Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends) Read online

  “But our business is not concluded,” Raistlin said softly. “I would like a chance to prove to you that these fears of your god are unfounded. I have a suggestion. Come visit me in the Tower of High Sorcery. There you will see me among my books and understand my studies. When you do, your mind will be at ease. As it teaches in the Disks, we fear only that which is unknown.” He took a step nearer her.

  Astounded at his proposal, Crysania’s eyes opened wide. She tried to move away from him, but she had inadvertently let herself become trapped by the window. “I cannot go … to the Tower,” she faltered as his nearness smothered her, stole her breath. She tried to walk around him, but he moved his staff slightly, blocking her path. Coldly, she continued, “The spells laid upon it keep out all—”

  “Except those I choose to admit,” Raistlin whispered. Folding the blood-stained cloth, he tucked it back into a secret pocket of his robes. Then, reaching out, he took hold of Crysania’s hand.

  “How brave you are, Revered Daughter,” he commented. “You do not tremble at my evil touch.”

  “Paladine is with me,” Crysania replied disdainfully.

  Raistlin smiled, a warm smile, dark and secret—a smile for just the two of them. It fascinated Crysania. He drew her near to him. Then, he dropped her hand. Resting the staff against the chair, he reached out and took hold of her head with his slender hands, placing his fingers over the white hood she wore. Now, Crysania trembled at his touch, but she could not move, she could not speak or do anything more than stare at him in a wild fear she could neither suppress nor understand.

  Holding her firmly, Raistlin leaned down and brushed his blood-flecked lips across her forehead. As he did so, he muttered strange words. Then he released her.

  Crysania stumbled, nearly falling. She felt weak and dizzy. Her hand went to her forehead where the touch of his lips burned into her skin with a searing pain. “What have you done?” she cried brokenly. “You cannot cast a spell upon me! My faith protects—”

  “Of course,” Raistlin sighed wearily, and there was an expression of sorrow in his face and voice, the sorrow of one who is constantly suspected, misunderstood. “I have simply given you a charm that will allow you to pass through Shoikan Grove. The way will not be easy”—his sarcasm returned—“but, undoubtedly your faith will sustain you!”

  Pulling his hood low over his eyes, the mage bowed silently to Crysania, who could only stare at him, then he walked toward the door with slow, faltering steps. Reaching out a skeletal hand, he pulled the bell rope. The door opened and Bertrem entered so swiftly and suddenly that Crysania knew he must have been posted outside. Her lips tightened. She flashed the Aesthetic such a furious, imperious glance that the man paled visibly, though totally unaware of what crime he had committed, and mopped his shining forehead with the sleeve of his robe.

  Raistlin started to leave, but Crysania stopped him. “I-I apologize for not trusting you, Raistlin Majere,” she said softly. “And, again, I thank you for coming.”

  Raistlin turned. “And I apologize for my sharp tongue,” he said. “Farewell, Revered Daughter. If you truly do not fear knowledge, then come to the Tower two nights from this night, when Lunitari makes its first appearance in the sky.”

  “I will be there,” Crysania answered firmly, noting with pleasure Bertrem’s look of shocked horror. Nodding in good-bye, she rested her hand lightly on the back of the ornately carved wooden chair.

  The mage left the room, Bertrem followed, shutting the door behind him.

  Left alone in the warm, silent room, Crysania fell to her knees before the chair. “Oh, thank you, Paladine!” she breathed. “I accept your challenge. I will not fail you! I will not fail!”

  BOOK 1

  CHAPTER

  1

  ehind her, she could hear the sound of clawed feet, scrapping through the leaves of the forest. Tika tensed, but tried to act as if she didn’t hear, luring the creature on. Firmly, she gripped her sword in her hand. Her heart pounded. Closer and closer came the footsteps, she could hear the harsh breathing. The touch of a clawed hand fell upon her shoulder. Whirling about, Tika swung her sword and … knocked a tray full of mugs to the floor with a crash.

  Dezra shrieked and sprang backward in alarm. Patrons sitting at the bar burst into raucous laughter. Tika knew her face must be as red as her hair. Her heart was pounding, her hands shook.

