Margaret Weis - War of the Twins

Raistlin paused, hands to his lips, musing. “Some say that Huma did not use the Dragonlance to physically destroy her, as the legend goes. But, rather, the lance had some magical property allowing him to drive her back into the Portal and seal it shut. The fact that he did drive her back proves that—in this world—she is vulnerable.” Raistlin stared fixedly into the flames. “Had there been someone—someone of true power at the Portal when she entered, someone capable of destroying her utterly instead of simply driving her back—then history might well have been rewritten.”

No one spoke. Crysania stared into the flames, seeing, perhaps, the same glorious vision as the archmage. Caramon stared at his twin’s face.

Raistlin’s gaze suddenly left the flames, flashing into focus with a clear, cold intensity. “When I am stronger, tomorrow, I will ascend to the laboratory alone”—his stern glance swept over both Caramon and Crysania—“and begin my preparations. You, lady, had best start communing with your god.”

Crysania swallowed nervously. Shivering, she drew her chair nearer the fire. But suddenly Caramon was on his feet, standing before her. Reaching down, his strong hands gripped her arms, forcing her to look up into his eyes.

“This is madness, lady,” he said, his voice soft and compassionate. “Let me take you from this dark place! You’re frightened—you have reason to be afraid! Maybe not everything Par-Salian said about Raistlin was true. Maybe everything I thought about him wasn’t true, either. Perhaps I’ve misjudged him. But I see this clearly, lady. You’re frightened and I don’t blame you! Let Raistlin do this thing alone! Let him challenge the gods—if that’s what he wants! But you don’t have to go with him! Come home! Let me take you back to our time, away from here.”

Raistlin did not speak, but his thoughts echoed in Crysania’s mind as clearly as if he had. You heard the Kingpriest! You said yourself that you know his mistake! Paladine favors you. Even in this dark place, he grants your prayers. You are his chosen! You will succeed where the Kingpriest failed! Come with me, Crysania. This is our destiny!

“I am frightened,” Crysania said, gently disengaging Caramon’s hands from her arms. “And I am truly touched by your concern. But this fear of mine is a weakness in me that I must combat. With Paladine’s help, I will overcome it—before I enter the Portal with your brother.”

“So be it,” Caramon said heavily, turning away.

Raistlin smiled, a dark, secret smile that was not reflected in either his eyes or his voice.

“And now, Caramon,” he said caustically, “if you are quite through meddling in matters you are completely incapable of comprehending, you had best prepare for your journey. It is midmorning, now. The markets—such as they are in these bleak times—are just opening.” Reaching into a pocket in his black robes, Raistlin withdrew several coins and tossed them at his brother. “That should be sufficient for our needs.”

Caramon caught the coins without thinking. Then he hesitated, staring at his brother with the same look Crysania had seen him wear in the Temple at Istar, and she remembered thinking, what terrible hate... what terrible love!

Finally, Caramon lowered his gaze, stuffing the money into his belt.

“Come here to me, Caramon,” Raistlin said softly.

“Why?” he muttered, suddenly suspicious.

“Well, there is the matter of that iron collar around your neck. Would you walk the streets with the mark of slavery still? And then there is the charm.” Raistlin spoke with infinite patience. Seeing Caramon hesitate still, he added, “I would not advise you leave this room without it. Still, that is your decision—”

Glancing over at the pallid faces, who were still watching intently from the shadows, Caramon came to stand before his brother, his arms crossed before his chest. “Now what?” he growled.

“Kneel down before me.”

Caramon’s eyes flashed with anger. A bitter oath burned on his lips, but, his eyes going furtively to Crysania, he choked back and swallowed his words.

Raistlin’s pale face appeared saddened. He sighed. “I am exhausted, Caramon. I do not have the strength to rise. Please—”

His jaw clenched, Caramon slowly lowered himself, bending knee to floor so that he was level with his frail, black-robed twin.

Raistlin spoke a soft word. The iron collar split apart and fell from Caramon’s neck, landing with a clatter on the floor.

“Come nearer,” Raistlin said.

Swallowing, rubbing his neck, Caramon did as he was told. though he stared at his brother bitterly. “I’m doing this for Crysania,” he said, his voice taut. “If it were just you and me, I’d let you rot in this foul place!”

Reaching out his hands, Raistlin placed them on either side of his twin’s head with a gesture that was tender, almost caressing. “Would you, my brother?” the mage asked so softly it was no more than a breath. “Would you leave me? Back there, in Istar—would you truly have killed me?”

Caramon only stared at him, unable to answer. Then, Raistlin bent forward and kissed his brother on the forehead. Caramon flinched, as though he had been touched with a red-hot iron.

Raistlin released his grip.

Caramon stared at him in anguish. “I don’t know!” he murmured brokenly. “The gods help me—I don’t know!”

With a shuddering sob, he covered his face with his hands. His head sank into his brother’s lap.

Raistlin stroked his brother’s brown, curling hair. “There, now, Caramon,” he said gently. “I have given you the charm. The things of darkness cannot harm you, not so long as I am here.”

Caramon stood in the doorway to the study, peering out into the darkness of the corridor beyond—a darkness that was alive with whispers and eyes. Beside him was Raistlin, one hand on his twin’s arm, the Staff of Magius in his other.

“All will be well, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “Trust me.”

Caramon glanced at his twin out of the corner of his eye. Seeing his look, Raistlin smiled sardonically. “I will send one of these with you,” the mage continued, motioning with his slender hand.

“I’d rather not!” Caramon muttered, scowling as the pair of disembodied eyes nearest him drew nearer still.

“Attend him,” Raistlin commanded the eyes. “He is under my protection. You see me? You know who I am?”

The eyes lowered their gaze in reverence, then fixed their cold and ghastly stare upon Caramon. The big warrior shuddered and cast one final glance at Raistlin, only to see his brothers face turn grim and stern.

“The guardians will guide you safely through the Grove. You may have more to fear, however, once you leave it. Be wary, my brother. This city is not the beautiful, serene place it will become in two hundred years. Now, refugees pack it, living in the gutters, the streets, wherever they can. Carts rumble over the cobblestones every morning, removing the bodies of those who died during the night. There are men out there who will murder you for your boots. Buy a sword, first thing, and carry it openly in your hand.”

“I’ll worry about the town,” Caramon snapped. Turning abruptly, he walked off down the corridor, trying without much success to ignore the pale, glowing eyes that floated near his shoulder.

Raistlin watched until his brother and the guardian had passed beyond the staff’s radius of magical light and were swallowed up by the noisome darkness. Waiting until even the echoes of his brothers heavy footfalls had faded, Raistlin turned.

Lady Crysania sat in her chair, trying without much success to comb her fingers through her tangled hair. Padding softly across the floor to stand near her, unseen, Raistlin reached into one of the pockets of his black robes and drew forth a handful of fine white sand. Coming up behind her, the mage raised his hand and let the sand drift down over the woman’s dark hair.