Time of the Twins

“No, and you are right. It is madness, with my limited powers.” A trace of bitterness tinged the mage’s voice. “That is why I am about to undertake a journey.”

“Journey?” Dalamar looked up. “Where?”

“Not where—when,” Raistlin corrected. “You have heard me speak of Fistandantilus?”

“Many times, Shalafi,” Dalamar said, his voice almost reverent. “The greatest of our Order. Those are his spellbooks, the ones with the nightblue binding.”

“Inadequate,” Raistlin muttered, dismissing the entire library with a gesture. “I have read them all, many times in these past years, ever since I obtained the Key to their secrets from the Queen of Darkness herself. But they only frustrate me!” Raistlin clenched his thin hand. “I read these spellbooks and I find great gaps—entire volumes missing! Perhaps they were destroyed in the Cataclysm or, later, in the Dwarfgate Wars that proved Fistandantilus’s undoing. These missing volumes, this knowledge of his that has been lost, will give me the power I need!”

“And so your journey will take you—” Dalamar stopped in disbelief.

“Back in time,” Raistlin finished calmly. “Back to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when Fistandantilus was at the height of his power.”

Dalamar felt dizzy, his thoughts swirled in confusion. What would They say? Amidst all Their speculation, They had certainly not foreseen this!

“Steady, my apprentice.” Raistlin’s soft voice seemed to come to Dalamar from far away. “This has unnerved you. Some wine?”

The mage walked over to a table. Lifting a carafe, he poured a small glass of blood-red liquid and handed it to the dark elf. Dalamar took it gratefully, startled to see his hand shaking. Raistlin poured a small glass for himself.

“I do not drink this strong wine often, but tonight it seems we should have a small celebration. A toast to—how did you put it?—one of true holy powers. This, then, to Lady Crysania!”

Raistlin drank his wine in small sips. Dalamar gulped his down. The fiery liquid bit into his throat. He coughed.

“Shalafi, if the Live One reported correctly, Lord Soth cast a death spell upon Lady Crysania, yet she still lives. Did you restore her life?”

Raistlin shook his head. “No, I simply gave her visible signs of life so that my dear brother would not bury her. I cannot be certain what happened, but it is not difficult to guess. Seeing the death knight before her and knowing her fate, the Revered Daughter fought the spell with the only weapon she had, and a powerful one it was—the holy medallion of Paladine. The god protected her, transporting her soul to the realms where the gods dwell, leaving her body a shell upon the ground. There are none—not even I—who can bring her soul and body back together again. Only a high cleric of Paladine has that power.”

“Elistan?”

“Bah, the man is sick, dying...”

“Then she is lost to you!”

“No,” said Raistlin gently. “You fail to understand, apprentice. Through inattention, I lost control. But I have regained it quickly. Not only that, I will make this work to my advantage.

Even now, they approach the Tower of High Sorcery. Crysania was going there, seeking the help of the mages. When she arrives, she will find that help, and so will my brother.”

“You want them to help her?” Dalamar asked in confusion. “She plots to destroy you!”

Raistlin quietly sipped his wine, watching the young apprentice intently. “Think about it, Dalamar,” he said softly, “think about it, and you will come to understand. But”—the mage set down his empty glass—“I have kept you long enough.”

Dalamar glanced out the window. The red moon, Lunitari, was starting to sink out of sight behind the black jagged edges of the mountains. The night was nearing its midpoint.

“You must make your journey and be back before I leave in the morning,” Raistlin continued. “There will undoubtedly be some last-minute instructions, besides many things I must leave in your care. You will be in charge here, of course, while I am gone.”

Dalamar nodded, then frowned. “You spoke of my journey, Shalafi? I am not going anywhere—” The dark elf stopped, choking as he remembered that he did, indeed, have somewhere to go, a report to make.

Raistlin stood regarding the young elf in silence, the look of horrified realization dawning on Dalamar’s face reflected in the mage’s mirrorlike eyes. Then, slowly, Raistlin advanced upon the young apprentice, his black robes rustling gently about his ankles. Stricken with terror, Dalamar could not move. Spells of protection slipped from his grasp. His mind could think of nothing, see nothing, except two flat, emotionless, golden eyes.

Slowly, Raistlin lifted his hand and laid it gently upon Dalamar’s chest, touching the young man’s black robes with the tips of five fingers.

The pain was excruciating. Dalamar’s face turned white, his eyes widened, he gasped in agony. But the dark elf could not withdraw from that terrible touch. Held fast by Raistlin’s gaze, Dalamar could not even scream.