Time of the Twins

The mage always spoke gently and softly, sometimes not even raising his voice above a whisper. Dalamar had seen fearful storms rage in this chamber. The blazing lightning and crashing thunder had left him partially deaf for days. He had been present when the mage summoned creatures from the planes above and below to do his bidding; their screams and wails and curses still sounded in his dreams at night. Yet, through it all, he had never heard Raistlin raise his voice. Always that soft, sibilant whisper penetrated the chaos and brought it under control.

“Events are transpiring in the outside world, Shalafi, that demand your attention.”

“Indeed?” Raistlin looked down again, absorbed in his work.

“Lady Crysania—”

Raistlin’s hooded head lifted quickly. Dalamar, reminded forcibly of a striking snake, involuntarily fell back a step before that intense gaze.

“What? Speak!” Raistlin hissed the word.

“You—you should come, Shalafi,” Dalamar faltered. “The Live Ones report...”

The dark elf spoke to empty air. Raistlin had vanished.

Heaving a trembling sigh, the dark elf pronounced the words that would take him instantly to his master’s side.

Far below the Tower of High Sorcery, deep beneath the ground, was a small round room magically carved from the rock that supported the Tower. This room had not been in the Tower originally. Known as the Chamber of Seeing, it was Raistlin’s creation.

Within the center of the small room of cold stone was a perfectly round pool of still, dark water. From the center of the strange, unnatural pond spurted a jet of blue flame. Rising to the ceiling of the chamber, it burned eternally, day and night. And around it, eternally, sat the Live Ones.

Though the most powerful mage living upon Krynn, Raistlin’s power was far from complete, and no one realized that more than the mage himself. He was always forcibly reminded of his weaknesses when he came into this room—one reason he avoided it, if possible. For here were the visible, outward symbols of his failures—the Live Ones.

Wretched creatures mistakenly created by magic gone awry, they were held in thrall in this chamber, serving their creator. Here they lived out their tortured lives, writhing in a larva-like, bleeding mass about the flaming pool. Their shining wet bodies made a horrible carpet for the floor, whose stones, made slick with their oozings, could be seen only when they parted to make room for their creator.

Yet, despite their lives of constant, twisted pain, the Live Ones spoke no word of complaint. Far better their lot than those who roamed the Tower, those known as the Dead Ones.

Raistlin materialized within the Chamber of Seeing, a dark shadow emerging out of darkness. The blue flame sparkled off the silver threads that decorated his robes, shimmered within the black cloth. Dalamar appeared beside him, and the two walked over to stand beside the surface of the still, black water.

“Where?” Raistlin asked.

“Here, M-master,” blurbled one of the Live Ones, pointing a misshapen appendage.

Raistlin hurried to stand beside it, Dalamar walking by his side, their black robes making a soft, whispering sound upon the slimy stone floor. Staring into the water, Raistlin motioned Dalamar to do the same. The dark elf looked into the still surface, seeing for an instant only the reflection of the jet of blue flame. Then the flame and the water merged, then parted, and he was in a forest. A big human male, clad in ill-fitting armor, stood staring down at the body of a young human female, dressed in white robes. A kender knelt beside the body of the woman, holding her hand in his. Dalamar heard the big man speak as clearly as if he had been standing by his side.

“She’s dead...”

“I—I’m not sure, Caramon. I think—”

“I’ve seen death often enough, believe me. She’s dead. And it’s all my fault... my fault...”

“Caramon, you imbecile!” Raistlin snarled with a curse. “What happened? What went wrong?”

As the mage spoke, Dalamar saw the kender look up quickly.

“Did you say something?” the kender asked the big human, who was working in the soil.

“No. It was just the wind.”

“What are you doing?”

“Digging a grave. We’ve got to bury her.”

“Bury her?” Raistlin gave a brief, bitter laugh. “Oh, of course, you bumbling idiot! That’s all you can think of to do!” The mage fumed. ” Bury her! I must know what happened!” He turned to the Live One. “What did you see?”

“T-they c-camp in t-trees, M-master.” Froth dribbled from the creature’s mouth, its speech was practically unrecognizable. “D-draco k-kill—”

“Draconians?” Raistlin repeated in astonishment. “Near Solace? Where did they come from?”

“D-dunno! Dunno!” The Live One cowered in terror. “I-I—”

“Shhh,” Dalamar warned, drawing his master’s attention back to the pond where the kender was arguing.

“Caramon, you can’t bury her! She’s—”

“We don’t have any choice. I know it’s not proper, but Paladine will see that her soul journeys in peace. We don’t dare build a funeral pyre, not with those dragonmen around—”