The Magic Of Krynn (29 page)

“This place shivers my skin!” Tanin muttered, with a sideways glance at his youngest
brother.

Slowly sipping a cup of tarbean tea, Palin stared into the flames of the fire, pretending
not to have heard Tanin's remark, which he knew was addressed to him.

“Oh, in the name of the Abyss, would you sit down!” Sturm said, tossing pieces of bread at
his brother. “You're going to walk yourself right through the floor, and the gods only
know what's beneath us.”

Tanin only frowned, shaking his head, and continued his pacing.

“Reorx's beard, brother!” Sturm continued almost incomprehensibly, his mouth full of
cheese. “You'd think we were in a draconian dungeon instead of what might pass for a room
in one of the finest inns in Pa-lanthas itself! Good food, great ale-” he took a long pull
to wash down the cheese-“ and there'd be pleasant company if you weren't acting such a
doorknob!”

“Well, we aren't in one of the inns in Palanthas,” said Tanin sarcastically, stopping in
his pacing to catch a hunk of thrown bread. Grinding it to bits in his hand, he tossed it
on the floor. “We're in the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. We've been spirited into
this room. The damn door's locked and we can't get out. We have no idea what these wizards
have done with Father, and all you can think of is cheese and ale!”

“That's not ALL I'm thinking of,” Sturm said quietly with a nod of his head and a worried
glance at their little brother, who was still staring into the fire.

“Yeah,” Tanin snapped gloomily, his gaze following Sturm's. "I'm thinking of him, too!
It's HIS fault we're here in the first

place!" Moodily kicking a table leg as he walked past, Tanin resumed his pacing. Seeing
his little brother flinch at his older brother's words, Sturm sighed and returned to his
sport of trying to hit Tanin between the shoulder blades with the bread.

Anyone observing the older two young men (as someone was at this very moment) might have
taken them for twins, although they were-in reality-a year apart in age. Twenty-four and
twenty- three respectively, Tanin and Sturm (named for Caramon's best friend, Tanis
Half-Elven, and the heroic Knight of Solamnia, Sturm Brightblade) looked, acted, and even
thought alike. Indeed, they often played the part of twins and enjoyed nothing so much as
when people mistook one for the other.

Big and brawny, each young man had Caramon's splendid physique and his genial, honest
face. But the bright red curls and dancing green eyes that wreaked such havoc among the
women the young men met came directly from their mother, who had broken her share of
hearts in her youth. One of the beauties of Krynn as well as a renowned warrior, Tika
Waylan had grown a little plumper since the days when she bashed draconians over the head
with her skillet. But heads still turned when Tika waited tables in her fluffy,
low-necked, white blouse, and there were few men who left the Inn of the Last Home without
swearing that Caramon was a lucky fellow.

The green eyes of young Sturm were not dancing now, however. Instead, they glinted
mischievously as, with a wink at his younger brother-who wasn't watching-Sturm rose
silently to his feet and, positioning himself behind the preoccupied Tanin, quietly drew
his sword. Just as Tanin turned around, Sturm stuck the sword blade between his brother's
legs, sending him to the floor with a crash that seemed to shake the very foundation of
the Tower.

“Damn you for a lame-brained gully dwarf!” roared Tanin, falling flat on his face.
Clambering to his feet, he leaped after his brother, who was scrambling to get out of the
way. Tanin caught him and, grabbing hold of the grinning Sturm by the collar of his tunic,
sent him sprawling backward into the table, smashing it to the floor. Tanin jumped on top
of his brother, and the two were engaged in their usual rough and tumble antics that had
left several bar rooms in Ansalon in shambles when a quiet voice brought the tussle to a
halt.

“Stop it,” said Palin tensely, rising from his chair by the fire. “Stop it, both of you!
Remember where you are!”

“I remember where I am,” Tanin said sulkily, gazing up at his

youngest brother. As tall as the older two young men, Palin was well-built. Given

to study rather than sword-play, however, he lacked the heavy musculature of the two
warriors. He had his mother's red hair, but it was not fiery red, being nearer a dark
auburn. He wore his hair long-it flowed to his shoulders in soft waves from a central part
on his forehead. But it was the young man's face-his face and his hands-that sometimes
haunted both the dreams of mother and father. Fine-boned, with penetrating, intelligent
eyes that always seemed to be looking right through one, Palin's face had the look of his
uncle, if not his features, the unseen observer noted. Palin's hands were Raistlin's,
however. Slender, delicate, the fingers quick and deft, the young man handled the fragile
spell components with such skill that his father was often torn between watching with
pride and looking away in sadness.

