Test of the Twins: Legends, Volume Three (Dragonlance Legends) Page 7

  Within a matter of moments, all was over. The white light flickered briefly, beautifully, for one instant. Then it died.

  Within the Portal, all was darkness.

  Par-Salian wept. His tears fell down upon the stone floor and, at their touch, the Tower shook like a living thing, as if it, too, foresaw its doom and was quaking in horror.

  Ignoring the falling stones and the heaving of the rocks, Astinus coolly penned the final words.

  As of Fourthday, Fifthmonth, Year 358, the world ends.

  Then, with a sigh, Astinus started to close the book.

  A hand slammed down across the pages.

  “No,” said a firm voice, “it will not end here.”

  Astinus’s hands trembled, his pen dropped a blot of ink upon the paper, obliterating the last words.

  “Caramon … Caramon Majere!” Par-Salian cried, pitifully reaching out to the man with feeble hands. “It was you I heard in the Forest!”

  “Did you doubt me?” Caramon growled. Though shocked and horrified by the sight of the wretched wizard and his torment, Caramon found it difficult to feel any compassion for the archmage. Looking at Par-Salian, seeing his lower half turned to marble, Caramon recalled all too clearly his twin’s torment in the Tower, his own torment upon being sent back to Istar with Crysania.

  “No, not doubted you!” Par-Salian wrung his hands. “I doubted my own sanity! Can’t you understand? How can you be here? How could you have survived the magical battles that destroyed the world?”

  “He didn’t,” Astinus said sternly. Having regained his composure, he placed the open book down on the floor at his feet and stood up. Glowering at Caramon, he pointed an accusing finger. “What trick is this? You died! What is the meaning—”

  Without speaking a word, Caramon dragged Tasslehoff out from behind him. Deeply impressed by the solemnity and seriousness of the occasion, Tas huddled next to Caramon, his wide eyes fixed upon Par-Salian with a pleading gaze.

  “Do—do you want me to explain, Caramon?” Tas asked in a small, polite voice, barely audible over the thunder. “I—I really feel like I should tell why I disrupted the time-travel spell, and then there’s how Raistlin gave me the wrong instructions and made me break the magical device, even though part of that was my fault, I suppose, and how I ended up in the Abyss where I met poor Gnimsh.” Tas’s eyes filled with tears. “And how Raistlin killed him—”

  “All this is known to me,” Astinus interrupted. “So you were able to come here because of the kender. Our time is short. What is it you intend, Caramon Majere?”

  The big man turned his gaze to Par-Salian. “I bear you no love, wizard. In that, I am at one with my twin. Perhaps you had your reasons for what you did to me and to Lady Crysania back there in Istar. If so”—Caramon raised a hand to stop Par-Salian who, it seems, would have spoken—“if so, then you are the one who lives with them, not me. For now, know that I have it in my power to alter time. As Raistlin himself told me, because of the kender, we can change what has happened.

  “I have the magical device. I can travel back to any point in time. Tell me when, tell me what happened that led to this destruction, and I will undertake to prevent it, if I can.”

  Caramon’s gaze went from Par-Salian to Astinus. The historian shook his head. “Do not look to me, Caramon Majere. I am neutral in this as in all things. I can give you no help. I can only give you this warning: You may go back, but you may find you change nothing. A pebble in a swiftly flowing river, that is all you may be.”

  Caramon nodded. “If that is all, then at least I will die knowing that I tried to make up for my failure.”

  Astinus regarded Caramon with a keen, penetrating glance. “What failure is that you speak of, Warrior? You risked your life going back after your brother. You did your best, you endeavored to convince him that this path of darkness he walked would lead only to his own doom.” Astinus gestured toward the Portal. “You heard me speak to him? You know what he faces?”

  Wordlessly, Caramon nodded again, his face pale and anguished.

  “Then tell me,” Astinus said coolly.

  The Tower shuddered. Wind battered the walls, lightning turned the waning night of the world into a garish, blinding day. The small, bare tower room in which they stood shook and trembled. Though they were alone within it, Caramon thought he could hear sounds of weeping, and he slowly came to realize it was the stones of the Tower itself. He glanced about uneasily.

