War of the Twins (32 page)

As he had told the great Par-Salian, Head of the Order, master of the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth—and Dalamar’s master, too, of a sort, since the dark elf mage had, in reality, been a spy for the Order of Mages who feared and distrusted Raistlin as they had feared no mortal in their history—“It was no more than I deserved.”

Would he leave this dangerous place? Go back home, go back to Silvanesti?

Dalamar stared out the window with a grim, twisted smile,
reminiscent of Raistlin, the
Shalafi
. Almost unwillingly, Dalamar’s gaze went from the peaceful, starlit night sky back indoors, to the rows and rows of nightblue-bound spellbooks that lined the walls of the library. In his memory, he saw the wonderful, awful, beautiful, dreadful sights he had been privileged to witness as Raistlin’s apprentice. He felt the stirrings of power within his soul, a pleasure that outweighed the pain.

No, he would never return. Never leave.…

Dalamar’s musings were cut short by the sound of a silver bell. It rang only once, with a sweet, low sound. But to those living (and dead) within the Tower, it had the effect of a shattering gong splitting the air. Someone was attempting to enter! Someone had won through the perilous Shoikan Grove and was at the gates of the Tower itself!

His mind having already conjured up memories of Par-Salian, Dalamar had sudden unwelcome visions of the powerful, white-robed wizard standing on his doorstep. He could also hear in his mind what he had told the Council only nights earlier—“If any of you came and tried to enter the Tower while he was gone, I would kill you.”

On the words of a spell, Dalamar disappeared from the library to reappear, within the drawing of a breath, at the Tower entrance.

But it was not a conclave of flashing-eyed wizards he faced. It was a figure dressed in blue dragonscale armor, wearing the hideous, horned mask of a Dragon Highlord. In its gloved hand, the figure held a black jewel—a nightjewel, Dalamar saw—and behind the figure he could sense, though he could not see, the presence of a being of awesome power—a death knight.

The Dragon Highlord was using the jewel to hold at bay several of the Tower’s Guardians; their pale visages could be seen in the dark light of the nightjewel, thirsting for her living blood. Though Dalamar could not see the Highlord’s face beneath the helm, he could feel the heat of her anger.

“Lord Kitiara,” Dalamar said gravely, bowing. “Forgive this rude welcome. If you had but let us know you were coming—”

Yanking off the helm, Kitiara glared at Dalamar with cold, brown eyes that reminded the apprentice forcibly of her kinship to the
Shalafi
.

“—you would have had an even more interesting reception planned for me, no doubt!” she snarled with an angry toss of her dark, curly hair. “I come and go where I please, especially to pay a visit to my brother!” Her voice literally shook with rage. “I made my way through those god-cursed trees of yours out there, then I’m attacked at his front door!” Her hand drew her sword. She took a step forward. “By the gods, I should teach you a lesson, elven slime—”

“I repeat my apologies,” Dalamar said calmly, but there was a glint in his slanted eyes that made Kit hesitate in her reckless act.

Like most warriors, Kitiara tended to regard magic-users as weaklings who spent time reading books that could be put to better use wielding cold steel. Oh, they could produce some flashy results, no doubt, but when put to the test, she would much rather rely on her sword and her skill than weird words and bat dung.

Thus she pictured Raistlin, her half-brother, in her mind, and this was how she pictured his apprentice—with the added mark against Dalamar that he was only an elf—a race noted for its weakness.

But Kitiara was, in another respect, different from most warriors—the main reason she had outlived all who opposed her. She was skilled at assessing her opponents. One look at Dalamar’s cool eyes and composed stature—in the face of her anger—and Kitiara wondered if she might not have encountered a foe worthy of her.

She didn’t understand him, not yet—not by any means. But she saw and recognized the danger in this man and, even as she made a note to be wary of it and to use it, if possible, she found herself attracted to it. The fact that it went with such handsome features (he didn’t look at all elvish, now that she thought of it) and such a strong, muscular body (whose frame admirably filled out the black robes), made it suddenly occur to her that she might accomplish more by being friendly than
intimidating. Certainly, she thought, her eyes lingering on the elf’s chest, where the black robes had parted slightly and she could see bronze skin beneath, it might be much more entertaining.

Thrusting her sword back in its sheath, Kitiara continued her step forward, only now the light that had flashed on the blade flashed in her eyes.

