The Magic Of Krynn (17 page)

“The Queen's hold is too great.” The voice was that of the mage, but the form was that of
an elf. Looking at him closely, feeling an unreasonable fear creep over him B'rak saw that
it was Eliyah . . . and yet it wasn't Eliyah. “We should have never believed she would
honor an agreement.”

“Some of us refused to believe there was no hope,” the elf continued. “We were determined
to bring back our children. If the Queen could turn them into hateful monstrosities, we
could turn them back.”

The draconian captain stepped forward. “You are my prisoner, old one! I have uncovered
your trap! Even now, my men are slaughtering your people and burning this mockery of a
village.”

Eliyah shook his head sadly. “I had hopes for you, especially. I knew you for mine when I
saw you. The same determination, the same strength. The dream almost caught you. Just as
it almost caught the other one.” One hand pointed to the still form on the blanket. In the
dim light, the elf's hand looked almost leathery.

Eliyah went on. “There was little time to prepare an actual village. Magic did what was
necessary, causing you to accept what should not have been acceptable. It was not enough,
though. Only one of you truly responded to our spell, despite its intensity. He would not
have survived the transformation, however, and was therefore better dead-though I could
not bring myself to do it, having come so close to success.”

“What transformation?” B'rak backed away. The elf did not act like a prisoner, and his
appearance had taken on an odd aspect.

The face was broadening, becoming more reptilian. "You were the next generation. Our pride
and joy. Our dear

children. Long ago, while we slept, the Queen and her evil dragons stole our eggs and held
them hostage, forcing us to swear an oath that we would not interfere in her wicked
designs to conquer the world. She promised to leave the eggs unharmed, but she lied. Using
her dark arts, she perverted them into creatures such as you. I tell you this, my son, so
you know that we do what we now do out of love for what you should have been-if not for
the foul Queen."

Wings spread. All vestiges of elf melted away into a towering form of brilliant silver.
The draconian fell backward, one hand brandishing the sword in a feeble attempt to defend
himself. The walls of the hut, no longer able to hold in the expanding form, burst apart
like parchment. B'rak was forced to dodge parts of the roof.

The massive head stared down. A sigh escaped the great jaws. “Forgive us, your parents,
for failing you.” Everything was fire.

The fire was contained in the village. They made sure of that. Not one draconian escaped.
Their very act of attempting to burn the village had assured their presence when the
moment came.

For three days, the parents mourned the loss. Three days of sorrow, of singing to those
twisted by the Queen. When that was done, the dragons-some silver, some gold, some
speckled with each-flew off to join their kin in the terrible war.

Behind them, they left only ashes.

The Test of the Twins Margaret Weis

The magician and his brother rode through the mists toward the secret place.

“We shouldn't have come,” Caramon muttered. His large, strong hand was on the hilt of his
great sword, and his eyes searched every shadow. “I have been in many dangerous places,
but nothing to equal this!”

Raistlin glanced around. He noticed dark, twisted shadows and heard strange sounds.

“They will not bother us, brother,” he said gently. “We have been invited. They are
guardians who keep out the unwanted.” He did, however, draw his red robes closer around
his thin body and

move to ride nearer Caramon. “Mages invited us ... I don't trust 'em.” Caramon scowled.
Raistlin glanced at him. “Does that include me, dear brother?”

he asked softly. Caramon did not reply. Although twins, the two brothers could not have
been more

different. Raistlin, frail and sickly magician and scholar, pondered this difference
frequently. They were one whole man split in two: Caramon the body, Raistlin the mind. As
such, the two needed and depended on each other far more than other brothers. But, in some
ways, it was an unwholesome dependence, for it was as if each was incomplete without the
other. At least, this was how it seemed to Raistlin. He bitterly resented whatever gods
had played such a trick that cursed him with a weak body when he longed for mastery over
others. He was thankful that, at least, he had been granted the skills of a magician. It
gave him the power he craved. These skills almost made him the equal of his brother.

Caramon-strong and muscular, a born fighter- always laughed heartily whenever Raistlin
discussed their differences. Caramon enjoyed being his “little” brother's protector. But,
although he was very fond of Raistlin, Caramon pitied his weaker twin. Unfortunately,
Caramon had a tendency to express his broth- erly concern in unthoughtful ways. He often
let his pity show, not realizing it was like a knife twisting in his brother's soul.

