Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

“Tanis!” Raistlin cried, taking a step forward.

But the bearded half-elf only frowned at this unseemly conduct while a grumbling old dwarf—the bailiff—stumped over and prodded Raistlin in the side with the butt-end of his battle-axe. “Sit down, witch, and don’t speak unless you’re spoken to.”

“Flint?” Raistlin grabbed the dwarf by the arm. “Don’t you know me?”

“And don’t touch the bailiff!” Flint roared, incensed, jerking his arm away. “Humpf,” he grumbled as he stalked back to take his place beside the judge. “No respect for my age or my station. You’d think I was a sack of meal to be handled by everyone—”

“That will do, Flint,” said Tanis, sternly eyeing Raistlin and Crysania. “Now, who brings the charges against these two?”

“I do,” said a knight in shining armor, rising to his feet.

“Very well, Sturm Brightblade,” Tanis said, “you will have a chance to present your charges. And who defends these two?”

Raistlin started to rise and reply, but he was interrupted.

“Me! Here, Tanis—uh, your honorship! Me, over here! Wait. I—I seem to be stuck...”

Laughter filled the Hall of Judgment, the crowd turning and staring at a kender, loaded down with books, struggling to get through the doorway. Grinning, Kitiara reached out, grabbed him by his topknot of hair, and yanked him through the door, tossing him unceremoniously onto the floor. Books scattered everywhere, and the crowd roared with laughter. Unfazed, the kender picked himself up, dusted himself off, and, tripping over the books, managed eventually to make it up to the front.

“I’m Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” the kender said, holding out his small hand for Raistlin to shake. The archmage stared at Tas in amazement and did not move. With a shrug, Tas looked at his hand, sighed, and then, turning, started toward the judge. “Hi, my name’s Tasslehoff Burrfoot”

“Sit down!” roared the dwarf. “You don’t shake hands with the judge, you doorknob!”

“Well,” said Tas indignantly. “I think I might if I liked. I’m only being polite, after all, something you dwarves know nothing about. I—”

“Sit down and shut up!” shouted the dwarf, thudding the butt-end of the axe on the floor.

His topknot bouncing, the kender turned and meekly made his way over to sit beside Raistlin. But, before sitting, he faced the audience and mimicked the dwarf’s dour look so well that the crowd howled with glee, making the dwarf angrier than ever. But this time the judge intervened.

“Silence,” called Tanis sternly, and the crowd hushed.

Tas plopped himself down beside Raistlin. Feeling a soft touch brush against him, the mage glared down at the kender and held out his hand.

“Give that back!” he demanded.

“What back? Oh, this? Is that yours? You must have dropped it,” Tas said innocently, handing over one of Raistlin’s spell component pouches. “I found it on the floor—”

Snatching it from the kender, Raistlin attached it once more to the cord he wore around his waist.

“You might at least have said thank you,” Tas remarked in a shrill whisper, then subsided as he caught the stern gaze of the judge.

“What are the charges against these two?” Tanis asked.

Sturm Brightblade came to the front of the room. There was some scattered applause. The young knight with his high standards of honor and melancholy mien was apparently well-liked.

“I found these two in the wilderness, your honor. The Black Robed one spoke the name of Paladine”—there was angry mutterings from the crowd—“and, even as I watched, he brewed up some foul concoction and gave it to the woman to drink. She was badly hurt when I first saw them. Blood covered her robes, and her face was burned and scarred as if she had been in a fire. But when she drank that witch’s brew, she was healed!”

“No!” cried Crysania, rising unsteadily to her feet. “That is wrong. The potion Raistlin gave me simply eased the pain. It was my prayers that healed me! I am a cleric of Paladine”

“Pardon us, your honor,” yelled the kender, leaping to his feet. “My client didn’t mean to say she was a cleric of Paladine. Performing a pantomime. That’s what she meant to say. Yes, that’s it,”

Tas giggled. “Just having a little fun to lighten the journey. It’s a game they play all the time. Hah, hah.” Turning to Crysania, the kender frowned and said in a whisper that was audible to everyone in the room, “What are you doing? How can I possibly get you off if you go around telling the truth like that! I simply won’t put up with it!”

“Quiet!” roared the dwarf.

The kender whirled around. “And I’m getting a bit tired of you, too, Flint!” he shouted. “Quit pounding that axe on the floor or I’ll wrap it around your neck.”

The room dissolved into laughter, and even the judge grinned.

Crysania sank back down beside Raistlin, her face deathly pale. “What is this mockery?” she murmured fearfully.

“I don’t know, but I’m going to put an end to it.” Raistlin rose to his feet.

“Silence, all of you.” His soft, whispering voice brought immediate quiet to the room. “This lady is a holy cleric of Paladine! I am a wizard of the Black Robes, skilled in the arts of magic—”

“Oh, do something magic!” the kender cried, jumping to his feet again. “Whoosh me into a duck pond—”

“Sit down!” yelled the dwarf.

“Set the dwarf’s beard on fire!” Tasslehoff laughed.

There was a round of applause for this suggestion.

“Yes, show us some magic, wizard.” Tanis called out over the hilarity in the Hall.

Everyone hushed, and then the crowd began to murmur, “Yes, wizard, show us some magic. Do some magic, wizard!” Kitiara’s voice rang out above the others, strong and powerful. “Perform some magic, frail and sickly wretch, if you can!”

Raistlin’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. Crysania was staring at him, hope and terror in her gaze. His hands trembled. He caught up the Staff of Magius, which stood at his side, but, remembering what it had done to him, he dared not use it.

Drawing himself up, he cast a look of scorn upon the people around him. “Hah! I do not need to prove myself to such as you—”

“I really think it might be a good idea,” Tas muttered, tugging at Raistlin’s robe.

“You see!” shouted Sturm. “The witch cannot! I demand judgment!”

“Judgment! Judgment!” chanted the crowd. “Burn the witches! Burn their bodies! Save their souls!”

“Well, wizard?” Tanis asked sternly. “Can you prove you are what you claim?”

Spell words slithered from his grasp. Crysania’s hands clutched at him. The noise deafened him.

He couldn’t think! He wanted to be alone, away from the laughing mouths and pleading, terror-filled eyes. “I—” He faltered, and bowed his head.

“Burn them.”

Rough hands caught hold of Raistlin. The courtyard disappeared before his eyes. He struggled, but it was useless. The man who held him was big and strong, with a face that might once have been jovial but was now serious and intent.

“Caramon! Brother!” Raistlin cried, twisting in the big man’s grasp to look into his twins face.

But Caramon ignored him. Gripping Raistlin firmly, he dragged the frail mage up a hill. Raistlin looked around. Before him, on the top of the hill, he saw two tall, wooden stakes that had been driven into the ground. At the foot of each stake, the townspeople—his friends, his neighbors were gleefully tossing great armloads of dry tinder onto a mound.

“Where’s Crysania?” he asked his brother, hoping she might have escaped and could now return to help him. Then Raistlin caught a glimpse of white robes. Elistan was binding her to a stake. She fought, trying to escape his grasp, but she was weakened from her suffering. At last, she gave up. Weeping in fear and despair, she slumped against the stake as they tied her hands behind it and bound her feet to the base.