Dragonlance 04 - Time of the Twins (16 page)

Just as they shifted when we approached . . . how many years ago, Caramon thought. Seven? Has it only been seven years? No, he realized sadly. It's been a lifetime, a lifetime for both of us.

As Caramon came to the edge of the wood, the mist flowed out along the ground, chilling his ankles with a cold that seared through flesh and bit into bone. The trees stared at him, their branches writhing in agony.He remembered the tortured woods of Silvanesti, and that brought more memories of his brother. Caramon stood still a moment, looking into the Forest. He could see the dark and shadowy shapes waiting for him. And there was no Raistlin to keep them at bay. Not this time.

"I was never afraid of anything until I entered the Forest of Wayreth," Caramon said to himself softly. "I only went in last time because you were with me, my brother. Your courage alone kept me going. How can I go in there now without you? It's magic. I don't understand magic! I can't fight it! What hope is there?" Caramon put his hands over his eyes to blot out the hideous sight. "I can't go in there," he said wretchedly. "It's too much to ask of me!"

Pulling his sword from its sheath, he held it out. His hand shook so he nearly dropped the weapon. "Hah!" he said bitterly. "See? I couldn't fight a child. This is too much to ask. No hope. There is no hope . . .."

"It is easy to have hope in the spring, warrior, when the weather is warm and the vallenwoods are green. It is easy to have hope in the summer, when the vallenwoods glitter with gold. It is easy to have hope in the fall when the vallenwoods are as red as living blood. But in the winter, when the air is sharp and bitter and the skies are gray, does the vallenwood die, warrior?"

"Who spoke?" Caramon cried, staring around wildly, clutching his sword in his trembling hand.

"What does the vallenwood do in the winter, warrior, when all is dark and even the ground is frozen? It digs deep, warrior. It sends its roots down, down, into the soil, down to the warm heart of the world. There, deep within, the vallenwood finds nourishment to help it survive the darkness and the cold, so that it may bloom again in the spring."

"So?" Caramon asked suspiciously, backing up a step and looking around.

"So you stand in the darkest winter of your life, warrior. And so you must dig deep to find the warmth and the strength that will help you survive the bitter cold and the terrible darkness. No longer do you have the bloom of spring or the vigor of summer. You must find the strength you need in your heart, in your soul. Then, like the vallenwoods, you will grow once more."

"Your words are pretty—” Caramon began, scowling, distrusting this talk of spring and trees. But he could not finish, his breath caught in his throat.

The Forest was changing before his eyes.

The twisting, writhing trees straightened as he watched, lifting their limbs to the skies, growing, growing, growing. He bent his head back so far he nearly lost his balance, but still he couldn't see their tops. They were vallenwood trees! Just like those in Solace before the coming of the dragons. As he watched in awe, he saw dead limbs burst into life—green buds sprouted, burst open, blossomed into green glistening leaves that turned summer gold—seasons changing as he drew a shivering breath.

The noxious fog vanished, replaced by a sweet fragrance drifting from beautiful flowers that twined among the roots of the vallenwoods. The darkness in the forest vanished, the sun shed its bright light upon the swaying trees. And as the sunlight touched the trees' leaves, the calls of birds filled the perfumed air.

Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,

Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent

As glass, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Beneath these branches the willing surrender of movement,

The business of birdsong, of love, left on the borders

With all of the fevers, the failures of memory.

Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected.

And light upon light, light as dismissal of darkness,

Beneath these branches no shade, for shade is forgotten

In the warmth of the light and the cool smell of the leaves

Where we grow and decay; no longer, our trees ever green.

Here there is quiet, where music turns in upon silence,

Here at the world's imagined edge, where clarity

Completes the senses, at long last where we behold

Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent.

Where the tears are dried from our faces, or settle,

Still as a stream in accomplished countries of peace,

And the traveler opens, permitting the voyage of light

As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected

Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,

Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent

As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

"Caramon!" Tasslehoff was jumping up and down with excitement. "Caramon, that's wonderful! How did you do it? Hear the birds'? Let's go! Quickly."

"Crysania—” Caramon said, starting to turn back. "We'll have to make a litter. You'll have to help—” But before he could finish, he stopped, staring in astonishment at two white-robed figures, who glided out of the golden woods. Their white hoods were pulled low over their heads, he could not see their faces. Both bowed before him solemnly, then walked across the glade to where Crysania lay in her deathlike sleep. Lifting her still body with ease, they bore her gently back to where Caramon stood. Coming to the edge of the Forest, they stopped, turning their hooded heads, looking at him expectantly.