“Forgive me, Dalamar—that’s your name, isn’t it?” Her scowl melted into the crooked, charming smile that had won so many. “That damned Grove unnerves me. You are right. I should have notified my brother I was coming, but I acted on impulse.” She stood close to Dalamar now, very close. Looking up into his face, hidden as it was by the shadows of his hood, she added, “I … often act on impulse.”

With a gesture, Dalamar dismissed the Guardians. Then the young elf regarded the woman before him with a smile of charm that rivaled her own.

Seeing his smile, Kitiara held out her gloved hand. “Forgiven?”

Dalamar’s smile deepened, but he only said, “Remove your glove, lord.”

Kitiara started and, for an instant, the brown eyes dilated dangerously. But Dalamar continued to smile at her. Shrugging, Kitiara jerked one by one at the fingers of the leather glove, baring her hand.

“There,” she said, her voice tinged with scorn, “you see that I hold no concealed weapon.”

“Oh, I already knew that,” Dalamar replied, now taking the hand in his own. His eyes still on hers, the dark elf drew her hand up to his lips and kissed it lingeringly. “Would you have had me deny myself this pleasure?”

His lips were warm, his hands strong, and Kitiara felt the blood surge through her body at his touch. But she saw in his eyes that he knew her game and she saw, too, that it was one he played himself. Her respect rose, as did her guard. Truly a foe worthy of her attention—her undivided attention.

Slipping her hand from his grasp, Kitiara put it behind her back with a playful female gesture that contrasted oddly with
her armor and her manlike, warrior stance. It was a gesture designed to attract and confuse, and she saw from the elf’s slightly flushed features that it had succeeded.

“Perhaps I have concealed weapons beneath my armor you should search for sometime,” she said with a mocking grin.

“On the contrary,” Dalamar returned, folding his hands in his black robes, “your weapons seem to me to be in plain sight. Were I to search you, lord, I would seek out that which the armor guards and which, though many men have penetrated, none has yet touched.” The elven eyes laughed.

Kitiara caught her breath. Tantalized by his words, remembering still the feel of those warm lips upon her skin, she took another step forward, tilting her face to the man’s.

Coolly, without seeming aware of his action, Dalamar made a graceful move to one side, slightly turning away from Kitiara. Expecting to be caught up in the man’s arms, Kit was, instead, thrown off balance. Awkwardly, she stumbled.

Recovering her balance with feline skill, she whirled to face him, her face flushed with embarrassment and fury. Kitiara had killed men for less than mocking her like this. But she was disconcerted to see that he was, apparently, totally unaware of what he had done. Or was he? His face was carefully devoid of all expression. He was talking about her brother. No, he had done that on purpose. He would pay.…

Kit knew her opponent now, conceded his skill. Characteristically, she did not waste time berating herself for her mistake. She had left herself open, she had taken a wound. Now, she was prepared.

“—I deeply regret that the
Shalafi
is not here,” Dalamar was saying. “I am certain that your brother will be sorry to learn he has missed you.”

“Not here?” Kit demanded, her attention caught instantly. “Why, where is he? Where would he go?”

“I am certain he told you,” Dalamar said with feigned surprise. “He has gone back to the past to seek the wisdom of Fistandantilus and from thence to discover the Portal through which he will—”

“You mean—he went anyway! Without the cleric?” Suddenly Kit remembered that no one was supposed to have known that she had sent Lord Soth to kill Crysania in order to stop her brother’s insane notion of challenging the Dark Queen. Biting her lip, she glanced behind her at the death knight.

Dalamar followed her gaze, smiling, seeing every thought beneath that lovely, curling hair. “Oh, you knew about the attack on Lady Crysania?” he asked innocently.

Kit scowled. “You know damn well I knew about the attack! And so does my brother. He’s not an idiot, if he is a fool.”

She spun around on her heel. “You told me the woman was dead!”

“She was,” intoned Lord Soth, the death knight, materializing out of the shadows to stand before her, his orange eyes flaring in their invisible sockets. “No human could survive my assault.” The orange eyes turned their undying gaze to the dark elf. “And your master could not have saved her.”

“No,” Dalamar agreed, “but
her
master could and did. Paladine cast a counter-spell upon his cleric, drawing her soul to him, though he left the shell of her body behind. The
Shalafi’s
twin, your half-brother, Caramon, lord”—Dalamar bowed to the infuriated Kitiara—“took the woman to the Tower of High Sorcery where the mages sent her back to the only cleric powerful enough to save her—the Kingpriest of Istar.”

