Time of the Twins

The party inside the Temple was somewhat more cheerful, being held in the Kingpriest’s chambers that were shut away from the outside world. None could see the strange sky, and all those who came within the presence of the Kingpriest felt their irritation and fear melt away. Away from Raistlin, Crysania was once again under the Kingpriest’s spell and sat near him a long time. She did not speak, she simply let his shining presence comfort her and banish the dark, nighttime thoughts. But she, too, had seen the green sky. Remembering Raistlin’s words, she tried to recall what she had heard of the Thirteen Days.

But it was all children’s tales that were muddled together with the dreams she had had last night. Surely, she thought, the Kingpriest will notice! He will heed the warnings... She willed time to change or, if that were not possible, she willed the Kingpriest innocent. Sitting within his light, she banished from her mind the picture she had seen of the frightened mortal with his pale blue, darting eyes. She saw a strong man, denouncing the ministers who had deceived him, an innocent victim of their treachery...

The crowd at the arena that day was sparse, most not caring to sit out beneath the green sky, whose color deepened and darkened more and more fearfully as the day wore on.

The gladiators themselves were uneasy, nervous, and per formed their acts half-heartedly. Those spectators who came were sullen, refusing to cheer, cat-calling and hurling gibes at even their favorites.

“Do you often have such skies?” Kiiri asked, glancing up with a shudder as she and Caramon and Pheragas stood in the corridors, awaiting their turn in the arena. “If so, I know why my people choose to live beneath the sea!”

“My father sailed the sea,” growled Pheragas, “as did my grandfather before him, as did I, before I tried to knock some sense into the first mate’s head with a belaying pin and got sent here for my pains. And I’ve never seen a sky this color. Or heard of one either. It bodes ill, I’ll wager.”

“No doubt,” Caramon said uncomfortably. It had suddenly begun to sink into the big man that the Cataclysm was thirteen days away! Thirteen days... and these two friends, who had grown as dear to him as Sturm and Tanis, these two friends would perish! The rest of the inhabitants of Istar meant little to him. From what he had seen, they were a selfish lot, living mainly for pleasure and money (though he found he could not look upon the children without a pang of sorrow), but these two—He had to warn them, somehow. If they left the city, they might escape.

Lost in his thoughts, he had paid little attention to the fight in the arena. It was between the Red Minotaur, so called because the fur that covered his bestial face had a distinctly reddish-brown cast to it, and a young fighter—a new man, who had arrived only a few weeks before. Caramon had watched the young man’s training with patronizing amusement.

But then he felt Pheragas, who was standing next to him, stiffen. Caramon’s gaze went immediately to the ring. “What is it?”

“That trident,” Pheragas said quietly, “have you ever seen one like it in the prop room?”

Caramon stared hard at the Red Minotaur’s weapon, squinting against the harsh sun blazing in the green-glazed sky. Slowly, he shook his head, feeling anger stir inside of him. The young man was completely outclassed by the minotaur, who had fought in the arena for months and who, in fact, was rivaling Caramon’s team for the championship. The only reason the young man had lasted as long as he had was the skilled showmanship of the minotaur, who blundered around in a pretended battle rage that actually won a few laughs from the audience.

“A real trident. Arack intends to blood the young man, no doubt,” Caramon muttered. “Look there, I was right,” pointing to three bleeding scratches that suddenly appeared on the young man’s chest.

Pheragas said nothing, only flicked a glance at Kiiri, who shrugged.

“What is it?” Caramon shouted above the roar of the crowd. The Red Minotaur had just won by neatly tripping up his opponent and pinning him to the mat, thrusting the points of the trident down around his neck.

The young man staggered to his feet, feigning shame, anger, and humiliation as he had been taught. He even shook his fist at his victorious opponent before he stalked from the arena. But, instead of grinning as he passed Caramon and his team, enjoying a shared joke on the audience, the young man appeared strangely preoccupied and never looked at them. His face was pale, Caramon saw, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. His face twisted with pain, and he had his hand clasped over the bloody scratches.

“Lord Onygion’s man,” Pheragas said quietly, laying a hand on Caramon’s arm. “Count yourself fortunate, my friend. You can quit worrying.”