Just now, the hands were clenched into fists as Palin glared grimly at his two older
brothers lying on the floor amid spilled ale, pieces of bread, crockery, a half-eaten
cheese, and shards of broken table.

“Then try to behave with some dignity, at least!” Palin snapped.

“I remember where I am,” Tanin repeated angrily. Getting to his feet, he walked over to
stand in front of Palin, staring at him accusingly. “And I remember who brought us here!
Riding through that accursed wood that damn near got us killed-”

“Nothing in Wayreth Forest would have hurt you,” Palin returned, looking at the mess on
the floor in disgust. “As I told you if you'd only listened. This forest is controlled by
the wizards in the Tower. It protects them from unwanted intruders. We have been invited
here. The trees let us pass without harm. The voices you heard only whisper to you the
fears in your own heart. It's magic-”

“Magic! You listen, Palin,” Tanin interrupted in what Sturm always referred to as his
Elder Brother voice. “Why don't you just drop all this magic business? You're hurting
Father and Mother- Father most of all. You saw his face when we rode up to this place! The
gods know what it must have cost him to come back here.”

Flushing, Palin turned away, biting his lip.

“Oh, lay off the kid, will you, Tanin?” Sturm said, seeing the pain on his younger
brother's face. Wiping ale from his pants, he somewhat shamefacedly began trying to put
the table back together-a hopeless task considering most of it was in splinters.

“You had the makings of a good swordsman once, little brother,” Tanin said persuasively,
ignoring Sturm and putting his hand on Palin's shoulder. “C'mon, kid. Tell whoever's out
there”-Tanin waved his hand somewhat vaguely-“that you've changed your mind. We can leave
this cursed place, then, and go home-”

“We have no idea why they asked us to come here,” Palin retorted, shaking off his
brother's hand. “It probably has nothing to do with me! Why should it?” he asked bitterly.
“I'm still a student, it will be years before I am ready to take my Test. . . thanks to
Father and Mother,” he muttered beneath his breath. Tanin did not hear it, but the unseen
observer did.

“Yeah? And I'm a half-ogre,” retorted Tanin angrily. “Look at me when I'm talking, Palin-”

“Just leave me alone!”

“Hey, you two-” Sturm the peacemaker started to intervene when the three young men
suddenly realized they were not alone in the room.

All quarrels forgotten, the brothers acted instantly. Sturm rose to his feet with the
quickness of a cat. His hand on the hilt of his sword, he joined Tanin, who had already
moved to stand protectively in front of the unarmed Palin. Like all magic-users, the young
man carried neither sword nor shield nor wore armor. But his hand went to the dagger he
carried concealed beneath his robes, his mind already forming the words of the few
defensive spells he had been allowed to learn.

“Who are you?” Tanin asked harshly, staring at the man standing in the center of the
locked room. “How did you get in here?”

“As to how I got here”-the man smiled broadly- “there are no walls in the Tower of High
Sorcery for those who walk with magic. As for who I am, my name is Dunbar Mastersmate, of
Northern Ergoth.”

“What do you want?” Sturm asked quietly.

“Want? Why-to make certain you are comfortable, that is all,” Dunbar answered. “I am your
host-”

“You? A magic-user?” Tanin gaped, and even Palin seemed slightly startled.

In a world where wizards are noted for having more brains than brawn, this man was
obviously the exception. Standing as tall as Tanin, he had a barrel of a chest that
Caramon might well have envied. Muscles rippled beneath the shining black skin. His arms
looked as though he could have picked up the stalwart Sturm and carried him about the

room as easily as if he had been a child. He was not dressed in robes, but wore
bright-colored, loose-fitting trousers. The only hint that he might have been a wizard at
all came from the pouches that hung at his waist and a white sash that girdled his broad
middle.

Dunbar laughed, booming laughter that set the dishes rattling.