  “You have time,” Astinus said. Sitting back down on his stool, he picked up the book. But he did not close it. “Not long, perhaps, but time, still. Wherein did you fail?”

  Caramon drew a shaking breath. Then his brows came together. Scowling in anger, his gaze went to Par-Salian. “A trick, wasn’t it, wizard? A trick to get me to do what you mages could not—stop Raistlin in his dreadful ambition. But you failed. You sent Crysania back to die because you feared her. But her will, her love was stronger than you supposed. She lived and, blinded by her love and her own ambition, she followed Raistlin into the Abyss.” Caramon glowered. “I don’t understand Paladine’s purpose in granting her prayers, in giving her the power to go there—”

  “It is not for you to understand the ways of the gods, Caramon Majere,” Astinus interrupted coldly. “Who are you to judge them? It may be that they fail, too, sometimes. Or that they choose to risk the best they have in hopes that it will be still better.”

  “Be that as it may,” Caramon continued, his face dark and troubled, “the mages sent Crysania back and thereby gave my brother one of the keys he needed to enter the Portal. They failed. The gods failed. And I failed.” Caramon ran a trembling hand through his hair.

  “I thought I could convince Raistlin with words to turn back from this deadly path he walked. I should have known better” The big man laughed bitterly. “What poor words of mine ever affected him? When he stood before the Portal, preparing to enter the Abyss, telling me what he intended, I left him. It was all so easy. I simply turned my back and walked away.”

  “Bah!” Astinus snorted. “What would you have done? He was strong then, more powerful than any of us can begin to imagine. He held the magical field together by his force of will and his strength alone. You could not have killed him—”

  “No,” said Caramon, his gaze shifting away from those in the room, staring out into the storm that raged ever more fiercely, “but I could have followed him—followed him into darkness—even if it meant my death. To show him that I was willing to sacrifice for love what he was willing to sacrifice for his magic and his ambition.” Caramon turned his gaze upon those in the room. “Then he would have respected me. Then he might have listened. And so I will go back. I will enter the Abyss”—he ignored Tasslehoff’s cry of horror—“and there I will do what must be done.”

  “What must be done,” Par-Salian repeated feverishly. “You do not realize what that means! Dalamar—”

  A blazing, blinding bolt of lightning exploded within the room, slamming those within back against the stone walls. No one could see or hear anything as the thunder crashed over them. Then above the blast of thunder rose a tortured cry.

  Shaken by that strangled, pain-filled scream, Caramon opened his eyes, only to wish they had been shut forever before seeing such a grisly sight.

  Par-Salian had turned from a pillar of marble to a pillar of flame! Caught in Raistlin’s spell, the wizard was helpless. He could do nothing but scream as the flames slowly crept up his immobile body.

  Unnerved, Tasslehoff covered his face with his hands and cowered, whimpering, in a corner. Astinus rose from where he had been hurled to the floor, his hands going immediately to the book he still held. He started to write, but his hand fell limp, the pen slipped from his fingers. Once more, he began to close the cover …

  “No!” Caramon cried. Reaching out, he laid his hands upon the pages.

  Astinus looked at him, and Caramon faltered beneath the gaze of those deathless eyes. His hands shook, but they rema
ined pressed firmly across the white parchment of the leather-bound volume. The dying wizard wailed in dreadful agony.

  Astinus released the open book.

  “Hold this,” Caramon ordered, closing the precious volume and thrusting it into Tasslehoff’s hands. Nodding numbly, the kender wrapped his arms around the book, which was almost as big as he was, and remained, crouched in his corner, staring around him in horror as Caramon lurched across the room toward the dying wizard.

  “No!” shrieked Par-Salian. “Do not come near me!” His white, flowing hair and long beard crackled, his skin bubbled and sizzled, the terrible cloying stench of burning flesh mingling with the smell of sulfur.

  “Tell me!” cried Caramon, raising his arm against the heat, getting as near the mage as he could. “Tell me, Par-Salian! What must I do? How can I prevent this?”

