Time of the Twins

“Ah, I acted as agent only.” The dwarf cackled. “I thought maybe you didn’t know!”

“But who is my—” And then Caramon knew the answer. He didn’t even hear the words the dwarf said. He couldn’t hear them over the sudden roaring sound that echoed in his brain. A blood-red tide surged over him, suffocating him. His lungs ached, his stomach heaved, and his legs gave way beneath him.

The next thing he knew, he was sitting in the corridor, the ogre holding his head down between his knees. The dizziness passed. Caramon gasped and lifted his head, shaking off the ogre’s grasp.

“I’m all right,” he said through bloodless lips.

Raag glanced at him, then up at the dwarf.

“We can’t take him out there in this condition,” Arack said, regarding Caramon with disgust. “Not looking like a fish gone belly up. Haul him to his room.”

“No,” said a small voice from the darkness. “I-I’ll take care of him.”

Tas crept out of the shadows, his face nearly as pale as Caramon’s.

Arack hesitated, then snarled something and turned away. With a gesture to the ogre, he hurried off, clambering up the stairs to make the awards to the victors.

Tasslehoff knelt beside Caramon, his hand on the big man’s arm. The kender’s gaze went to the body that lay forgotten on the stone floor. Caramon’s gaze followed. Seeing the pain and anguish in his eyes, Tas felt a lump come to his throat. He couldn’t say a word, he could only pat Caramon’s arm.

“How much did you hear?” Caramon asked thickly.

“Enough,” Tas murmured. “Fistandantilus.”

“He planned this all along.” Caramon sighed and leaned his head back, wearily closing his eyes. “This is how he’ll get rid of us. He won’t even have to do it himself. Just let this... this cleric...”

“Quarath.”

“Yeah, he’ll let this Quarath kill us.” Caramon’s fists clenched. “The wizard’s hands will be clean! Raistlin will never suspect. And all the time, every fight from now on, I’ll wonder. Is that dagger Kiiri holds real?” Opening his eyes, Caramon looked at the kender. “And you, Tas. You’re in this, too. The dwarf said so. I can’t leave, but you could! You’ve got to get out of here!”

“Where would I go?” Tas asked helplessly. “He’d find me, Caramon. He’s the most powerful magic-user that ever lived. Even kender can’t hide from people like him.”

For a moment the two sat together in silence, the roar of the crowd echoing above them. Then Tas’s eyes caught a gleam of metal across the corridor. Recognizing the object, he rose to his feet and crept over to retrieve it.

“I can get us inside the Temple,” he said, taking a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. Picking up the bloodstained dagger, he brought it back and handed it to Caramon.

“I can get us in tonight.”

8

The silver moon, Solinari, flickered on the horizon. Rising up over the central tower of the Temple of the Kingpriest, the moon looked like a candle flame burning on a tall, fluted wick. Solinari was full and bright this night, so bright that the services of the lightwalkers were not needed and the boys who earned their living lighting party-goers from one house to another with their quaint, silver lamps spent the night at home, cursing the bright moonlight that robbed them of their livelihood.

Solinari’s twin, the blood-red Lunitari, had not risen, nor would it rise for several more hours, flooding the streets with its eerie purplish brilliance. As for the third moon, the black one, its dark roundness among the stars was noted by one man, who gazed at it briefly as he divested himself of his black robes, heavy with spell components, and put on the simpler, softer, black sleeping gown. Drawing the black hood up over his head to blot out Solinari’s cold, piercing light, he lay down on his bed and drifted into the restful sleep so necessary to him and his Art.

At least that is what Caramon envisioned him doing as he and the kender walked the moonlit, crowded streets. The night was alive with fun. They passed group after group of merrymakers—parties of men laughing boisterously and discussing the games; parties of women, who clung together and shyly glanced at Caramon out of the corners of their eyes. Their filmy dresses floated around them in the soft breeze that was mild for late autumn. One such group recognized Caramon, and the big man almost ran, fearing they would call guards to take him back to the arena.

But Tas—wiser about the ways of the world—made him stay. The group was enchanted with him. They had seen him fight that afternoon and, already, he had won their hearts. They asked inane questions about the Games, then didn’t listen to his answers—which was just as well. Caramon was so nervous, he made very little sense. Finally they went on their way, laughing and bidding him good fortune. Caramon glanced at the kender wonderingly at this, but Tas only shook his head.

“Why did you think I made you dress up?” he asked Caramon shortly.