“Aye,” he said, “I am a magic-user.” With that, he spoke a word of command, and the broken
table, leaping to its legs, put itself back together with incredible speed. The ale
vanished from the floor, the cracked pitcher mended and floated up to rest on the table,
where it was soon foaming with brew again. A roasted haunch of venison appeared, as did a
loaf of fragrant bread, along with sundry other delicacies that caused Sturm's mouth to
water and cooled even Tanin's ardor, though they did not allay his suspicions.

“Seat yourselves,” said Dunbar, “and let us eat. Do not worry about your father,” he
added, as Tanin was about to speak. “He is in conference with the heads of the other two
Orders. Sit down! Sit down!” He grinned, white teeth flashing against his black skin. “Or
shall I make you sit down? . . .”

At this, Tanin let loose the hilt of his sword and pulled up a chair, though he did not
eat but sat watching Dunbar warily. Sturm fell to with a good appetite, however. Only
Palin remained standing, his hands folded in the sleeves of his white robes.

“Please, Palin,” said Dunbar more gently, looking at the young man, “be seated. Soon we
will join your father and you will discover the reason you have been brought here. In the
meanwhile, I ask you to share bread and meat with me.”

“Thank you. Master,” Palin said, bowing respectfully.

“Dunbar, Dunbar . . .” The man waved his hand. “You are my guests. We will not stand on
formalities.”

Palin sat down and began to eat, but it was obvious he did so out of courtesy only. Dunbar
and Sturm more than made up for him, however, and soon even Tanin was lured from his self-
imposed role of protector by the delicious smells and the sight of the others enjoying
themselves.

“You . . . you said the heads of the OTHER Orders, Mast- Dunbar,” Palin ventured. “Are
you-”

“Head of the Order of the White Robes. Yes.” Dun-bar tore off a hunk of bread with his
strong teeth and washed it down with a

draught of ale which he drank in one long swallow. “I took over when Par-Salian retired.”

“Head of the Order?” Sturm looked at the big man in awe. “But-what kind of wizard are you?
What do you do?”

“I'll wager it's more than pulling the wings off bats,” Tanin mumbled through a mouthful
of meat.

Palin appeared shocked, and frowned at his older brother. But Dunbar only laughed again.
“You're right there!” he said with an oath. “I am a Sea Wizard. My father was a ship's
captain and his father before him. I had no use for captaining vessels. My skills lay in
magic, but my heart was with the sea and there I returned. Now I sail the waves and use my
art to summon the wind or quell the storm. I can leave the enemy becalmed so that we can
outrun him, or I can cast bursting flame onto his decks if we attack. And, when
necessary”-Dunbar grinned-"I can take my turn at the

bilge pump or turn the capstan with the best of them. Keeps me fit.“ He pounded himself on
his broad chest. ”I understand you two“-he looked at Sturm and Tanin-”have returned from
fighting the minotaurs who have been raiding the coast up north. I, too, have been
involved in trying to stop those pirates. Tell me, did you-"

The three were soon deeply involved in discussion. Even Tanin warmed to the subject, and
was soon describing in vivid detail the ambush that had stopped the minotaurs from
leveling the city of Kalaman. Dunbar listened attentively, asking intelligent questions,
making comments, and appearing to enjoy himself very much.

But though the wizard's shrewd gaze was concentrated on the warrior brothers, his
attention was in truth on the younger.

Seeing the three deep in conversation and himself apparently forgotten, Palin thankfully
gave up all pretence of eating and went back to staring into the fire, never noticing
Dunbar watching him.

The young man's face was pale and thoughtful, the slender hands twisted together in his
lap. So lost in his thoughts was he that his lips moved and, though he did not speak
aloud, one other person in the room heard the words.

“Why have they brought me here? Can they read the secrets of my heart? Will they tell my
father?”

And, finally, “How can I hurt him, who has suffered so much already?”

Nodding to himself as if he had found the answer to some unasked question, Dunbar sighed
and turned his complete attention back to fighting minotaurs.

“You're wrong,” said Caramon calmly. “My brother is dead”

Raising his eyebrows, Justarius glanced at Dalamar, who just shrugged. Of all the
reactions they had been prepared for, this calm refutal by the warrior-turned-innkeeper
had not been one of them, apparently. His expression grave, seeming uncertain what to say,
Justarius looked back at Caramon.

