Маргарет Уэйс - Dragons of Spring Dawning

“Laurana, stop!” Tanis shouted. Jumping forward to catch her, he suddenly felt the point of her sword at his throat.

“Don’t move, Tanthalas,” Laurana ordered. Her green eyes were dilated with excitement, she held the sword point with unwavering steadiness. “Or you will die. I will kill you, if I have to.”

Tanis took a step forward. The sharp blade pierced his skin. Helpless, he stopped. Laurana smiled sadly.

“You see, Tanis? I’m not the lovesick child you knew. I’m not my father’s daughter, living in my father’s court. I’m not even the Golden General. I am Laurana. And I will live or die on my own without your help ”

“Laurana, listen to me!” Tanis pleaded, taking another step toward her, reaching up to thrust aside the sword blade that cut into his skin.

He saw Laurana’s lips press together tightly, her green eyes glinted. Then, sighing, she slowly lowered the sword blade to his armor-plated chest. Tanis smiled. Laurana shrugged and, with a swift thrust, shoved him backwards off the platform.

Arms flailing wildly in the air, the half-elf tumbled to the floor below. As he fell, he saw Laurana—sword in hand—jump off after him, landing lightly on her feet.

He hit the floor heavily, knocking the breath from his body. The Crown of Power rolled from his head with a clatter and went skittering across the polished granite floor. Above him, he could hear Kitiara shriek in rage.

“Laurana!” He gasped without breath to shout, looking for her frantically. He saw a flash of silver...

“The Crown! Bring me the Crown!” Kitiara’s voice dinned in his ears.

But she was not the only one shouting. All around the Hall of Audience, the Highlords were on their feet, ordering their troops forward. The dragons sprang into the air. The Dark Queen’s five-headed body filled the Hall with shadow, exulting in this test of strength that would provide her with the strongest commanders—the survivors.

Clawed draconian feet, booted goblin feet, steel-shod human feet trampled over Tanis. Struggling to stand, fighting desperately to keep from being crushed, he tried to follow that silver flash. He saw it once, then it was gone, lost in the melee. A twisted face appeared in front of him, dark eyes flashed. A spear butt smashed into his side.

Groaning, Tanis collapsed to the floor as chaos erupted in the Hall of Audience.

Raistlin! It was a thought, not spoken. Caramon tried to talk, but no sound came from his throat.

“Yes, my brother,” said Raistlin, answering his brother’s thoughts, as usual. “It is I-the last guardian, the one you must pass to reach your goal, the one Her Dark Majesty commanded be present if the trumpets should sound.” Raistlin smiled derisively. “And I might have known it would be you who foolishly tripped my spelltrap...”

“Raist,” Caramon began and choked.

For a moment he could not speak. Worn out from fear and pain and loss of blood, shivering in the cold water, Caramon found this almost too much to bear. It would be easier to let the dark waters close over his head, let the sharp teeth of the young dragons tear his flesh. The pain could not be nearly so bad. Then he felt Berem stir beside him. The man was staring at Raistlin vaguely, not understanding. He tugged on Caramon’s arm.

“Jasla calls. We must go.”

With a sob, Caramon tore his arm away from the man’s grasp. Berem glared at him angrily, then turned and started ahead on his own.

“No, my friend, no one’s going anywhere.” Raistlin raised his thin hand and Berem came to a sudden, staggering stop. The Everman lifted his gaze to the gleaming golden eyes of the mage, standing above him on a rock ledge. Whimpering, wringing his hands, Berem gazed ahead longingly at the jeweled column. But he could not move. A great and terrible force stood blocking his path, as surely as the mage stood upon the rock.

Caramon blinked back sudden tears. Feeling his brother’s power, he fought against despair. There was nothing he could do... except try and kill Raistlin. His soul shriveled in horror. No, he would die himself first!

Suddenly Caramon raised his head. So be it. If I must die, I’ll die fighting—as I had always intended. Even if it means dying by my own brother’s hand. Slowly Caramon’s gaze met that of his twin. “You wear the Black Robes now?” he asked through parched lips. “I can’t see... in this light...”

“Yes, my brother,” Raistlin replied, raising the Staff of Magius to let the silver light shine upon him. Robes of softest velvet fell from his thin shoulders, shimmering black beneath the light, seeming darker than the eternal night that surrounded them.

Shivering as he thought of what he must do, Caramon continued, “And your voice, it’s stronger, different. Like you . . . and yet not like you . . .”

“That is a long story, Caramon,” Raistlin replied. “In time, you may come to hear it. But now you are in a very bad situation, my brother. The draconian guards are coming. Their orders are to capture the Everman and take him before the Dark Queen. That will be the end of him. He is not immortal, I assure you. She has spells that will unravel his existence, leaving him little more than thin threads of flesh and soul, wafting away on the winds of the storm. Then she will devour his sister and—at last—the Dark Queen will be free to enter Krynn in her full power and majesty. She will rule the world and all the planes of heaven and the Abyss. Nothing will stop her.”

“I don’t understand—”

“No, of course not, dear brother,” Raistlin said, with a touch of the old irritation and sarcasm. “You stand next to the Everman, the one being in all of Krynn who can end this war and drive the Queen of Darkness back to her shadowy realm. And you do not understand.”

Moving nearer the edge of the rock ledge upon which he stood, Raistlin bent down, leaning on his staff. He beckoned his brother near. Caramon trembled, unable to move, fearing Raistlin might cast a spell upon him. But his brother only regarded him intently.

“The Everman has only to take a few more steps, my brother, and he will be reunited with the sister who has endured unspeakable agonies during these long years of waiting for his return to free her from her self-imposed torment.”

“And what will happen then?” Caramon faltered, his brother’s eyes holding him fast with a simple power greater than any magic spell.

The golden, hourglass eyes narrowed, Raistlin’s voice grew soft. No longer forced to whisper, the mage yet found whispering more compelling.

“The wedge will be removed, my dear brother, and the door will slam shut. The Dark Queen will be left howling in rage in the depths of the Abyss.” Raistlin lifted his gaze and made a gesture with his pale, slender hand. “This . . . the Temple of Istar reborn, perverted by evil... will fall.”

Caramon gasped, then his expression hardened into a scowl.

“No, I am not lying.” Raistlin answered his brother’s thoughts. “Not that I can’t lie when it suits my purposes. But you will find, dear brother, that we are close enough still so that I cannot lie to you. And, in any case, I have no need to lie—it suits my purpose that you know the truth.”

Caramon’s mind floundered. He didn’t understand any of this. But he didn’t have time to dwell on it. Behind him, echoing back down the tunnel, he could hear the sound of draconian guards on the stairs. His expression grew calm, his face set in firm resolve.

“Then you know what I must do, Raist,” he said. “You may be powerful, but you still have to concentrate to work your magic. And if you work it against me, Berem will be free of your power. You can’t kill him"—Caramon hoped devoutly Berem was listening and would act when it was time—"only your Dark Queen can do that, I suppose. So that leaves—”