"I think they're waiting for you to go in first, Caramon," Tas said cheerfully. "You go on ahead, I'll get Bupu."

The gully dwarf remained standing in the center of the glade, regarding the Forest with deep suspicion, which Caramon, looking at the white-robed figures, suddenly shared.

"Who are you?" he asked.

They did not answer. They simply stood, waiting.

"Who cares who they are!" Tas said, impatiently grabbing hold of Bupu and dragging her along, her sack bumping against her heels.

Caramon scowled. "You go first." He gestured at the whiterobed figures. They said nothing, nor did they move.

"Why are you waiting for me to enter that Forest?" Caramon stepped back a pace. "Go ahead"—he gestured—"take her to the Tower. You can help her. You don't need me—”

The figures did not speak, but one raised his hand, pointing.

"C'mon, Caramon," Tas urged. "Look, it's like he was inviting us!"

They will not bother us, brother . . . We have been invited! Raistlin's words, spoken seven years ago.

"Mages invited us. I don't trust 'em." Caramon softly repeated the answer he had made then.

Suddenly, the air was filled with laughter—strange, eerie, whispering laughter. Bupu threw her arms around Caramon's leg, clinging to him in terror. Even Tasslehoff seemed a bit disconcerted. And then came a voice, as Caramon had heard it seven years before.

Does that include me, dear brother?

She tried to cry out for help, but her voice failed. There was no help anyway. The drunken warrior lay in a pool of his own blood. Her healing arts had saved him, but he would sleep long hours. The kender could not help her. Nothing could help her against this . . .

On and on the dark figure walked, nearer and nearer he came. Run! her mind screamed. Her limbs would not obey. It was all she could do to creep backward, and then her body seemed to move of its own volition, not through any direction of hers. She could not even look away from him. The orange flickering lights that were his eyes held her fast.

He raised a hand, a spectral hand. She could see through it, see through him, in fact, to the night-shadowed trees behind. The silver moon was in the sky, but it was not its bright light that gleamed off the antique armor of a long-dead Solamnic Knight. The creature shone with an unwholesome light of his own, glowing with the energy of his foul decay. His hand lifted higher and higher, and Crysania knew that when his hand reached a level even with her heart, she would die.

Through lips numb with fear, Crysania called out a name, "Paladine," she prayed. The fear did not leave her, she still could not wrench her soul away from the terrible gaze of those fiery eyes. But her hand went to her throat. Grasping hold of the medallion, she ripped it from her neck. Feeling her strength draining, her consciousness ebbing, Crysania raised her hand. The platinum medallion caught Solinari's light and flared bluewhite. The hideous apparition spoke—"Die!"

Crysania felt herself falling. Her body hit the ground, but the ground did not catch her. She was falling through it, or away from it. Falling . . . falling . . . closing her eyes . . . sleeping . . .. dreaming . . .

She was in a grove of oak trees. White hands clutched at her feet, gaping mouths sought to drink her blood. The darkness was endless, the trees mocked her, their creaking branches laughing horribly.

"Crysania," said a soft, whispering voice.

What was that, speaking her name from the shadows of the oaks? She could see it, standing in a clearing, robed in black.

"Crysania," the voice repeated.

"Raistlin!" She sobbed in thankfulness. Stumbling out of the terrifying grove of oak trees, fleeing the bone-white hands that sought to drag her down to join their endless torment, Crysania felt thin arms hold her. She felt the strange burning touch of slender fingers.

"Rest easy, Revered Daughter," the voice said softly. Trembling in his arms, Crysania closed her eyes. "Your trials are over. You have come through the Grove safely. There was nothing to fear, lady. You had my charm."

"Yes," Crysania murmured. Her hand touched her forehead where his lips had pressed against her skin. Then, realizing what she had been through, and realizing, too, that she had allowed him to see her give way to weakness, Crysania pushed the mage's arms away. Standing back from him, she regarded him coldly.

"Why do you surround yourself with such foul things?" she demanded. "Why do you feel the need for such . . . such guardians!" Her voice quavered in spite of herself.

Raistlin looked at her mildly, his golden eyes shining in the light of his staff. "What kind of guardians do you surround yourself with, Revered Daughter?" he asked. "What torment would I endure if I set foot upon the Temple's sacred grounds?"

