War of the Twins (22 page)

“This one could do that, I’ve no doubt,” Garic replied, giving a smaller tent next to the general’s a dark glance. “Though I have seen him do his magic only once—back at the bandit camp—I know he is powerful. One look from his eyes, and my stomach shrivels inside of me, my blood turns to
water. But, as I said, he was not well when we first met up with them. Night after night, when he still slept in his brother’s tent, I heard him cough until I did not think he could draw breath again. How can a man live with such pain, I asked myself more than once.”

“But he seemed fine when I saw him today.”

“His health has improved greatly. He does nothing to tax it, however. Just spends all day in his tent, studying the spellbooks he carries with him in those great, huge chests. But he’s walking his ‘dark night,’ too,” Garic added. “A gloom hangs about him, and it’s been growing the farther south we travel. He is haunted by terrible dreams. I’ve heard him cry out in his sleep. Horrible cries—they’d wake the dead.”

Michael shuddered, then, sighing, looked over at Caramon’s tent. “I had grave misgivings about joining an army led, they say, by one of the Black Robes. And of all the wizards who have ever lived, this Fistandantilus is rumored to be the most powerful. I had not fully committed myself to join when I rode in today. I thought I would look things over, find out if it’s true they go south to help the oppressed people of Abanasinia in their fight against mountain dwaves.”

Sighing again, he made a gesture as if to stroke long mustaches, but his hand stopped. He was clean-shaven, having removed the ages-old symbol of the Knights—the symbol that led, these days, to death.

“Though my father still lives, Garic,” Michael continued, “I think he might well trade his life for your father’s death. We were given a choice by the lord of Vingaard Keep—we could stay in the city and die or leave and live. Father would have died. I, too, if we’d had only ourselves to think of. But we could not afford the luxury of honor. A bitter day it was when we packed what we could on a mean cart and left the Hall. I saw them settled in a wretched cottage in Throytl. They’ll be all right, for the winter at least. Mother is strong and does the work of a man. My little brothers are good hunters.…”

“Your father?” Garic asked gently when Michael stopped talking.

“His heart broke that day,” Michael said simply. “He sits
staring out the window, his sword on his lap. He has not spoken one word to anyone since the day we left the family hall.”

Michael suddenly clenched his fist. “Why am I lying to you, Garic? I don’t give a damn about oppressed people in Abanasinia! I came to find the treasure! The treasure beneath the mountain! And glory! Glory to bring back the light in his eyes! If we win, the Knights can lift their heads once more!”

He, too, gazed at the small tent next to the large one—the small tent that had the sign of a wizard’s residence hung upon it, the small tent that everyone in the camp avoided, if possible. “But, to find this glory, led by the man called the Dark One. The Knights of old would not have done so. Paladine—”

“Paladine has forgotten us,” Garic said bitterly. “We are left on our own. I know nothing of black-robed wizards, I care little about that one. I stay here and I follow because of one man—the general. If he leads me to my fortune, well and good. If not”—Garic sighed deeply—“then he has at least led me to find peace within myself. I could wish the same for him,” he said, beneath his breath. Then, rising, he shook off his gloomy thoughts.

Michael rose, too.

“I must return to camp and get some sleep. It is early waking tomorrow,” Garic said. “We’re preparing to march within the week, so I hear. Well, cousin, will you stay?”

Michael looked at Garic. He looked at Caramon’s tent, its bright-colored flag with the nine-pointed star fluttering in the chill air. He looked at the wizard’s tent. Then, he nodded. Garic grinned widely. The two clasped hands and walked back to the campfires, arms around each other’s shoulders.

“Tell me this, though,” Michael said in a hushed voice as they walked, “is it true this Caramon keeps a witch?”

here are you going?” Caramon demanded harshly. Stepping into his tent, his eyes blinked rapidly to try to get accustomed to the shadowy darkness after the chill glare of the autumn sun.

“I’m moving out,” Crysania said, carefully folding her white clerical robes and placing them in the chest that had been stored beneath her cot. Now it sat open on the floor beside her.