  The wizard’s eyes were melting. His mouth was a gaping hole in the black formless mass that was his face. But his dying words struck Caramon like another bolt of lightning, to be burned into his mind forever.

  “Raistlin must not be allowed to leave the Abyss!”

  BOOK 2

  The Knight of the Black Rose

  Lord Soth sat upon the crumbling, fire-blackened throne in the blasted, desolate ruins of Dargaard Keep. His orange eyes flamed in their unseen sockets, the only visible sign of the cursed life that burned within the charred armor of a Knight of Solamnia.

  Soth sat alone.

  The death knight had dismissed his attendants—former knights, like himself, who had remained loyal to him in life and so were cursed to remain loyal to him in death. He had also sent away the banshees, the elven women who had played a role in his downfall and who were now doomed to spend their lives in his service. For hundreds of years, ever since that terrible night of his death, Lord Soth had commanded these unfortunate women to relive that doom with him. Every night, as he sat upon his ruined throne, he forced them to serenade him with a song that related the story of his disgrace and their own.

  That song brought bitter pain to Soth, but he welcomed the pain. It was ten times better than the nothingness that pervaded his unholy life-in-death at all other times. But tonight he did not listen to the song. He listened, instead, to his story as it whispered like the bitter night wind through the eaves of the crumbling keep.

  “Once, long ago, I was a Lord Knight of Solamnia. I was everything then—handsome, charming, brave, married to a woman of fortune, if not of beauty. My knights were devoted to me. Yes, men envied me—Lord Soth of Dargaard Keep.

  “The spring before the Cataclysm, I left Dargaard Keep and rode to Palanthas with my retinue. A Knights’ Council was being held, my presence was required. I cared little for the Council meeting—it would drag on with endless arguments over insignificant rules. But there would be drinking, good fellowship, tales of battle and adventure. That was why I went.

  “We rode slowly, taking our time, our days filled with song and jesting. At night we’d stay in inns when we could, sleep beneath the stars when we could not. The weather was fine, it was a mild spring. The sunshine was warm upon us, the evening breeze cooled us. I was thirty-two years old that spring. Everything was going well with my life. I do not recall ever being happier.

  “And then, one night—curse the silver moon that shone upon it—we were camped in the wilderness. A cry cut through the darkness, rousing us from our slumbers. It was a woman’s cry, then we heard many women’s voices, mingled with the harsh shouts of ogres.

  “Grabbing our weapons, we rushed to battle. It was an easy victory; only a roving band of robbers. Most fled at our approach, but the leader, either more daring or more drunken than the rest, refused to be deprived of his spoils. Personally, I didn’t blame him. He’d captured a lovely young elfmaiden. Her beauty in the moonlight was radiant, her fear only enhanced her fragile loveliness. Alone, I challenged him. We fought, and I was the victor. And it was my reward—ah, what bitter-sweet reward—to carry the fainting elfmaid in my arms back to her companions.

  “I can still see her fine, golden hair shining in the moonlight. I can see her eyes when she wakened, looking into mine, and I can see even now—as I saw then—her love for me dawn in them. And she saw—in my eyes—the admiration I could not hide. Thoughts of my wife, of my honor, of my castle—everything fled as I gazed upon her beautiful face.

  “She thanked me; how shyly she spoke. I returned her to the elven women—a group of clerics they were, traveling to Palanthas and thence to Istar on a pilgrimage. She was just an acolyte. It was on this journey that she was to be made a Revered Daughter of Paladine. I left her and the women, returning with my men to my camp. I tried to sleep, but I could still feel that lithe, young body in my arms. Never had I been so consumed with passion for a woman.

  “When I did sleep, my dreams were sweet torture. When I awoke, the thought that we must part was like a knife in my heart. Rising early, I returned to the elven camp. Making up a tale of roving bands of goblins between here and Palanthas, I easily convinced the elven women that they needed my protection. My men were not averse to such pleasant companions, and so we traveled with them. But this did not ease my pain. Rather, it intensified it. Day after day I watched her, riding near me—but not near enough. Night after night I slept alone—my thoughts in turmoil.