  “Dezra,” she said coldly, “you have all the grace and brains of a gully dwarf. Perhaps you and Raf should switch places. You carry out the garbage and I’ll let him wait tables!”

  Dezra looked up from where she knelt, picking broken pieces of crockery up off the floor, where they floated in a sea of beer. “Perhaps I should!” the waitress cried, tossing the pieces back onto the floor. “Wait tables yourself … or is that beneath you now, Tika Majere, Heroine of the Lance?”

  Flashing Tika a hurt, reproachful glance, Dezra stood up, kicked the broken crockery out of her way, and flounced out of the Inn.

  As the front door banged open, it hit sharply against its frame, making Tika grimace as she envisioned scratches on the woodwork. Sharp words rose to her lips, but she bit her tongue and stopped their utterance, knowing she would regret them later.

  The door remained standing open, letting the bright light of fading afternoon flood the Inn. The ruddy glow of the setting sun gleamed in the bar’s freshly polished wood surface and sparkled off the glasses. It even danced on the surface of the puddle on the floor. It touched Tika’s flaming red curls teasingly, like the hand of a lover, causing many of the sniggering patrons to choke on their laughter and gaze at the comely woman with longing.

  Not that Tika noticed. Now ashamed of her anger, she peered out the window, where she could see Dezra, dabbing at her eyes with an apron. A customer entered the open door, dragging it shut behind him. The light vanished, leaving the Inn once more in cool, half-darkness.

  Tika brushed her hand across her own eyes. What kind of monster am I turning into? she asked herself remorsefully. After all, it wasn’t Dezra’s fault. It’s this horrible feeling inside of me! I almost wish there were draconians to fight again. At least then I knew what I feared, at least then I could fight it with my own hands! How can I fight something I can’t even name?

  Voices broke in on her thoughts, clamoring for ale, for food. Laughter rose, echoing through the Inn of the Last Home.

  This is what I came back to find. Tika sniffed and wiped her nose with the bar rag. This is my home. These people are as right and beautiful and warm as the setting sun. I’m surrounded by the sounds of love—laughter, good fellowship, a lapping dog.…

  Lapping dog! Tika groaned and hurried out from behind the bar.

  “Raf!” she exclaimed, staring at the gully dwarf in despair.

  “Beer spill. Me mop up,” he said, looking at her and cheerfully wiping his hand across his mouth.

  Several of the old-time customers laughed, but there were a few, new to the Inn, who were staring at the gully dwarf in disgust.

  “Use this rag to clean it up!” Tika hissed out of the corner of her mouth as she grinned weakly at the customers in apology. She tossed Raf the bar rag and the gully dwarf caught it. But he only held it in his hand, staring at it with a mystified expression.

  “What me do with this?”

  “Clean up the spill!” Tika scolded, trying unsuccessfully to shield him from the customer’s view with her long, flowing skirt.

  “Oh! Me not need that,” Raf said solemnly. “Me not get nice rag dirty.” Handing the cloth back to Tika, the gully dwarf got down on all fours again and began to lick up the spilled beer, now mingled with tracked-in mud.

  Her cheeks burning, Tika reached down and jerked Raf up by his collar, shaking him. “Use the rag!” she whispered furiously. “The customers are losing their appetites! And when you’re finished with that, I want you to clear off that big table near the fire pit. I’m expecting friends—” Tika stopped.

  Raf was staring at her, wide-
eyed, trying to absorb the complicated instructions. He was exceptional, as gully dwarves go. He’d only been there three weeks and Tika had already taught him to count to three (few gully dwarves ever get past two) and had finally gotten rid of his stench. This new-found intellectual prowess combined with cleanliness would have made him a king in a gully dwarf realm, but Raf had no such ambitions. He knew no king lived like he did—“mopping up” spilled beer (if he were quick) and “taking out” the garbage. But there were limits to Raf’s talents, and Tika had just reached them.

  “I’m expecting friends and—” she started again, then gave up. “Oh, never mind. Just mop this up—with the rag,” she added severely, “then come to me to find out what to do next.”

  “Me no drink?” Raf began, then caught Tika’s furious glare. “Me do.”