“You talk as though you have proof.” “I have,” said Caramon. “May I ask what?” Dalamar
inquired sarcastically. "The Portal

to the Abyss closed, after all-closed WITH YOUR BROTHER'S HELP-leaving him trapped on the
other side.“ The dark elf's voice dropped. ”Her Dark Majesty would not kill him. Raistlin
prevented her entry into this world. Her rage would know no bounds. She would take delight
in tormenting him eternally. DEATH would have been Raistlin's salvation-"

“And so it was,” said Caramon softly.

“Sentimental drivel-” Dalamar began impatiently, but Justarius once again laid his hand
upon the dark elf's arm, and the black-robed mage lapsed into seething silence.

“I hear certainty in your voice, Caramon,” Justarius said earnestly. “You have knowledge,
obviously, that we do not< Share this with us. I know this is painful for you, but we face
a decision of grave importance and this may influence our actions.”

Caramon hesitated, frowning. “Does this have something to do with my son?”

“Yes,” Justarius replied.

Caramon's face darkened. His gaze went to his sword, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, his
hand absently fingering the hilt. 'Then I will tell you,“ he said, speaking reluctantly,
yet in a firm, low voice, ”what I have never told anyone-not my wife, not Tanis,

not anyone." He was silent a moment more, collecting his thoughts. Then, swallowing and
brushing his hand across his eyes, keeping his gaze on the sword, he began.

“I was numb after . . . after what happened in the Tower in Palanthas. After Raistlin . .
. died. I couldn't think. I didn't want to think. It was easier to go through the day like
a sleepwalker. I moved, I talked, but I didn't feel. It was easy.” He shrugged. “There was
a lot to do to keep me occupied. The city was in ruins. Dalamar”-he glanced briefly at the
dark elf-“was nearly dead. Revered Daughter Crysania hurt badly. Then there was Tas-
stealing that floating citadel.” Caramon smiled, remembering the

antics of the merry kender. But the smile soon faded. Shaking his head, he continued.

“I knew that someday I'd have to think about Raistlin. I'd have to sort it out in my
mind.” Raising his head, Caramon looked at Justarius directly. “I had to make myself
understand what Raistlin was, what he had done. I came to face the fact that he was evil,
truly evil. That he had jeopardized the entire world in his lust for power, that innocent
people had suffered and died because of him.”

“And for this, of course, he was granted salvation!” Dalamar sneered.

“Wait!” Caramon raised his hand, flushing. “I came to realize something else. I loved
Raistlin. He was my brother, my twin. We were close, no one knows how close.” The big man
could not go on, but stared down at his sword, frowning, until, drawing a shaking breath,
he lifted his head again, proudly. “Raistlin did some good in his life. Without him, we
couldn't have defeated the dragonarmies. He cared for those who . . . who were wretched,
sick . . .like himself. But even that, I know, wouldn't have saved him at the end.”
Caramon's lips pressed together firmly as he blinked back his tears. "When I met him in
the Abyss, he was near to victory, as you well know. He had only to reenter the Portal,
draw the Dark Queen through it, and then he would be able to defeat her and take her
place. He would achieve his dream of becoming a god. But in so doing, he would destroy the
world. My journey into the future showed that to me-and I showed the

future to him. Raistlin would become a god-but he would rule over a dead world. He knew
then that he couldn't return. He had doomed himself. He knew the risks he faced, however,
when he entered the Abyss."

“Yes,” said Justarius quietly. “And, in his ambition, he chose freely to take those risks.
What is it you are trying to say?” “Just this,” Caramon returned. "Raistlin made a
mistake-a

terrible, tragic mistake. And he did what few of us can do-he had courage enough to admit
it and try to do what he could to rectify it, even though it meant sacrificing himself."

“You have grown in wisdom over the years, Caramon Majere. What you say is convincing.”
Justarius regarded Caramon with new respect, even as the arch-mage shook his head sadly.
“Still, this is a question for philosophers to argue. It is not proof. Forgive me for
pressing you, Caramon, but-”

“I spent a month at Tanis's, before I went home,” Caramon continued as if he hadn't heard
the interruption. "It was in his

quiet, peaceful home that I thought about all this. It was there that I first had to come
to grips with the fact that my brother-my companion since birth, the person that I loved
better than anyone else on this world-was gone. Lost. For all I knew,

trapped in horrible torment. I... I thought, more than once, about taking the edge off my
pain with dwarf spirits again. But I knew that was only a temporary situation." Caramon
closed his eyes, shuddering.

