Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

“No, Tanis,” Caramon said, shaking his head. “Remember—Dalamar failed to stop Raistlin the first time. Something must be going to happen to the dark elf—something that will prevent him from fulfilling his assignment.” Reaching into his knapsack, Caramon pulled out the leather-bound Chronicles.

“Maybe we can get there in time to stop it,” Tanis suggested, feeling strange talking about a future that was already described.

Turning to the page he had marked, Caramon scanned it hurriedly, then drew in his breath with a soft whistle.

“What is it?” Tanis asked, leaning over to see. Caramon hastily shut the book.

“Something happens to him, all right,” the big man muttered, avoiding Tanis’s eyes. “Kitiara kills him.”

Dalamar sat alone in the laboratory of the Tower of High Sorcery. The guardians of the Tower, both living and dead, stood at their posts by the entrance, waiting... watching.

Outside the Tower window, Dalamar could see the city of Palanthas burning. The dark elf had watched the progress of the battle from his vantage point high atop the Tower. He had seen Lord Soth enter the gate, he had seen the knights scatter and fall, he had seen the draconians swoop down from the flying citadel. All the while, up above, the dragons battled, the dragon blood falling like rain upon the city streets.

The last glimpse he had, before the rising smoke obscured his vision, showed him the flying citadel starting to drift in his direction, moving slowly and erratically, once even seeming to change its mind and head back toward the mountains. Puzzled, Dalamar watched this for several minutes, wondering what it portended. Was this how Kitiara planned to get into the Tower? The dark elf felt a moment of fear. Could the citadel fly over the Shoikan Grove? Yes, he realized, it might! His hand clenched. Why hadn’t he foreseen that possibility? He stared out the window, cursing the smoke that increasingly blocked his vision. As he watched, the citadel changed direction again, stumbling through the skies like a drunkard searching for his dwelling. It was once more headed for the Tower, but at a snail’s pace. What was going on? Was the operator wounded? He stared at it, trying to see. And then thick, black smoke rolled past the windows, completely blotting out his vision of the citadel. The odor of burning hemp and pitch was strong. The warehouses, Dalamar thought. As he was turning from the window with a curse, his attention was caught by the sight of a brief flare of firelight coming from a building almost directly opposite him—the Temple of Paladine. He could see, even through the smoke, the glow brightening, and he could picture, in his mind, the white robed clerics, wielding mace and stick, calling upon Paladine as they slew their enemies.

Dalamar smiled grimly, shaking his head as he walked swiftly across the room, past the great stone table with its bottles and jars and beakers. He had shoved most of these aside, making room for his spellbooks, his scrolls and magical devices. He glanced over them for the hundredth time, making certain all was in readiness, then continued on, hurrying past the shelves lined with the nightblue-bound spellbooks of Fistandantilus, past the shelves lined with Raistlin’s own blackbound spellbooks. Reaching the door of the laboratory, Dalamar opened it and spoke one word into the darkness beyond.

Instantly, a pair of eyes glimmered before him, the spectral body shimmering in and out of his vision as if stirred by hot winds.

“I want guardians at the top of the Tower,” Dalamar instructed.

“Where, apprentice?”

Dalamar thought. “The doorway, leading down from the Death Walk. Post them there.”

The eyes flickered closed in brief acknowledgment, then vanished. Dalamar returned to the laboratory, closing the door behind him. Then he hesitated, stopped. He could lay spells of enchantment upon the door, spells that would prevent anyone from entering. This had been a common practice of Raistlin’s s in the laboratory when performing some delicate magical experiment in which the least interruption could prove fatal. A breath drawn at the wrong moment could mean the unleashing of magical forces that would destroy the Tower itself. Dalamar paused, his delicate fingers on the door, the words upon his lips.

Then, no, he thought. I might need help. The guardians must be free to enter in case I am not able to remove the spells. Walking back across the room, he sat down in the comfortable chair that was his favorite—the chair he’d had brought from his own quarters to help ease the weariness of his vigil.

In case I am not able to remove the spells. Sinking down into the chair’s soft, velvet cushions, Dalamar thought about death, about dying. His gaze went to the Portal. It looked as it had always looked—the five dragon heads, each a different color, facing inward, their five mouths open in five silent shouts of tribute to their Dark Queen. It looked the same as always—the heads dark and frozen, the void within the Portal empty, unchanging. Or was it? Dalamar blinked. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought the eyes of each of the heads were beginning to glow, slightly. The dark elf’s throat tightened, his palms began to sweat and he rubbed his hands upon his robes. Death, dying. Would it come to that? His fingers brushed over the silver runes embroidered on the black fabric, runes that would block or dispel certain magical attacks. He looked at his hands, the lovely green stone of a ring of healing sparkled there—a powerful magical device. But its power could only be used once.

Hastily, Dalamar went over in his mind Raistlin’s lessons on judging whether a wound was mortal and required immediate healing or if the healing device’s power should be saved.

Dalamar shuddered. He could hear the Shalafi’s voice coldly discussing varying degrees of pain. He could feel those fingers, burning with that strange inner heat, tracing over the different portions of his anatomy, pointing out the vital areas. Reflexively, Dalamar’s hand went to his breast, where the five holes Raistlin had burned into his flesh forever bled and festered. At the same time, Raistlin’s s eyes burned into his mind—mirrorlike, golden, flat, deadly.

Dalamar shrank back. Powerful magic surrounds me and protects me, he told himself. I am skilled in the Art, and, though not as skilled as he, the Shalafi will come through that Portal injured, weak, upon the point of death! It will be easy to destroy him! Dalamar’s hands clenched. Then why am I literally suffocating with fear? he demanded.

A silver bell sounded, once. Startled, Dalamar rose from the chair, his fear of the imaginings of his mind replaced by a fear of something very real. And with the fear of something concrete, tangible, Dalamar’s body tensed, his blood ran cool in his veins, the dark shadows in his mind vanished. He was in control.

The silver bell meant an intruder. Someone had won his way through the Shoikan Grove and was at the Tower entrance. Ordinarily, Dalamar would have left the laboratory instantly, on the words of a spell, to confront the intruder himself. But he dared not leave the Portal. Glancing back at it, the dark elf nodded to himself slowly. No, it had not been his imagination, the eyes of the dragons heads were glowing. He even thought he saw the void within stir and shift, as if a ripple had passed across its surface.

No, he dared not leave. He must trust to the guardians. Walking to the door, he bent his head, listening. He thought he heard faint sounds down below—a muffled cry, a clash of steel. Then nothing but silence. He waited, holding his breath, hearing only the beating of his own heart. Nothing else.

Dalamar sighed. The guardians must have handled the matter. Leaving the door, he crossed the laboratory to look out the window, but he could see nothing. The smoke was as thick as fog. He heard a distant rumble of thunder, or perhaps it was an explosion. Who had it been down there? he found himself wondering. Some draconian, perhaps? Eager for more killing, more loot. One of them might have won through...