Crysania opened her mouth for a scathing reply, but the words died on her lips. Indeed, the Temple was consecrated ground. Sacred to Paladine, if any who worshipped the Queen of Darkness entered its precincts, they would feel Paladine's wrath. Crysania saw Raistlin smile, his thin lips twitch. She felt her skin flush. How was he capable of doing this to her'? Never had any man been able to humiliate her so! Never had any man cast her mind in such turmoil!

Ever since the evening she had met Raistlin at the home of Astinus, Crysania had not been able to banish him from her thoughts. She had looked forward to visiting the Tower this night, looked forward to it and dreaded it at the same time. She had told Elistan all about her talk with Raistlin, all—that is— except the "charm" he had given her. Somehow, she could not bring herself to tell Elistan that Raistlin had touched her, had— No, she wouldn't mention it.

Elistan had been upset enough as it was. He knew Raistlin, he had known the young man of old— the mage having been among the companions who rescued the cleric from Verminaard's prison at Pax Tharkas. Elistan had never liked or trusted Raistlin, but then no one had, not really. The cleric had not been surprised to hear that the young mage had donned the Black Robes. He was not surprised to hear about Crysania's warning from Paladine. He was surprised at Crysania's reaction to meeting Raistlin, however. He was surprised—and alarmed—at hearing Crysania had been invited to visit Raistlin in the Tower—a place where now beat the heart of evil in Krynn. Elistan would have forbidden Crysania to go,. but freedom of will was a teaching of the gods.

He told Crysania his thoughts and she listened respectfully. But she had gone to the Tower, drawn by a lure she could not begin to understand—although she told Elistan it was to "save the world."

"The world is getting on quite well," Elistan replied gravely.

But Crysania did not listen.

"Come inside," Raistlin said. "Some wine will help banish the evil memories of what you have endured." He regarded her intently. "You are very brave, Revered Daughter," he said and she heard no sarcasm in his voice. "Few there are with the strength to survive the terror of the Grove."

He turned away from her then, and Crysania was glad he did. She felt herself blushing at his praise.

"Keep near me," he warned as he walked ahead of her, his black robes rustling softly around his ankles. "Keep within the light of my staff."

Crysania did as she was bidden, noticing as she walked near him how the staff's light made her white robes shine as coldly as the light of the silver moon, a striking contrast to the strange warmth it shed over Raistlin's soft velvety black robes.

He led her through the dread Gates. She stared at them in curiosity, remembering the gruesome story of the evil mage who had cast himself down upon them, cursing them with his dying breath.Things whispered and jabbered around her. More than once, she turned at the sound, feeling cold fingers upon her neck or the touch of a chill hand upon hers. More than once, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked, there was never anything there. A foul mist rose up from the ground, rank with the smell of decay. making her bones ache. She began to shake uncontrollably and when, suddenly, she glanced behind her and saw two disembodied, staring eyes—she took a hurried step forward and slipped her hand around Raistlin's thin arm.

He regarded her with curiosity and a gentle amusement that made her blush again.

"There is no need to be afraid," he said simply. "I am master here. I will not let you come to harm."

"I-I'm not afraid," she said, though she knew he could feel her body quivering. "I . . . was just . . . unsure of my steps, that was all."

"I beg your pardon, Revered Daughter," Raistlin said, and now she could not be certain if she heard sarcasm in his voice or not. He came to a halt. "It was impolite of me to allow you to walk this unfamiliar ground without offering you my assistance. Do you find the walking easier now?"

"Yes, much," she said, flushing deeply beneath that strange gaze.

He said nothing, merely smiled. She lowered her eyes, unable to face him, and they resumed walking. Crysania berated herself for her fear all the way to the Tower, but she did not remove her hand from the mage’s arm. Neither of them spoke again until they reached the door to the Tower itself. It was a plain wooden door with runes carved on the outside of its surface. Raistlin said no word, made no motion that Crysania could see, but—at their approach—the door slowly opened. Light streamed out from inside, and Crysania felt so cheered by its bright and welcoming warmth, that—for an instant—she did not see another figure standing silhouetted within it.

When she did, she stopped and drew back in alarm.

Raistlin touched her hand with his thin, burning fingers.

"That is only my apprentice, Revered Daughter," he said. "Dalamar is flesh and blood, he walks among the living—at least for the moment."