“One day, when I didn't think I could live anymore without going mad, I went into my room
and locked the door. Taking out my sword, I looked at it, thinking how easy it would be to
... to escape. I lay down on my bed, fully intending to kill myself. Instead, I fell into
an exhausted sleep. I don't know how long I slept, but when I woke up, it was night.
Everything was quiet, Solinari's silver light shone in the window, and I was filled with a
sense of inexpressible peace. I wondered why . . . and then I saw him.”

“Saw who?” Justarius asked, exchanging quick glances with Dalamar. “Raistlin?”

“Y es.” The faces of the two wizards grew grim. “I saw him,” said Caramon gently, "lying
beside me,

asleep, just like when . . . when we were young. He had terrible dreams sometimes. He'd
wake, weeping, from them. I'd comfort him and . . . and make him laugh. Then he'd sigh,
lay his head on my arm, and fall asleep. That's how I saw him-"

“A dream!” Dalamar scoffed.

“No.” Caramon shook his head resolutely. “It was too real. I saw his face as I see yours.
I saw his face as I had seen it last, in the Abyss. Only now the terrible lines of pain,
the twisted marks of greed and evil were gone, leaving it smooth and ... at rest-like
Crysania said. It was the face of my brother, my twin . . . not the stranger he'd become.”
Caramon wiped his eyes again, running his hand down over his mouth. “The next day, I was
able to go home,” he said huskily, “knowing that everything was all right. . . . For the
first time in my life, I believed in Paladine. I knew that he understood Raistlin and
judged him mercifully, accepting his sacrifice.”

“He has you there, Justarius,” boomed a voice from out of the shadows. “What do you say to
faith like that?”

Looking around quickly, Caramon saw four figures materialize out of the shadows of the
vast chamber. Three he recognized and, even in this grim place with its storehouse of
memories, his eyes blurred again, only these were tears of pride as he looked upon his
sons. The older two, armor clanking and swords rattling, appeared somewhat subdued, he
noticed. Not unusual, he thought grimly, considering all they had heard about the Tower
both in legend and family history. Then, too, they felt about magic the way he himself
felt-both disliked and distrusted it. The two stood protectively, as usual, one on either
side of Car-amon's third son, their younger brother.

It was this youngest son that Caramon looked at anxiously as they entered. Dressed in his
white robes, Palin approached the Head of the Conclave with his head bowed, his eyes on
the floor as was proper for one of his low rank and station. Having just turned twenty, he
wasn't even an apprentice yet and probably wouldn't be until he was twenty-five at least.
That is the age when magic-users in Krynn may choose to take the Test-the grueling
examination of their skills and talents in the Art which all must pass before they can
acquire more advanced and dangerous knowledge. Because magicians wield such great power,
the Test is designed to weed out those who are unskilled or who do not take their art
seriously. It does this very effectively-failure means death. There is no turning back.
Once a young man or woman of any race- elven, human, ogre-decides to enter the Tower of
High Sorcery with the intent of taking the Test-he or she commits body and soul to the
magic.

Palin seemed unusually troubled and serious, just as he had on their journey to the
Tower-almost as if he was about to take the Test himself. But that's ridiculous, Caramon
reminded himself. The boy is too young. Granted, Raistlin took the Test at this age, but
that was because the Conclave needed him. Raistlin was strong in his magic, excelling in
the art, and-even so-the Test had nearly

killed him. Caramon could still see his twin lying on the blood-stained floor of the
Tower. . . . He clenched his fist. No! Palin is intelligent, he is skilled, but he's not
ready. He's too young.

“Besides,” Caramon muttered beneath his breath, "give him a few more years and he may
decide to drop this fool

notion. . . ." As if aware of his father's worried scrutiny, Palin raised

his head slightly and gave him a reassuring smile. Caramon smiled back, feeling better.
Maybe this weird place had opened his son's eyes.

