War of the Twins (13 page)

But, as swiftly as they touched him, they were gone. He found himself standing very dose to the lovely, pale woman, and so mild was the expression in her eyes that Tas might well
have doubted she was the cause of the pain, except that—looking down at his palm—he saw a mark there, like a five-pointed star.

Tell me your story
.

Tas started. The woman’s lips had not moved, but he heard her speak. He realized, also, in sudden fright, that she probably knew more of his story than he did.

Sweating, clutching his pouches nervously, Tasslehoff Burrfoot made history that day—at least as far as kender storytelling was concerned. He told the entire story of his trip to Istar in under five seconds. And every word was true.

“Par-Salian accidentally sent me back in time with my friend Caramon. We were going to kill Fistandantilus only we discovered it was Raistlin so we didn’t. I was going to stop the Cataclysm with a magical device, but Raistlin made me break it. I followed a cleric named Lady Crysania down to a laboratory beneath the Temple of Istar to find Raistlin and make him fix the device. The roof caved in and knocked me out. When I woke up, they had all left me and the Cataclysm struck and now I’m dead and I’ve been sent to the Abyss.”

Tasslehoff drew a deep, quivering breath and mopped his face with the end of his long topknot of hair. Then, realizing his last comment had been less than complimentary, he hastened to add, “Not that I’m complaining, Your Majesty. I’m certain whoever did this must have had quite a good reason. After all, I did break a dragon orb, and I seem to recall once someone said I took something that didn’t belong to me, and … and I wasn’t as respectful of Flint as I should have been, I guess, and once, for a joke, I hid Caramon’s clothes while he was taking a bath and he had to walk into Solace stark naked. But”—Tas could not help a snuffle—“I always helped Fizban find his hat!”

You are not dead
, said the voice,
nor have you been sent here. You are not, in fact, supposed to be here at all
.

At this startling revelation, Tasslehoff looked up directly into the Queen’s dark and shadowy eyes. “I’m not?” he squeaked, feeling his voice go all queer. “Not dead?” Involuntarily, he put his hand to his head—which still ached. “So that
explains it! I just thought someone had botched things up—”

Kender are not allowed here
, continued the voice.

“That doesn’t surprise me,” Tas said sadly, feeling much more himself since he wasn’t dead. “There are quite a number of places on Krynn kender aren’t allowed.”

The voice might not have even heard him.
When you entered the laboratory of Fistandantilus, you were protected by the magical enchantment he had laid on the place. The rest of Istar was plunged far below the ground at the time the Cataclysm struck. But I was able to save the Temple of the Kingpriest. When I am ready, it will return to the world, as will I, myself.”

“But you won’t win,” said Tas before he thought. “I—I k-know,” he stuttered as the dark-eyed gaze shot right through him. “I was th-there.”

No, you were not there, for that has not happened yet. You see, kender, by disrupting Par-Salian’s spell, you have made it possible to alter time. Fistandantilus—or Raistlin, as you know him—told you this. That was why he sent you to your death—or so he supposed. He did not want time altered: The Cataclysm was necessary to him so that he could bring this cleric of Paladine forward to a time when he will have the only true cleric in the land
.

It seemed to Tasslehoff that he saw, for the first time, a flicker of dark amusement in the woman’s shadowy eyes, and he shivered without understanding why.

How soon you will come to regret that decision, Fistandantilus, my ambitious friend. But it is too late. Poor, puny mortal. You have made a mistake—a costly mistake. You are locked in your own time loop. You rush forward to your own doom
.

“I don’t understand,” cried Tas.

Yes, you do
, said the voice calmly.
Your coming has shown me the future. You have given me the chance to change it. And, by destroying you, Fistandantilus has destroyed his only chance of breaking free. His body will perish again, as he perished long ago. Only this time, when his soul seeks another body to house it, I will stop him. Thus, the young mage, Raistlin, in the future, will take the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery, and he will die there. He will not live to thwart my plans. One by one, the others will die. For without Raistlin’s help, Goldmoon will not find the blue crystal
staff. Thus—the beginning of the end for the world
.