Crysania did not understand that last remark, nor did she pay it much attention, hearing the underlying laughter in Raistlin's voice. She was too startled by the fact that live people lived here. How silly, she scolded herself. What kind of monster have I pictured this man? He is a man, nothing more. He is human, he is flesh and blood. The thought relieved her, made her relax. Stepping through the doorway, she felt almost herself. She extended her hand to the young apprentice as she would have given it to a new acolyte.

"My apprentice, Dalamar," Raistlin said, gesturing toward him. "Lady Crysania, Revered Daughter of Paladine."

"Lady Crysania," said the apprentice with becoming gravity, accepting her hand and bringing it to' his lips, bowing slightly. Then he lifted his head, and the black hood that shadowed his face fell back.

"An elf!" Crysania gasped. Her hand remained in his. "But, that's not possible," she began in confusion. "Not serving evil—”

"I am a dark elf, Revered Daughter," the apprentice said, and she heard a bitterness in his voice. "At least, that is what my people call me."

Crysania murmured in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

She faltered and fell silent, not knowing where to look. She could almost feel Raistlin laughing at her. Once again, he had caught her off-balance. Angrily, she snatched her hand away from the apprentice's cool grip and withdrew her other hand from Raistlin's arm.

"The Revered Daughter has had a fatiguing journey, Dalamar," Raistlin said. "Please show her to my study and pour her a glass of wine. With your permission, Lady Crysania"—the mage bowed—"there are a few matters that demand my attention. Dalamar, anything the lady requires, you will provide at once."

"Certainly, Shalafi," Dalamar answered respectfully.

Crysania said nothing as Raistlin left, suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of relief and a numbing exhaustion. Thus must the warrior feel, battling for his life against a skilled opponent, she observed silently as she followed the apprentice up a narrow, winding staircase.

Raistlin's study was nothing like she had expected.

What had I expected, she asked herself. Certainly not this pleasant room filled with strange and fascinating books. The furniture was attractive and comfortable, a fire burned on the hearth, filling the room with warmth that was welcome after the chill of the walk to the Tower. The wine that Dalamar poured was delicious. The warmth of the fire seemed to seep into her blood as she drank a small sip.

Dalamar brought forward a small, ornately carved table and set it at her right hand. Upon this, he placed a bowl of fruit and a loaf of fragrant, still-warm bread.

"What is this fruit!" Crysania asked, picking up a piece and examining it in wonder. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"Indeed not, Revered Daughter," Dalamar answered, smiling. Unlike Raistlin, Crysania noticed, the young apprentice's smile was reflected in his eyes. "Shalafi has it brought to him from the Isle of Mithas."

"Mithas?" Crysania repeated in astonishment. "But that's on the other side of the world! The minotaurs live there. They allow none to enter their kingdom! Who brings it?"

She had a sudden, terrifying vision of the servant who might have been summoned to bring such delicacies to such a master. Hastily, she returned the fruit to the bowl.

"Try it, Lady Crysania," Dalamar said without a trace of amusement in his voice. "You will find it quite delicious. The Shalafi's health is delicate. There are so few things he can tolerate. He lives on little else but this fruit, bread, and wine."

Crysania's fear ebbed. "Yes," she murmured, her eyes going to the door involuntarily. "He is dreadfully frail, isn't he. And that terrible cough . . ." Her voice was soft with pity.

"Cough? Oh, yes," Dalamar said smoothly, "his . . . cough." He did not continue and, if Crysania thought this odd, she soon forgot it in her contemplation of the room.

The apprentice stood a moment, waiting to see if she required anything else. When Crysania did not speak, he bowed. "If you need nothing more, lady, I will retire. I have my own studies to pursue."

"Of course. I will be fine here," Crysania said, coming out of her thoughts with a start. "He is your teacher, then," she said in sudden realization. Now it was her turn to look at Dalamar intently. "Is he a good one! Do you learn from him?"

"He is the most gifted of any in our Order, Lady Crysania," Dalamar said softly. "He is brilliant, skilled, controlled. Only one has lived who was as powerful—the great Fistandantilus. And my Shalafi is young, only twenty-eight. If he lives, he may well—”

"If he lives?" Crysania repeated, then felt irritated that she had unintentionally let a note of concern creep into her voice. It is right to feel concern, she told herself. After all, he is one of the gods' creatures. All life is sacred.