War of the Twins (33 page)

Rising to her feet, Kit nervously crossed the soft carpet with its muted images of trees and flowers so beloved of the elves. Feeling suddenly chilled, she stood before the fire. Dalamar came to stand beside her, his black robes rustling. Even as Kit spoke, absorbed in her own thoughts and fears, she was conscious of the elf’s warm body near hers.

“What do your mages think will happen?” she asked abruptly. “Who will win, if he succeeds in this insane plan? Does he have a chance?”

Dalamar shrugged and, moving a step nearer, put his hands on Kitiara’s slender neck. His fingers softly caressed her smooth skin. The sensation was delicious. Kitiara closed her eyes, drawing a deep, shivering breath.

“The mages do not know,” Dalamar said softly, bending down to kiss Kitiara just below her ear. Stretching like a cat, she arched her body back against his.

“Here he would be in his element,” Dalamar continued, “the Queen would be weakened. But she certainly would not be easily defeated. Some think the magical battle between the two could well destroy the world.”

Lifting her hand, Kitiara ran it through the elf’s thick, silken hair, drawing his eager lips to her throat. “But … does he have a chance?” she persisted in a husky whisper.

Dalamar paused, then drew back away from her. His hands still on her shoulders, he turned Kitiara around to face him. Looking into her eyes, he saw what she was thinking. “Of course. There’s always a chance.”

“And what is it you will do, if he succeeds in entering the Portal?” Kitiara’s hands rested lightly on Dalamar’s chest, where her half-brother had left his terrible mark. Her eyes, looking into the elf’s, were luminous with passion that almost, but not quite, hid her calculating mind.

“I am to stop him from returning to this world,” Dalamar said. “I am to block the Portal so that he cannot come through.” His hand traced her crooked, curving lips.

“What will be your reward for so dangerous an assignment?” She pressed closer, biting playfully at his fingertips.

“I will be Master of the Tower, then,” he answered. “And the next head of the Order of Black Robes. Why?”

“I could help you,” Kitiara said with a sigh, moving her fingers over Dalamar’s chest and up over his shoulders, kneading her hands into his flesh like a cat’s paws. Almost convulsively, Dalamar’s hands tightened around her, drawing her nearer still.

“I could help,” Kitiara repeated in a fierce whisper. “You cannot fight him alone.”

“Ah, my dear”—Dalamar regarded her with a wry, sardonic smile—“who would you help—me or him?”

“Now that,” said Kitiara, slipping her hands beneath the tear in the fabric of the dark elf’s black robes, “would depend entirely upon who’s winning!”

Dalamar’s smile broadened, his lips brushed her chin. He whispered into her ear, “Just so we understand each, lord.”

“Oh, we understand each other,” Kitiara said, sighing with pleasure. “And now, enough of my brother. There is something I would ask. Something I have long been curious about. What do magic-users wear beneath their robes, dark elf?”

“Very little,” Dalamar murmured. “And what do warrior women wear beneath their armor?”

“Nothing.”

Kitiara was gone.

Dalamar lay, half-awake and half-asleep, in his bed. Upon his pillow, he could still smell the fragrance of her hair—perfume and steel—a strange, intoxicating mixture not unlike Kitiara herself.

The dark elf stretched luxuriously, grinning. She would betray him, he had no doubt about that. And she knew he would destroy her in a second, if necessary, to succeed in his purpose. Neither found the knowledge bitter. Indeed, it added an odd spice to their lovemaking.

Closing his eyes, letting sleep drift over him, Dalamar heard, through his open window, the sound of dragonwings
spreading for flight. He imagined her, seated upon her blue dragon, the dragonhelm glinting in the moonlight.…

Dalamar!

The dark elf started and sat up. He was wide awake. Fear coursed through his body. Trembling at the sound of that familiar voice, he glanced about the room.

“Shalafi?”
He spoke hesitantly. There was no one there. Dalamar put his hand to his head. “A dream,” he muttered.

Dalamar!