“No!” Tas whimpered, horror-stricken. “This—this can’t be! I-I didn’t mean to do this. I-I just wanted to- to go with Caramon on-on this adventure! He-he couldn’t have made it alone. He
needed
me!”

The kender stared around frantically, seeking some escape. But, though there seemed everywhere to run, there was nowhere to hide. Dropping to his knees before the black-clothed woman, Tas stared up at her. “What have I done? What have I done?” he cried frantically.

You have done such that even Paladine might be tempted to turn his back upon you, kender
.

“What will you do to me?” Tas sobbed wretchedly. “Where will I go?” He lifted a tear-streaked face. “I don’t suppose you c-could send me back to Caramon? Or back to my own time?”

Your time no longer exists. As for sending you to Caramon, that is quite impossible, as you surely must understand. No, you will remain here, with me, so I may insure that nothing goes wrong
.

“Here?” Tas gasped. “How long?”

The woman began to fade before his eyes, shimmering and finally vanishing into the nothingness around him.
Not long, I should imagine, kender. Not long at all. Or perhaps always.…

“What do you—what does she mean?” Tas turned to face the gray-haired cleric, who had sprung up to fill the void left by Her Dark Majesty. “Not long or always?”

“Though not dead, you are—even now—dying. Your lifeforce is ebbing from you, as it must for any of the living who mistakenly venture down here and who have not the power to fight the evil that devours them from within. When you are dead, the gods will determine your fate.”

“I see,” said Tas, choking back a lump in his throat. He hung his head. “I deserve it, I suppose. Oh, Tanis, I’m sorry! I truly didn’t mean to do it.…”

The cleric gripped his arm painfully. The surroundings changed, the ground shifted away beneath his feet. But Tasslehoff never noticed. His eyes filling with tears, he gave himself up to dark despair and hoped death would come quickly.

ere you are,” said the dark cleric.

“Where?” Tas asked listlessly, more out of force of habit than because he cared.

The cleric paused, then shrugged. “I suppose if there were a prison in the Abyss, you would be in it now.”

Tas looked around. As usual, there was nothing there—simply a vast barren stretch of eerie emptiness. There were no walls, no cells, no barred windows, no doors, no locks, no jailer. And he knew, with deep certainty, that—this time—there was no escape.

“Am I supposed to just stand here until I drop?” Tas asked in a small voice. “I mean, couldn’t I at least have a bed and a-a stool—oh!”

As he spoke, a bed materialized before his eyes, as did a three-legged, wooden stool. But even these familiar objects appeared so horrifying, sitting in the middle of nothing, that Tas could not bear to look at them long.

“Th-thank you,” he stammered, walking over to sit down
upon the stool with a sigh. “What about food and water?”

He waited a moment, to see if these, too, would appear. But they didn’t. The cleric shook his head, his gray hair forming a swirling cloud around him.

“No, the needs of your mortal body will be cared for while you are here. You will feel no hunger or thirst. I have even healed your wounds.”

Tas suddenly noticed that his ribs had stopped hurting and the pain in his head was gone. The iron collar had vanished from around his neck.

“There is no need for your thanks,” the cleric continued, seeing Tas open his mouth. “We do this so that you will not interrupt us in our work. And, so, farewell—”

The dark cleric raised his hands, obviously preparing to depart.

“Wait!” Tas cried, leaping up from his stool and clutching at the dark, flowing robes. “Won’t I see you again? Don’t leave me alone!” But he might as well have tried to grab smoke. The flowing robes slipped through his fingers, and the dark cleric disappeared.

“When you are dead, we will return your body to lands above and see that your soul speeds on its way … or stays here, as you may be judged. Until that time, we have no more need of contact with you.”

