The Magic Of Krynn (18 page)

“Your brother cannot stay,” the Mage admonished softly.

“I am aware of that. Great One,” Raistlin replied, with a hint of impatience.

“He will be well cared for in your absence,” Par-Salian continued. “And of course, he will
be allowed to carry home your valuables should the Test prove beyond your skill.”

“Carry home . . . valuables . . .” Caromon's face became grim as he considered this
statement. Then it darkened as he understood the full meaning of the Mage's words. “You
mean-”

'Raistlin's voice cut in, sharp, edged. “He means, dear brother, that you will take home
my possessions in the event of my death.”

Par-Salian shrugged. “Failure, invariably, proves fatal.” "Yes, you're right. I forgot
that death could be a result of this . .

. ritual.“ Caramon's face crumped into wrinkles of fear. He laid his hand on his brother's
arm. ”I think you should forget this, Raist. Let's go home."

Raistlin twitched at his brother's touch, his thin body shuddering. “Do I counsel you to
refuse battle?” he flared. Then, controlling his anger, he continued more calmly. “This is
my battle, Caramon. Do not worry. I will not fail.”

Caramon pleaded. “Please, Raist . . . I'm supposed to take care of you-”

“Leave me!” Raistlin's control cracked, splintered, wounding his brother.

Caramon fell backward. “All right,” he mumbled. “I'll. . . I'll meet you . . . outside.”
He flashed the Mage a threatening glance. Then he turned and walked out of the chamber,
his huge battlesword clanking against his thigh.

A door thudded, then there was silence.

“I apologize for my brother,” Raistlin said, his lips barely moving.

“Do you?” Par-Salian asked. “Why?”

The young man scowled. “Because he always . . . Oh, can't we just get on with this?” His
hands clenched beneath the sleeves of his robe.

“Of course,” the Mage replied, leaning back in his chair. Raistlin stood straight, eyes
open and unblinking. Then he drew in a sharp breath.

The Mage made a gesture. There was a sound, a shattering crack. Quickly, the conjurer
vanished.

A VOICE SPOKE FROM THE NETHER REGIONS. “WHY MUST WE TEST THIS ONE SO SEVERELY?”

PAR-SALIAN'S TWISTED HANDS CLASPED AND UNCLASPED. “WHO QUESTIONS THE GODS?” HE FROWNED.
“THEY DEMANDED A SWORD. I FOUND ONE, BUT HIS METAL IS WHITE HOT. HE MUST BE BEATEN . . .
TEMPERED. . . MADE USEFUL.”

“AND IF HE BREAKS?”

“THEN WE WILL BURY THE PIECES,” MURMURED THE MAGE.

Raistlin dragged himself away from the dead body of the dark elf. Wounded and exhausted,
he crawled into a shadowy corridor and slumped against a wall. Pain twisted him. He
clutched his stomach and retched. When the convulsion subsided, he lay back on the stone
floor and waited for death.

WHY ARE THEY DOING THIS TO ME? he wondered through a dreamy haze of pain. Only a young
conjurer, he had been subjected to trials devised by the most renowned Mages-living and
dead. The fact that he must pass these Tests was no longer his main thought; survival,
however, was. Each trial had wounded him, and his health had always been precarious. If he
survived this ordeal-and he doubted he would-he could imagine his body to

be like a shattered crystal, held together by the force of his own will.

But then, of course, there was Caramon, who would care for

him-as always. HA! The thought penetrated the haze, even made Raistlin laugh

harshly. No, death was preferable to a life of dependence on his brother. Raistlin lay
back on the stone floor, wondering how much longer they would let him suffer . . .

. . . And a huge figure materialized out of the shadowy darkness of the corridor.

THIS IS IT, Raistlin thought, MY FINAL TEST. THE ONE I WON'T SURVIVE.

He decided simply not to fight, even though he had one spell left. Maybe death would be
quick and merciful.

He lay on his back, staring at the dark shadow as it drew closer and closer. It came to
stand next to him. He could sense its living presence, hear its breathing. It bent over
him. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes.

“Raist?” He felt cold fingers touch his burning flesh. “Raist!” the voice sobbed. "In the
name of the gods, what have

they done to you?“ ”Caramon," Raistlin spoke, but he couldn't hear his own voice.

His throat was raw from coughing. “I'm taking you out of here,” his brother announced
firmly. Raistlin felt strong arms slip under his body. He smelled the

familiar smell of sweat and leather, heard the familar sound of armor creak and broadsword
clank.