Caramon admired his brother's skill as a magician as one admires a festival juggler. He
did not treat it seriously or respectfully. Caramon had met neither man nor monster that
could not be handled by the sword. Therefore, he could not understand this dangerous trip
his brother was undertaking for the sake of his magic.

“It's all parlor tricks, Raist,” Caramon protested. “Riding into that forsaken land is
nothing to risk our lives over.”

Raistlin replied gently-he always spoke gently to Caramon- that he was determined on this
course of action for reasons of his own and that Cannon could come if he so chose. Of
course, Caramon went. The two had rarely been separated from one another since birth.

The journey was long and hazardous. Carmen's sword was frequently drawn. Raistlin felt his
strength ebbing. They were near the end now. Raistlin rode in silence, oppressed with the
doubt and fear that shrouded him as it had when he first decided on this course of action.
Perhaps Caramon was right, perhaps he was risking their lives needlessly.

It had been three months ago when the Head of the Order arrived at his master's home.
Par-Salian had invited Raistlin to visit with him as he dined-much to the master's
surprise.

“When do you take the Test, Raistlin?” the old man asked the young conjurer.

“Test?” Raistlin repeated, startled. No need to ask which Test-there was only one.

“He is not ready, Par-Salian,” his master protested. “He is young-only twenty-one! His
spellbook is far from complete-”

“Yes,” Par-Salian interrupted, his eyes narrowing. “But you believe you are ready, don't
you, Raistlin?”

Raistlin had kept his eyes lowered, in the proper show of humility, his hood drawn over
his face. Suddenly, he threw back his hood and lifted his head, staring directly, proudly,
at Par- Salian. “I am ready. Great One,” Raistlin spoke coolly.

Par-Salian nodded, his eyes glittering. “Begin your journey in three months' time,” the
old man said, then went back to eating his fish.

Raistlin's master gave him a furious glance, rebuking him for his impudence. Par-Salian
did not look at him again. The young conjurer bowed and left without a word.

The servant let him out; however, Raistlin slipped back through the unlocked door, cast a
sleep spell upon the servant, and stood, hidden in the alcove, listening to the
conversation between his master and Par-Salian.

“The Order has never tested one so young,” the master said. “And you chose him! Of all my
pupils, he is the most unworthy. I simply do not understand.”

“You don't like him, do you?” Par-Salian asked mildly.

“No one does,” the master snapped. “There is no compassion in him, no humanity. He is
greedy and grasping, difficult to trust. Did you know that his nickname among the other
students is the Sly One? He absorbs from everyone's soul and gives back nothing of his
own. His eyes are mirrors; they reflect all he sees in cold, brittle terms.”

“He is highly intelligent,” Par-Salian suggested.

“Oh, there's no denying that.” The master sniffed. “He is my best pupil. And he has a
natural affinity for magic. Not one of those surface users.”

“Yes,” Par-Salian agreed. “Raistlin's magic springs from deep within.”

“But it springs from a dark well,” the master said, shaking his

head. “Sometimes I look at him and shudder, seeing the Black Robes fall upon him. That
will be his destiny, I fear.”

“I think not,” Par-Salian said thoughtfully. “There is more to him than you see, though I
admit he keeps it well hidden. More to him than he knows himself, I'll wager.”

“Mmmmm,” the master sounded very dubious.

Raistlin smiled to himself, a twisted smile. It came as no surprise to learn his master's
true feelings. Raistlin sneered. Who cares? he thought bitterly. As for
Par-Salian-Raistlin shrugged it off.

“What of his brother?” Par-Salian asked. Raistlin, his ear pressed against the door,
frowned. “Ah!” The master became effusive. "Night and day. Caramon is

handsome, honorable, trusting, everyone's friend. Theirs is a strange relationship. I have
seen Raistlin watch Caramon with a fierce, burning love in his eyes. And the next instant,
I have seen such hatred and jealousy I think the young man could murder his twin without
giving it a second thought.“ He coughed, apologetically. ”Let me send you Algenon, Great
One. He is not as intelligent as Raistlin, but his heart is true and good."

