Okay, peeps. In this chapter, I incorporated a bit of a scene from Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis' War of the Twins. I wrote it from Caramon's point of view (don't ask, you'll see), so it's not exactly the same. But what was said is EXACTLY right, and I don't own it IN ANY WAY, SHAPE, OR FORM! The section is clearly marked off, and was necessary for my story to progress. So no one go tattletaling to Wizards of the Coast, 'cause I have one heck of a disclaimer! On that note, I don't own any of the characters either, except Senan and Terren. ;p
Anyway, thanks to Dalamar Nightson for all your advise. Very much appreciated; your suggestions have been incorporated into the draft on my computer. (I'm too lazy to do it on So keep it up!
R&R!
The minute she felt the first rays of morning touch her cheek, Crysania leapt out of bed, throwing her glossy curtains to the side. She dressed quickly and quietly in the clothes her servants had laid out for her, then opened the door to her room. Listening closely, she could make out the slow, even breathing of a sleeping Senan, who lay huddled in her robes at the foot of the door. Crysania smiled knowingly, then pulled off the cloak she had just painstakingly tied over her shoulders and tucked it around Senan. The girl stirred slightly, shifted to get more comfortable, then sank back into blissful oblivion.
Continuing down the hall, her arms crossed to brace herself against the morning chill, Crysania allowed herself to be led to the sanctuary by Paladine's ever present, ever loving voice. Upon entering, she whispered a prayer to her beloved god, and, feeling his blessing envelope her like the warmest blanket, she felt her way toward the alter.
"You are up and about quite early, Revered Daughter," sounded a voice from behind her. Crysania stopped and turned her sightless face toward the speaker.
"I could not sleep," she said evasively. "Good morning to you, Terren. If I may say so, you as well are up with the sun."
"I was worried about you, Revered Daughter," Terren stated, bowing low. His flyaway blond hair formed a yellow halo around his delicate elven face, and his keen gray eyes watched her with interest as he straightened. "I take it all is well?"
"Yes, everything is fine," Crysania lied, hiding her feelings behind her blank, milky eyes. As much as she liked Terren, sometimes it was hard to trust him. She could feel the mischief radiating off the young elf in waves.
As it were, his eyes twinkled knowingly. "Of course, Revered Daughter. Though if I may venture a question?"
Crysania grimaced inwardly. "Go ahead," she said finally.
"It was reported that you awoke in a fever of excitement with the name 'Raistlin' on your lips. Did you dream about him?"
"Th…That is none of your business!" Crysania stammered. Turning quickly, she once more began to grope her way to the alter.
"What did he say to you?" Terren persisted, jogging up to walk at her side. "I do hope he didn't do anything to you?"
"You must be able to tell that I am fine, Terren," she said coolly, trying to move away from him. "I am not hurt in any way."
"And yet your soul cries out in agony," he pointed out. "Though you may not know it, your eyes, however sightless, speak the words your lips cannot."
"You know as well as I do that I cannot control my expressions any longer."
"And yet it is your expressions that speak the truth," he said gently, laying a restraining hand on her arm. "I have one more thing to say, then I will leave you in peace. Never doubt the power of your dreams. You are beloved of Paladine. Anything that comes to you in a dream must be considered carefully, for if it is a vision, you must act upon it according to the will of our god. Remember that, Crysania. Paladine favors you, and thus will he use you to carry out his will." Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed her soft skin. Then he turned and walked away without another word.
Crysania waited until the door had slammed shut behind the elf, then turned and stumbled blindly up to the alter. Falling to her knees, she bowed her head so low it touched the marble floor of the alter steps.
"Blessed Paladine," she breathed, hardly able to speak what for her excitement, "are you trying to tell me that Raistlin will return?" She racked her brain, searching for other pieces of the dream. They came, but they were distorted. Caramon's distraught face swam before her eyes, and she grasped it with a mental fist. "What of Caramon? What does it all mean? Give me a sign, any sign! Tell me what to do!"
At that moment, the door to the sanctuary opened, and a mage wearing red robes strode into the room. His sharp eyes immediately found Crysania, who had risen to her feet and was looking toward what she hoped was the door with apparent eagerness. As it were, her eyes stared blankly over his shoulder. The mage sauntered forward and gave an ever-so-slight bow before her.