As the four approached the semicircle of chairs where Justarius and Dalamar sat, Caramon
kept a sharp eye on them. Seeing that his boys were well and acting as they were supposed
to act (his oldest two tended to be a bit boisterous on occasion), the big man finally
relaxed and studied the fourth figure, the one who had spoken to Justarius about faith.

He was an unusual sight. Caramon couldn't remember having seen anything stranger and he'd
traveled most of the continent of Ansalon. He was from Northern Ergoth, that much Caramon
could tell by the black skin-the mark of that sea-faring race. He was dressed like a
sailor, too, except for the pouches on his belt and the white sash around his waist. His
voice was the voice of one accustomed to shouting com mands over the crashing of waves and
the roaring of the wind. So strong was this impression that Caramon glanced around
somewhat uncertainly. He wouldn't have been the least surprised to see a ship under full
sail materialize behind him.

“Caramon Majere, I take it,” the man said, coming over to Caramon, who rose awkwardly to
his feet. Gripping Caramon's hand with a firmness that made the warrior open his eyes
wide, the man grinned and introduced himself. “Dunbar Mastersmate of Northern Ergoth, Head
of the Order of White Robes.”

Caramon gaped. “A mage?” he said wonderingly, shaking hands.

Dunbar laughed. “Exactly your sons' reaction. Yes, I've been visiting with your boys
instead of doing my duty here, I'm afraid. Fine lads. The oldest two have been with the
Knights, I understand, fighting mino-taurs near Kalaman. We came close to meeting there,
that's what kept me so long.” He glanced in apology at Justarius. “My ship was in
Palanthas for repairs to damage taken fighting those same pirates. I am a Sea Wizard,”
Dunbar added by way of explanation, noticing Caramon's slightly puzzled look. “By the
gods, but your boys take after you!” He laughed, and, reaching out, shook Caramon's hand
again.

Caramon grinned back. Everything would be all right, now that these wizards understood
about Raistlin. He could take his boys and go home.

Caramon suddenly became aware that Dunbar was regarding him intently, almost as if he
could see the thoughts in his mind. The wizard's face grew serious. Shaking his head
slightly, Dunbar turned and walked across the chamber with rapid, rolling strides, as
though on the deck of his ship, to take his seat to the right of Justarius.

“Well,” said Caramon, fumbling with the hilt of his sword, his confidence shaken by the
look on the wizard's face. All three were staring at him now, their expressions solemn.
Caramon's face hardened in resolve. “I guess that's that,” he said coldly. “You've heard
what I've had to say about . . . about Raistlin. . . .”

“Yes,” said Dunbar. “We ALL heard, some of us-I believe- for the first time.” The Sea
Wizard glanced meaningfully at Palin, who was staring at the floor.

Clearing his throat nervously, Caramon continued. “I guess we'll be on our way.”

The wizards exchanged looks. Justarius appeared uncomfortable, Dalamar stem, Dunbar sad.
But none of'them said anything. Bowing, Caramon turned to leave and was just motioning to
his sons when Dalamar, with an irritated gesture, rose to his feet.

“You cannot go, Caramon,” the dark elf said. “There is still much to discuss.”

“Then say what you have to say!” Caramon stated angrily, turning back around to face the
wizards.

“I will say it, since these two”-he cast a scathing glance at his fellow wizards-“are
squeamish about challenging such devoted faith as you have proclaimed. Perhaps they have
forgotten the grave danger we faced twenty-five years ago. I haven't.” His hand strayed to
the torn robes. “I never can. My fears cannot be dispelled by a 'vision,' no matter how
touching.” His lip curled derisively. “Sit down, Caramon. Sit down and hear the truth
these two fear to speak.”

“I do not fear to speak it, Dalamar.” Justarius spoke in rebuking tones. “I was thinking
about the story Caramon related, its bearing upon the matter-”

The dark elf snorted, but-at a piercing look from his superior- he sat back down, wrapping
his black robes around him. Caramon remained standing, however, frowning and glancing from
one wizard to the other. Behind him, he heard the jingle of armor as his two older boys
shifted uncomfortably. This place made them nervous, just as it did him. He wanted to turn
on his heel and walk out, never returning to the Tower that had been the scene of so