War of the Twins (29 page)

“We have no need to alter time!” Crysania said. “Fistandantilus was an evil man. What he did, he did for his own personal glory. But we care, you and I.
That
alone will be sufficient to change the ending. I know—my god has spoken to me!”

Slowly, smiling his thin-lipped smile, Raistlin brought Crysania’s hands to his mouth and kissed them, never taking his eyes from her.

Crysania felt her cheeks flush, then caught her breath. With a choked, half-strangled sound, Caramon turned abruptly and walked out the door.

Standing in the oppressive silence, the rain beating down upon his head, Caramon heard a voice thudding at his brain with the same monotonous, dull tone as the drops spattering about him.

He seeks to become a god. He seeks to become a god!

Sick and afraid, Caramon shook his head in anguish. His interest in the army, his fascination with being a “general,” his attraction to Crysania, and all the other, thousand worries had driven from his mind the real reason he had come back. Now—with Crysania’s words—it returned to him, hitting him like a wave of chill sea water.

Yet all he could think of was Raistlin as he was last night. How long had it been since he’d heard his brother laugh like that? How long had it been since they’d shared that warmth,
that closeness? Vividly, he remembered watching Raistlin’s face as he guarded his twin’s sleep. He saw the harsh lines of cunning smooth, the bitter creases around the mouth fade. The archmage looked almost young again, and Caramon remembered their childhood and young manhood together—those days that had been the happiest of his life.

But then came, unbidden, a hideous memory, as though his soul were taking a perverse delight in torturing and confusing him. He saw himself once more in that dark cell in Istar, seeing clearly, for the first time, his brother’s vast capability for evil. He remembered his firm determination that his brother must die. He thought of Tasslehoff.…

But Raistlin had explained all that! He had explained things at Istar. Once again, Caramon felt himself foundering.

What if Par-Salian is wrong, what if they are all wrong? What if Raist and Crysania
could
save the world from horror and suffering like this?

“I’m just a jealous, bumbling fool,” Caramon mumbled, wiping the rainwater from his face with a trembling hand. “Maybe those old wizards are all like me, all jealous of him.”

The darkness deepened about him, the clouds above grew denser, changing from gray to black. The rain beat down more heavily.

Raistlin came out the door, Crysania with him, her hand on his arm. She was wrapped in her thick cloak, her grayish-white hood drawn up over her head. Caramon cleared his throat.

“I’ll go bring him out and put him with the others,” he said gruffly, starting for the door. “Then I’ll fill in the grave—”

“No, my brother,” Raistlin said. “No. This sight will not be hidden in the ground.” He cast back his hood, letting the rain wash over his face as he lifted his gaze to the clouds. “This sight will flare in the eyes of the gods! The smoke of their destruction will rise to heaven! The sound will resound in their ears!”

Caramon, startled at this unusual outburst, turned to look at his twin. Raistlin’s thin face was nearly as gaunt and pale as the corpse’s inside the small house, his voice tense with anger.

“Come with me,” he said, abruptly breaking free of Crysania’s hold and striding toward the center of the small village. Crysania followed, holding her hood to keep the slashing wind and rain from blowing it off. Caramon came after, more slowly.

Stopping in the middle of the muddy, rain-soaked street, Raistlin turned to face Crysania and his brother as they came up to him.

“Get the horses, Caramon—ours and Crysania’s. Lead them to those woods outside of town”—the mage pointed—“blindfold them, then return to me.”

Caramon stared at him.

“Do it!” Raistlin commanded, his voice rasping.

Caramon did as he was told, leading the horses away.

“Now, stand there,” Raistlin continued when his twin returned. “Do not move from that spot. Do not come close to me, my brother, no matter what happens.” His gaze went to Crysania, who was standing near him, then back to his brother. “You understand, Caramon.”

Caramon nodded wordlessly and, reaching out, gently took Crysania’s hand.

“What is it?” she asked, holding back.

“His magic,” Caramon replied.

He fell silent as Raistlin cast a sharp, imperious glance at him. Alarmed by the strange, fiercely eager expression on Raistlin’s face, Crysania suddenly drew nearer Caramon, shivering. The big man, his eyes on his frail twin, put his arm around her. Standing together in the pounding rain, almost not daring to breathe lest they disturb him, they watched the archmage.

