Time of the Twins

“He wants to become a god,” Dalamar answered softly. “He will challenge the Queen of Darkness herself. That is his plan.”

The mages said nothing, they did not move, but their silence seemed to stir among them like shifting currents of air as they stared at Dalamar with glittering, unblinking eyes.

Then Par-Salian sighed. “I think you overestimate him.”

There was a ripping, rending sound, the sound of cloth being torn apart. Tas saw the dark elf’s arms jerk, tearing open the fabric of his robes.

“Is this overestimating him?” Dalamar cried.

The mages leaned forward, a gasp whispered through the vast hall like a chill wind. Tas struggled to see, but Caramon’s hand held him fast. Irritably, Tas glanced up at Caramon’s face. Wasn’t he curious? But Caramon appeared totally unmoved.

“You see the mark of his hand upon me,” Dalamar hissed. “Even now, the pain is almost more than I can bear.” The young elf paused, then added through clenched teeth. “He said to give you his regards, Par-Salian!”

The great mage’s head bent. The hand rising to support it shook as with a palsy. He seemed old, feeble, weary. For a moment, the mage sat with his eyes covered, then he raised his head and looked intently at Dalamar.

“So—our worst fears are realized.” Par-Salian’s eyes narrowed questioningly. “He knows, then, that we sent you—”

“To spy on him?” Dalamar laughed, bitterly. “Yes, he knows!” The dark elf spit the words. “He’s known all along. He’s been using me—using all of us—to further his own ends.”

“I find this all very difficult to believe,” stated the red-robed mage in a mild voice. “We all admit that young Raistlin is certainly powerful, but I find this talk of challenging a goddess quite ridiculous... quite ridiculous indeed.”

There were murmured assents from both halves of the semicircle.

“Oh, do you?” Dalamar asked, and there was a lethal softness in his voice. “Then, let me tell you fools that you have no idea of the meaning of the word power. Not as it relates to him! You cannot begin to fathom the depths of his power or to soar the heights! I can! I have seen”—for a moment Dalamar paused, his voice lost its anger and was filled with wonder—“I have seen such things as none of you have dared imagine! I have walked the realms of dreams with my eyes open! I have seen beauty to make the heart burst with pain. I have descended into nightmares—I have witnessed horrors”—he shuddered—“horrors so nameless and terrible that I begged to be struck dead rather than look upon them!” Dalamar glanced around the semi-circle, gathering them all together with his flashing, dark-eyed gaze. “And all these wonders he summoned, he created, he brought to life with his magic.”

There was no sound, no one moved.

“You are wise to be afraid, Great One,” Dalamar’s voice sank to a whisper. “But no matter how great your fear, you do not fear him enough. Oh, yes, he lacks power to cross that dread threshold. But that power he goes to find. Even as we speak, he is preparing himself for the long journey. Upon my return tomorrow, he will leave.”

Par-Salian raised his head. “Your return?” he asked, shocked. “But he knows you for what you are—a spy, sent by us, the Conclave, his fellows.” The great mage’s glance went to the chair that stood empty amidst the Black Robes, then he rose to his feet. “No, young Dalamar. You are very courageous, but I cannot allow you to return to what would undoubtedly he tortured death at his hands.”

“You cannot stop me,” Dalamar said, and there was no emotion in his voice. “I said before—I would give my soul to study with such as he. And now, though it costs me my life, I will stay with him. He expects me back. He leaves me in charge of the Tower of High Sorcery in his absence.”

“He leaves you to guard?” the red-robed mage said dubiously. “You, who have betrayed him?”

“He knows me,” Dalamar said bitterly. “He knows he has ensnared me. He has stung my body and sucked my soul dry, yet I will return to the web. Nor will I be the first.” Dalamar motioned down at the still, white form lying on the pallet before him. Then, half-turning, the dark elf glanced at Caramon. “Will I, brother?” he said with a sneer.

At last, Caramon seemed driven to action. Angrily shaking Bupu loose from his foot, the warrior took a step forward, both the kender and the gully dwarf crowding close behind him.

“Who is this?” Caramon demanded, scowling at the dark elf. “What’s going on? Who are you talking about?”

Before Par-Salian could answer, Dalamar turned to face the big warrior.

“I am called Dalamar,” the dark elf said coldly. “And I speak of your twin brother, Raistlin. He is my master. I am his apprentice. I am, in addition, a spy, sent by this august company you see before you to report on the doings of your brother.”

Caramon did not answer. He may not have even heard. His eyes—wide with horror—were fixed on the dark elf’s chest. Following Caramon’s gaze, Tas saw five burned and bloody holes in Dalamar’s flesh. The kender swallowed, feeling suddenly queasy.