"Revered Daughter," he said in a deep, musical voice, "I come to you bearing a message from Dalamar the Dark, master of the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas."
"Yes, my son," she replied, barely able to conceal her impatience. Perhaps he carried the sign she had prayed for not a minute earlier. "Speak. What of the message?"
"My Lord Dalamar requests your wise judgment regarding a dream about his Shalafi," the man stated respectfully, though his eyes showed what he really thought of this notion. "He asks that you should meet him in the Library of Palanthas at Midday today if at all possible. He has told me to add that it is quite urgent, and your presence is of utmost importance, my Lady."
"Of course I will attend," she said excitedly. So she wasn't the only one who had dreamed of Raistlin. Perhaps this meant something after all. Extending her hand, she commanded, "Take me to Lord Dalamar. I am most interested to hear what he has to say concerning this matter."
The red-robed mage bowed courtly, placed her hand on his arm, and led her from the temple.
Dalamar the Dark impatiently paced the book-lined room in which he had been told to wait. His feathery brows were furrowed in thought, his mouth set in a grim line. His black, silky hair slipped from the loose tie he had fastened into it and swayed about his face as he walked. His padded, soft footsteps were the only sound in the room other than the water timepiece that dripped away the seconds from the mantle.
"Where in the name of the Abyss is she?" he demanded of no one, glancing for what must have been the millionth time at the waterclock. Seeing that it had only been thirty seconds since the last time he had checked the time, he turned, frustrated, back to his pacing.
What for his grumbling and pacing, he did not hear the quiet footfalls of the aesthetic, Bertrem, who startled him as he knocked on the door.
"My Lord Dalamar, your guest awaits you."
"Send her in," the dark elf called, allowing himself to sink into a chair at last.
"Lady Crysania, Revered Daughter of Paladine, Head of the Church," Bertrem announced, opening the door. He gently led Crysania into the room, guiding her around the maze of chairs and tables to sit across from Dalamar. She regarded him with a grateful smile.
"Give this to the man who brought her here," Dalamar ordered, tossing the aesthetic a small bag of steel coins. Bertrem fumbled at the unexpected throw, but managed to hold onto the money pouch. With a resentful bow, he stalked out, shutting the door behind him.
"So what of the dream?" Crysania asked, eagerly leaning forward in her seat.
Dalamar fixed the blind woman with an amused look. "It seems you have picked up more from my Shalafi than I could have imagined," he chuckled. "You get right to the point, as was his way."
"This information is of the utmost importance," Crysania said sternly. "I did not journey halfway across Palanthas for tea and pleasantries."
Dalamar laughed outright. "No, I suppose you did not." Shaking his head with a sardonic grin, he picked up his teacup and drained the contents. "Why don't you tell me what you saw, then I will compare it to mine."
"No. I wish to hear your version of the dream first, if you please."
Deigning this to be a battle that wasn't worth his time, Dalamar conceded. "As you wish, my Lady. In my dream, I saw Caramon Majere. He was acting very strangely; he was clawing at me and silently pleading with me until I thought he must be mad. But there was something that kept me from believing this, and that was the fact that there seemed to be another presence there as well. It was almost as if he were fleeing from it, though I could not see what it was.
"Then he was gone; replaced by my Shalafi. The Shalafi spoke to me that I must be wary of upcoming events, that I must 'be strong'." Dalamar snorted at this as if this were the most ridiculous notion in the world, but he continued. "This is the part that I did not understand, and thus I seek your counsel. Have you any idea of what he meant by 'upcoming events'?"
Crysania had gone white. Her milky eyes stared wide-eyed into space, and her lower lip trembled. Frowning, Dalamar reached out and lightly touched her shoulder.
"What is it?" he asked quietly.
"So it is true," Crysania murmured, as if she had not heard the question. Slowly, she touched her fingertips to her lips. "It was all true."
"You do not know that for certain, my Lady," Dalamar said firmly. "We must consider the possibility that it was coincidence."
Crysania turned her sightless eyes on the dark elf, a sight that was disturbing and yet strangely compelling at the same time. The whitening depths seemed to see right into his soul, even if they were forever blinded to the mortal plane.
"You know as well as I do that it is not coincidence, Dalamar," she said softly, shrugging his hand off her shoulder in order to take it between hers. Her face was alight, radiant with hope and renewed purpose. "That vision was not a coincidence. Raistlin was speaking to us; I know it. Somewhere in the near future, he is going to have great need of us. And, through Paladine's blessing, he was able to let us know."
