Маргарет Уэйс - Dragons of Spring Dawning

The young mage lay on the cold stone floor. Blood trickled from his mouth. Near him was the body of a dark elf, dead—by Raistlin’s magic. But the cost had been terrible. The young mage himself seemed near death.

Caramon ran to his brother and lifted the frail body in his strong arms. Ignoring Raistlin’s frantic pleas to leave him alone, the warrior began to carry his twin from this evil Tower. He would take Raistlin from this place if it was the last thing he did.

But—just as they came near the door that led out of the Tower—a wraith appeared before them. Another test, Caramon thought grimly. Well this will be one test Raistlin won’t have to handle. Gently laying his brother down, the warrior turned to meet this final challenge.

What happened then made no sense. The watching Caramon blinked in astonishment. He saw himself cast a magic spell. Dropping his sword, he held strange objects in his hands and began to speak words he didn’t understand! Lightning bolts shot from his hands! The wraith vanished with a shriek.

The real Caramon looked wildly at Par-Salian, but the mage only shook his head and—wordlessly—pointed back to the image that wavered before Caramon’s eyes. Frightened and confused, Caramon turned back to watch.

He saw Raistlin rise slowly.

“How did you do that?” Raistlin asked, propping himself up against the wall.

Caramon didn’t know. How could he do something that took his brother years of study! But the warrior saw himself rattling off a glib explanation. Caramon also saw the look of pain and anguish on his brother’s face.

“No, Raistlin!” the real Caramon cried. “It’s a trick! A trick of this old man’s! I can’t do that! I’d never steal your magic from you! Never!”

But the image Caramon—swaggering and brash—went over to “rescue” his “little” brother, to save him from himself.

Raising his hands, Raistlin held them out toward his brother. But not to embrace him. No. The young mage, sick and injured and totally consumed with jealousy, began to speak the words of the one spell, the last spell he had strength to cast.

Flames flared from Raistlin’s hands. The magical fire billowed forth—and engulfed his brother.

Caramon watched in horror, too stunned to speak, as his own image was consumed in fire... He watched as his brother collapsed onto the cold stone floor.

“No! Raist—”

Cool, gentle hands touched his face. He could hear voices, but their words were meaningless. He could understand, if he chose. But he didn’t want to understand. His eyes were closed. He could open them, but he refused. Opening his eyes, hearing those words, would only make the pain real.

“I must rest,” Caramon heard himself say, and he sank back into darkness.

He was approaching another Tower, a different Tower. The Tower of the Stars in Silvanesti. Once more Raistlin was with him, only now his brother wore the Black Robes. And now it was Raistlin’s turn to help Caramon. The big warrior was wounded. Blood pulsed steadily from a spear-wound that had nearly taken off his arm.

“I must rest,” Caramon said again.

Gently Raistlin laid him down, making him comfortable, his back propped up against the cold stone of the Tower. And then Raistlin started to leave.

“Raist! Don’t—” Caramon cried. “You can’t leave me here!”

Looking around, the injured, defenseless warrior saw hordes of the undead elves who had attacked them in Silvanesti waiting to leap upon him. Only one thing held them back, his brother’s magical power.

“Raist! Don’t leave me!” he screamed.

“How does it feel to be weak and alone?” Raistlin asked him softly.

“Raist, My brother...”

“I killed him once, Tanis, I can do it again!”

“Raist! No! Raist!”

“Caramon, please...” Another voice. This one gentle. Soft hands touched him. “Caramon, please! Wake up! Come back, Caramon. Come back to me. I need you.”

No! Caramon pushed away that voice. He pushed away the soft hands. No, I don’t want to come back. I won’t. I’m tired. I hurt. I want to rest.

But the hands, the voice, wouldn’t let him rest. They grabbed him, pulling him from the depths where he longed to sink.

And now he was falling, falling into a horrible red darkness. Skeletal fingers clutched at him, eyeless heads whirled past him, their mouths gaping in silent cries. He drew a breath, then sank into blood. Struggling, smothering, he finally fought his way back to the surface and gasped for air once more. Raistlin! But no, he’s gone. His friends. Tanis. Gone, too. He saw him swept away. The ship. Gone. Cracked in half. Sailors cut apart, their blood mingling with the blood-red sea.

Tika! She was near him. He pulled her close. She was gasping for air. But he could not hold onto her. The swirling water tore her from his arms and swept him under. This time he could not find the surface. His lungs were on fire, bursting. Death...rest... sweet, warm...

But always those hands! Dragging him back to the gruesome surface. Making him breathe the burning air. No, let me go!

And then other hands, rising up from the blood-red water. Firm hands, they took him down from the surface. He fell down . . . down . . . into merciful darkness. Whispered words of magic soothed him, he breathed... breathed water... and his eyes closed... the water was warm and comforting... He was a child once more.

But not complete. His twin was missing.

No! Waking was agony. Let him float in that dark dream forever. Better than the sharp, bitter pain.

But the hands tugged at him. The voice called to him.

“Caramon, I need you...”

Tika.

“I’m no cleric, but I believe he’ll be all right now. Let him sleep awhile.”

Tika brushed away her tears quickly, trying to appear strong and in control.

“What... what was wrong?” she made herself ask calmly, though she was unable to restrain a shudder. “Was he hurt when the ship. . . went into th-the whirlpool. He’s been like this for days! Ever since you found us.”

“No, I don’t think so. If he had been injured, the sea elves would have healed him. This was something within himself. Who is this ‘Raist’ he talks about?”

“His twin brother,” Tika said hesitantly.

“What happened? Did he die?”

“No—no. I—I’m not quite sure what happened. Caramon loved his brother very much and he... Raistlin betrayed him.”

“I see.” The man nodded solemnly. “It happens, up there. And you wonder why I choose to live down here.”

“You saved his life!” Tika said. “And I don’t know you . . . your name.”

“Zebulah,” the man answered, smiling. “And I didn’t save his life. He came back for love of you.”

Tika lowered her head, her red curls hid her face. “I hope so,” she whispered. “I love him so much. I would die myself, if it would save him.”

Now that she was certain Caramon would be all right, Tika focused her attention on this strange man. She saw he was middle-aged, clean-shaven, his eyes as wide and frank as his smile. Human, he was dressed in red robes. Pouches dangled from his belt.

“You’re a magic-user,” Tika said suddenly. “Like Raistlin!”

“Ah, that explains it.” Zebulah smiled. “Seeing me, in his semi-conscious state, made this young man think of his brother.”

“But what are you doing here?” Tika glanced around at her strange surroundings, seeing them for the first time.

She had seen them, of course, when the man brought her here, but she hadn’t noticed them in her worry. Now she realized she was in a chamber of a ruined, crumbling building. The air was warm and stifling. Plants grew lustily in the moist air.

There was some furniture, but it was as ancient and ruined as the room in which it was haphazardly placed. Caramon lay on a three-legged bed—the fourth corner being held up by a stack of old, moss-covered books. Thin rivulets of water, like small, glistening snakes, trickled down a stone wall that gleamed with moisture. Everything gleamed with moisture, in fact, reflecting the pale, eerie, green light that glowed from the moss growing on the wall. The moss was everywhere, of every different color and variety. Deep green, golden yellow, coral red—it climbed the walls and crawled across the domed ceiling.