Time of the Twins

Caramon! Faint with relief, Crysania turned to welcome the big man with his solid, reassuring presence, his jovial, good-natured face. But her words of greeting died on her lips, swallowed up by the darkness that only seemed to grow deeper with the warrior’s arrival.

“Speaking of tests, I am pleased you survived yours, brother,” Raistlin said, his sardonic smile returned. “This lady”—he glanced at Crysania—“will have need of a body-guard where we go. I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have someone along I know and trust.”

Crysania shrank from the terrible sarcasm, and she saw Caramon flinch as though Raistlin’s words had been tiny, poisoned barbs, shooting in his flesh. The mage seemed neither to notice nor care, however. He was reading his spellbook, murmuring soft words and tracing symbols in the air with his delicate hands.

“Yes, I survived your test,” Caramon said quietly. Entering the room, he came into the light of the staff. Crysania caught her breath in fear.

“Raistlin!” she cried, backing away from Caramon as the big man came slowly forward, the bloody sword in his hand. “Raistlin, look!” Crysania said, stumbling into the desk near where the mage was standing, unknowingly stepping into the circle of silver powder. Grains of it clung to the bottom of her robe, shimmering in the staff’s light.

Irritated at the interruption, the mage glanced up.

“I survived your test,” Caramon repeated, “as you survived the Test in the Tower. There, they shattered your body. Here, you shattered my heart. In its place is nothing now, just a cold emptiness as black as your robes. And, like this swordblade, it is stained with blood. A poor wretch of a minotaur died upon this blade. A friend gave his life for me, another died in my arms. You’ve sent the kender to his death, haven’t you? And how many more have died to further your evil designs?” Caramon’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “This ends it, my brother. No more will die because of you. Except one—myself. It’s fitting, isn’t it, Raist? We came into this world together; together, we’ll leave it.”

He took another step forward. Raistlin seemed about to speak, but Caramon interrupted.

“You cannot use your magic to stop me, not this time. I know about this spell you plan to cast. I know it will take all of your power, all of your concentration. If you use even the smallest bit of magic against me, you will not have the strength to leave this place, and my end will be accomplished all the same. If you do not die at my hands, you will die at the hands of the gods.”

Raistlin gazed at his brother without comment, then, shrugging, he turned back to read in his book. It was only when Caramon took one more step forward, and Raistlin heard the man’s golden armor clank, that the mage sighed in exasperation and glanced up at his twin. His eyes, glittering from the depths of his hood, seemed the only points of light in the room.

“You are wrong, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “There is one other who will die.” His mirrorlike gaze went to Crysania, who stood alone, her white robes shimmering in the darkness, between the two brothers.

Caramon’s eyes were soft with pity as he, too, looked at Crysania, but the resolution on his face did not waver. “The gods will take her to them,” he said gently. “She is a true cleric. None of the true clerics died in the Cataclysm. That is why Par-Salian sent her back.” Holding out his hand, he pointed. “Look, there stands one, waiting.”

Crysania had no need to turn and look, she felt Loralon’s presence.

“Go to him, Revered Daughter,” Caramon told her. “Your place is in the light, not here in the darkness.”

Raistlin said nothing, he made no motion of any kind, just stood quietly at the desk, his slender hand resting upon the spellbook.

Crysania did not move. Caramon’s words beat in her mind like the wings of the evil creatures who fluttered about the Tower of High Sorcery. She heard the words, yet they held no meaning for her. All she could see was herself, holding the shining light in her hand, leading the people. The Key... the Portal... She saw Raistlin holding the Key in his hand, she saw him beckoning to her. Once more, she felt the touch of Raistlin’s lips, burning, upon her forehead.

A light flickered and died. Loralon was gone.

“I cannot,” Crysania tried to say, but no voice came. None was needed. Caramon understood. He hesitated, looking at her for one, long moment, then he sighed.

“So be it,” Caramon said coolly, as he, too, advanced into the silver circle. “Another death will not matter much to either of us now, will it, my brother?”

Crysania stared, fascinated, at the bloodstained sword shining in the staff’s light. Vividly, she pictured it piercing her body and, looking up into Caramon’s eyes, she saw that he pictured the same thing, and that even this would not deter him. She was nothing to him, not even a living, breathing human. She was merely an obstacle in his path, keeping him from his true objective—his brother.