Time of the Twins

“It will not be easy, I know,” Kitiara said, drawing the dragonhelm over her head and walking rapidly toward Skie, who had reared his head in triumph at her approach. Patting her dragon lovingly upon his neck, Kitiara turned to face the death knight.

“But we do not have to confront Raistlin directly. His scheme hinges upon Lady Crysania. Remove her, and we stop him. He need never know I had anything to do with it, in fact. Many have died, trying to enter the Forest of Wayreth. Isn’t that so?”

Lord Soth nodded, his flaming eyes flaring slightly.

“You handle it. Make it appear to be... fate,” Kitiara said. “My little brother believes in that, apparently.” She mounted her dragon. “When he was small, I taught him that to refuse to do my bidding meant a whipping. It seems he must learn that lesson again!”

At her command, Skie’s powerful hind legs dug into the pavement, cracking and breaking the stones. He leaped into the air, spread his wings, and soared into the morning sky. The people of Palanthas felt a shadow lift from their hearts, but that was all they knew. Few saw the dragon or its rider leave.

Lord Soth remained standing upon the fringes of Shoikan Grove.

“I, too, believe in fate, Kitiara,” the death knight murmured. “The fate a man makes himself.”

Glancing up at the windows of the Tower of High Sorcery, Soth saw the light extinguished from the room where they had been. For a brief instant, the Tower was shrouded in the perpetual darkness that seemed to linger around it, a darkness the sun’s light could not penetrate. Then one light gleamed forth, from a room at the top of the tower.

The mage’s laboratory, the dark and secret room where Raistlin worked his magic.

“Who will learn this lesson, I wonder?” Soth murmured. Shrugging, he disappeared, melting into the waning shadows as daylight approached.

6

Let’s stop at this place,” Caramon said, heading for a ramshackle building that stood huddled back away from the trail, lurking in the forest like a sulking beast. “Maybe she’s been in here.”

“I really doubt it,” said Tas, dubiously eyeing the sign that hung by one chain over the door. “The 'Cracked Mug’ doesn’t seem quite the place—”

“Nonsense,” growled Caramon, as he had growled more times on this journey already than Tas could count, “she has to eat. Even great, muckety-muck clerics have to eat. Or maybe someone in here will have seen some sign of her on the trail. We’re not having any luck.”

“No,” muttered Tasslehoff beneath his breath, “but we might have more luck if we searched the road, not taverns.”

They had been on the road three days, and Tas’s worst misgivings about this adventure had proved true.

Ordinarily, kender are enthusiastic travelers. All kender are stricken with wanderlust somewhere near their twentieth year. At this time, they gleefully strike out for parts unknown, intent on finding nothing except adventure and whatever beautiful, horrible, or curious items might by chance fall into their bulging pouches. Completely immune to the self-preserving emotion of fear, afflicted by unquenchable curiosity, the kender population on Krynn was not a large one, for which most of Krynn was devoutly grateful.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot, now nearing his thirtieth year (at least as far as he could remember), was, in most regards, a typical kender. He had journeyed the length and breadth of the continent of Ansalon, first with his parents before they had settled down in Kenderhome. After coming of age, he wandered by himself until he met Flint Fireforge, the dwarven metalsmith and his friend, Tanis Half-Elven. After Sturm Brightblade, Knight of Solamnia, and the twins, Caramon and Raistlin, joined them, Tas became involved in the most wonderful adventure of his life—the War of the Lance.

But, in some respects, Tasslehoff was not a typical kender, although he would have denied this if it were mentioned. The loss of two people he loved dearly—Sturm Brightblade and Flint—touched the kender deeply. He had come to know the emotion of fear, not fear for himself, but fear and concern for those he cared about. His concern for Caramon, right now, was deep.

And it grew daily.

At first, the trip had been fun. Once Caramon got over his fit of sulks about Tika’s hard-heartedness and the inability of the world in general to understand him, he had taken a few swigs from his flask and felt better. After several more swigs, he began to relate stories about his days helping to track down draconians. Tas found this amusing and entertaining and, though he continually had to watch Bupu to make certain she didn’t get run over by a wagon or wander into a mudhole, he enjoyed his morning.

By afternoon, the flask was empty, and Caramon was even in such a good humor as to be ready to listen to some of Tas’s stories, which the kender never tired of relating. Unfortunately, right at the best part, when he was escaping with the woolly mammoth and the wizards were shooting lightning bolts at him, Caramon came to a tavern.