  Sighing in disappointment, the gully dwarf took the rag back and slopped it around, muttering about “waste good beer.” Then he picked up pieces of the broken mugs and, after staring at them a moment, grinned and stuck them in the pockets of his shirt.

  Tika wondered briefly what he planned to do with them, but knew it was wiser not to ask. Returning to the bar, she grabbed some more mugs and filled them, trying not to notice that Raf had cut himself on some of the sharper pieces and was now leaning back on his heels, watching, with intense interest, the blood drip from his hand.

  “Have you … uh … seen Caramon?” Tika asked the gully dwarf casually.

  “Nope.” Raf wiped his bloody hand in his hair. “But me know where to look.” He leaped up eagerly. “Me go find?”

  “No!” snapped Tika, frowning. “Caramon’s at home.”

  “Me no think so,” Raf said, shaking his head. “Not after sun go down—”

  “He’s home!” Tika snapped so angrily that the gully dwarf shrank away from her.

  “You want to make bet?” Raf muttered, but well under his breath. Tika’s temper these days was as fiery as her flaming hair.

  Fortunately for Raf, Tika didn’t hear him. She finished filling the beer mugs, then carried the tray over to a large party of elves, seated near the door.

  I’m expecting friends, she repeated to herself dully. Dear friends. Once she would have been so excited, so eager to see Tanis and Riverwind. Now … She sighed, handing out the beer mugs without conscious awareness of what she was doing. Name of the true gods, she prayed, let them come and go quickly! Yes, above all, go quickly! If they stayed … If they found out.…

  Tika’s heart sank at the thought. Her lower lip trembled. If they stayed, that would be the end. Plain and simple. Her life would be over. The pain was suddenly more than she could bear. Hurriedly setting the last beer mug down, Tika left the elves, blinking her eyes rapidly. She did not notice the bemused gazes the elves exchanged among themselves as they stared at the beer mugs, and she never did remember that they had all ordered wine.

  Half blinded by her tears, Tika’s only thought was to escape to the kitchen where she could weep unseen. The elves looked about for another waitress, and Raf, sighing in contentment, got back down on his hands and knees, happily lapping up the rest of the beer.

  Tanis Half-Elven stood at the bottom of a small rise, staring up the long, straight, muddy road that stretched ahead of him. The woman he escorted and their mounts waited some distance behind him. The woman had been in need of rest, as had their horses. Though her pride had kept her from saying a word, Tanis saw her face was gray and drawn with fatigue. Once today, in fact, she had nodded off to sleep in the saddle, and would have fallen but for Tanis’s strong arm. Therefore, though eager to reach her destination, she had not protested when Tanis stated that he wanted to scout the road ahead alone. He helped her from her horse and saw her settled in a hidden thicket.

  He had misgivings about leaving her unattended, but he sensed that the dark creatures pursuing them had fallen far behind. His insistence on speed had paid off, though both he and the woman were aching and exhausted. Tanis hoped to stay ahead of the things until he could turn his companion over to the one person on Krynn who might be able to help her.

  They had been riding since dawn, fleeing a horror that had followed them since leaving Palanthas. What it was exactly, Tanis—with all his experience during the wars—could not name. And that made it all the more frightening. Never there when confronted, it was only seen from the corner of the eye that was looking for something else. His companion had sensed it, too, he could tell, though, characteristically, she was too proud to admit to fear.

  Walking away from the thicket, Tanis felt guilty. He shouldn’t be leaving her alone, he knew. He shouldn’t be wasting precious time. All his warrior senses protested. But there was one thing he had to do, and he had to do it alone. To do otherwise would have seemed sacrilege.

  And so Tanis stood at the bottom of the hill, summoning his courage to move forward. Anyone looking at him might have supposed he was advancing to fight an ogre. But that was not the case. Tanis Half-Elven was returning home. And he both longed for and dreaded his first sight.

  The afternoon sun was beginning its downward journey toward night. It would be dark before he reached the Inn, and he dreaded traveling the roads by night. But, once there, this nightmarish journey would be over. He would leave the woman in capable hands and continue on to Qualinesti. But, first, there was this he had to face. With a deep sigh, Tanis Half-Elven drew his green hood up over his head and began the climb.

