Time of the Twins

Memories of his youth came back to him in a flood. Frail and sickly, noted for his biting sarcasm and his sly ways, Raistlin had certainly never attracted the attention of women, not like his handsome brother. Absorbed, obsessed by his studies of magic, he had not felt the loss—much. Oh, once he had experimented. One of Caramon’s girlfriends, bored by easy con quest, thought the big man’s twin brother might prove more interesting. Goaded by his brother’s gibes and those of his fellows, Raistlin had given way to her coarse overtures. It had been a disappointing experience for both of them. The girl returned gratefully to Caramon’s arms. For Raistlin, it had simply proved what he had long suspected—that he found true ecstasy only in his magic.

But this body—younger, stronger, more like his brother’s—ached with a passion he had never before experienced. Yet he could not give way to it. “I would end up destroying myself”—he saw with cold clarity—“and, far from furthering my objective, might well harm it. She is virgin, pure in mind and body. That purity is her strength. I need it tarnished, but I need it intact.”

Having firmly resolved this and being long experienced in the practice of exerting strict mental control over his emotions, the young mage relaxed and sat back in his chair, letting weariness sweep over him. The fire died low, his eyes closed in the rest that would renew his flagging power.

But, before he drifted off to sleep, still sitting in the chair, he saw once more, with unwanted vividness, a single tear glistening in the moonlight.

The Night of Doom continued. An acolyte was awakened from a sound sleep and told to report to Quarath. He found the elven cleric sitting in his chambers.

“Did you send for me, my lord?” the acolyte asked, attempting to stifle a yawn. He looked sleepy and rumpled. Indeed, his outer robes had been put on backward in his haste to answer the summons that had come so late in the night.

“What is the meaning of this report?” Quarath demanded, tapping at a piece of paper on his desk.

The acolyte bent over to look, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes enough to make the writing coherent.

“Oh, that,” he said after a moment. “Just what it says, my lord.”

“That Fistandantilus was not responsible for the death of my slave? I find that very difficult to believe.”

“Nonetheless, my lord, you may question the dwarf yourself. He confessed—after a great deal of monetary persuasion—that he had in reality been hired by the lord named there, who was apparently incensed at the church’s takeover of his holdings on the outskirts of the city.”

“I know what he’s incensed about!” Quarath snapped. “And killing my slave would be just like Onygion—sneaky and underhanded. He doesn’t dare face me directly.”

Quarath sat, musing. “Then why did that big slave commit the deed?” he asked suddenly, giving the acolyte a shrewd glance.

“The dwarf stated that this was something arranged privately between himself and Fistandantilus. Apparently the first ‘job’ of this nature that came his way was to be given to the slave, Caramon.”

“That wasn’t in the report,” Quarath said, eyeing the young man sternly.

“No,” the acolyte admitted, flushing. “I-I really don’t like putting anything about... the magic-user... down in writing. Anything like that, where he might read it—”

“No, I don’t suppose I blame you,” Quarath muttered. “Very well, you may go.”

The acolyte nodded, bowed, and returned thankfully to his bed.

Quarath did not go to his bed for long hours, however, but sat in his study, going over and over the report. Then, he sighed. “I am becoming as bad as the Kingpriest, jumping at shadows that aren’t there. If Fistandantilus wanted to do away with me, he could manage it within seconds. I should have realized—this is not his style.” He rose to his feet, finally. “Still, he was with her tonight. I wonder what that means? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps the man is more human than I would have supposed. Certainly the body he has appeared in this time is better than those he usually dredges up.”

The elf smiled grimly to himself as he straightened his desk and filed the report away carefully. ‘Yule is approaching. I will put this from my mind until the holiday season is past. After all, the time is fast coming when the Kingpriest will call upon the gods to eradicate evil from the face of Krynn. That will sweep this Fistandantilus and those who follow him back into the darkness which spawned them.”

He yawned, then, and stretched. “But I’ll take care of Lord Onygion first.”

The Night of Doom was nearly ended. Morning lit the sky as Caramon lay in his cell, staring into the gray light. Tomorrow was another game, his first since the “accident.”

Life had not been pleasant for the big warrior these last few days. Nothing had changed outwardly. The other gladiators were old campaigners, most of them, long accustomed to the ways of the Game.