War of the Twins (54 page)

When the Knights were gone, and the last echoes of their footfalls had died away, Tas and Caramon set off in the opposite direction. Before they went, Tas retrieved his knife from Argat’s body.

“And you said once that a knife like this would be good only for killing vicious rabbits,” Tas said proudly, wiping the blood from the blade before thrusting it into his belt.

“Don’t mention rabbits,” Caramon said in such an odd, tight voice that Tas looked at him and was startled to see his face go deathly pale.

his was his moment. The moment he had been born to face. The moment for which he had endured the pain, the humiliation, the anguish of his life. The moment for which he had studied, fought, sacrificed … killed.

He savored it, letting the power flow over him and through him, letting it surround him, lift him. No other sounds, no other objects, nothing in this world existed for him this moment now save the Portal and the magic.

But even as he exulted in the moment, his mind was intent upon his work. His eyes studied the Portal, studied every detail intently—although it was not really necessary. He had seen it myriad times in dreams both sleeping and waking. The spells to open it were simple, nothing elaborate or complex. Each of the five dragon heads surrounding and guarding the Portal must be propitiated with the correct phrase. Each must be spoken to in the proper order. But, once that was done and the White-Robed Cleric had exhorted Paladine to intercede and hold the Portal open, they
would enter. It would close behind them.

And he would face his greatest challenge.

The thought excited him. His rapidly beating heart sent blood surging through his veins, throbbing in his temples, pulsing in his throat. Looking at Crysania, he nodded. It was time.

The cleric, her own face flushed with heightened excitement, her eyes already shimmering with the luster of the ecstasy of her prayers, took her place directly inside the Portal, facing Raistlin. This move required that she place utter, complete, unwavering confidence in him. For one wrong syllable spoken, the wrong breath drawn at the wrong moment, the slightest slip of the tongue or hand gesture would be fatal to her, to himself.

Thus had the ancients—devising ways to guard this dread gate that they, because of their folly, could not shut—sought to protect it. For a wizard of the Black Robes—who had committed the heinous deeds they knew
must
be committed to arrive at this point, and a Cleric of Paladine—pure of faith and soul—to put implicit trust in each other was a ludicrous supposition.

Yet, it had happened once: bound by the false charm of the one and the loss of faith of the other, Fistandantilus and Denubis had reached this point. And it would happen again, it seemed, with two bound by something that the ancients, for all their wisdom, had not foreseen—a strange, unhallowed love.

Stepping into the Portal, looking at Raistlin for the last time upon this world, Crysania smiled at him. He smiled back, even as the words for the first spell were forming in his mind.

Crysania raised her arms. Her eyes stared beyond Raistlin now, stared into the brilliant, beautiful realms where dwelt her god. She had heard the last words of the Kingpriest, she knew the mistake he had made—a mistake of pride, demanding of the god in his arrogance what he should have requested in humility.

At that moment Crysania had come to understand why the gods had—in their righteous anger—inflicted destruction
upon the world. And she had known in her heart that Paladine would answer
her
prayers, as he had not answered those of the Kingpriest. This was Raistlin’s moment of greatness. It was also her own.

Like the holy Knight, Huma, she had been through her trials. Trials of fire, darkness, death, and blood. She was ready. She was prepared.

“Paladine, Platinum Dragon, your faithful servant comes before you and begs that you shed your blessing upon her. Her eyes are open to your light. At last, she understands what you have, in your wisdom, been trying to teach her. Hear her prayer, Radiant One. Be with her. Open this Portal so that she may enter and go forward bearing your torch. Walk with her as she strives to banish the darkness forever!”

Raistlin held his breath. All depended on this! Had he been right about her? Did she possess the strength, the wisdom, the faith? Was she truly Paladine’s chosen? …

A pure and holy light began to glimmer from Crysania. Her dark hair shimmered, her white robes shone like sunlit clouds, her eyes gleamed like the silver moon. Her beauty at this moment was sublime.