  Topping the rise, his gaze fell upon a large, moss-covered boulder. For a moment, his memories overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes, feeling the sting of swift tears beneath the lids. “Stupid quest,” he heard the dwarf’s voice echo in his memory. “Silliest thing I ever did!”

  Flint! My old friend!

  I can’t go on, Tanis thought. This is too painful. Why did I ever agree to come back? It holds nothing for me now … nothing except the pain of old wounds. My life is good, at last. Finally I am at peace, happy. Why … why did I tell them I would come?

  Drawing a shuddering sigh, he opened his eyes and looked at the boulder. Two years ago—it would be three this autumn—he had topped this rise and met his long-time friend, the dwarf, Flint Fireforge, sitting on that boulder, carving wood, and complaining—as usual. That meeting had set in motion events that had shaken the world, culminating in the War of the Lance, the battle that cast the Queen of Darkness back into the Abyss, and broke the might of the Dragon Highlords.

  Now I am a hero, Tanis thought, glancing down ruefully at the gaudy panoply he wore: breastplate of a Knight of Solamnia; green silken sash, mark of the Wildrunners of Silvanesti, the elves’ most honored legions; the medallion of Kharas, the dwarves’ highest honor; plus countless others. No one—human, elf, or half-elf—had been so honored. It was ironic. He who hated armor, who hated ceremony, now forced to wear it as befitting his station. How the old dwarf would have laughed.

  “You—a hero!” He could almost hear the dwarf snort. But Flint was dead. He had died two years ago this spring in Tanis’s arms.

  “Why the beard?” He could swear once again that he heard Flint’s voice, the first words he had said upon seeing the half-elf in the road. “You were ugly enough.…”

  Tanis smiled and scratched the beard that no elf on Krynn could grow, the beard that was the outward, visible sign of his half-human heritage. Flint knew well enough why the beard, Tanis thought, gazing fondly at the sun-warmed boulder. He knew me better than I knew myself. He knew of the chaos that raged inside my soul. He knew I had a lesson to learn.

  “And I learned it,” Tanis whispered to the friend who was with him in spirit only. “I learned it, Flint. But … oh, it was bitter!”

  The smell of wood smoke came to Tanis. That and the slanting rays of the sun and the chill in the spring air reminded him he still had some distance to travel. Turning, Tanis Half-Elven looked down into the valley where he had spent the bittersweet years of his young manhood. Turning, Tanis Half-Elven looked down upon Solace.

  It had been autum
n when he last saw the small town. The vallenwood trees in the valley had been ablaze with the season’s colors, the brilliant reds and golds fading into the purple of the peaks of the Kharolis mountains beyond, the deep azure of the sky mirrored in the still waters of Crystalmir Lake. There had been a haze of smoke over the valley, the smoke of home fires burning in the peaceful town that had once roosted in the vallenwood trees like contented birds. He and Flint had watched the lights flicker on, one by one, in the houses that sheltered among the leaves of the huge trees. Solace—tree city—one of the beauties and wonders of Krynn.

  For a moment, Tanis saw the vision in his mind’s eye as clearly as he had seen it two years before. Then the vision faded. Then it had been autumn. Now it was spring. The smoke was there still, the smoke of the home fires. But now it came mostly from houses built on the ground. There was the green of living, growing things, but it only seemed—in Tanis’s mind—to emphasize the black scars upon the land; scars that could never be totally erased, though here and there he saw the marks of the plow across them.

  Tanis shook his head. Everyone thought that, with the destruction of the Queen’s foul temple at Neraka, the war was over. Everyone was anxious to plow over the black and burned land, scorched by dragonfire, and forget their pain.

  His eyes went to a huge circle of black that stood in the center of town. Here, nothing would grow. No plow could turn the soil ravaged by dragonfire and soaked by the blood of innocents, murdered by the troops of the Dragon Highlords.

  Tanis smiled grimly. He could imagine how an eyesore like that must irritate those who were working to forget. He was glad it was there. He hoped it would remain, forever.

  Softly, he repeated words he had heard Elistan speak, as the cleric dedicated in solemn ceremony the High Clerist’s Tower to the memory of those knights who had died there.

  “We must remember or we will fall into complacency—as we did before—and the evil will come again.”