War of the Twins (25 page)

He shrugged. “It would probably matter little to me if I gave in to it, perhaps weaken me some temporarily, nothing more. It would certainly not affect my magic. But”—his gaze went through Caramon like a sliver of ice—“it would destroy Crysania when she found out. And she
would
find out!”

“You black-hearted bastard!” Caramon said through clenched teeth.

Raistlin raised an eyebrow. “Am I?” he asked simply. “If I were, wouldn’t I just take my pleasure as I found it? I am capable of understanding and controlling myself—unlike others.”

Caramon blinked. Spurring his horse, he proceeded down the trail again, lost in confusion. Somehow, his brother had managed, once again, to turn everything upside down. Suddenly he, Caramon, felt consumed with guilt—a prey to animal instincts he wasn’t man enough to control, while his brother—by admitting he was incapable of love—appeared noble and self-sacrificing. Caramon shook his head.

The two followed Crysania’s trail deeper into the woods. It was easy going, she had kept to the path, never veering, never bothering, even, to cover her tracks.

“Women!” Caramon muttered after a time. “If she was going to have a sulking fit, why didn’t she just do it the easy way and walk! Why did she have to take a blasted horseback ride halfway into the countryside?”

“You do not understand her, my brother,” Raistlin said, his gaze on the trail. “Such is not her intent. She has a purpose in this ride, believe me.”

“Bah!” Caramon snorted. “This from the expert on women! I’ve been married! I know! She’s ridden off in a huff, knowing we’ll come after her. We’ll find her somewhere along here, her horse ridden into the ground, probably lame. She’ll be cold and haughty. We’ll apologize and … and I’ll let her have her damn tent if she wants it and—see there! What’d I tell you?” Bringing his horse to a halt, he gestured across the flat grasslands. “There’s a trail a blind gully dwarf could follow! Come on.”

Raistlin did not answer, but there was a thoughtful look on his thin face as he galloped after his brother. The two followed Crysania’s trail across the grasslands. They found where she entered the woods again, came to a stream and crossed it. But there, on the bank of the stream Caramon brought his horse to a halt.

“What the—” He looked left and right, guiding his animal around in a circle. Raistlin stopped, sighing, and leaned over the pommel of his saddle.

“I told you,” he said grimly. “She has a purpose. She is clever, my brother. Clever enough to know your mind and how it works … when it
does
work!”

Caramon glowered at his twin but said nothing.

Crysania’s trail had disappeared.

As Raistlin said, Crysania had a purpose. She was clever and intelligent, she guessed what Caramon would think and she purposefully misled him. Though certainly not skilled in woodslore herself, for months now, she had been with those who were. Often lonely—few spoke to the “witch”—and often left to her own devices by Caramon, who had problems of command to deal with, and Raistlin, who was wrapped up in his studies, Crysania had little to do but ride by herself, listening to the stories of those about her and learning from them.

Thus it had been a simple thing to double back on her own trail, riding her horse down the center of the stream, leaving no tracks to follow. Coming to a rocky part of the shore where, again, her horse would leave no tracks, she left the stream. Entering the woods, she avoided the main trail, searching instead for one of the many, smaller animal trails that led to the stream. Once on it, she covered her tracks as best she could. Although she did it crudely, she was fairly certain Caramon would not give her credit enough even for that, so she had no fear he would follow her.

If Crysania had known Raistlin rode with his brother, she might have had misgivings, for the mage seemed to know her mind better than she did herself. But she didn’t, so she continued ahead at a leisurely pace—to rest the horse and to give herself time to go over her plans.

In her saddlebags, she carried a map, stolen from Caramon’s tent. On the map was marked a small village nestled in the mountains. It was so small it didn’t even have a name—at least not one marked on the map. But this village was her destination. Here she planned to accomplish a two-fold purpose: she would alter time and she would prove—to Caramon and his brother and herself—that she was more than a piece of useless, even dangerous, baggage. She would prove her own worth.

Here, in this village, Crysania intended to bring back the worship of the ancient gods.