"I doubt Paladine would ever want me included in his plans," Dalamar said icily. He pulled his hand away from her as if he had been burned, rubbing the delicate knuckles and regarding her with dismay. "I fear there is some other force at work here."
"No," Crysania said resolutely. She raised her face to the heavens. "It was Paladine. I am sure of it."
Dalamar rolled his eyes, but wisely chose to say nothing more on the issue. Let her believe what she will, he thought. I have no right to take her happiness from her. Pushing himself to his feet, he cleared his throat. "In any case, I will be departing to Solace within the hour. I am going to confront Caramon Majere, in case he has any clue at all as to what all this may mean. I would request my Lady's presence, but I doubt that can be arranged."
Crysania hesitated. She knew she had her duties here, but she desperately wanted to go to Solace for answers. If there was any chance Caramon might know something about the dream, she wanted to hear it. Battling with herself, she said nothing.
"Well?" Dalamar demanded. "I do not have the time to wait for your decision. If you do not decide within the next five minutes, I will leave you here, regardless of what you make up your mind to do."
Before Crysania could reply, the door swung open. Senan strode into the room, followed by a very blustered Bertrem, who was trying without success to keep her from barging in on the two. Mopping his forehead, he bowed hastily to Dalamar and Crysania.
"Forgive me," he stammered, looking at Senan with obvious irritation. "She demanded to be admitted, and before I could announce her she had already blasted through the--"
"Lady Crysania!" Senan shoved past the rambling Bertrem and knelt before the Head of Church, grasping her hand earnestly. "I have had a vision!"
Dalamar's eyebrows arched, and Crysania frowned. Giving the girl's hand a squeeze, she looked troubled. "What kind of vision?"
"Well, there was this man--"
"Was he collapsed on the ground before you, crying out in a silent plea for help?" Dalamar asked, lacking the patience to hear an excited teen's flustered story.
Senan gave him a strange look. "No. Now if you would please let me continue…" she turned back to Crysania and launched once more into her tale. "He was cloaked all in black like a mage, and he had silver runes on the hems of his robes. He had this amazing silver hair and the most intriguing golden eyes that looked like hourglasses. Hourglasses! Can you believe it?" In her excitement to tell her story, the normally calm, collected cleric was once more the ecstatic maiden who had just received something of immense value and wanted to share it with the world. Her words tumbled over each other as she hurried to tell her story, her eyes shining. "And he was talking to me…he was telling me of all the things that he wanted to do, everything that was denied him. He wanted me to help him, Mother! How can I…Mother?"
Crysania's jaw had dropped. Her expression was one of utter astonishment and betrayal. Tears welled up in her eyes, and though they did not drop, neither did they fade.
"He…he…" Words were lost to her as she tried to comprehend her situation.
"Did I say something wrong?" Senan looked worriedly to Dalamar, who was regarding her with extreme interest.
"No," Dalamar said after a time. His dark eyes flicked over the girl, taking everything in. She shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, unwittingly reverting to the cool cleric state. Forcing herself to stand still and confidant, she met his eyes with an unwavering will.
"Take Senan with you, Lord Dalamar," Crysania said abruptly, tilting her head so her hair fell in her eyes. "She will make a better companion than I would anyway."
"Wait," Senan interrupted. "Where am I going? What is going on?"
"I seek a companion to accompany me to Solace to interrogate Caramon Majere," Dalamar replied. "I have reason to believe that he might have an idea as to how to interpret these visions."
"Why Caramon Majere?" Senan asked, interested.
"Because he is the twin brother of Raistlin Majere, the man you saw in your dream," Dalamar stated matter-of-factly, giving her a scornful look.
Crysania said nothing, keeping her head bowed.
Senan glanced at her uneasily, then turned back to Dalamar. "Raistlin Majere…As in, the Raistlin Majere? The mage who sought godhood all those years ago?"
"Glad to see you know your history," Dalamar said dryly.
Giving Crysania another worried look, she looked back at the dark elf with a purposefully blank expression that he could read all too clearly. "As in…Lady Crysania's Raistlin Majere?"