Raistlin’s eyes closed. Lifting his face to the heavens, he raised his arms, palms outward, toward the lowering skies. His lips moved, but—for a moment—they could not hear him. Then, though he did not seem to raise his voice, each could begin to make out words—the spidery language of magic. He repeated the same words over and over, his soft voice rising and falling in a chant. The words never changed, but the way he spoke them, the inflection of each, varied every time he repeated the phrase.

A hush settled over the valley. Even the sound of the falling rain died in Caramon’s ears. All he could hear was the soft chanting, the strange and eerie music of his brother’s voice. Crysania pressed closer still, her dark eyes wide, and Caramon patted her reassuringly.

As the chanting continued, a feeling of awe crept over Caramon. He had the distinct impression that he was being drawn irresistibly toward Raistlin, that everything in the world was being drawn toward the archmage, though—in looking fearfully around—Caramon saw that he hadn’t moved from the spot. But, turning back to stare at his brother, the feeling returned even more forcibly.

Raistlin stood in the center of the world, his hands outstretched, and all sound, all light, even the air itself, seemed to rush eagerly into his grasp. The ground beneath Caramon’s feet began to pulse in waves that flowed toward the archmage.

Raistlin lifted his hands higher, his voice rising ever so slightly. He paused, then he spoke each word in the chant slowly, firmly. The winds rose, the ground heaved. Caramon had the wild impression that the world was rushing in upon his brother, and he braced his feet, fearful that he, too, would be sucked into Raistlin’s dark vortex.

Raistlin’s fingers stabbed toward the gray, boiling heavens. The energy that he had drawn from ground and air surged through him. Silver lightning flashed from his fingers, striking the clouds. Brilliant, jagged light forked down in answer, touching the small house where the body of the young cleric lay. With a shattering explosion, a ball of blue-white flame engulfed the building.

Again Raistlin spoke and again the silver lightning shot from his fingers. Again another streak of light answered, striking the mage! This time it was Raistlin who was engulfed in red-green flame.

Crysania screamed. Struggling in Caramon’s grasp, she sought to free herself. But, remembering his brother’s words, Caramon held her fast, preventing her from rushing to Raistlin’s side.

“Look!” he whispered hoarsely, gripping her tightly. “The flames do not touch him!”

Standing amidst the blaze, Raistlin lifted his thin arms higher, and the black robes blew around him as though he were in the center of a violent wind storm. He spoke again. Fiery fingers of flame spread out from him, lighting the darkness, ran through the wet grass, dancing on top of the water as though it were covered with oil. Raistlin stood in the center, the hub of a vast, spoked wheel of flame.

Crysania could not move. Awe and terror such as she had never before experienced paralyzed her. She held onto Caramon, but he offered her no comfort. The two clung together like frightened children as the flames surged around them. Traveling through the streets, the fire reached the buildings and ignited them with one bursting explosion after another.

Purple, red, blue, and green, the magical fire blazed upward, lighting the heavens, taking the place of the cloud-shrouded sun. The carrion birds wheeled in fear as the tree they had occupied became a living torch.

Raistlin spoke again, one last time. With a burst of pure, white light, fire leaped down from the heavens, consuming the bodies in the mass grave.

Wind from the flames gusted about Crysania, blowing the hood from her head. The heat was intense, beating upon her face. The smoke choked her, she could not breathe. Sparks showered around her, flames flickered at her feet until it seemed that she, too, must end up part of the conflagration. But nothing touched her. She and Caramon stood safely in the midst of the blaze. And then Crysania became aware of Raistlin’s gaze upon her.

From the fiery inferno in which he stood, the mage beckoned.

Crysania gasped, shrinking back against Caramon.

Raistlin beckoned again, his black robes flowing about his body, rippling with the wind of the fire storm he had created. Standing within the center of the flames, he held out his hands to Crysania.

“No!” Caramon cried, holding fast to her. But Crysania,
never taking her eyes from Raistlin, gently loosened the big man’s grip and walked forward.

