must pray to Paladine to heal you, Revered Daughter. We have to keep going.”

“I—I don’t know, Raistlin. I’m so weak and—and Paladine seems so far away!”

“Pray to Paladine?” said a stern voice. “You blaspheme, Black Robe!”

Frowning, annoyed, Raistlin glanced up. His eyes widened. “Sturm!” he gasped.

But the young knight did not hear him. He was staring at Crysania, watching in awe as the wounds upon her body closed, though they did not heal completely. “Witches!” cried the knight, drawing his sword. “Witches!”

“Witches!” Crysania raised her head. “No, Sir Knight. We are not witches. I am a cleric, a cleric of Paladine! Look at the medallion I wear!”

“You lie!” Sturm said fiercely. “There are no clerics! They vanished in the Cataclysm. And, if you were, what would you be doing in the company of this dark one of evil?”

“Sturm! It’s me, Raistlin!” The archmage rose to his feet. “Look at me! Don’t you recognize me?”

The young knight turned his sword upon the mage, its point at Raistlin’s throat. “I do not know by what sorcerous ways you have conjured up my name, Black Robe, but, speak it once more and it will go badly for you. We deal shortly with witches in Solace.”

“As you are a virtuous and holy knight, bound by vows of chivalry and obedience, I beg you for justice,” Crysania said, rising to her feet slowly, with Raistlin’s s help.

The young mans stern face smoothed. He bowed, and sheathed his sword, but not without a sideways glance at Raistlin. “You speak truly, madam. I am bound by such vows and I will grant you justice.”

Even as he spoke, the bed of leaves became a wooden floor; the trees-benches; the sky above—a ceiling; the road an aisle between the benches. We are in a Hall of Judgment, Raistlin saw, momentarily dizzied by the sudden change. His arm around Crysania still, he helped her to sit down at a small table that stood in the center of the room. Before them loomed a podium. Glancing behind them, Raistlin saw that the room was packed with people, all watching with interest and enjoyment.

He stared. He knew these people! There was Otik, the owner of the Inn of the Last Home, eating a plateful of spiced potatoes. There was Tika, her red curls bouncing, pointing at Crysania and saying something and laughing. And Kitiara! Lounging against the doorway, surrounded by admiring young men, her hand on the hilt of her sword, she looked over at Raistlin and winked.

Raistlin glanced about feverishly. His father, a poor woodcutter, sat in a corner, his shoulders bent, that perpetual look of worry and care on his face. Laurana sat apart, her cool elven beauty shining like a bright star in the darkest night.

Beside him, Crysania cried out, “Elistan!” Rising to her feet, she stretched out her hand, but the cleric only looked at her sadly and sternly and shook his head.

“Rise and do honor!” rang out a voice.

With much shuffling of feet and scraping of the benches, everyone in the Hall of Judgment stood up. A respectful silence descended upon the crowd as the judge entered. Dressed in the gray robes of Gilean, God of Neutrality, the judge took his place behind the podium and turned to face the accused.