"I wouldn't tie him to any one person, you young whelp," Dalamar admonished severely. "To do so would be a great folly on your part. But yes, he is indeed the Raistlin that wedged himself so painfully in your master's heart."
"But…but that's impossible!" Senan nearly shouted. "The man I saw in my dream wasn't evil. He was a prisoner, a loner who needed help--"
"He was all that and more," Dalamar interrupted. "The Shalafi was indeed a prisoner. He was very much a loner. However, he was all these things of his own free will. He gave everything for the magic, left nothing for the human being."
"He is not evil," Crysania murmured, her hand traveling absently to her lips. "He may have been misguided, corrupted…but he was not evil. Evil turns in upon itself," she stated louder, pushing herself to her feet. "Yet he was torn from the grasp of the Dark Queen to rest in eternal peace. Yes, he committed heinous acts in his life. As have we all. But…" her voice softened, her hand moving from her lips to the medallion that hung around her neck, "…he had the courage to pay for them." Extending her hand, she made the sign of the blessing of Paladine. "Go with Lord Dalamar, my daughter. Paladine has erased my doubts. Godspeed on your journey, and be careful. You are in the hand of Paladine."
Startled by this abrupt change in disposition, Senan nodded dumbly. Then, remembering her master could not see her, she mumbled a quick, "Yes, Mother."
"If you don't mind, I'd like to be going now." Dalamar grabbed Senan's arm roughly. He could see right through Crysania's attempt to disguise her unfounded jealousy of the young cleric, but he chose to ignore it, dismissing it as irrelevant. "I wish you good fortune, Revered Daughter. May your god forever guide your footsteps." With a curt bow and an impatient flick of his wrist, the dark elf and his companion disappeared to walk the invisible paths of magic.
When they had gone, Crysania sank back into her chair, closing her sightless eyes. "This keeps getting stranger and stranger," she muttered, rubbing her temples. "I am beginning to think that trying to figure things out is a waste of time. Nothing makes sense." Opening her milky eyes, she stared into the endless void that was so much like the Abyss. "Raistlin, what are you planning? What are you trying to tell me? Or…" she frowned at the new possibility. "…is that even you?"
No answer came. The room was silent, except for the eternal drip of the waterclock.
Chapter three: Wicked Nostalgia.
Caramon worked all through the night and well into the next day, never noticing his wearying limbs or watering eyes. He whistled a cheerful tune, the sun lighting his hammer blows by day, Solinari's soft, silver sheen brightening his work by night. He did not hear Tika's call that he had worked enough, for perhaps he didn't want to hear it. So absorbed he was in his work that the passage of time meant nothing; the sound of the saw and the sparks the hammer spat when it struck the nails were the only things he saw or heard.
Finally, he became dimly aware of a tickle of thirst at the back of his throat, one that had become so insistent that it be acknowledged that he could not ignore it any longer. Laying down his hammer, he rubbed irritably at his neck, swallowing a few times in hopes that it would go away. It didn't. Annoyed, he reached for his waterskin, only to find it empty. Cursing his mortality and rubbing his bleary eyes, he stumbled down the stairs of the mighty vallenwood and entered the Inn of the Last Home.
"I was beginning to think you'd never stop working," Tika called from across the room, where she was serving a table of grumbling dwarves who were on the road to sell their wares in Haven. Hastily setting down their drinks, she hurried across the room to wrap her husband in a warm embrace. "Glad to see you finally decided to take a break."
"It won't be for long. I have to finish putting up the east wall, else it might be ruined in a storm," Caramon grunted, kissing her cheek idly and looking hungrily at the keg of ale mounted behind the bar. Tika followed his gaze, and, shaking her head with an amused smile, went to fill a tankard for him. Caramon sat down at one of the booths, grateful to rest his legs for a while. He yawned and stretched, suddenly realizing how tired he was. Considering taking a short catnap, he rested his chin on his arms and let his eyes drift shut.
Not two minutes had passed before he received a painful poke to his side.
"What the—"
"Hullo, Caramon!" Tas's impish face was shoved right into Caramon's, and the big man let out a yelp of surprise. Nearly toppling over backwards, Caramon scrabbled to regain his balance.
Tas shook his head. "You should really work on how you greet people, Caramon," the kender chided. "One might think that you're not happy to see him."
