Margaret Weis: War of the Twins

“No. Sit back!” Crysania ordered in swift anger and fear. Her hand on his shoulder, she shoved him down.

Caramon’s eyes closed, a wry smile twisted his face. For a moment, he looked very like his twin.

“No, I didn’t kill him!” he said bitterly. “How could I? The last thing I heard was you cry out to Paladine, then everything went dark. My muscles wouldn’t move, the sword fell from my hand. And then—”

But Crysania wasn’t listening. Running back to where Raistlin lay a few feet from them, she knelt down beside the mage once again. Holding the medallion near his face, she reached her hand inside the black hood to feel for the lifebeat in his neck. Closing her eyes in relief, she breathed a silent prayer to Paladine.

“He’s alive!” she whispered. “But then, what’s wrong with him?”

“What is wrong with him?” Caramon asked, bitterness and fear still tingling his voice. “I can’t see—”

Flushing almost guiltily, Crysania described the mage’s condition.

Caramon shrugged. “Exhausted by the spell casting,” he said, his voice expressionless. “And, remember, he was weak to begin with, at least so you told me. Sick from the nearness of the gods or some such thing.” His voice sank. “I’ve seen him like that before. The first time he used the dragon orb, he could scarcely move afterward. I held him in my arms—”

He broke off, staring into the darkness, his face calm now, calm and grim. “There’s nothing we can do for him,” he said. “He has to rest.”

After a short pause, Caramon asked quietly, “Lady Crysania, can you heal me?”

Crysania’s skin burned. “I—I’m afraid not,” she replied, distraught. “It—it must have been my spell that blinded you.” Once more, in her memory, she saw the big warrior, the bloodstained sword in his hand, intent on killing his twin, intent on killing her—if she got in his way.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly, feeling so tired and chilled she was almost sick. “But I was desperate and... and afraid. Don’t worry, though,” she added, “the spell is not permanent. It will wear off, in time.”

Caramon sighed. “I understand,” he said. “Is there a light in this room? You said you had one.”

“Yes,” she answered. “I have the medallion—”

“Look around. Tell me where we are. Describe it.”

“But Raistlin—”

“He’ll be all right!” Caramon snapped, his voice harsh and commanding. “Come back here, near me. Do as I say! Our lives—his life—may depend on it! Tell me where we are!”

Looking into the darkness, Crysania felt her fear return. Reluctantly leaving the mage, she came back to sit beside Caramon.

“I—I don’t know,” she faltered, holding the glowing medallion high again. “I can’t see much of anything beyond the medallion’s light. But it seems to be some place I’ve been before, I just can’t place it. There’s furniture lying around, but it’s all broken and charred, as though it had been in a fire. There are lots of books scattered about. There’s a big wooden desk—you’re leaning against it. It seems to be the only piece of furniture not broken. And it seems familiar to me,” she added softly, puzzled. “It’s beautiful, carved with all sorts of strange creatures.”

Caramon felt beneath him with his hand. “Carpet,” he said, “over stone.”

“Yes, the floor is covered with carpet—or was. But it’s torn now, and it looks like something’s eaten it—”

She choked, seeing a dark shape suddenly skitter away from her light.

“What?” Caramon asked sharply.

“What’s been eating the carpet apparently,” Crysania replied with a nervous little laugh. “Rats.” She tried to continue, “There’s a fireplace, but it hasn’t been used in years. It’s all filled with cobwebs. In fact, the place is covered with cobwebs—”

But her voice gave out. Sudden images of spiders dropping from the ceiling and rats running past her feet made her shudder and gather her torn white robes around her. The bare and blackened fireplace reminded her of how cold she was.

Feeling her body tremble, Caramon smiled bleakly and reached out for her hand. Clasping it tightly, he said in a voice that was terrible in its calm, “Lady Crysania, if all we have to face are rats and spiders, we may count ourselves lucky.”

She remembered the shout of sheer terror that had awakened her. Yet he hadn’t been able to see! Swiftly, she glanced about. “What is it? You must have heard or sensed something, yet—”

“Sensed,” Caramon repeated softly. “Yes, I sensed it. There are things in this place, Crysania. Horrible things. I can feel them watching us! I can feel their hatred. Wherever we are, we have intruded upon them. Can’t you feel it, too?”

Crysania stared into the darkness. So it had been looking back at her. Now that Caramon spoke of it, she could sense something out there. Or, as Caramon said, some things!

The longer she looked and concentrated upon them, the more real they became. Although she could not see them, she knew they waited, just beyond the circle of light cast by the medallion. Their hatred was strong, as Caramon had said, and, what was worse, she felt their evil flow chillingly around her. It was like... like...

Crysania caught her breath.

“What?” Caramon cried, starting up.

“Sst,” she hissed, gripping his hand tightly. “Nothing. It’s just—I know where we are!” she said in hushed tones.

He did not answer but turned his sightless eyes toward her.

“The Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas!” she whispered.

“Where Raistlin lives?” Caramon looked relieved.

“Yes... no.” Crysania shrugged helplessly. “It’s the same room I was in—his study—but it doesn’t look the same. It looks like no one’s lived here for maybe a hundred years or more and—Caramon! That’s it! He said he was taking me to ‘a place and time when there were no clerics!’ That must be after the Cataclysm and before the war. Before—”

“Before he returned to claim this Tower as his own,” Caramon said grimly. “And that means the curse is still upon the Tower, Lady Crysania. That means we are in the one place in Krynn where evil reigns supreme. The one place more feared than any other upon the face of the world. The one place where no mortal dare tread, guarded by the Shoikan Grove and the gods know what else! He has brought us here! We have materialized within its heart!”

Crysania suddenly saw pale faces appear outside the circle of light, as if summoned by Caramon’s voice. Disembodied heads, staring at her with eyes long ago closed in dark and dismal death, they floated in the cold air, their mouths opening wide in anticipation of warm, living blood.

“Caramon, I can see them!” Crysania choked, shrinking close to the big man. “I can see their faces!”

“I felt their hands on me,” Caramon said. Shivering convulsively, feeling her shivering as well, he put his arm about her, drawing her close to him. “They attacked me. Their touch froze my skin. That was when you heard me yell.”

“But why didn’t I see them before? What keeps them from attacking now?”

“You, Lady Crysania,” Caramon said softly. “You are a cleric of Paladine. These are creatures spawned of evil, created by the curse. They do not have the power to harm you.”

Crysania looked at the medallion in her hands. The light welled forth still, but—even as she stared at it—it seemed to dim. Guiltily, she remembered the elven cleric, Loralon. She remembered her refusal to accompany him. His words rang in her mind: You will see only when you are blinded by the darkness...

“I am a cleric, true,” she said softly, trying to keep the despair from her voice, “but my faith is… imperfect. These things sense my doubts, my weakness. Perhaps a cleric as strong as Elistan would have the power to fight them. I don’t think I do.” The glow dimmed further. “My light is failing, Caramon,” she said, after a moment. Looking up, she could see the pallid faces eagerly drift nearer, and she shrank closer to him. “What can we do?”