This was not a new thought for her. It was something she had often considered attempting but had not for a variety of reasons. The first was that both Caramon and Raistlin had absolutely forbidden her to use any clerical powers while in camp. Both feared for her life, having seen witch-burnings themselves in their younger days. (Raistlin had, in fact, nearly been a victim himself, until rescued by Sturm and Caramon.)

Crysania herself had enough common sense to know that none of the men or their families traveling with the army would listen to her, all of them firmly believing that she
was
a witch. The thought had crossed her mind that if she could get to people who knew nothing of her, tell them her story, give them the message that the gods had
not
abandoned man, but that man had abandoned the gods, then they would follow her as they would follow Goldmoon two hundred years later.

But it was not until she had been stung by Raistlin’s harsh words that she had gathered the courage to act. Even now, leading the horse at a walk through the quiet forest in the twilight, she could still hear his voice and see his flashing eyes as he reprimanded her.

I deserved it, she admitted to herself. I had abandoned my faith. I was using my “charms” to try to bring him to me, instead of my example to bring him to Paladine. Sighing, she absently brushed her fingers through her tangled hair. If it had not been for
his
strength of will, I would have fallen.

Her admiration for the young archmage, already strong, deepened—as Raistlin had foreseen. She determined to restore his faith in her and prove herself worthy, once more, of his trust and regard. For, she feared, blushing, he must have a very low opinion of her now. By returning to camp with a corps of followers, of true believers, she planned not only to show him that he was wrong—that time could be altered by bringing clerics into a world where, before, there were none—but also she hoped to extend her teachings throughout the army itself.

Thinking of this, making her plans, Crysania felt more at peace with herself than she had in the months since they’d come to this time period. For once she was doing something
on her own. She wasn’t trailing along behind Raistlin or being ordered about by Caramon. Her spirits rose. By her calculations, she should reach the village just before dark.

The trail she was on had been steadily climbing up the side of the mountain. Now it topped a rise and then dipped down, descending into a small valley. Crysania halted the horse. There, nestled in the valley, she could at last see the village that was her destination.

Something struck her as odd about the village, but she was not yet a seasoned enough traveler to have learned to trust her instincts about such things. Knowing only that she wanted to reach the village before darkness fell, and eager to put her plan into immediate action, Crysania mounted her horse once more and rode down the trail, her hand closing over the medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck.

“Well, what do we do now?” Caramon asked, sitting astride his horse and looking both up and down the stream.

“You’re
the expert on women,” Raistlin retorted.

“All right, I made a mistake,” Caramon grumbled. “That doesn’t help us. It’ll be dark soon, and then we’ll never find her trail. I haven’t heard you come up with any helpful suggestions,” he grumbled, glancing at his brother balefully. “Can’t you magic up something?”

“I would have ‘magicked up’ brains for you long ago, if I could have,” Raistlin snapped peevishly. “What would you like me to do—make her appear out thin air or look for her in my crystal ball? No, I won’t waste my strength. Besides it’s not necessary. Have you a map, or did you manage to think that far ahead?”

“I have a map,” Caramon said grimly, drawing it out of his belt and handing it to his brother.

“You might as well water the horses and let them rest,” Raistlin said, sliding off his. Caramon dismounted as well and led the horses to the stream while Raistlin studied the map.

By the time Caramon had tethered the horses to a bush and returned to his brother, the sun was setting. Raistlin held the map nearly up to his nose trying to read it in the dusk.
Caramon heard him cough and saw him hunch down into his traveling cloak.

“You shouldn’t be out in the night air,” Caramon said gruffly.

Coughing again, Raistlin gave him a bitter glance. “I’ll be all right.”

Shrugging, Caramon peered over his brother’s shoulder at the map. Raistlin pointed a slender finger at a small spot, halfway up the mountainside.

“There,” he said.

“Why? What would she go to some out-of-the-way place like that for?” Caramon asked, frowning, puzzled. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Because you have still not seen her purpose!” Raistlin returned. Thoughtfully, he rolled up the map, his eyes staring into the fading light. A dark line appeared between his brows.