Knowing it was no use to tell the kender that he should work on not scaring the piss out of a person when he was sleeping, Caramon forced himself to put on a friendly, if exasperated, smile. "Of course, Tas," he said through gritted teeth, "I'll be sure to keep that in mind."
"Good," the kender said cheerfully. "Anyway, I just got back from Uncle Trapspringer's birthday party! It was quite exciting. Would you like to hear about it?" Before Caramon could answer, Tas nodded and continued eagerly. "Well, we had this big boat that someone had mistakenly left on the shore. We decided that we were going to try and sail it back to him, but none of us knew how to sail. Then Thistledown remembered a story Uncle Trapspringer had told her about how he had sailed across the Blood Sea of Istar on a merchant's boat. It was a very interesting story. You see, it all began when Uncle Trapspringer was playing a friendly game of tag with the police of Ergoth when…"
Caramon let Tas ramble happily on, not hearing a word the kender said. He gratefully downed the huge tankard his wife had set in front of him, letting the fiery liquid quench the enormous thirst that he didn't even know he had. When the mug was empty, he stared remorsefully at the empty bottom, then set it down on the table. Now that his throat was adequately wetted, he felt sleep creeping up on him like an assassin. Vaguely thinking that he did not much like this analogy, Caramon let his head sink onto the table, asleep before his forehead ever touched the smoothed mahogany.
After a few minutes, Tas noticed he had lost his audience. Somewhat annoyed, Tas told himself that he would have to have a firm talk with Caramon after he awoke, concerning his increasingly bad habit of being quite rude. Turning on his heel, the kender tottered off to find another unsuspecting victim on whom to lavish his tales.
A few hours later, Caramon was once more prodded into wakefulness by another annoying poke to the ribs. Irritably opening a groggy eye, the big warrior was about to scold the thoughtless kender when he noticed that instead of looking into the mischievous eyes of Tasslehoff Burrfoot, he was instead staring straight into the cunning face of Dalamar the dark.
Caramon sprang to his feet, immediately awake and alert. Dalamar regarded him with slight amusement, then gave a polite bow.
"Caramon Majere," he said in his strong voice. "I am pleased to find you in good health."
"What are you doing here?" Caramon demanded. He had never much liked the dark elf, and it didn't help that he did not exactly have a good history with his kind.
"I come seeking your wise counsel," Dalamar replied. Caramon thought he heard a bit of a sneer on the word 'wise', but he let the insult slide.
"Regarding…?"
"A certain…premonition, if you will." Dalamar turned to look behind him, and appeared to be annoyed by what he saw.
"Premonition?" Caramon craned his neck, trying to see around the dark elf. Seeing only a young girl dressed all in white, he blinked. "What is it?"
"My companion," Dalamar said simply. "Revered Daughter, I beg of you to remember yourself and come forward. This is Caramon Majere, the man we seek."
"Of…of course." The girl seemed shaken, and she tottered forward dizzily, as if trying to get her bearings after a long fall. Caramon guessed Dalamar had brought the unsuspecting cleric through the corridors of magic, and he frowned in disdain.
"What premonition could be so important that you would drag a poor young woman through the wretched paths of the mages?" the big man demanded, hefting himself to his feet to support the young girl, who gave him a thankful look and leaned heavily on his arm.
"One concerning your twin brother," Dalamar said coldly.
"Raist? I mean…Raistlin?" Caramon stammered, quickly correcting the usage of his brother's childhood nickname. It seemed out of place. "What about him? What of the dream?"
"One question at a time!" Dalamar growled. "All will be answered soon. Let us be seated." Grabbing the cleric's arm, Dalamar steered her roughly into the booth where Caramon had slept. She pulled her arm away, giving him a baleful glare.
Caramon glanced around at the various looks of dismay and distrust that showed in the faces of the Inn's customers. Giving them a sheepish shrug, he sat down across from Dalamar, trusting that they would mind their own business, knowing that they would not. He could already hear their excited whispers and the scrape of chairs as they all leaned in to hear what the dark elf had to say.
"I must begin by asking if you have experienced anything strange as of late," Dalamar began, holding Caramon's eyes with his own. "Please relate anything that you have seen that is out of the ordinary."
"Aside from your sudden appearance at the Inn, no," Caramon said warily.