The voice again, this time unmistakable. Dalamar looked around helplessly, his fear increasing. It was completely unlike Raistlin to play games. The archmage had cast the time-travel spell. He had journeyed back in time. He had been gone a week and was not expected to return for many more. Yet Dalamar knew that voice as he knew the sound of his own heartbeat!

“
Shalafi
, I hear you,” Dalamar said, trying to keep his tone firm. “Yet I cannot see you. Where—”

I am, as you surmise, back in time, apprentice. I speak to you through the dragon orb. I have an assignment for you. Listen to me carefully and follow my instructions exactly. Act at once. No time must be lost. Every second is precious.…

Closing his eyes that he might concentrate, Dalamar heard the voice clearly, yet he also heard sounds of laughter floating in through the open window. A festival of some sort, designed to honor spring, was beginning. Outside the gates of Old City, bonfires burned, young people exchanged flowers in the light and kisses in the dark. The air was sweet with rejoicing and love and the smell of spring blooming roses.

But then Raistlin began speaking and Dalamar heeded none of these. He forgot Kitiara. He forgot love. He forgot springtime. Listening, questioning, understanding, his entire body tingled with the voice of his
Shalafi
.

ertrem padded softly through the halls of the Great Library of Palanthas. His Aesthetics’ robes whispered about his ankles, their rustle keeping time to the tune Bertrem hummed as he went along. He had been watching the spring festival from the windows of the Great Library and now, as he returned to his work among the thousands and thousands of books and scrolls housed within the Library, the melody of one of the songs lingered in his head.

“Ta-tum, ta-tum,” Bertrem sang in a thin, off-key voice, pitched low so as not to disturb the echoes of the vast, vaulted halls of the Great Library.

The echoes were all that could be disturbed by Bertrem’s singing, the Library itself being closed and locked for the night. Most of the other Aesthetics—members of the order whose lives were spent in study and maintenance of the Great Library’s collection of knowledge gathered from the beginning of Krynn’s time—were either sleeping or absorbed in their own works.

“Ta-tum, ta-tum. My lover’s eyes are the eyes of the doe. Ta-tum, ta-tum. And I am the hunter, closing in …” Bertrem even indulged in an impromptu dance step.

“Ta-tum, ta-tum. I lift my bow and draw my arrow—” Bertrem skipped around a corner. “I loose the shaft. It flies to my lover’s heart and—Ho, there! Who are you?”

Bertrem’s own heart leaped into his throat, very nearly strangling the Aesthetic as he was suddenly confronted with a tall, black-robed and hooded figure standing in the center of the dimly lit marble hall.

The figure did not answer. It simply stared at him in silence.

Gathering his wits and his courage and his robes about him, Bertrem glared at the intruder.

“What business have you here? The Library’s closed! Yes, even to those of the Black Robes.” The Aesthetic frowned and waved a pudgy hand. “Be gone. Return in the morning, and use the front door, like everyone else.”

“Ah, but I am not everyone else,” said the figure, and Bertrem started, for he detected an elvish accent though the words were Solamnic. “As for doors, they are for those without the power to pass through walls. I have that power, as I have the power to do other things, many not so pleasant.”

Bertrem shuddered. This smooth, cool elven voice did not make idle threats.

“You are a dark elf,” Bertrem said accusingly, his brain scrambling about, trying to think what to do. Should he raise the alarm? Yell for help?

“Yes.” The figure removed his black hood so that the magical light imprisoned in the globes hanging from the ceiling—a gift from the magic-users to Astinus given during the Age of Dreams—fell upon his elven features. “My name is Dalamar. I serve—

“Raistlin Majere!” Bertrem gasped. He glanced about uneasily, expecting the black-robed archmage to leap out at him any moment.

Dalamar smiled. The elven features were delicate, handsome. But there was a cold, single-minded purposefulness about them that chilled Bertrem. All thoughts of calling for help vanished from the Aesthetic’s mind.

“Wha-what do you want?” he stammered.

“It is what my master wants,” Dalamar corrected. “Do not be frightened. I am here seeking knowledge, nothing more. If you aid me, I will be gone as swiftly and silently as I have come.”

