Time of the Twins

The light engulfed him, filling his soul with its radiant brilliance. And then, suddenly, the bright light was gone. He was once more standing in the sunlit room. But he wasn’t alone. Blinking, trying to accustom his eyes to the darkness, he looked around and saw an elf standing in the room with him, observing him coolly. The elf was elderly, balding, with a long, meticulously groomed, white beard. He was dressed in long, white robes, the medallion of Paladine hung about his neck. The expression on the elf’s face was one of sadness, such sadness that Denubis was moved to tears, though he had no idea why.

“I’m sorry,” Denubis said huskily. Putting his hand to his head, he suddenly realized it didn’t hurt anymore. “I-I didn’t see you come in. Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?”

“No, I have found the one I seek,” the elf said calmly, but still with the same sad expression, “if you are Denubis.”

“I am Denubis,” the cleric replied, mystified. “But, forgive me, I can’t place you—”

“My name is Loralon,” said the elf.

Denubis gasped. The greatest of the elven clerics, Loralon had, years ago, fought Quarath’s rise to power. But Quarath was too strong. Powerful forces backed him. Loralon’s words of reconciliation and peace were not appreciated. In sorrow, the old cleric had returned to his people, to the wondrous land of Silvanesti that he loved, vowing never to look upon Istar again.

What was he doing here?

“Surely, you seek the Kingpriest,” Denubis stammered, “I’ll—”

“No, there is only one in this Temple I seek and that is you, Denubis,” Loralon said. “Come, now. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Journey!” Denubis repeated stupidly, wondering if he were going mad. “That’s impossible. I’ve not left Istar since I came here, thirty years—”

“Come along, Denubis,” said Loralon gently.

“Where? How? I don’t understand—” Denubis cried. He saw Loralon standing in the center of the sunlit, peaceful room, watching him, still with that same expression of deep, unutterable sadness. Reaching up, Loralon touched the medallion he wore around his neck.

And then Denubis knew. Paladine gave his cleric insight. He saw the future. Blanching in horror, he shook his head.

“No,” he whispered. “That is too dreadful.”

“All is not decided. The scales of balance are tipping, but they have not yet been upset. This journey may be only temporary, or it may last for time beyond reckoning. Come, Denubis, you are needed here no longer.”

The great elven cleric stretched out his hand. Denubis felt blessed with a sense of peace and understanding he had never before experienced, even in the presence of the Kingpriest.

Bowing his head, he reached out and took Loralon’s hand. But, as he did so, he could not help weeping...

Crysania sat in a corner of the Kingpriest’s sumptuous Hall of Audience, her hands folded calmly in her lap, her face pale but composed. Looking at her, no one would have guessed the turmoil in her soul. No one, perhaps, except one man, who had entered the room unnoticed by anyone and who now stood in a shadowy alcove, watching Crysania.

Sitting there, listening to the musical voice of the Kingpriest, hearing him discuss important matters of state with his ministers, hearing him go from politics to solving the great mysteries of the universe with other ministers, Crysania actually blushed to think she had even considered approaching him with her petty questions.

Words of Elistan’s came to her mind. “Do not go to others for the answers. Look in your own heart, search your own faith. You will either find the answer or come to see that the answer is with the gods themselves, not with man.”

And so Crysania sat, preoccupied with her thoughts, searching her heart. Unfortunately, the peace she sought eluded her. Perhaps there were no answers to her questions, she decided abruptly. Then she felt a hand on her arm. Starting, Crysania looked up.

“There are answers to your questions, Revered Daughter,” said a voice that sent a thrill of shocked recognition through her nerves, “there are answers, but you refuse to listen to them.”

She knew the voice, but—looking eagerly into the shadows of the hood, she could not recognize the face. She glanced at the hand on her shoulder, thinking she knew that hand. Black robes fell around it, and her heart lurched. But there were no silver runes upon the robes, such as he wore. Once more, she stared into the face. All she could see was the glitter of hidden eyes, pale skin... Then the hand left her shoulder and, reaching up, turned back the front of the hood.