Dalamar did not smile. "I see. I suppose this makes my task a bit more difficult." Resting his elbows on the table, the dark elf steepled his fingers and fixed the warrior with a penetrating gaze. "I speak for myself, my companion, and Lady Crysania when I say that we have had a dream that is extremely disconcerting. I believe it to be a premonition of sorts, and I award it high prevalence. The reason I have come before you is that this dream also concerned you."
"Me?" Caramon was dumbfounded, and suddenly afraid.
"That's what I said," Dalamar said dryly. "In the dream, you were pleading for my help. You were beaten down, worthless, cowering at my feet. Your eyes would make one think you were mad, but I could see that--"
"So you dreamed that I cowered before you, sniveling like a whipped dog?" Caramon sneered. "Is that what you came to tell me? That I would be your servant, at your beck and call?"
"If you would allow me to finish, I could explain," Dalamar growled, his dark eyes flashing fiercely in the sunlight filtering through the stained glass windows. "As I was saying, I could see that you were indeed not mad as I had first believed, but you were being controlled by another, and you desperately sought escape."
Caramon stared.
"Gruesome, isn't it?" Dalamar smirked grimly. "After this encounter, I was suddenly in the presence of my Shalafi, who told me to expect to be included in upcoming events. From his grave tone, I gathered that these events would not exactly be a picnic by a stream. Have you any idea what he could have meant?"
Caramon shook his head stiffly, his eyes never blinking.
"He said that he needed help," Senan ventured hesitantly. "He wanted me to help save him from his prison, or something like that."
"Raistlin is resting peacefully in the arms of Paladine," Caramon said quietly through parched lips.
"I'm not so sure," Dalamar returned. "If he were safely at rest, why would he have bothered to send us this premonition?"
"Perhaps he did not send it," Caramon said coldly. "For all we know, that dream could have been sent by our dear Takhisis."
"The Dark Queen could never have penetrated my thoughts," Senan stated firmly. "I am a cleric of Paladine, and he shelters me from her influence."
"That's exactly what Crysania said," Caramon muttered. "Famous last words."
"Be that as it may, this dream still deserves to be awarded special attention," Dalamar said.
"I'm in no mood to play mystic." Caramon pushed himself to his feet, indicating that the conversation was over. "If you want, my brother used to have a book about premonitions and dreams that I could fetch for you. Otherwise, I have nothing more to say."
"Would your brother by any chance have written notes concerning this book?"
"He used to scribble in the margins, if that's what you mean."
A smile curled Dalamar's thin lips. "Alright. Fetch me this book."
Cursing Dalamar and everything he stood for, Caramon turned on his heel and stalked back toward the stairs.
A few minutes later, he stood outside the room he had built for his brother all those months ago. Being the only finished room in the new house, it stood out starkly against the unfinished framework of the surrounding rooms. Caramon shook his head, gravely amused that he should have to enter the room he had just vowed to seal shut. I'll just be in and out. That easy, he thought to himself. Swallowing hard, he pushed open the door.
Even though his brother had never taken up residence in the empty room, it still spoke loudly of the mage's presence. Everything in it screamed his brother's name, and though Caramon kept his eyes trained on the floor, it still echoed clearly through his mind.
Caramon quickly yanked the trunk he needed off the shelf and threw open the top, coughing as the dust flew into his nose and eyes. Blinking to clear his vision, he riffled through the stacks of books and parchment.
His hand came to rest on a worn, leather cover. Thinking this to be the book he needed, he pulled it out of the pile and blew the dust off the cover. As the dust was blasted away, Caramon almost dropped the book as he read the cover.
The old, crinkled, well-used leather bore the words, Sleight-of-Hand Techniques Designed to Amaze and Delight!
Caramon choked as he fingered the letters lovingly, his mind picking him up and carrying him on memory's wings to the time before the terrible Test, when his brother had been healthy, caring (well, to his eyes), and full of hopes and dreams. He could still see Raistlin standing up on the stump, making coins fall out of people's noses and lifting wonderful apparitions from thin air. He could still hear his brother's complaint of stage fright, still see Master Theobald's furious red face as he scolded Raistlin for stooping so low. Caramon hugged the book close, then forced himself to replace it in its pile. Quickly retrieving the book he needed, he slammed the chest shut and shoved it back onto the shelf. Muttering that he should have let Dalamar stew in his own juice, he swiped his hand angrily across his eyes and stomped out of the room, shutting the door behind him with such a bang that a hammer fell from the workbench and clattered to the floor. He paid it no heed.
