Time of the Twins

Every move hurt Tanis, and he could imagine how this woman must feel, unaccustomed as she was to physical exertion or hardship, and he was forced to regard her with grudging admiration. She had not complained once on their long and frightening journey. She had kept up with him, never lagging behind and obeying his instructions without question.

Why, then, he wondered, couldn’t he feel anything for her? What was there about her that irritated him and annoyed him? Looking at her face, Tanis had his answer. The only warmth there was the warmth reflected from the Inn’s light. Her face itself—even exhausted—was cold, passionless, devoid of—what? Humanity? Thus she had been all this long, dangerous journey. Oh, she had been coolly polite, coolly grateful, coolly distant and remote. She probably would have coolly buried me, Tanis thought grimly. Then, as if to reprimand him for his irreverent thoughts, his gaze was drawn to the medallion she wore around her neck, the Platinum Dragon of Paladine. He remembered Elistan’s parting words, spoken in private just before their journey’s beginning.

“It is fitting that you escort her, Tanis,” said the now-frail cleric. “In many ways, she begins a journey much like your own years ago—seeking self-knowledge. No, you are right, she doesn’t know this herself yet.” This in answer to Tanis’s dubious look. “She walks forward with her gaze fixed upon the heavens.” Elistan smiled sadly. “She has not yet learned that, in so doing, one will surely stumble. Unless she learns, her fall may be hard.” Shaking his head, he murmured a soft prayer. “But we must put our trust in Paladine.”

Tanis had frowned then and he frowned now, thinking about it. Though he had come to a strong belief in the true gods—more through Laurana’s love and faith in them than anything else—he felt uncomfortable trusting his life to them, and he grew impatient with those like Elistan who, it seemed, placed too great a burden upon the gods. Let man be responsible for himself for a change, Tanis thought irritably.

“What is it, Tanis?” Crysania asked coldly.

Realizing he had been staring at her all this while, Tanis coughed in embarrassment, cleared his throat, and looked away. Fortunately, the boy returned for Crysania’s horse at this moment, sparing Tanis the need to answer. He gestured at the Inn, and the two walked toward it.

“Actually,” Tanis said when the silence grew awkward, “I would like nothing better than to stay here and visit with my friends. But I have to be in Qualinesti the day after tomorrow, and only by hard riding will I arrive in time. My relations with my brother-in-law are not such that I can afford to offend him by missing Solostaran’s funeral.” He added with a grim smile, “Both politically and personally, if you take my meaning.”

Crysania smiled in turn, but—Tanis saw—it was not a smile of understanding. It was a smile of tolerance, as if this talk of politics and family were beneath her.

They had reached the door to the Inn. “Besides,” Tanis added softly, “I miss Laurana. Funny, isn’t it. When she is near and we’re busy about our own tasks, we’ll sometimes go for days with just a quick smile or a touch and then we disappear into our worlds. But when I’m far away from her, it’s like I suddenly awaken to find my right arm cut off. I may not go to bed thinking of my right arm, but when it is gone...”

Tanis stopped abruptly, feeling foolish, afraid he sounded like a lovesick adolescent. But Crysania, he realized, was apparently not paying the least bit of attention to him. Her smooth, marble face had grown, if anything, more cold until the moon’s silver light seemed warm by comparison. Shaking his head, Tanis pushed open the door.

I don’t envy Caramon and Riverwind, he thought grimly.

The warm, familiar sounds and smells of the Inn washed over Tanis and, for long moments, everything was a blur. Here was Otik, older and fatter, if possible, leaning upon a cane and pounding him on the back. Here were people he had not seen in years, who had never had much to do with him before, now shaking his hand and claiming his friendship. Here was the old bar, still brightly polished, and somehow he managed to step on a gully dwarf...

And then there was a tall man cloaked in furs, and Tanis was clasped inside his friend’s warm embrace.

“Riverwind,” he whispered huskily, holding onto the Plainsman tightly.

“My brother,” Riverwind said in Que-shu, the language of his people. The crowd in the Inn was cheering wildly, but Tanis didn’t hear them, because a woman with flaming red hair and a smattering of freckles had her hand upon his arm. Reaching out, still holding fast to Riverwind, Tanis gathered Tika into their embrace and for long moments the three friends clung to each other—bound together by sorrow and pain and glory.