“We’ve been through this,” Caramon growled in a low voice. Glancing behind him at the guards outside the tent entrance, he carefully lowered the tent flap.

Caramon’s tent was his pride and joy. Having originally belonged to a wealthy Knight of Solamnia, it had been brought to Caramon as a gift by two young, stern-faced men, who—though they claimed to have “found” it—handled it with such skilled hands and loving care that it was obvious they had no more “found” it than they had found their own arms or legs.

Made of some fabric none in this day and age could
identify, it was so cunningly woven that not a breath of wind penetrated even the seams. Rainwater rolled right off it; Raistlin said it had been treated with some sort of oil. It was large enough for Caramon’s cot, several large chests containing maps, the money, and jewels they brought from the Tower of High Sorcery, clothes and armor, plus a cot for Crysania, as well as a chest for her clothing. Still, it did not seem crowded when Caramon received visitors.

Raistlin slept and studied in a smaller tent made of the same fabric and construction that was pitched near his brother’s. Though Caramon had offered to share the larger tent, the mage had insisted upon privacy. Knowing his twin’s need for solitude and quiet, and not particularly enjoying being around his brother anyway, Caramon had not argued. Crysania, however, had openly rebelled when told she must remain in Caramon’s tent.

In vain, Caramon argued that it was safer for her there. Stories about her “witchcraft,” the strange medallion of a reviled god she wore, and her healing of the big warrior had spread quickly through the camp and were eagerly whispered to all newcomers. The cleric never left her tent but that dark glances followed her. Women grabbed their babies to their breasts when she came near. Small children ran from her in fear that was half mocking and half real.

“I am well aware of your arguments,” Crysania remarked, continuing to fold her clothes and pack them away without looking up at the big man. “And I don’t concede them. Oh”—she stopped him as he drew a breath to speak—“I’ve heard your stories of witch-burning. More than once! I do not doubt their validity, but that was in a day and age far removed from this one.”

“Whose tent are you moving to, then?” Caramon asked, his face flushing. “My brother’s?”

Crysania ceased folding the clothes, holding them for long moments over her arm, staring straight ahead. Her face did not change color. It grew, if possible, a shade more pale. Her lips pressed tightly together. When she answered, her voice was cold and calm as a winter’s day. “There is another
small tent, similar to his. I will live in that one. You may post a guard, if you think it necessary.”

“Crysania, I’m sorry,” Caramon said, moving toward her. She still did not look at him. Reaching out his hands, he took hold of her arms, gently, and turned her around, forcing her to face him. “I … I didn’t mean that. Please forgive me. And, yes, I think it
is
necessary to post a guard! But there is no one I trust, Crysania, unless it is myself. And, even then—” His breathing quickened, the hands on her arms tightened almost imperceptibly.

“I love you, Crysania,” he said softly. “You’re not like any other woman I’ve ever known! I didn’t mean to. I don’t know how it happened. I—I didn’t even really much
like
you when I first met you. I thought you were cold and uncaring, wrapped up in that religion of yours. But when I saw you in the clutches of that half-ogre, I saw your courage, and when I thought about what—what they might do to you—”

He felt her shudder involuntarily; she still had dreams about that night. She tried to speak, but Caramon took advantage of her reaction to hurry on.

“I’ve seen you with my brother. It reminds me of the way I was, in the old days”—his voice grew wistful—“you care for him so tenderly, so patiently.”

Crysania did not break free of his grasp. She simply stood there, looking up at him with clear, gray eyes, holding the folded white robe close against her chest. “This, too, is a reason, Caramon,” she said sadly. “I have sensed your growing”—now she flushed, slightly—“affection for me and, while I know you too well to believe you would ever force attentions on me that I would consider unwelcome, I do not feel comfortable sleeping in the same tent alone with you.”

“Crysania!” Caramon began, his face anguished, his hands trembling as they held her.