As he was about to reenter the Inn, he remembered that he had left his wedding ring on his kitchen table. Deciding with grim satisfaction that Dalamar could wait, he continued down the steps that led to the ground and walked with purposeful strides toward his temporary home.
Once inside, he was not surprised to find that his ring was gone. He gave himself a mental slap for not rememebering that Tas would be home, and immediately went to check the kender's room. Tas had not been at the Inn when Dalamar had arrived, and though it wasn't likely that the kender would be home at such an opportune time to go adventuring, there was always the chance that he had left an extra pouch or two laying about.
Caramon walked into the small bedroom and looked around. No extra pouches were in sight, but the big man remembered Tas saying something about since there was the possibility of thieves, he would keep extra valuable things in the bottom drawer of his nightstand. Caramon continued over to the wooden stand and pulled open the drawer, noting with some amusement that Tas had not bothered to lock it.
"Aha," he said softly, plucking his wedding ring from the bottom of the drawer. "I'll have to remind Tas that this is off limits. Though what good that will do, I have no idea." He eyed the pouch with interest, then picked it up with the intent of returning all the items that Tas had so kindly 'found' for the citizens of Solace. Upending it on the bed, he began to sort through the various items.
One that caught his interest was a ruby necklace that sparkled in the sunlight. Or was it sunlight? He couldn't tell. A thin, spidery line of silver snaked its way around the blood-red gem. Caramon peered closer, eyeing it with interest.
Suddenly he wasn't in the room anymore. (The following are accurate events taken from Weis and Hickman's War of the Twins. In no way do I own this, for it is completely the work of their wonderful imaginations. Special thanks to the authors that created this breathtaking scene. May your pouches always be full.)
Caramon looked around wildly. He stood in a room that was made of solid stone and reeked of rose petals and bad guano. Shelves upon shelves of books lined the walls, and three tables set with silver candleholders were placed in the center of the room. At one table, six young mages, dressed in red robes and black, sat together, laughing, talking, and pointing out their latest find in one of the ancient books. Caramon blinked, unsure of what to make of it. Turning around slowly, his gaze came to rest upon a single black robed mage, who sat alone at the table furthest away from the rest.
The mage was glaring disdainfully at his fellows, who carefully avoided looking in his direction. Supple hands were folded over a closed spellbook with night-blue binding and silvery arcane symbols scrawled across the cover. This mage's cowl was drawn over his eyes, but it seemed that there was a familiar glint in his brown eyes…
Caramon gasped. "Raistlin!" Reaching out his hand, he tried to cross the room to his brother, but found that he couldn't move. Raistlin did not respond, just continued to stare, a malicious snarl curling his lip.
At that moment, the door on the far side of the room creaked open. In walked the oldest man Caramon had ever seen. His face was a mass of wrinkles, the small, beady eyes seeming to stare out of an old, crinkled bit of parchment. Black, ruddy robes fell in heavy waves about the mage's ankles.
The ancient mage eyed each and every one of the others with a greedy look. His expression was cunning, calculating. As he surveyed the room, his hand idly stroked the ruby necklace he wore around his neck.
Caramon stared at it. Yes, it was the one that he had found in Tas's drawer. Suddenly, a wave of cold dread washed over him. The big man shuddered and wondered desperately how Tas had come across it.
Satisfied, the old man shuffled across the room, each step causing his ancient bones to creak and snap. Reaching the front of the room, the mage lowered himself into a chair, never taking his eyes off the apprentices before him.
"Begin the test," he croaked, his hand closing almost hungrily over the bloodstone at his throat as he watched the first of what Caramon could only assume to be his apprentices rise.
The young mage, a red-robe, clasped his hands nervously behind his back and began to recite his spells. Caramon recognized them, and involuntarily shrank back. But nothing happened. The words of the spell seemed to float on the air, then disappeared as if they had never been. After a few more minutes, the young man sat down, looking pleased with himself.
The others sitting at the table with him did the same, going in order from left to right. After they had all taken their seats, the old archmage turned to Raistlin, who sat at the other side of the room, fixing his mentor with what was almost a patronizing grin.
"Your turn, mage," the archmagus said, his old eyes glinting as he eyed the young man.
