Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

For there were many who had not. Of the Knights of Solamnia within the city, they had perished almost to a man, fighting the hopeless battle against Lord Soth and his deadly legions. One of the first to fall was the dashing Sir Markham. True to his oath to Tanis, the knight had not fought Lord Soth, but had, instead, rallied the knights and led them in a charge against Soth’s skeletal warriors. Though pierced with many wounds, he fought valiantly still, leading his bloody, exhausted men time and again in charges against the foe until finally he fell from his horse, dead. Because of the knights’ courage, many lived in Palanthas who otherwise would have perished upon the ice-cold blades of the undead, who vanished mysteriously—so it was told when their leader appeared among them, bearing a shrouded corpse in his arms.

Mourned as heroes, the bodies of the Knights of Solamnia were taken by their fellows to the High Clerist’s Tower. Here they were entombed in a sepulcher where lay the body of Sturm Brightblade, Hero of the Lance.

Upon opening the sepulcher, which had not been disturbed since the Battle of the High Clerist’s Tower, the knights were awed to find Sturm’s body whole, unravaged by time. An elven jewel of some type, gleaming upon his breast, was believed accountable for this miracle. All those who entered the sepulcher that day in mourning for their fallen loved ones looked upon that steadily beaming jewel and felt peace ease the bitter sting of their grief.

The knights were not the only ones who were mourned. Many ordinary citizens had died in Palanthas as well. Men defending city and family, women defending home and children. The citizens of Palanthas burned their dead in accordance with ages-old custom, scattering the ashes of their loved ones in the sea, where they mingled with the ashes of their beloved city.

Astinus recorded it all as it was occurring. He had continued to write—so the Aesthetics reported with awe—even as Bertrem single-handedly bludgeoned to death a draconian who had dared invade the master’s study. He was writing still when he gradually became aware—above the sounds of hammering and sweeping and pounding and shuffling—that Bertrem was blocking his light.

Lifting up his head, he frowned.

Bertrem, who had not blenched once in the face of the enemy, turned deathly pale, and backed up instantly, letting the sunlight fall once more upon the page.

Astinus resumed his writing. “Well?” he said.

“Caramon Majere and a—a kender are here to see you, Master.” If Bertrem had said a demon from the Abyss was here to see Astinus, he could hardly have infused more horror into his voice than when he spoke the word “kender.”

“Send them in,” replied Astinus.

“Them, Master?” Bertrem could not help but repeat in shock.

Astinus looked up, his brow creased. “The draconian did not damage your hearing, did it, Bertrem? You did not receive, for example, a blow to the head?”

“N-no, Master.” Bertrem flushed and backed hurriedly out of the room, tripping over his robes as he did so.

“Caramon Majere and... and Tassle-f-foot B-burr-hoof,” announced the flustered Bertrem, moments later.

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, presenting a small hand to Astinus, who shook it gravely.

“And you’re Astinus of Palanthas,” Tas continued, his topknot bouncing with excitement. “I’ve met you before, but you don’t remember because it hasn’t happened yet. Or, rather, come to think of it, it never will happen, will it, Caramon?”

“No,” the big man replied. Astinus turned his gaze to Caramon, regarding him intently.

“You do not resemble your twin,” Astinus said coolly, “but then Raistlin had undergone many trials that marked him both physically and mentally. Still, there is something of him in your eyes...

The historian frowned, puzzled. He did not understand, and there was nothing on the face of Krynn that he did not understand. Consequently, he grew angry.

Astinus rarely grew angry. His irritation alone sent a wave of terror through the Aesthetics. But he was angry now. His graying brows bristled, his lips tightened, and there was a look in his eyes that made the kender glance about nervously, wondering if he hadn’t left something outside in the hall that he needed—now!

“What is it?” The historian demanded finally, slamming his hand down upon his book, causing his pen to jump, the ink to spill, and Bertrem—waiting in the corridor—to run away as fast as his flapping sandals could take him.

“There is a mystery about you, Caramon Majere, and there are no mysteries for me! I know everything that transpires upon the face of Krynn. I know the thoughts of every living being! I see their actions! I read the wishes of their hearts! Yet I cannot read your eyes!”

“Tas told you,” Caramon said imperturbably. Reaching into a knapsack he wore, the big man produced a huge, leather-bound volume which he set carefully down upon the desk in front of the historian.

“That’s one of mine!” Astinus said, glancing at it, his scowl deepening. His voice rose until he actually shouted. “Where did it come from? None of my books leave without my knowledge! Bertrem—”

“Look at the date.”

Astinus glared furiously at Caramon for a second, then shifted his angry gaze to the book. He looked at the date upon the volume, prepared to shout for Bertrem again. But the shout rattled in his throat and died. He stared at the date, his eyes widening. Sinking down into his chair, he looked from the volume to Caramon, then back to the volume again.

“It is the future I see in your eyes!”

“The future that is this book,” Caramon said, regarding it with grave solemnity.

“We were there!” said Tas, bouncing up eagerly. “Would you like to hear about it? It’s the most wonderful story. You see, we came back to Solace, only it didn’t look like Solace. I thought it was a moon, in fact, because I’d been thinking about a moon when we used the magical device and—”

“Hush, Tas,” Caramon said gently. Standing up, he put his hand on the kender’s shoulder and quietly left the room. Tas—being steered firmly out the door—glanced backward. “Goodbye!” he called, waving his hand. “Nice seeing you again, er, before, uh, after, well, whatever.”

But Astinus neither heard nor noticed. The day he received the book from Caramon Majere was the only day that passed in the entire history of Palanthas that had nothing recorded for it but one entry:

This day, as above Afterwatch rising 14, Caramon Majere brought me the Chronicles of Krynn, Volume 2000. A volume written by me that I will never write.

The funeral of Elistan represented, to the people of Palanthas, the funeral of their beloved city as well. The ceremony was held at daybreak as Elistan had requested, and everyone in Palanthas attended—old, young, rich, poor. The injured who were able to be moved were carried from their homes, their pallets laid upon the scorched and blackened grass of the once-beautiful lawns of the Temple.

Among these was Dalamar. No one murmured as the dark elf was helped across the lawn by Tanis and Caramon to take his place beneath a grove of charred, burned aspens. For rumor had it that the young apprentice magic-user had fought the Dark Lady—as Kitiara was known—and defeated her, thereby bringing about the destruction of her forces.

Elistan had wanted to be buried in his Temple, but that was impossible now—the Temple being nothing but a gutted shell of marble. Lord Amothus had offered his family’s tomb, but Crysania had declined. Remembering that Elistan had found his faith in the slave mines of Pax Tharkas, the Revered Daughter—now head of the church—decreed that he be laid to rest beneath the Temple in one of the underground caverns that had formerly been used for storage. Though some were shocked, no one questioned Crysania’s commands. The caverns were cleaned and sanctified, a marble bier was built from the remains of the Temple. And hereafter, even in the grand days of the church that were to come, all of the priests were laid to rest in this humble place that became known as one of the most holy places on Krynn. The people settled down on the lawn in silence. The birds, knowing nothing of death or war or grief, but knowing only that the sun was rising and that they were alive in the bright morning, filled the air with song. The suns rays tipped the mountains with gold, driving away the darkness of the night, bringing light to hearts heavy with sorrow.