Margaret Weis: War of the Twins

“I’ll be fine, sir;” he said weakly. “Don’t worry.”

Smiling, Caramon drew up a chair next to him. “Feel like traveling?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good. Actually, I guess you don’t have much choice. This place will be overrun soon. You’ve got to try to get out now.” Caramon rubbed his chin. “Reghar told me there were tunnels running beneath the plains, tunnels that lead from Pax Tharkas to Thorbardin. My advice is to find these. That shouldn’t be too difficult. Those mounds out there lead down to them. You should be able to use the tunnels to at least get out of here safely.”

Garic did not answer. Glancing at the other two guards, he said quietly, “You say ‘your advice,’ sir. What about you? Aren’t you coming with us?”

Caramon cleared his throat and started to answer, but he couldn’t talk. He stared down at his feet. This was a moment he had been dreading and, now that it was here, the speech he had carefully prepared blew out of his head like a leaf in the wind.

“No, Garic,” he said finally, “I’m not.” Seeing the Knight’s eyes flash and guessing what he was thinking, the big man raised his hand. “No, I’m not going to do anything so foolish as to throw my life away on some noble, stupid cause—like rescuing my commanding officer!”

Garic flushed in embarrassment as Caramon grinned at him.

“No,” the big man continued more somberly, “I’m not a Knight, thank the gods. I have enough sense to run when I’m beaten. And right now”—he couldn’t help but sigh—“I’m beaten.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I can’t explain this so that you’ll understand it. I’m not sure I understand, not fully. But—let’s just say that the kender and I have a magical way home.”

Garic glanced from one to the other. “Not your brother!” he said, frowning darkly.

“No,” Caramon answered, “not my brother. Here, he and I part company. He has his own life to live and—I finally see—I have mine.” He put his hand on Garic’s shoulder. “Go to Pax Tharkas. You and Michael do what you can to help those who make it there safely survive the winter.”

“But—”

“That’s an order, Sir Knight,” Caramon said harshly.

“Yes, sir.” Garic averted his face, his hand brushing quickly across his eyes.

Caramon, his own face growing gentle, put his arm around the young man. “Paladine be with you, Garic,” he said, clasping him close. He looked at the others. “May he be with all of you.”

Garic looked up at him in astonishment, tears glistening on his cheeks. “Paladine?” he said bitterly. “The god who deserted us?”

“Don’t lose your faith, Garic,” Caramon admonished, rising to his feet with a pain-filled grimace. “Even if you cant believe in the god, put your trust in your heart. Listen to its voice above the Code and the Measure. And, someday, you’ll understand.”

“Yes, sir,” Garic murmured. “And... may whatever gods you believe in be with you, too, sir.”

“I guess they have been,” Caramon said, smiling ruefully, “all my life. I’ve just been too damn thick-headed to listen. Now, you better be off.”

One by one, he bade the other young Knights farewell, feigning to ignore their manful attempts to hide their tears. He was truly touched by their sorrow at parting—a sorrow he shared to such an extent that he could have broken down and wept like a child himself.

Cautiously, the Knights opened the door and peered out into the corridor. It was empty, except for the corpses. The Dewar were gone. But Caramon had no doubt this lull would last only long enough for them to regroup. Perhaps they were waiting until reinforcements arrived. Then they would attack the map room and finish off these humans.

Sword in hand, Garic led his Knights out into the blood spattered corridor, planning to follow Tas’s somewhat confused directions on how to reach the lower levels of the magical fortress. (Tas had offered to draw them a map, but Caramon said there wasn’t time.)

When the Knights were gone, and the last echoes of their footfalls had died away, Tas and Caramon set off in the opposite direction. Before they went, Tas retrieved his knife from Argat’s body.

“And you said once that a knife like this would be good only for killing vicious rabbits,” Tas said proudly, wiping the blood from the blade before thrusting it into his belt.

“Don’t mention rabbits;” Caramon said in such an odd, tight voice that Tas looked at him and was startled to see his face go deathly pale.

This was his moment. The moment he had been born to face. The moment for which he had endured the pain, the humiliation, the anguish of his life. The moment for which he had studied, fought, sacrificed... killed.

He savored it, letting the power flow over him and through him, letting it surround him, lift him. No other sounds, no other objects, nothing in this world existed for him this moment now save the Portal and the magic.

But even as he exulted in the moment, his mind was intent upon his work. His eyes studied the Portal, studied every detail intently—although it was not really necessary. He had seen it myriad times in dreams both sleeping and waking. The spells to open it were simple, nothing elaborate or complex. Each of the five dragon heads surrounding and guarding the Portal must be propitiated with the correct phrase. Each must be spoken to in the proper order. But, once that was done and the White-Robed Cleric had exhorted Paladine to intercede and hold the Portal open, they would enter. It would close behind them.

And he would face his greatest challenge.

The thought excited him. His rapidly beating heart sent blood surging through his veins, throbbing in his temples, pulsing in his throat. Looking at Crysania, he nodded. It was time.

The cleric, her own face flushed with heightened excitement, her eyes already shimmering with the luster of the ecstasy of her prayers, took her place directly inside the Portal, facing Raistlin. This move required that she place utter, complete, unwavering confidence in him. For one wrong syllable spoken, the wrong breath drawn at the wrong moment, the slightest slip of the tongue or hand gesture would be fatal to her, to himself.

Thus had the ancients—devising ways to guard this dread gate that they, because of their folly, could not shut—sought to protect it. For a wizard of the Black Robes—who had committed the heinous deeds they knew must be committed to arrive at this point, and a Cleric of Paladine—pure of faith and soul—to put implicit trust in each other was a ludicrous supposition.

Yet, it had happened once: bound by the false charm of the one and the loss of faith of the other, Fistandantilus and Denubis had reached this point. And it would happen again, it seemed, with two bound by something that the ancients, for all their wisdom, had not foreseen—a strange, unhallowed love.

Stepping into the Portal, looking at Raistlin for the last time upon this world, Crysania smiled at him. He smiled back, even as the words for the first spell were forming in his mind.

Crysania raised her arms. Her eyes stared beyond Raistlin now, stared into the brilliant, beautiful realms where dwelt her god. She had heard the last words of the Kingpriest, she knew the mistake he had made—a mistake of pride, demanding of the god in his arrogance what he should have requested in humility.

At that moment Crysania had come to understand why the gods had—in their righteous anger—inflicted destruction upon the world. And she had known in her heart that Paladine would answer her prayers, as he had not answered those of the Kingpriest. This was Raistlin’s moment of greatness. It was also her own.