Lips still curled in that horrible sneer, Raistlin snapped shut his spellbook. The words of magic rolled glibly off his tongue, causing the other mages to regard him with undisguised hatred and envy. As he spoke, the room erupted into mulitcolored flames, shattered the silence with a sonic explosion.
The old mage's jaw had dropped. The other mages gasped. Caramon looked on with grim satisifaction, brotherly pride winning out over old disputes.
"How did you break the Dispel Magic spell?" the ancient archmagus demanded. "What strange power is this?"
Raistlin leered, opening his hands to reveal two flames of blue and green. Then, by a clap of his hands, the fire was gone. The room went eerily silent.
The old mage was on his feet, stumbling as fast as he could toward Raistlin. Anger radiated off him in waves that seemed almost tangible.
Raistlin stood calmly, watching him approach with the same, eerie smile.
"How did you--" the old man growled. Then, seeing the mage's supple, slender hands, he reached out and grabbed Raistlin's wrist with a grip of death. Raistlin gasped in pain, but somehow managed to retain the sneer, his eyes defiantly meeting his master's.
"Flash powder!" the old mage proclaimed, disgusted. He jerked the young mage forward, exhibiting his hand for all to see. "A common sleight-of-hand trick, fit only for street illusionists!"
"Thus I earned my living," Raistlin forced through gritted teeth. "I thought it suitable for use in such a collection of amateurs as you have gathered together, Great One."
It had finally begun to dawn on Caramon exactly what he was witnessing. "So this is the trial he faced with Fistandantilus," he said gravely. "Perhaps now I can know why he was compelled to commit such heinous crimes."
"So you consider yourself better than these?" Fistandantilus was asking Raistlin.
"You know I am!" Raistlin hissed, after pausing to fight back the haze of pain.
Fistandantilus released Raistlin, who let out a sigh of relief, and turned to the rest of his apprentices, who were regarding him in dismay. "Get out!" he screeched. As they turned to leave, he caught Raistlin by the arm. "You stay," he said coldly.
Suddenly time seem to whirl by. Caramon was no longer in the room with the tables and bookshelves. Instead, he was in what looked like a mage's laboratory, watching Fistandantilus press the bloodred stone into his brother's chest. Raistlin laid on a long, stone table, breathing heavily with anticipation. Fistandantilus called to mind the words he needed; his lips moved, and he seemed to be chanting a spell. But as he spoke, as did Raistlin. Raistlin's fevered words matched those of the haggard old mage. Fistandantilus didn't seem to notice. He was too intent on casting the spell just right.
Time whirled past again. Raistlin was on his feet now, a pendant identical to that of Fistandantilus clutched in his raised hand. No, thought Caramon, that is the pendant of Fistandantilus!
"Protected from all forms of magic," Raistlin was saying, his lips curled into a hideous grin, "but not protected against the sleight-of-hand. Not protected against the skills of a common street illusionist…"
Time sped faster. Fistandantilus summoned a horrible creature from a distant plane of existence. The stone floor heaved and crumbled as the thing crawled seemingly from the depths of the planet. Caramon watched in horror as Fistandantilus ordered the monstrosity upon his brother, who halted momentarily in fear. He watched as Raistlin spoke the spidery words of magic. He watched as the creature, drawn in two directions, imploded upon itself.
Both mages were thrown backwards, smashed mercilessly into the walls. Raistlin scrambled desperately to his feet, his eyes never leaving his foe. Fistandantilus did the same.
"So it comes to this!" Fistandantilus spat. "You could have gone on, living a life of ease. I would have spared you the debilities, the indignities of old age. Why rush your own destruction!"
"You know," Raistlin said softly, panting.
"Yes, I know, my dear brother," Caramon said softly, watching the two mages speed into a battle that was in fast forward. He saw his brother collapse, victorious, yet beaten with exhaustion. He watched the body of Fistandantilus wither and crumble, then float away on a nonexistent breeze. He watched as one mind became two, as two ambitions became one. "I know," he repeated, his voice breaking, "that you would never give anyone else the satisfaction of guiding your steps."
The image of the room faded. And with the darkness, a small, lost voice floated to Caramon's ears.
"Who am I?"
(Once again, thanks so much to Tracy Hickman and Margaret Weis. Thank you for letting me use your wonderful words to portray this scene. You are truly the masters of Dragonlance.)