War of the Twins (10 page)

Handing Caramon the torch, Crysania knelt beside the mage and felt for the lifebeat in his neck. It was weak and irregular, but he lived. She sighed in relief, then shook her head. “He’s all right. But I don’t understand. What happened to him?”

“He is not hurt physically,” the spectre said, hovering near them. “He came to this part of the laboratory as though looking for something. And then he walked over here, muttering about a portal. Holding his staff high, he stood where he lies now, staring straight ahead. Then he screamed, hurled the staff from him, and fell to the floor, cursing in fury until he lost consciousness.”

Puzzled, Caramon held the torch up. “I wonder what could have happened?” he murmured. “Why, there’s nothing here! Nothing but a bare, blank wall!”

ow has he been?” Crysania asked softly as she entered the room. Drawing back the white hood from her head, she untied her cloak to allow Caramon to remove it from around her shoulders.

“Restless,” the warrior replied with a glance toward a shadowed corner. “He has been impatient for your return.”

Crysania sighed and bit her lip. “I wish I had better news,” she murmured.

“I’m glad you don’t,” Caramon said grimly, folding Crysania’s cloak over a chair. “Maybe he’ll give up this insane idea and come home.”

“I can’t—” began Crysania, but she was interrupted.

“If you two are
quite
finished with whatever it is you are doing there in the darkness, perhaps you will come tell me what you discovered, lady.”

Crysania flushed deeply. Casting an irritated glance at Caramon, she hurried across the room to where Raistlin lay on a pallet near the fire.

The mage’s rage had been costly. Caramon had carried him
from the laboratory where they’d found him lying before the empty stone wall to the study. Crysania had made up a bed on the floor, then watched, helplessly, as Caramon ministered to his brother as gently as a mother to a sick child. But there was little even the big man could do for his frail twin. Raistlin lay unconscious for over a day, muttering strange words in his sleep. Once he wakened and cried out in terror, but he immediately sank back into whatever darkness he wandered.

Bereft of the light of the staff that even Caramon dared not touch and was forced to leave in the laboratory, he and Crysania sat huddled near Raistlin. They kept the fire burning brightly, but both were always conscious of the presence of the shadows of the guardians of the Tower, waiting, watching.

Finally, Raistlin awoke. With his first breath, he ordered Caramon to prepare his potion and, after drinking this, was able to send one of the guardians to fetch the staff. Then he beckoned to Crysania. “You must go to Astinus,” he whispered.

“Astinus!” Crysania repeated in blank astonishment. “The historian? But why—I don’t understand—”

Raistlin’s eyes glittered, a spot of color burned into his pale cheek with feverish brilliance. “The Portal
is not here!”
he snarled, grinding his teeth in impotent fury. His hands clenched and almost immediately he began to cough. He glared at Crysania.

“Don’t waste my time with fool questions! Just go!” he commanded in such terrible anger that she shrank away, startled. Raistlin fell back, gasping for breath.

Caramon glanced up at Crysania in concern. She walked to the desk, staring down unseeing at some of the tattered and blackened spellbooks that lay upon it.

“Now wait just a minute, lady,” Caramon said softly, rising and coming to her. “You’re not really considering going? Who is this Astinus anyway? And how do you plan to get through the Grove without a charm?”

“I have a charm,” Crysania murmured, “given to me by your brother when—when we first met. As for Astinus, he is the keeper of the Great Library of Palanthas, the Chronicler of the History of Krynn.”

“He may be that in our time, but he won’t be there now!” Caramon said in exasperation. “Think, lady!”

“I am thinking,” Crysania snapped, glancing at him in anger. “Astinus is known as the Ageless One. He was first to set foot upon Krynn, so the legends say, and he will be the last to leave it.”

Caramon regarded her skeptically.

“He records all history as it passes. He knows everything that has happened in the past and is happening in the present. But”—Crysania glanced at Raistlin with a worried look—“he cannot see into the future. So I’m not certain what help he can be to us.”