“Thank you for granting my prayer, God of Light,” Crysania murmured, bowing her head. Tears sparkled like stars upon her pale face. “I will be worthy of you!”

Watching her, enchanted by her beauty, Raistlin forgot his great goal. He could only stare at her, entranced. Even the thoughts of his magic—for a heartbeat—fled.

Then he exulted. Nothing! Nothing could stop him now …

“Oh, Caramon!” whispered Tasslehoff in awe.

“We’re too late,” Caramon said.

The two, having made their way through the dungeons to the very bottom level of the magical fortress, came to a sudden halt—their eyes on Crysania. Enveloped in a halo of silver light, she stood in the center of the Portal, her arms outstretched, her face lifted to the heavens. Her unearthly beauty pierced Caramon’s heart.

“Too late? No!” Tas cried in anguish. “We can’t be!”

“Look, Tas,” Caramon said sadly. “Look at her eyes. She’s blind. Blind! Just as blind as I was in the Tower of High Sorcery. She cannot see through the light.…”

“We’ve got to
try
to talk to her, Caramon!” Tas clutched at him frantically. “We can’t let her go. It—it’s my fault! I’m the one who told her about Bupu! She might not have come if it hadn’t been for me! I’ll talk to her!”

The kender leaped forward, waving his arms. But he was jerked back suddenly by Caramon, who caught hold of him by his tassel of hair. Tas yelped in pain and protest, and—at the sound—Raistlin turned.

The archmage stared over at his twin and the kender for an instant without seeming to recognize them. Then recognition dawned in his eyes. It was not pleasant.

“Hush, Tas,” Caramon whispered. “It’s not your fault. Now, stay put!” Caramon thrust the kender behind a thick, granite pillar. “Stay there,” the big man ordered. “Keep the pendant safe—and yourself, too.”

Tas’s mouth opened to argue. Then he saw Caramon’s face and, looking down the corridor, he saw Raistlin. Something came over the kender. He felt as he had in the Abyss—wretched and frightened. “Yes, Caramon,” he said softly. “I’ll stay here. I—I promise.…”

Leaning against the pillar, shivering, Tas could see in his mind poor Gnimsh lying crumpled on the cell floor.

Giving the kender a final, warning glance, Caramon turned and limped down the corridor toward where his brother stood.

Gripping the Staff of Magius in his hand, Raistlin watched him warily. “So you survived,” he commented.

“Thanks to the gods, not you,” Caramon replied.

“Thanks to
one
god, my dear brother,” Raistlin said with a slight, twisted smile. “The Queen of Darkness. She sent the kender back here, and it was he, I presume, who altered time, allowing your life to be spared. Does it gall you, Caramon, to know you owe your life to the Dark Queen?”

“Does it gall you to know you owe her your soul?”

Raistlin’s eyes flashed, their mirrorlike surface cracking for just an instant. Then, with a sardonic smile, he turned away. Facing the Portal, he lifted his right hand and held it palm out, his gaze upon the dragon’s head at the lower right of the oval-shaped entrance.

“Black Dragon.”
His voice was soft, caressing.
“From darkness to darkness/My voice echoes in the emptiness.”

As Raistlin spoke these words, an aura of darkness began to form around Crysania, an aura of light as black as the nightjewel, as black as the light of the dark moon.…

Raistlin felt Caramon’s hand close over his arm. Angrily, he tried to shake off his brother’s grasp, but Caramon’s grip was strong.

“Take us home, Raistlin.…”

Raistlin turned and stared, his anger forgotten in his astonishment. “What?” His voice cracked.

“Take us home,” Caramon repeated steadily.

Raistlin laughed contemptuously.

“You are such a weak, sniveling fool, Caramon!” he snarled. Irritably he tried to shake off his twin’s grip. He might as well have tried to shake off death. “Surely you must know by now what I have done! The kender must have told you about the gnome, You know I betrayed you. I would have left you for dead in this wretched place. And still you cling to me!”

“I’m clinging to you because the waters are closing over your head, Raistlin,” Caramon said.