“Come to me, Revered Daughter!” Raistlin’s soft voice touched her through the chaos and she knew she was hearing it in her heart. “Come to me through the flame. Come taste the power of the gods.…”

The heat of the blazing fire that enveloped the archmage burned and scorched her soul. It seemed her skin must blacken and shrivel. She heard her hair crackling. Her breath was sucked from her lungs, searing them painfully. But the fire’s light entranced her, the flames danced, luring her forward, even as Raistlin’s soft voice urged her toward him.

“No!” Behind her, she could hear Caramon cry out, but he was nothing to her, less than the sound of her own heart beating. She reached the curtain of flame. Raistlin extended his hand, but, for an instant, she faltered, hesitating.

His hand burned! She saw it withering, the flesh black and charred.

“Come to me, Crysania.…” whispered his voice.

Reaching out her hand, trembling, she thrust it into the flame. For an instant, there was searing, heart-stopping pain. She cried out in horror and anguish, then Raistlin’s hand closed over hers, drawing her through the blazing curtain. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes.

Cool wind soothed her. She could breathe sweet air. The only heat she felt was the warm, familiar heat from the mage’s body. Opening her eyes, she saw that she stood close to him. Raising her head, she gazed up into his face … and felt a swift, sharp ache in her heart.

Raistlin’s thin face glistened with sweat, his eyes reflected the pure, white flame of the burning bodies, his breath came fast and shallow. He seemed lost, unaware of his surroundings. And there was a look of ecstasy on his face, a look of exultation, of triumph.

“I understand,” Crysania said to herself, holding onto his hands. “I understand. This is why he cannot love me. He has only one love in this life and that is his magic. To this love he will give everything, for this love he will risk everything!”

The thought was painful, but it was a pleasant kind of melancholy pain.

“Once again,” she said to herself, her eyes dimming with tears, “he is my example. Too long have I let myself be preoccupied with petty thoughts of this world, of myself. He is right. Now I taste the power of the gods. I must be worthy—of them and of him!”

Raistlin closed his eyes. Crysania holding onto him, felt the magic drain from him as though his life’s blood were flowing from a wound. His arms fell to his sides. The ball of flame that had enveloped them flickered and died.

With a sigh that was little more than a whisper, Raistlin sank to his knees upon the scorched ground. The rain resumed. Crysania could hear it hiss as it struck the charred remains of the still-smoldering village. Steam rose into the air, flitting among the skeletons of the buildings, drifting down the street like ghosts of the former inhabitants.

Kneeling beside the archmage, Crysania smoothed back his brown hair with her hand. Raistlin opened his eyes, looking at her without recognition. And in them she saw deep, undying sorrow—the look of one who has been permitted to enter a realm of deadly, perilous beauty and who now finds himself, once more, cast down into the gray, rain-swept world.

The mage slumped forward, his head bowed, his arms hanging limply. Crysania looked up at Caramon as the big man hurried over.

“Are you all right?” he asked her.

“I’m all right,” she whispered. “How is he?”

Together, they helped Raistlin rise to his feet. He seemed completely unaware of their very existence. Tottering with exhaustion, he sagged against his brother.

“He’ll be fine. This always happens.” Caramon’s voice died, then he muttered, “Always happens! What I am saying? I’ve never seen anything like that in my life! Name of the gods”—he stared at his twin in awe—“I’ve never seen power like that! I didn’t know! I didn’t know.…”

Supported by Caramon’s strong arm, Raistlin leaned against his twin. He began to cough, gasping for air, choking
until he could barely stand. Caramon held onto him tightly. Fog and smoke swirled about their feet, the rain splashed down around them. Here and there came the crash of burning wood, the hiss of water upon flame. When the coughing fit passed, Raistlin raised his head, life and recognition returning to his eyes.

“Crysania,” he said softly, “I asked you to do that because you must have implicit faith in me and in my power. If we succeed in our quest, Revered Daughter, then we will enter the Portal and we will walk with our eyes open into the Abyss—a place of horror unimaginable.”

Crysania began to shiver uncontrollably as she stood before him, held mesmerized by his glittering eyes.

“You must be strong, Revered Daughter,” he continued intently. “And that is the reason I brought you on this journey. I have gone through my own trials. You had to go through yours. In Istar, you faced the trials of wind and water. You came through the trial of darkness within the Tower, and now you have withstood the trial by fire. But one more trial awaits you, Crysania! One more, and you must prepare for it, as must we all.”