Caramon, still dubious and obviously not believing half of this wild tale, had argued long against her going. But Crysania only grew more determined, until, finally, even Caramon realized they had no choice. Raistlin grew worse instead of better. His skin burned with fever, he lapsed into periods of incoherence and, when he was himself, angrily demanded to know why Crysania hadn’t been to see Astinus yet.

So she had braved the terrors of the Grove and the equally appalling terrors of the streets of Palanthas. Now she knelt beside the mage’s bed, her heart aching as she watched him struggle to sit up—with his brother’s help—his glittering gaze fixed eagerly upon her.

“Tell me everything!” he ordered hoarsely. “Exactly as it occurred. Leave out nothing.”

Nodding wordlessly, still shaken by the terrifying walk through the Tower, Crysania tried to force herself to calm down and sort out her thoughts.

“I went to the Great Library and—and asked to see Astinus,” she began, nervously smoothing the folds of the plain, white robe Caramon had brought her to replace the blood-stained gown she had worn. “The Aesthetics refused to admit me, but then I showed them the medallion of Paladine. That threw them into confusion, as you might well imagine.” She smiled. “It has been a hundred years since any sign of the old gods has come, so, finally, one hurried off to report to Astinus.

“After waiting for some time, I was taken to his chamber
where he sits all day long and many times far into the night, recording the history of the world.” Crysania paused, suddenly frightened at the intensity of Raistlin’s gaze. It seemed he would snatch the words from her heart, if he could.

Looking away for a moment to compose herself, she continued, her own gaze now on the fire. “I entered the room, and he—he just sat there, writing, ignoring me. Then the Aesthetic who was with me announced my name, ‘Crysania of the House of Tarinius,’ as you told me to tell him. And then—”

She stopped, frowning slightly.

Raistlin stirred. “What?”

“Astinus looked up
then,”
Crysania said in a puzzled tone, turning to face Raistlin. “He actually ceased writing and laid his pen down. And he said, ‘You!’ in such a thundering voice that I was startled and the Aesthetic with me nearly fainted. But before I could say anything or ask what he meant or even how he knew me, he picked up his pen and—going to the words he had just written—crossed them out!”

“Crossed them out,” Raistlin repeated thoughtfully, his eyes dark and abstracted. “Crossed them out,” he murmured, sinking back down onto his pallet.

Seeing Raistlin absorbed in his thoughts, Crysania kept quiet until he looked up at her again.

“What did he do then?” the mage asked weakly.

“He wrote something down over the place where he had made the error, if that’s what it was. Then he raised his gaze to mine again and I thought he was going to be angry. So did the Aesthetic, for I could feel him shaking. But Astinus was quite calm. He dismissed the Aesthetic and bade me sit down. Then he asked why I had come.

“I told him we were seeking the Portal. I added, as you instructed, that we had received information that led us to believe it was located in the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas, but that, upon investigation, we had discovered our information was wrong. The Portal was not there.

“He nodded, as if this did not surprise him. ‘The Portal was moved when the Kingpriest attempted to take over the Tower. For safety’s sake, of course. In time, it may return to the
Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas, but it is not there now.’

“ ‘Where is it, then?’ I asked.

“For long moments, he did not answer me. And then—” Here Crysania faltered and glanced over at Caramon fearfully, as if warning him to brace himself.

Seeing her look, Raistlin pushed himself up on the pallet. “Tell me!” he demanded harshly.

Crysania drew a deep breath. She would have looked away, but Raistlin caught hold of her wrist and, despite his weakness, held her so firmly, she found she could not break free of his deathlike grip.

“He—he said such information would cost you. Every man has his price, even he.”

“Cost me!” Raistlin repeated inaudibly, his eyes burning.

Crysania tried unsuccessfully to free herself as his grasp tightened painfully.

“What
is
the cost?” Raistlin demanded.

“He said you would know!” Crysania gasped. “He said you had promised it to him, long ago.”