His gaze went down to his own, strong, sun-burned hand holding his brother’s thin wrist, its bones as fragile as the bones of a bird, its skin white, almost transparent. Caramon fancied he could see the blood pulse in the blue veins.

“My hand upon your arm. That’s all we have.” Caramon paused and drew a deep breath. Then, his voice deep with sorrow, he continued, “Nothing can erase what you have done, Raist. It can never be the same between us. My eyes have been opened. I now see you for what you are.”

“And yet you beg me to come with you!” Raistlin sneered.

“I could learn to live with the knowledge of what you are
and what you have done.” Looking intently into his brother’s eyes Caramon said softly, “But you have to live with yourself, Raistlin. And there are times in the night when that must be damn near unbearable.”

Raistlin did not respond. His face was a mask, impenetrable, unreadable.

Caramon swallowed a huskiness in his throat. His grip on his twin’s arm tightened. “Think of this, though. You
have
done good in your life, Raistlin—maybe better than most of us. Oh, I’ve helped people. It’s easy to help someone when that help is appreciated. But you helped those who only threw it back in your face. You helped those who didn’t deserve it. You helped even when you knew it was hopeless, thankless.” Caramon’s hand trembled. “There’s still good you could do … to make up for the evil. Leave this. Come home.”

Come home … come home.…

Raistlin closed his eyes, the ache in his heart almost unendurable. His left hand stirred, lifted. Its delicate fingers hovered near his brother’s hand, touching it for an instant with a touch as soft as the feet of a spider. On the edges of reality, he could hear Crysania’s soft voice, praying to Paladine. The lovely white light flickered upon his eyelids.

Come home.…

When Raistlin spoke next, his voice was soft as his touch.

“The dark crimes that stain my soul, brother, you cannot begin to imagine. If you knew, you would turn from me in horror and in loathing.” He sighed, shivering slightly. “And, you are right. Sometimes, in the night, even I turn from myself.”

Opening his eyes, Raistlin stared fixedly into his brother’s. “But, know this, Caramon—I committed those crimes intentionally, willingly. Know this, too—there are darker crimes before me, and I will commit them, intentionally, willingly.…” His gaze went to Crysania, standing unseeing in the Portal, lost in her prayers, shimmering with beauty and power.

Caramon looked at her and his face grew grim.

Raistlin, watching, smiled. “Yes, my brother. She will enter
the Abyss with me. She will go before me and fight my battles. She will face dark clerics, dark magic-users, spirits of the dead doomed to wander in that cursed land, plus the unbelievable torments that my Queen can devise. All these will wound her in body, devour her mind, and shred her soul. Finally, when she can endure no more, she will slump to the ground to lie at my feet … bleeding, wretched, dying.

“She will, with her last strength, hold out her hand to me for comfort. She will not ask me to save her. She is too strong for that. She will give her life for me willingly, gladly. All she will ask is that I stay with her as she dies.”

Raistlin drew a deep breath, then shrugged. “But I will walk past her, Caramon. I will walk past her without a look, without a word. Why? Because I will need her no longer. I will continue forward toward my goal, and my strength will grow even as the blood flows from her pierced heart.”

Half-turning, once again he raised his left hand, palm outward. Looking at the head of the dragon upon the top of the Portal, he softly said the second chant.
“White Dragon. From this world to the next/My voice cries with life.”

Caramon’s gaze was on the Portal, on Crysania, his mind swamped by horror and revulsion. Still he held onto his brother. Still he thought to make one last plea. Then he felt the thin arm beneath his hand make a sharp, twisting motion. There was a flash, a swift movement, and the gleaming blade of a silver dagger pressed against the flesh of his throat, right where his life’s blood pulsed in his neck.

“Let go of me, my brother,” Raistlin said.

And though he did not strike with the dagger, it drew blood anyway; drew blood not from flesh but from soul. Quickly and cleanly, it sliced through the last spiritual tie between the twins. Caramon winced slightly at the swift, sharp pain in his heart.