“What you feel for me isn’t love, Caramon,” Crysania said softly. “You are lonely, you miss your wife. It is
her
you love. I know, I’ve seen the tenderness in your eyes when you talk about Tika.”

His face darkened at the sound of Tika’s name.

“What would you know of love?” Caramon asked abruptly, releasing his grasp and looking away. “I love Tika, sure. I’ve loved lots of women. Tika’s loved her share of men, too, I’ll wager.” He drew in an angry breath. That wasn’t true, and he knew it. But it eased his own guilt, guilt he’d been wrestling with for months. “Tika’s human!” he continued surlily.
“She’s
flesh and blood—not some pillar of ice!”

“What do
I
know of love?” Crysania repeated, her calm slipping, her gray eyes darkening in anger. “I’ll tell you what I know of love. I—”

“Don’t say it!” Caramon cried in a low voice, completely losing control of himself and grabbing her in his arms. “Don’t say you love Raistlin! He doesn’t deserve your love! He’s using you, just like he used me! And he’ll throw you away when he’s finished!”

“Let go of me!” Crysania demanded, her cheeks stained pink, her eyes a deep gray.

“Can’t you see!” Caramon cried, almost shaking her in his frustration. “Are you blind?”

“Pardon me,” said a soft voice, “if I am interrupting. But there is urgent news.”

At the sound of that soft voice, Crysania’s face went white, then scarlet. Caramon, too, started at the sound, his hands loosening their hold. Crysania drew back from him and, in her haste, stumbled over the chest and fell to her knees. Her face well hidden by her long, black, flowing hair, she remained kneeling beside the chest, pretending to rearrange her things with hands that shook.

Scowling, his own face flushed an ugly red, Caramon turned to face his twin.

Raistlin coolly regarded his brother with his mirrorlike eyes. There was no expression on his face, as there had been no expression in his voice when he spoke upon first entering. But Caramon had seen, for a split second, the eyes crack. The glimpse of the dark and burning jealousy inside appalled him, hitting him an almost physical blow. But the look was gone instantly, leaving Caramon to doubt if he had truly seen it. Only the tight, knotted feeling in the pit of his stomach and
the sudden bitter taste in his mouth made him believe it had been there.

“What news?” he growled, clearing his throat.

“Messengers have arrived from the south,” Raistlin said.

“Yes?” Caramon prompted, as his brother paused.

Casting off his hood, Raistlin stepped forward, his gaze holding his brother’s gaze, binding them together, making the resemblance between them strong. For an instant, the mage’s mask dropped.

“The dwarves of Thorbardin are preparing for war!” Raistlin hissed, his slender hand clenching into a fist. He spoke with such intense passion that Caramon blinked at him in astonishment and Crysania raised her head to regard him with concern.

Confused and uncomfortable, Caramon broke free of his brother’s feverish stare and turned away, pretending to shuffle some maps on the map table. The warrior shrugged. “I don’t know what else you expected,” he said coolly. “It was your idea, after all. Talking of hidden wealth. We’ve made no secret of the fact that’s where we’re headed. In fact, it’s practically become our recruiting slogan! ‘Join up with Fistandantilus and raid the mountain!’ ”

Caramon tossed this off thoughtlessly, but its effect was startling. Raistlin went livid. He seemed to try to speak, but no intelligible sounds came from his lips, only a blood-stained froth. His sunken eyes flared, as the moon on an ice-bound lake. His fist still clenched, he took a step toward his brother.

Crysania sprang to her feet. Caramon—truly alarmed—took a step backward, his hand closing over the hilt of his sword. But, slowly and with a visible effort, Raistlin regained control. With a vicious snarl, he turned and walked from the tent, his intense anger still so apparent, however, that the guards shivered as he passed them.

Caramon remained standing, lost in confusion and fear, unable to comprehend why his brother had reacted as he did. Crysania, too, stared after Raistlin in perplexity until the sound of shouting voices outside the tent roused both of them from their thoughts. Shaking his head, Caramon walked over
to the entrance. Once there, he half-turned but did not look at Crysania as he spoke.