Raistlin loosed her wrist. Crysania sank back away from him, rubbing her arm, avoiding Caramon’s pitying gaze. Abruptly, the big man rose to his feet and stalked away. Ignoring him, ignoring Crysania, Raistlin sank back onto his frayed pillows, his face pale and drawn, his eyes suddenly dark and shadowed.

Crysania stood up and went to pour herself a glass of water. But her hand shook so she slopped most of it on the desk and was forced to set the pitcher down. Coming up behind her, Caramon poured the water and handed her the glass, a grave expression on his face.

Raising the glass to her lips, Crysania was suddenly aware of Caramon’s gaze going to her wrist. Looking down, she saw the marks of Raistlin’s hand upon her flesh. Setting the glass back down upon the desk, Crysania quickly drew her robe over her injured arm.

“He’s doesn’t mean to hurt me,” she said softly in answer to Caramon’s stern, unspoken glare. “His pain makes him impatient. What is our suffering, compared to his? Surely you of
all people must understand that? He is so caught up in his greater vision that he doesn’t know when he hurts others.”

Turning away, she walked back to where Raistlin lay, staring unseeing into the fire.

“Oh, he knows all right,” Caramon muttered to himself. “I’m just beginning to realize—he’s known all along!”

Astinus of Palanthas, historian of Krynn, sat in his chamber, writing. The hour was late, very late, past Darkwatch, in fact. The Aesthetics had long ago closed and barred the doors to the Great Library. Few were admitted during the day, none at night. But bars and locks were nothing to the man who entered the Library and who now stood, a figure of darkness, before Astinus.

The historian did not glance up. “I was beginning to wonder where you were,” he said, continuing to write.

“I have been unwell,” the figure replied, its black robes rustling. As if reminded, the figure coughed softly.

“I trust you are feeling better?” Astinus still did not raise his head.

“I am returning to health slowly,” the figure replied. “Many things tax my strength.”

“Be seated, then,” Astinus remarked, gesturing with the end of his quill pen to a chair, his gaze still upon his work.

The figure, a twisted smile on its face, padded over to the chair and sat down. There was silence within the chamber for many minutes, broken only by the scratching of Astinus’s pen and the occasional cough of the black-robed intruder.

Finally, Astinus laid the pen down and lifted his gaze to meet that of his visitor. His visitor drew back the black hood from his face. Regarding him silently for long moments, Astinus nodded to himself.

“I do not know this face, Fistandantilus, but I know your eyes. There is something strange in them, however. I see the future in their depths. So you have become master of time, yet you do not return with power, as was foretold.”

“My name is not Fistandantilus, Deathless One. It is Raistlin, and that is sufficient explanation for what has happened.”
Raistlin’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowed. “But surely you knew that?” He gestured. “Surely the final battle between us is recorded—”

“I recorded the name as I recorded the battle,” Astinus said coolly. “Would you care to see the entry … Fistandantilus?”

Raistlin frowned, his eyes glittered dangerously. But Astinus remained unperturbed. Leaning back in his chair, he studied the archmage calmly.

“Have you brought what I asked for?”

“I have,” Raistlin replied bitterly. “Its making cost me days of pain and sapped my strength, else I would have come sooner.”

And now, for the first time, a hint of emotion shone on Astinus’s cold and ageless face. Eagerly, he leaned forward, his eyes shining as Raistlin slowly drew aside the folds of his black robes, revealing what seemed an empty, crystal globe hovering within his hollow chest cavity like a clear, crystalline heart.

Even Astinus could not repress a start at this sight, but it was apparently nothing more than an illusion, for, with a gesture, Raistlin sent the globe floating forward. With his other hand, he drew the black fabric back across his thin chest.

As the globe drifted near him, Astinus placed his hands upon it, caressing it lovingly. At his touch, the globe was filled with moonlight—silver, red, even the strange aura of the black moon was visible. Beneath the moons whirled vision after vision.