“Well?” Caramon prompted skeptically. “What is this great purpose you keep mentioning? What’s the matter?”

“She has placed herself in grave danger,” Raistlin said suddenly, his cool voice tinged with anger. Caramon stared at him in alarm.

“What? How do you know? Do you see—”

“Of course I can’t see, you great idiot!” Raistlin snarled over his shoulder as he walked rapidly to his horse. “I think! I use my brain! She is going to this village to establish the old religion. She is going there to tell them of the true gods!”

“Name of the Abyss!” Caramon swore, his eyes wide. “You’re right, Raist,” he said, after a moment’s thought. “I’ve heard her talk about trying that, now I think of it. I never believed she was serious, though.”

Then, seeing his brother untying his horse and preparing to mount, he hurried forward and laid his hand on his brother’s bridle. “Just a minute, Raist! There’s nothing we can do now. We’ll have to wait until morning.” He gestured into the mountains. “You know as well as I do that we don’t dare ride those wretched trails after dark. We’d be taking a chance on the horses stumbling into a hole and breaking a leg. To say nothing of what
lives
in these god-forsaken woods.”

“I have my staff for light,” Raistlin said, motioning to the Staff of Magius, snug in its leather carrier on the side of saddle. He started to pull himself up, but a fit of coughing forced him to pause, clinging to the saddle, gasping for breath.

Caramon waited until the spasm eased. “Look, Raist,” he said in milder tones, “I’m just as worried about her as you are—but I think you’re overreacting. Let’s be sensible. It’s not as if she were riding into a den of goblins! That magical light’ll draw to us whatever’s lurking out there in the night like moths to a candleflame. The horses are winded. You’re in no shape to go on, much less fight if we have to. We’ll make camp here for the night. You get some rest, and we’ll start fresh in the morning.”

Raistlin paused, his hands on his saddle, staring at his brother. It seemed as if he might argue, then a coughing fit seized him. His hands slipped to his side, he laid his forehead against the horse’s flank as if too exhausted to move.

“You are right, my brother,” he said, when he could speak.

Startled at this unusual display of weakness, Caramon almost went to help his twin, but checked himself in time—a show of concern would only bring a bitter rebuke. Acting as if nothing were at all amiss, he began untying his brother’s bedroll, chatting along, not really thinking about what he was saying.

“I’ll spread this out, and you rest. We can probably risk a small fire, and you can heat up that potion of yours to help your cough. I’ve got some meat here and a few vegetables Garic threw together for me.” Caramon prattled on, not even realizing what he was saying. “I’ll fix up a stew. It’ll be just like the old days.

“By the gods!” He paused a moment, grinning. “Even though we never knew where our next steel piece was coming from, we still ate well in those days! Do you remember? There was a spice you had. You’d toss it in the pot. What was it?” He gazed off into the distance, as though he could part the mists of time with his eyes. “Do you remember the one I’m talking about? You use it in your spellcasting. But it made damn good stews, too! The name … it was like ours—marjere, marjorie?
Hah!”—Caramon laughed—“I’ll never forget the time that old master of yours caught us cooking with his spell components! I thought he’d turn himself inside out!”

Sighing, Caramon went back to work, tugging at the knots. “You know, Raist,” he said softly, after a moment, “I’ve eaten wondrous food in wondrous places since then—palaces and elf woods and all. But nothing could quite match that. I’d like to try it again, to see if it was like I remember it. It’d be like old times—”

There was a soft rustle of cloth. Caramon stopped, aware that his brother had turned his black hooded head and was regarding him intently. Swallowing, Caramon kept his eyes fixedly on the knots he was trying to untie. He hadn’t meant to make himself vulnerable and now he waited grimly for Raistlin’s rebuke, the sarcastic gibe.

There was another soft rustle of cloth, and then Caramon felt something soft pressed into his hand—a tiny bag.

“Marjoram,” Raistlin said in a soft whisper. “The name of the spice is marjoram.…”

t wasn’t until Crysania rode into the outskirts of the village itself that she realized something was wrong.