“No!” Raistlin pushed against his brother's massive chest with a frail, fragile hand.
“Leave me, Caramon! My tests are not complete! Leave me!” His voice was an inaudible
croak, then he gagged violently.

Caramon lifted him easily, cradled him in his arms. “Nothing is worth this. Rest easy,
Raist.” The big man choked. As they walked under a flickering torch, Raistlin could see
tears on his brothers cheeks. He made one last effort.

“They won't allow us to go, Caramon!” He raised his head, gasping for breath. “You're only
putting yourself in danger!” “Let them come,” Caramon said grimly, walking with firm

steps down the dimly lit corridor. Raistlin sank back, helpless, his head resting on
Caramon's

shoulder. He felt comforted by his brother's strength, though he cursed him inwardly.

YOU FOOL! Raistlin closed his eyes wearily. YOU GREAT, STUBBORN FOOL! NOW WE'LL BOTH DIE.
AND, OF COURSE, YOU WILL DIE PROTECTING ME. EVEN IN DEATH

I'LL BE INDEBTED TO YOU! “Ah . . .” Raistlin heard and felt the sharp intake of breath
into his

brother's body. Caramon's walk had slowed. Raistlin raised his head and peered ahead.

“A wraith,” he breathed.

“Mmmm . . .” Caramon rumbled deeply in his chest-his battle-cry.

“My magic can destroy it,” Raistlin protested as Caramon laid him gently on the stone
floor. BURNING HANDS, Raistlin thought grimly. A weak spell against a wraith, but he had
to try. “Move, Caramon! I have just enough strength left.”

Caramon did not answer. He turned around and walked toward the wraith, blocking Raistlin's
view.

Clinging to the wall, the conjurer clawed his way to a standing position and raised his
hand. Just as he was about to expend his strength in one last shout, hoping to warn off
his brother, he stopped and stared in disbelief. Caramon raised his hand. Where before he
had held a sword, now he held a rod of amber. In the other hand, his shield hand, he held
a bit of fur. He rubbed the two together, spoke some magic words-and a lightning bolt
flashed, striking the wraith in the chest. It shrieked, but kept coming, intent on
draining Cara-mon's life energy. Caramon kept his hands raised. He spoke again. Another
bolt sizzled, catching the wraith in its head. And suddenly there was nothing.

“Now we'll get out of here,” Caramon said with satisfaction. The rod and the fur were
gone. He turned around. “The door is just ahead-”

'“How did you do that?” Raistlin asked, propping himself up against the wall.

Caramon halted, alarmed by his brother's wild, frenzied stare. “Do what?” The fighter
blinked. “The magic!” Raistlin shrieked in fury. “The magic!” “Oh, that,” Caramon
shrugged. "I've always been able to. Most

of the time I don't need it, what with my sword and all, but you're hurt real bad and I've
got to get you out of here. I didn't want to take time fighting that character. Don't
bother about it, Raist. It can still be your little specialty. Like I said before, most of
the time I don't need it."

THIS IS IMPOSSIBLE, Raistlin's mind told him. HE COULDN'T HAVE ACQUIRED IN MOMENTS WHAT IT
TOOK ME YEARS OF STUDY TO ATTAIN. THIS DOESN'T MAKE SENSE. FIGHT THE SICKNESS AND THE
WEAKNESS AND

THE PAIN! THINK! But it wasn't the physical pain that clouded Raistlin's mind. It was the
old inner pain clawing at him, tearing at him with poisoned talons. Caramon, strong and
cheerful, good and kind, open and honest. Everyone's friend.

Not like Raistlin-the runt, the Sly One.

ALL I EVER HAD WAS MY MAGIC, Raistlin's mind shrieked. AND NOW HE HAS THAT TOO!

Propping himself against the wall for support, Raistlin raised both his hands, put his
thumbs together, and pointed them at Caramon. He began murmuring magic words, but
different from those that Caramon had spoken.

“Raist?” Caramon backed up. “What are you doing? C'mon! Let me help you. I'll take care of
you- just like always . . . Raist! I'm your brother!”

Raistlin's parched lips cracked in a grin. Hatred and jealousy- long kept bubbling and
molten beneath a layer of cold, solid rock-burst forth. Magic coursed through his body and
flamed out of his hands. He watched the fire flare, billow, and engulf Caramon. When the
fighter became a living torch, Raistlin sud- denly knew from his training that what he was
seeing simply could not be. The instant that he realized something was wrong with this
occurrence, the burning image of his brother vanished. A moment later, Raistlin lost
consciousness and slumped to the ground.

