Margaret Weis - THE SOULFORGE

Caramon did not respond. He walked toward Fistandantilus, blocked Raistlin's view.

Raistlin put his hands to the wall. Propping his body against the stone, he pushed himself to a standing position. He was about to expend his strength in one last shout, hoping to warn off his brother. Raistlin's shout was never uttered. His warning died in a rattle of disbelief.

Caramon had dropped his weapons. Now, in place of his sword, he held a rod of amber. In the other hand, his shield hand, he clasped a bit of fur. He rubbed the two together, spoke the magic. Lightning streaked from the amber, sizzled down the corridor, struck the head of Fistandantilus.

The head laughed and hurtled straight at Caramon. He did not blench, but kept his hands raised. He spoke the magic again. Another bolt flashed.

The old man's head exploded in blue fire. A thin cry of thwarted anger screamed from some far distant plane, but it died away to nothing. The corridor was empty.

"Now we'll get out of here," Caramon said with satisfaction. He tucked the rod and the fur into a pouch he wore at his belt. "The door is just ahead."

"How-how did you do that?" Raistlin gasped, sagging against the wall.

Caramon stopped, alarmed by his brother's wild, frenzied stare.

"Do what, Raist?"

"The magic!" Raistlin cried in fury. "The magic!"

"Oh, that." Caramon shrugged, gave a shy, deprecating smile. "I've always been able to." He grew solemn, stern. "Most of the time I don't need the magic, what with my sword and all, but you're hurt really bad, and I didn't want to take the time fighting that lich. Don't worry about it, Raist. Magic can still be your little specialty. Like I said, most of the time I don't need it."

"This is not possible," Raistlin said to himself, struggling to think clearly. "Caramon could not have acquired in moments what it took me years of study to attain. This doesn't make sense! Something's not right. Think, damn it! Think!"

It wasn't the physical pain that clouded his mind. It was the old inner pain clawing at him, tearing at him with poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Caramon, everyone's friend.

Not like Raistlin-the runt, the Sly One.

"All I ever had was my magic," Raistlin said, speaking clearly, thinking clearly for the first time in his life. "And now you have that, too."

Using the wall for support, Raistlin raised both his hands, put his thumbs together. He began speaking the words, the words that would summon the magic.

"Raist!" Caramon started to back away. "Raist, what are you doing? C'mon! You need me! I'll take care of you-just like always. Raist! I'm your brother!"

"I have no brother!"

Beneath the layer of cold, hard rock, jealousy bubbled and seethed. Tremors split the rock. Jealousy, red and molten, coursed through Raistlin's body and flamed out of his hands. The fire flared, billowed, and engulfed Caramon.

Caramon screamed, tried to beat out the flames, but there was no escaping the magic. His body withered, dwindled in the fire, became the body of a wizened old man. An old man wearing black robes, whose hair and beard were trailing wisps of fire.

Fistandantilus, his hand outstretched, walked toward Raistlin.

"If your armor is dross," said the old man softly. "I will find the crack."

Raistlin could not move, could not defend himself. The magic had sapped the last of his strength.

Fistandantilus stood before Raistlin. The old man's black robes were tattered shreds of night, his flesh was rotting and decayed, the bones were visible through the skin. His nails were long and pointed, as long as those of a corpse, his eyes gleamed with the radiant heat that had been in Raistlin's soul, the warmth that had brought the dead to life. A bloodstone hung from a pendant around the fleshless neck.

The old man's hand touched Raistlin's breast, caressed his flesh, teasing and tormenting. Fistandantilus plunged his hand into Raistlin's chest and seized hold of his heart.

The dying soldier clasps his hands around the haft of the spear that has torn through his body.

Raistlin seized hold of the old man's wrist, clamped his fingers around it in a grip that death would not have relaxed.

Caught, trapped, Fistandantilus fought to break Raistlin's grip, but he could not free himself and retain his hold on the young man's heart.

The white light of Solinari, the red light of Lunitari, and the black, empty light of Nuitari-light that Raistlin could now see-merged in his fainting vision, stared down at him, an unwinking eye.

"You may take my life," Raistlin said, keeping fast hold of the old man's wrist, as Fistandantilus kept hold of young man's heart. "But you will serve me in return."

The eye winked, and blinked out.

He killed his own brother?" Antimodes repeated the information Par-Salian had just given him, repeated it in disbelief.

Antimodes had not been involved in Raistlin's Test. Neither teacher nor mentor of an initiate is allowed to participate. Anti-modes had handled the testing of several of the other young magi. Most had gone quite well, all had passed, though none had been as dramatic as Raistlin's. Antimodes had been sorry he missed it. He had been until he heard this. Now he was shocked and deeply disturbed.

"And the young man was given the Red Robes? My friend, are you in your right mind? I cannot conceive of an act more evil!"

"He killed an illusion of his brother," Par-Salian emphasized. "You have siblings of your own, I believe?" he asked, with a meaningful smile.

"I know what you're saying, and, yes, there have been times I would have been glad to see my brother engulfed in flames, but the thought is a long way from the deed. Did Raistlin know it was an illusion?"

"When I asked him that question," Par-Salian replied, "he looked straight at me and said in a tone that I shall never forget, 'Does it matter?'"

"Poor young man," Antimodes said, sighing. "Poor young men, I should say, since the other twin was a witness to his own fratricide. Was that truly necessary?"

"I deemed it so. Odd as it may seem, though he is the stronger of the two physically, Caramon is far more dependent on his brother than Raistlin is on him. By this demonstration, I had hoped to sever that unhealthy connection, to convince Caramon that he needs to build a life of his own. But I fear that my plan did not succeed. Caramon has fully exonerated his brother. Raistlin was ill, not in his right mind, not to be held responsible for his own actions. And now, to complicate matters, Raistlin is more dependent upon his brother than ever."

"How is the young man's health?"

"Not good. He will live, but only because his spirit is strong, stronger than his body."

"So there was a meeting between Raistlin and Fistandantilus. And Raistlin agreed to the bargain. He has given his life's energy to feed that foul lich!"

"There was a meeting and a bargain," Par-Salian reiterated cautiously. "But I believe that this time Fistandantilus may have got more than he bargained for." "Raistlin remembers nothing?"

"Nothing whatsoever. Fistandantilus has seen to that. I do not believe that he wants the young man to remember. Raistlin may have agreed to the bargain, but he did not die, as did the others. Something kept him alive and defiant. If Raistlin ever does remember, I think it is Fistandantilus who might be in considerable danger."

"What does the young man believe happened to him?"

"The Test itself shattered his health, left him with a weakness in his heart and lungs that will plague him the remainder of his life. He attributes that to the battle with the dark elf. I did not disabuse him of the notion. Were I to tell him the truth, he would not believe me."

"Do you suppose he will ever come to know the truth?"