If I don’t aid him.… Bertrem shivered from head to toe. “I will do what I can, magus,” the Aesthetic faltered, “but you should really talk to.…”

“Me,” came a voice out of the shadows.

Bertrem nearly fainted in relief.

“Astinus!” he babbled, pointing at Dalamar, “this … he … I didn’t let him … appeared … Raistlin Majere …”

“Yes, Bertrem,” Astinus said soothingly. Coming forward, he patted the Aesthetic on the arm. “I know everything that has transpired.” Dalamar had not moved, nor even indicated that he was aware of Astinus’s presence. “Return to your studies, Bertrem,” Astinus continued, his deep baritone echoing through the quiet hallways. “I will handle this matter.”

“Yes, Master!” Bertrem backed thankfully down the hall, his robes fluttering about him, his gaze on the dark elf, who had still neither moved nor spoken. Reaching the corner, Bertrem vanished around it precipitously, and Astinus could hear, by the sounds of his flapping sandals, that he was running down the hallway.

The head of the Great Library of Palanthas smiled, but only inwardly. To the eyes of the dark elf watching him, the man’s calm, ageless face reflected no more emotion than the marble walls about them.

“Come this way, young mage,” Astinus said, turning abruptly and starting off down the hall with a quick, strong stride that belied his middle-aged appearance.

Caught by surprise, Dalamar hesitated, then—seeing he was being left behind—hurried to catch up.

“How do you know what I seek?” the dark elf demanded.

“I am a chronicler of history,” Astinus replied imperturbably “Even as we speak and walk, events transpire around us and I am aware of them. I hear every word spoken, I see every deed committed, no matter how mundane, how good, how evil. Thus I have watched throughout history. As I was the first, so shall I be the last. Now, this way.”

Astinus made a sharp turn to his left. As he did so, he lifted a glowing globe of light from its stand and carried it with him in his hand. By the light, Dalamar could see long rows of books standing on wooden shelves. He could tell by their smooth leather binding that they were old. But they were in excellent condition. The Aesthetics kept them dusted and, when necessary, rebound those particularly worn.

“Here is what you want”—Astinus gestured—“the Dwarfgate Wars”

Dalamar stared. “All these?” He gazed down a seemingly endless row of books, a feeling of despair slowly creeping over him.

“Yes,” Astinus replied coldly, “and the next row of books as well.”

“I—I …” Dalamar was completely at a loss. Surely Raistlin had not guessed the enormity of this task. Surely he couldn’t expect him to devour the contents of these hundreds of volumes within the specified time limit. Dalamar had never felt so powerless and helpless before in his life. Flushing angrily, he sensed Astinus’s icelike gaze upon him.

“Perhaps I can help,” the historian said placidly. Reaching up, without even reading the spine, Astinus removed one volume from the shelf. Opening it, he flipped quickly through the thin, brittle pages, his eyes scanning the row after row of neat precisely written, black-inked letters.

“Ah, here it is.” Drawing an ivory marker from a pocket of his robes, Astinus laid it across a page in the
book, shut it carefully, then handed the book to Dalamar. “Take this with you. Give him the information he seeks. And tell him this—‘The wind blows. The footsteps in the sand will be erased, but only after he has trod them.’ ”

The historian bowed gravely to the dark elf, then walked past him, down the row of books to reach the corridor again. Once there, he stopped and turned to face Dalamar, who was standing, staring, clutching the book Astinus had thrust into his hands.

“Oh, young mage. You needn’t come back here again. The book will return of its own accord when you are finished. I cannot have you frightening the Aesthetics. Poor Bertrem will have undoubtedly taken to his bed. Give your
Shalafi
my greetings.”

Astinus bowed again and disappeared into the shadows.

Dalamar remained standing, pondering, listening to the historian’s slow, firm step fade down the hallway. Shrugging, the dark elf spoke a word of magic and returned to the Tower of High Sorcery.

“What Astinus gave me is his own commentary on the Dwarfgate Wars,
Shalafi
. It is drawn from the ancient texts he wrote—”