  “I wanted her, wanted her more than anything I had ever wanted in this world. And yet, I was a Knight, sworn by the strictest vows to uphold the Code and the Measure, sworn by holy vows to remain true to my wife, sworn by the vows of a commander to lead my men to honor. Long I fought with myself and, at last, I believed I had conquered. Tomorrow, I will leave, I said, feeling peace steal over me.

  “I truly intended to leave, and I would have. But, curse the fates, I went upon a hunting expedition in the woods and there, far from camp, I met her. She had been sent to gather herbs.

  “She was alone. I was alone. Our companions were far away. The love that I had seen in her eyes shone there still. She had loosened her hair, it fell to her feet in a golden cloud. My honor, my resolve, were destroyed in an instant, burned up by the flame of desire that swept over me. She was easy to seduce, poor thing. One kiss, then another. Then drawing her down beside me on the new grass, my hands caressing, my mouth stopping her protests, and … after I had made her mine … kissing away her tears.

  “That night, she came to me again, in my tent. I was lost in bliss. I promised her marriage, of course. What else could I do? At first, I didn’t mean it. How could I? I had a wife, a wealthy wife. I needed her money. My expenses were high. But then one night, when I held the elf maid in my arms, I knew I could never give her up. I made arrangements to have my wife permanently removed.…

  “We continued our journey. By this time, the elven women had begun to suspect. How not? It was hard for us to hide our secret smiles during the day, difficult to avoid every opportunity to be together.

  “We were, of necessity, separated when we reached Palanthas. The elven women went to stay in one of the fine houses that the Kingpriest used when he visited the city. My men and I went to our lodgings. I was confident, however, that she would find a way to come to me since I could not go to her. The first night passed, I was not much worried. But then a second and a third, and no word.

  “Finally, a knock on my door. But it was not her. It was the head of the Knights of Solamnia, accompanied by the heads of each of the three Orders of Knights. I knew then, when I saw them, what must have happened. She had discovered the truth and betrayed me.

  “As it was, it was not she who betrayed me, but the elven women. My lover had fallen ill and, when they came to treat her, they discovered that she was carrying my child. She had told no one, not even me. They told her I was married and, worse still, word arrived in Palanthas at the same time that my wife had ‘mysteriously’ disappeared.

  “I was arrested. Dragged through the streets of Palanthas in public humiliation, I was the object of the vulgars’ crude jokes and vile names. They enjoyed nothi
ng more than seeing a Knight fall to their level. I swore that, someday, I would have my revenge upon them and their fine city. But that seemed hopeless. My trial was swift. I was sentenced to die—a traitor to the Knighthood. Stripped of my lands and my title, I would be executed by having my throat slit with my own sword. I accepted my death. I even looked forward to it, thinking still that she had cast me off.

  “But, the night before I was to die, my loyal men freed me from my prison. She was with them. She told me everything, she told me she carried my child.

  “The elven women had forgiven her, she said, and, though she could never now become a Revered Daughter of Paladine, she might still live among her people—though her disgrace would follow her to the end of her days. But she could not bear the thought of leaving without telling me good-bye. She loved me, that much was plain. But I could tell that the tales she had heard worried her.

  “I made up some lie about my wife that she believed. She would have believed dark was light if I’d told her. Her mind at ease, she agreed to run away with me. I know now that this was why she had come in the first place. My men accompanying us, we fled back to Dargaard Keep.

  “It was a difficult journey, pursued constantly by the other Knights, but we arrived, finally, and entrenched ourselves within the castle. It was an easy position to defend—perched as it was high upon sheer cliffs. We had large stores of provisions and we could easily hold out during the winter that was fast approaching.

  “I should have been pleased with myself, with life, with my new bride—what a mockery that marriage ceremony was! But I was tormented by guilt and, what was worse, the loss of my honor. I realized that I had escaped one prison only to find myself in another—another of my own choosing. I had escaped death only to live a dark and wretched life. I grew moody, morose. I was always quick to anger, quick to strike, and now it was worse. The servants fled, after I’d beaten several. My men took to avoiding me. And then, one night, I struck her—her, the only person in this world who could give me even a shred of comfort.