Margaret Weis - War of the Twins

“Are you all right?” Caramon gasped, trying to catch his breath.

“Why, yes,” she said, looking startled, as she realized what he was thinking. “It wasn’t me. I must have fallen asleep. It woke me—”

“Where’s Raist?” Caramon demanded.

“Raistlin!” she repeated, alarmed, and started to push her way past Caramon when he caught hold of her.

“This is why you slept,” he said grimly, brushing fine white sand from her hair. “Sleep spell.”

Crysania blinked. “But why—”

“We’ll find out.”

“Warrior,” said a cold voice almost in his ear.

Whirling, Caramon thrust Crysania behind him, raising his sword as a black-robed, spectral figure materialized out of the darkness. “You seek the wizard? He is above, in the laboratory. He is in need of assistance, and we have been commanded not to touch him.”

“I’ll go,” Caramon said, “alone.”

“I’m coming with you,” Crysania said. “I will come with you,” she repeated firmly, in response to Caramon’s frown.

Caramon started to argue, then, remembering that she was a cleric of Paladine and had once before exerted her powers over these creatures of darkness, shrugged and gave in, though with little grace.

“What happened to him, if you were commanded not to touch him?” Caramon asked the spectre gruffly as he and Crysania followed it from the study out into the dark corridor. “Keep close to me,” he muttered to Crysania, but the command was not necessary.

If the darkness had seemed alive before, it throbbed and pulsed and jittered and jabbered with life now as the guardians, upset by the scream, thronged the corridors. Though he was now warmly dressed, having purchased clothes at the marketplace, Caramon shivered convulsively with the chill that flowed from their undead bodies. Beside him, Crysania shook so she could barely walk.

“Let me hold the torch,” she said through clenched teeth. Caramon handed her the torch, then encircled her with his right arm, drawing her near. She clasped her arm about him, both of them finding comfort in the touch of living flesh as they climbed the stairs after the spectre.

“What happened?” he asked again, but the spectre did not answer. It simply pointed up the spiral stairs.

Holding his sword in his left hand, his sword hand, Caramon and Crysania followed the spectre as it flowed up the stairs, the torchlight dancing and wavering.

After what seemed an endless climb, the two reached the top of the Tower of High Sorcery, both of them aching and frightened and chilled to the very heart.

“We must rest,” Caramon said through lips so numb he was practically inaudible. Crysania leaned against him, her eyes closed, her breath coming in labored gasps. Caramon himself did not think he could have climbed another stair, and he was in superb physical condition.

“Where is Raist—Fistandantilus?” Crysania stammered after her breathing had returned somewhat to normal.

“Within.” The spectre pointed again, this time to a closed door and, as it pointed, the door swung silently open.

Cold air flowed from the room in a dark wave, ruffling Caramon’s hair and blowing aside Crysania’s cloak. For a moment Caramon could not move. The sense of evil coming from within that chamber was overwhelming. But Crysania, her hand firmly clasped over the medallion of Paladine, began to walk forward.

Reaching out, Caramon drew her back. “Let me go first.”

Crysania smiled at him wearily. “In any other case but this, warrior,” she said, “I would grant you that privilege. But, here, the medallion I hold is as formidable a weapon as your sword.”

“You have no need for any weapon,” the spectre stated coldly. “The Master commanded us to see that you come to no harm. We will obey his request.”

“What if he’s dead?” Caramon asked harshly, feeling Crysania stiffen in fear beside him.

“If he had died,” the spectre replied, its eyes gleaming, “your warm blood would already be upon our lips. Now enter.”

Hesitantly, Crysania pressed close beside him, Caramon entered the laboratory. Crysania lifted the torch, holding it high, as both paused, looking around.

“There,” Caramon whispered, the innate closeness that existed between the twins leading him to find the dark mass, barely visible on the floor at the back of the laboratory.

Her fears forgotten, Crysania hurried forward, Caramon following more slowly, his eyes warily scanning the darkness.

Raistlin lay on his side, his hood drawn over his face. The Staff of Magius lay some distance from him, its light gone out, as though Raistlin—in bitter anger—had hurled it from him. In its flight, it had, apparently, broken a beaker and knocked a spellbook to the floor.

Handing Caramon the torch, Crysania knelt beside the mage and felt for the lifebeat in his neck. It was weak and irregular, but he lived. She sighed in relief, then shook her head. “He’s all right. But I don’t understand. What happened to him?”

“He is not hurt physically,” the spectre said, hovering near them. “He came to this part of the laboratory as though looking for something. And then he walked over here, muttering about a portal. Holding his staff high, he stood where he lies now, staring straight ahead. Then he screamed, hurled the staff from him, and fell to the floor, cursing in fury until he lost consciousness.”

Puzzled, Caramon held the torch up. “I wonder what could have happened?” he murmured. “Why, there’s nothing here! Nothing but a bare, blank wall!”

“How has he been?” Crysania asked softly as she entered the room. Drawing back the white hood from her head, she untied her cloak to allow Caramon to remove it from around her shoulders.

“Restless,” the warrior replied with a glance toward a shadowed corner. “He has been impatient for your return.”

Crysania sighed and bit her lip. “I wish I had better news,” she murmured.

“I’m glad you don’t,” Caramon said grimly, folding Crysania’s cloak over a chair. “Maybe he’ll give up this insane idea and come home.”

“I can’t—” began Crysania, but she was interrupted.

“If you two are quite finished with whatever it is you are doing there in the darkness, perhaps you will come tell me what you discovered, lady.”

Crysania flushed deeply. Casting an irritated glance at Caramon, she hurried across the room to where Raistlin lay on a pallet near the fire.

The mage’s rage had been costly. Caramon had carried him from the laboratory where they’d found him lying before the empty stone wall to the study. Crysania had made up a bed on the floor, then watched, helplessly, as Caramon ministered to his brother as gently as a mother to a sick child. But there was little even the big man could do for his frail twin. Raistlin lay unconscious for over a day, muttering strange words in his sleep. Once he wakened and cried out in terror, but he immediately sank back into whatever darkness he wandered.

Bereft of the light of the staff that even Caramon dared not touch and was forced to leave in the laboratory, he and Crysania sat huddled near Raistlin. They kept the fire burning brightly, but both were always conscious of the presence of the shadows of the guardians of the Tower, waiting, watching.

Finally, Raistlin awoke. With his first breath, he ordered Caramon to prepare his potion and, after drinking this, was able to send one of the guardians to fetch the staff. Then he beckoned to Crysania. “You must go to Astinus,” he whispered.

“Astinus!” Crysania repeated in blank astonishment. “The historian? But why—I don’t understand—”

Raistlin’s eyes glittered, a spot of color burned into his pale cheek with feverish brilliance. “The Portal is not here!” he snarled, grinding his teeth in impotent fury. His hands clenched and almost immediately he began to cough. He glared at Crysania.