“Imbeciles!” Kitiara snarled, her face going livid. “They sent her back to him! That’s just what Raistlin wanted!”

“They knew that,” Dalamar said softly. “I told them—”

“
You
told them?” Kitiara gasped.

“There are matters I should explain to you,” Dalamar said. “This may take some time. At least let us be comfortable. Will you come to my chambers?”

He extended his arm. Kitiara hesitated, then laid her hand upon his forearm. Catching hold of her around her waist, he pulled her close to his body. Startled, Kitiara tried to pull away, but she didn’t try very hard. Dalamar held her with a grip both strong and firm.

“In order for the spell to transport us,” he said coolly, “you need to stand as close to me as possible.”

“I’m quite capable of walking,” Kit returned. “I have little use for magic!”

But, even as she spoke, her eyes looked into his, her body pressed against his hard, well-muscled body with sensuous abandon.

“Very well,” Dalamar shrugged and suddenly vanished.

Looking around, startled, Kit heard his voice. “Up the spiral staircase, lord. After the five hundred and thirty-ninth step, turn left.”

“And so you see,” Dalamar said, “I have as great a stake in this as do you. I have been sent, by the Conclave of all three Orders—the Black, the White, and the Red—to stop this appalling thing from happening.”

The two relaxed in the dark elf’s private, sumptuously appointed quarters within the Tower. The remains of an elegant repast had been whisked away by a graceful gesture of the elf’s hand. Now, they sat before a fire that had been lit more for the sake of its light than its warmth on this spring night. The dancing flames seemed more conducive to conversation.…

“Then why
didn’t
you stop him?” Kit demanded angrily, setting her golden goblet down with a sharp clinking sound. “What’s so difficult about that?” Making a gesture with her hand, she added words to suit her action. “A knife in the back. Quick, simple.” Giving Dalamar a look of scorn, she sneered. “Or are you above that, you mages?”

“Not above it,” Dalamar said, regarding Kitiara intently. “There are subtler means we of the Black Robes generally use to rid ourselves of our enemies. But not against
him
, lord. Not your brother.”

Dalamar shivered slightly and drank his wine with undue haste.

“Bah!” Kitiara snorted.

“No, listen to me and understand, Kitiara,” Dalamar said softly. “You do not know your brother. You do not know him
and, what is worse,
you do not fear him!
That will lead to your doom.”

“Fear him? That skinny, hacking wretch? You’re not serious—” Kitiara began, laughing. But her laughter died. She leaned forward. “You
are
serious. I can see it in your eyes!”

Dalamar smiled grimly. “I fear him as I fear nothing in this world—including death.” Reaching up, the dark elf grasped the seam of his black robes and ripped it open, revealing the wounds on his chest.

Kitiara, mystified, looked at the wounds, then looked up at the dark elf’s pale face. “What weapon made those? I don’t recog—”

“His hand,” Dalamar said without emotion. “The mark of his five fingers. This was his message to Par-Salian and the Conclave when he commanded me to give them his regards.”

Kit had seen many terrible sights—men disemboweled before her eyes, heads hacked off, torture sessions in the dungeons beneath the mountains known as the Lords of Doom. But, seeing those oozing sores and seeing, in her mind, her brother’s slender fingers burning into the dark elf’s flesh, she could not repress a shudder.

Sinking back in her chair, Kit went over carefully in her mind everything Dalamar had told her, and she began to think that, perhaps, she
had
underestimated Raistlin. Her face grave, she sipped her wine.

“And so he plans to enter the Portal,” she said to Dalamar slowly, trying to readjust her thinking along these new and startling lines. “He will enter the Portal with the cleric. He will find himself in the Abyss. Then what? Surely he knows he cannot fight the Dark Queen on her own plane!”

“Of course he knows,” Dalamar said. “He is strong, but—there—she is stronger. And so he intends to lure her out, to force her to enter this world. Here, he believes, he can destroy her.”

“Mad!” Kitiara whispered with barely enough breath to say the word. “He is mad!” She hastily set her wine goblet down, seeing the liquid slopping over her shaking hand. “He
has seen her in this plane when she was but a shadow, when she was blocked from entering completely. He cannot imagine what she would be like—!”