“Algenon is TOO good,” Par-Salian snorted. “He has never known torment or suffering or
evil. Set him in a cold, biting wind and he will wither like a maiden's first rose. But
Raistlin-well, one who constantly battles evil within will not be overly dismayed by evil
without.”

Raistlin heard chairs scrape. Par-Salian stood up.

“Let's not argue. I was given a choice to make and I have made it,” Par-Salian said.

“Forgive me. Great One, I did not mean to be contradictory,” the master said stiffly, hurt.

Raistlin heard Par-Salian sigh wearily. “I should be the one to apologize, old friend,” he
said. “Forgive me. There is trouble coming upon us that the world may not survive. This
choice has been a heavy burden upon me. As you know, the Test may well prove fatal to the
young man.”

“It has killed others more worthy,” the master murmured.

Their conversation turned to other matters, so Raistlin crept away.

The young mage considered Par-Salian's words many times during the weeks that followed
while he prepared for his journey. Sometimes he would hug himself with pride at being
chosen by the Great One to take the Test-the greatest honor conferred on a magician. But,
at night, the words may WELL PROVE FATAL

haunted his dreams. He thought, as he drew nearer and nearer the Towers, about

those who had not survived. Their belongings had been returned to their families, without
a single word (other than Par-Salian's regrets). For this reason, many magicians did not
take the Test. After all, it gave no additional power. It added no spells to the
spellbook. One could practice magic quite well without it, and many did so. But they were
not considered “true” magic-users by their peers, and they knew it. The Test gave a mage
an aura that surrounded him. When entering the presence of others, this aura was deeply
felt by all and, therefore, commanded respect.

Raistlin hungered for that respect. But did he hunger for it enough to be willing to die
trying to obtain it?

“There it is!” Caramon interrupted his thoughts, reining his horse in sharply.

“The fabled Towers of High Sorcery,” Raistlin said, staring in awe.

The three tall stone towers resembled skeletal fingers, clawing out of the grave.

“We could turn back now,” Caramon croaked, his voice breaking.

Raistlin looked at his brother in astonishment. For the first time since he could
remember, Raistlin saw fear in Caramon. The young conjurer felt an unusual sensation-a
warmth spread over him. He reached out and put a steady hand on his brother's trembling
arm. “Do not be afraid, Caramon,” Raistlin said, “I am with you.”

Caramon looked at Raistlin, then laughed nervously to himself. He urged his horse forward.

The two entered the Towers. Vast stone walls and darkness swallowed them up, then they
heard the voice: “Approach.”

The two walked ahead. Raistlin walked steadfastly, but Caramon moved warily, his hand on
the hilt of his sword. They came to stand before a withered figure sitting in the center
of a cold, empty chamber.

“Welcome, Raistlin,” Par-Salian said. “Do you consider yourself prepared to undergo your
final Test?”

“I do, Par-Salian, Greatest of Them All.”

Par-Salian studied the young man before him. The conjurer's pale, thin cheeks were stained
with a faint flush, as though fever burned in his blood. “Who accompanies you?” Par-Salian
asked.

“My twin brother, Caramon, Great Mage.” Raist-lin's mouth twisted into a snarl. "As you
see. Great One, I am no fighter. My

brother came to protect me." Par-Salian stared at the brothers, reflecting on the odd humor

of the gods. TWINS! THIS CARAMON IS HUGE. SIX FEET TALL, HE MUST WEIGH OVER TWO HUNDRED
POUNDS. HIS FACE-A FACE OF SMILES AND BOISTEROUS LAUGHTER; THE EYES ARE AS OPEN AS HIS
HEART. POOR RAISTLIN.

Par-Salian turned his gaze back to the young man whose red robes hung from thin, stooped
shoulders. Obviously weak, Raistlin was the one who could never take what he wanted, so he
had learned, long ago, that magic could compensate for his deficiencies. Par-Salian looked
into the eyes. No, they were not mirrors as the master had said-not for those with the
power to see deeply. There was good inside the young man-an inner core of strength that
would enable his fragile body to endure much. But now his soul was a cold, shapeless mass,
dark with pride, greed, and selfishness. Therefore , as a shapeless mass of metal is
plunged into a white-hot fire and emerges shining steel, so Par- Salian intended to forge
this conjurer.