“I’m alone!” Tas said, glancing around his bleak surroundings in despair. “Truly alone … alone until I die.… Which won’t be long,” he added sadly. Walking over, he sat down upon his stool. “I might as well die as fast as possible and get it over with. At least I’ll probably go someplace different—I hope.” He looked up into the empty vastness.

“Fizban,” Tas said softly, “you probably can’t hear me from clear down here. And I don’t suppose there’s anything you could do for me anyway, but I
did
want to tell you, before I die, that I didn’t
mean
to cause all this trouble, disrupting Par-Salian’s spell and going back in time when I wasn’t supposed to go and all that.”

Heaving a sigh, Tas pressed his small hands together, his lower lip quivering. “Maybe that doesn’t count for much … 
and I suppose that—if I must be honest—part of me went along with Caramon just because”—he swallowed the tears that were beginning to trickle down his nose—“just because it sounded like so much fun! But, truly, part of me went with him because he had no business going back into the past alone! He was fuddled because of the dwarf spirits, you see. And I promised Tika I’d look after him. Oh, Fizban! If there were just some way out of this mess, I’d try my best to straighten everything out. Honestly—”

“Hullothere.”

“What?” Tas nearly fell off his stool. Whirling around, half thinking he might see Fizban, he saw, instead, only a short figure—shorter even than himself—dressed in brown britches, a gray tunic, and a brown leather apron.

“Isaidhullothere,” repeated the voice, rather irritably.

“Oh, he-hello,” Tas stammered, staring at the figure. It certainly didn’t
look
like a dark cleric, at least Tas had never heard of any that wore brown leather aprons. But, he supposed, there could always be exceptions especially considering the fact that brown leather aprons are such useful things. Still, this person bore a strong resemblance to someone he knew, if only he could remember.…

“Gnosh!” Tas exclaimed suddenly, snapping his fingers. “You’re a gnome! Uh, pardon me for asking such a personal question”—the kender flushed in embarrassment—“but are you—uh—dead?”

“Areyou?” the gnome asked, eyeing the kender suspiciously.

“No,” said Tas, rather indignantly.

“WellI’mnoteither!” snapped the gnome.

“Uh, could you slow down a bit?” Tas suggested. “I know your people talk rapidly, but it makes it hard for us to understand, sometimes—”

“I said I’m not either!” the gnome shouted loudly.

“Thank you,” Tas said politely. “And I’m not hard of hearing. You can talk in a normal tone of voice—er, talk
slowly
in a normal tone of voice,” the kender hurried to add, seeing the gnome draw in a breath.

“What’s … your … name?” the gnome asked, speaking at a snail’s pace.

“Tasslehoff … Burrfoot.” The kender extended a small hand, which the gnome took and shook heartily. “What’s … yours? I mean—what’s yours? Oh, no! I didn’t mean—”

But it was too late. The gnome was off.

“Gnimshmarigongalesefrahootsputhturandotsamanella—”

“The short form!” Tas cried when the gnome stopped for breath.

“Oh.” The gnome appeared downcast. “Gnimsh.”

“Thank you. Nice meeting you—uh—Gnimsh,” Tas said, sighing in relief. He had completely forgotten that every gnome’s name provides the unwary listener with a complete account of the gnome’s family’s life history, beginning with his earliest known (or imagined) ancestor.

“Nice meeting you, Burrfoot,” the gnome said, and they shook hands again.

“Will you be seated?” Tas said, sitting down on the bed and gesturing politely toward the stool. But Gnimsh gave the stool a scathing glance and sat down in a chair that materialized right beneath him. Tas gasped at the sight. It was truly a remarkable chair—it had a footrest that went up and down and rockers on the bottom that let the chair rock back and forth and it even tilted completely backward, letting the person sitting in it lie down if so inclined.

Unfortunately, as Gnimsh sat down, the chair tilted too far backward, flipping the gnome out on his head. Grumbling, he climbed back in it and pressed a lever. This time, the footrest flew up, striking him in the nose. At the same time, the back came forward and, before long, Tas had to help rescue Gnimsh from the chair, which appeared to be eating him.