Margaret Weis - Test of the Twins

“It caused quite a sensation,” Tas added happily. “A man came running out of this really big castle that sat on a hill right next to where I dropped the citadel, and he started yelling about that being his property and what right did we have to drop a castle on it, and creating a wonderful row. I pointed out that his castle certainly didn’t cover the entire property and I mentioned a few things about sharing that would have helped him quite a bit, I’m certain, if he’d only listened. Then Rounce starting saying how he was going to bring all the Burp clan or something like that and they were going to come live in the citadel and the man had a fit of some sort and they carried him away and pretty soon the whole town was there. It was real exciting for a while, but it finally got boring. I was glad Fireflash had decided to come along. He brought me back.”

“You didn’t tell me any of this!” Caramon said, glaring at the kender and trying hard to look grim.

“I-I guess it just slipped my mind,” Tas mumbled. “I’ve had an awful lot to think about these days, you know.”

“I know you have, Tas,” Caramon said. “I’ve been worried about you. I saw you talking to some other kender yesterday. You could go home, you know. You told me once how you’ve thought about it, about going back to Kendermore.”

Tas’s face took on an unusually serious expression. Slipping his hand into Caramon’s, he drew nearer, looking up at him earnestly. “No, Caramon,” he said softly. “It isn’t the same. I-I can’t seem to talk to other kender anymore.” He shook his head, his topknot swishing back and forth. “I tried to tell them about Fizban and his hat, and Flint and his tree and... and Raistlin and poor Gnimsh.” Tas swallowed and, fishing out a handkerchief, wiped his eyes. “They don’t seem to understand. They just don’t... well... care. It’s hard—caring—isn’t it, Caramon? It hurts sometimes.”

“Yes, Tas,” Caramon said quietly. They had entered a shady grove of trees. Tanis was waiting for them, standing beneath a tall, graceful aspen whose new spring leaves glittered golden in the morning sun. “It hurts a lot of the time. But the hurt is better than being empty inside.”

Walking over to them, Tanis put one arm around Caramon’s broad shoulders, the other arm around Tas. “Ready?” he asked.

“Ready,” Caramon replied.

“Good. The horses are over here. I thought we’d ride. We could have taken the carriage, but—to be perfectly honest I hate being cooped up in the blasted thing. So does Laurana, though she’ll never admit it. The countryside’s beautiful this time of year. We’ll take our time, and enjoy it.”

“You live in Solanthas, don’t you, Tanis?” Tas said as they mounted their horses and rode down the blackened, ruined street. Those people leaving the funeral, returning to pick up the pieces of their lives, heard the kender’s cheerful voice echo through the streets long after he had gone.

“I was in Solanthas once. They have an awfully fine prison there. One of the nicest I was ever in. I was sent there by mistake, of course. A misunderstanding over a silver teapot that had tumbled, quite by accident, into one my pouches...

Dalamar climbed the steep, winding stairs leading up to the laboratory at the top of the Tower of High Sorcery. He climbed the stairs, instead of magically transporting himself, because he had a long journey ahead of him that night. Though the clerics of Elistan had healed his wounds, he was still weak and he did not want to tax his strength.

Later, when the black moon was in the sky, he would travel through the ethers to the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, there to attend a Wizard’s Conclave—one of the most important to be held in this era. Par-Salian was stepping down as Head of the Conclave. His successor must be chosen. It would probably be the Red Robe, Justarius. Dalamar didn’t mind that. He knew he was not yet powerful enough to become the new archmage. Not yet, at any rate. But there was some feeling that a new Head of the Order of the Black Robes should be chosen, too. Dalamar smiled. He had no doubt who that would be.

He had made all his preparations for leaving. The guardians had their instructions: no one—living or dead was to be admitted to the Tower in his absence. Not that this was likely. The Shoikan Grove maintained its own grim vigil, unharmed by the flames that had swept through the rest of Palanthas. But the dark loneliness that the Tower had known for so long would soon be coming to an end.

On Dalamar’s order, several rooms in the Tower had been cleaned out and refurbished. He planned to bring back with him several apprentices of his own—Black Robes, certainly, but maybe a Red Robe or two if he found any who might be suitable. He looked forward to passing on the skills he had acquired, the knowledge he had learned. And—he admitted to himself—he looked forward to the companionship. But, first, there was something he must do.

Entering the laboratory, he paused on the doorstep. He had not been back to this room since Caramon had carried him from it that last, fateful day. Now, it was nighttime. The room was dark. At a word, candles flickered into flame, warming the room with a soft light. But the shadows remained, hovering in the corners like living things.

Lifting the candlestand in his hand, Dalamar made a slow circuit of the room, selecting various items—scrolls, a magic wand, several rings—and sending them below to his own study with a word of command.

He passed the dark corner where Kitiara had died. Her blood stained the floor still. That spot in the room was cold, chill, and Dalamar did not linger. He passed the stone table with its beakers and bottles, the eyes still staring out at him pleadingly. With a word, he caused them to close—forever.

Finally, he came to the Portal. The five heads of the dragon, facing eternally into the void, still shouted their silent, frozen open to the Dark Queen. The only light that gleamed from the dark, lifeless metallic heads was the reflected light of Dalamar’s candles. He looked within the Portal. There was nothing. For long moments, Dalamar stared into it. Then, reaching out his hand, he pulled on a golden, silken cord that hung from the ceiling. A thick curtain dropped down, shrouding the Portal in heavy, purple velvet.

Turning away, Dalamar found himself facing the bookshelves that stood in the very back of the laboratory. The candlelight shone on rows of nightblue-bound volumes decorated with silver runes. A cold chill flowed from them.

The spellbooks of Fistandantilus—now his.

And where these rows of books ended, a new row of books began—volumes bound in black decorated with silver runes. Each of these volumes, Dalamar noticed, his hand going to touch one, burned with an inner heat that made the books seem strangely alive to the touch.

The spellbooks of Raistlin—now his.

Dalamar looked intently at each book. Each held its own wonders, its own mysteries, each held power. The dark elf walked the length of the bookshelves. When he reached the end—near the door—he sent the candlestand back to rest upon the great stone table. His hand upon the door handle, his gaze went to one, last object.

In a dark corner stood the Staff of Magius, leaning up against the wall. For a moment, Dalamar caught his breath, thinking perhaps he saw light gleaming from the crystal on top of the staff—the crystal that had remained cold and dark since that day. But then he realized, with a sense of relief, that it was only reflected candlelight. With a word, he extinguished the flame, plunging the room into darkness.

He looked closely at the corner where the staff stood. It was lost in the night, no sign of light glimmered.

Drawing a deep breath, then letting it out with a sigh, Dalamar walked from the laboratory. Firmly, he shut the door behind him. Reaching into a wooden box set with powerful runes, he withdrew a silver key and inserted it into an ornate silver doorlock—a doorlock that was new, a doorlock that had not been made by any locksmith on Krynn. Whispering words of magic, Dalamar turned the key in the lock. It clicked. Another click echoed it. The deadly trap was set.