“Awaken, Raistlin, your trials are complete.” Raistlin opened his eyes. The darkness was
gone; sunshine streamed through a window. He lay in a bed. Looking

down at him was the withered face of Par-Salian. “Why?” Raistlin rasped, clutching at the
Mage in fury. "Why

did you do that to me?" Par-Salian laid his hand on the frail young man's shoulder.

“The gods asked for a sword, Raistlin, and now I can give them one-you. Evil is coming
upon the land. The fate of all this world called Krynn swings in the balance. Through the
aid of your hand and others, the balance will be restored.”

Raistlin stared, then laughed, briefly and bitterly. “Save Krynn? How? You have shattered
my body. I can't even see properly!” He stared in terror . . .

. . . For, as Raistlin watched, he could see the Mage's face dying. When he turned his
gaze to the window, the stones he looked at crumbled before his eyes. Wherever he looked,
everything was falling into ruin and decay. Then, the moment passed, and his vision
cleared.

Par-Salian handed him a mirror. Raistlin saw that his own face was sunken and hollow. His
skin was a golden color now, with a faint metallic cast; this would be a symbol of the
agony he had endured. But it was his eyes that caused him to recoil in horror, for the
black pupils were no longer round- they were the shape of hourglasses!

“You see through hourglass eyes now, Raistlin. And so you see time, as it touches all
things. You see death, whenever you look on life. Thus you will always be aware of the
brief timespan we spend in the world.” Par-Salian shook his head. “There will be no joy in
your life, Raistlin, I fear-indeed, little joy for anyone living on Krynn.”

Raistlin laid the mirror face down. “My brother?” he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

“It was an illusion that I created-my personal challenge for you to look deeper into your
own heart and examine the ways in which you deal with those closest to you,” Par-Salian
said gently. “As for your brother, he is here, safe . . . quite safe. Here he comes now.”

As Caramon entered the room, Raistlin sat up, shoving Par- Salian aside. The warrior
appeared relieved to see that his twin had enough energy to greet him, but Caramon's eyes
reflected a certain sadness that comes from learning an unpleasant truth.

“I didn't think you would recognize the illusion for what it was,” Par-Salian said. “But
you did; after all, what magic-user can work spells, carrying a sword and wearing armor?”

“Then I did not fail?” Raistlin murmured hoarsely.

“No.” Par-Salian smiled. “The final of the Test was the defeat of the dark elf-truly
superb for one of your experience.”

Raistlin looked at his brother's haunted face, his averted eyes. “He watched me kill him,
didn't he?” Raistlin whispered.

“Yes,” Par-Salian looked from one to the other. “I am sorry I had to do this to you,
Raistlin. You have much to learn, mage- mercy, compassion, forebear-ance. It is my hope
that the trials you face ahead of you will teach you what you lack now. If not, you will
succumb in the end to the fate your master foresaw. But, as of now, you and your brother
truly know each other. The barriers between you have been battered down, though I am
afraid each of you has suffered wounds in the encounter. I hope the scars make you
stronger.”

Par-Salian rose to leave. “Use your powers well, mage. The time is close at hand when your
strength must save the world.” Raistlin bowed his head and sat in silence until Par-Salian
had

left the room. Then he stood up, staggered, and nearly fell. Caramon jumped forward to
help him, but Raistlin, clinging to

the wooden staff, caught himself. Fighting the pain and dizziness that assailed him,
Raistlin's golden-eyed gaze met that of his twin. Caramon hesitated . . . and stopped.

Raistlin sighed. Then, leaning on the Staff of Ma-gius, the young mage pulled himself
upright and walked, slowly and with faltering steps, out the door.

Head bowed, his twin followed.

Harvests Nancy Varian Berberick

Flint squinted up at the patches of fading blue sky showing through the forest's skeletal
cover. Golden light slanted down from a westering autumn sun. The thought of another night
in this gloomy woods did nothing to improve his mood, already soured by two restless
nights. Wicked whispers and dread-filled moans were this forest's night song. He shivered
and caught himself tapping the haft of his battle-axe. There was something wrong in these
woods, and thoughts of Solace and home never seemed more welcome to the old dwarf than
they had on this journey.

The dwarf glowered at Tanis. Blast the young half-elf's curious nature! So he hadn't been
out of his homeland of Qualinesti that long. Did that mean he had to lead them down every
cowpath in search of adventure? And wasn't he, Flint Fireforge, a respectable dwarven
businessman, old enough to know better?