Dragonlance 04 - Time of the Twins (27 page)

"That was kind of fun," Tas commented breathlessly. "Especially where I fell over. Did you see that man's face? I—”

"What did you mean, back there?" Caramon interrupted. "What makes you think Raistlin's not behind this?"

Tas's face grew unusually serious and thoughtful. "Caramon," he said after a moment, putting his arms around Caramon's neck and speaking into his ear to be heard above the rattling of chains and the sounds of the city streets. "Raistlin must have been awfully busy, what with traveling back here and all. Why, it took Par-Salian days to cast that time-traveling spell and he's a really powerful mage. So it must have taken a lot of Raistlin's energy. How could he have possibly done that and done this to us at the same time?"

"Well," Caramon said, frowning. "If he didn't, who did?"

"What about—Fistandantilus?" Tas whispered dramatically.

Caramon sucked in his breath, his face grew dark.

"He—he's a really powerful wizard," Tas reminded him, "and, well, you didn't make any secret of the fact that you've come back here to—uh—well, do him in, so to speak. I mean, you even said that right in the Tower of High Sorcery. And we know Fistandantilus can hang around in the Tower. That's where he met Raistlin, wasn't it? What if he was standing there and heard you? I guess he'd be pretty mad."

"Bah! If he's that powerful, he would have just killed me on the spot!" Caramon scowled.

"No, he can't," Tas said firmly. "Look, I've got this all figured out. He can't murder his own pupil's brother. Especially if Raistlin's brought you back here for a reason. Why, for all Fistandantilus knows, Raistlin may love you, deep down inside."

Caramon's face paled, and Tas immediately felt like biting off his tongue. "Anyway," he went on hurriedly, "he can't get rid of you right away. He's got to make it look good."

"So?"

"So—” Tas drew a deep breath. "Well, they don't execute people around here, but they apparently have other ways of dealing with those no one wants hanging around. That cleric and the jailer both talked about executions being 'easy' death compared to what was going on now."

The lash of a whip across Caramon's back ended further conversation. Glaring furiously at the slave who had struck him— an ingratiating, sniveling fellow, who obviously enjoyed his work—Caramon lapsed into gloomy silence, thinking over what Tas had told him. It certainly made sense. He had seen how much power and concentration Par-Salian had exerted casting this difficult spell. Raistlin may be powerful, but not like that! Plus, he was still weak physically.

Caramon suddenly saw everything quite clearly. Tasslehoff's right! We're being set up. Fistandantilus will do away with me somehow and then explain my death to Raistlin as an accident.

Somewhere, in the back of Caramon's mind, he heard a gruff old dwarvish voice say, "I don't know who's the bigger ninny— you or that doorknob of a kender? If either of you make it out of this alive, I'll be surprised!" Caramon smiled sadly at the thought of his old friend. But Flint wasn't here, neither was Tanis or anyone else who could advise him. He and Tas were on their own and, if it hadn't been for the kender's impetuous leap into the spell, he might very well have been back here by himself, without anyone! That thought appalled him. Caramon shivered.

"All this means is that I've got to get to this Fistandantilus before he gets to me," he said to himself softly. ***

The great spires of the Temple looked down on city streets kept scrupulously clean—all except the back alleys. The streets were thronged with people.Temple guards roamed about, keeping order, standing out from the crowd in their colorful mantles and plumed helms. Beautiful women cast admiring glances at the guards from the corners of their eyes as they strolled among the bazaars and shops, their fine gowns sweeping the pavement as they moved. There was one place in the city the women didn’t go near, however, though many cast curious glances toward it—the part of the square where the slave market stood.

The slave market was crowded, as usual. Auctions were held once a week—one reason the bear-skin man, who was the manager, had been so eager to get his weekly quotient of slaves from the prisons. Though the money from the sales of prisoners went into the public coffers, the manager got his cut, of course. This week looked particularly promising.

As he had told Tas, there were no longer executions in Istar or parts of Krynn that it controlled. Well, few. The Knights of Solamnia still insisted on punishing knights who betrayed their Order in the old barbaric fashion—slitting the knight's throat with his own sword. But the Kingpriest was counseling with the Knights, and there was hope that soon even that heinous practice would be stopped.

Of course, the halting of executions in Istar had created another problem—what to do with the prisoners, who were increasing in number and becoming a drain on the public coffers. The church, therefore, conducted a study. It was discovered that most prisoners were indigent, homeless, and penniless. The crimes they had committed—thievery, burglary, prostitution, and the like—grew out of this.

"Isn't it logical, therefore," said the Kingpriest to his ministers on the day he made the official pronoucement, "that slavery is not only the answer to the problem of overcrowding in our prisons but is a most kind and beneficent way of dealing with these poor people, whose only crime is that they have been caught in a web of poverty from which they cannot escape?

"Of course it is. It is our duty, therefore, to help them. As slaves, they will be fed and clothed and housed. They will be given everything they lacked that forced them to turn to a life of crime. We will see to it that they are well-treated, of course, and provide that after a certain period of servitude—if they have done well—they may purchase their own freedom. They will then return to us as productive members of society."

The idea was put into effect at once and had been practiced for about ten years now. There had been problems. But these had never reached the attention of the Kingpriest—they had not been serious enough to demand his concern. Underministers had dealt efficiently with them, and now the system ran quite smoothly. The church had a steady income from the money received for the prison slaves (to keep them separate from slaves sold by private concerns), and slavery even appeared to act as a deterrent from crime.

The problems that had arisen concerned two groups of criminals—kenders and those criminals whose crimes were particularly unsavory. It was discovered that it was impossible to sell a kender to anyone, and it was also difficult to sell a murderer, rapist, the insane, etc. The solutions were simple. Kender were locked up overnight and then escorted to the city gates (this resulted in a small procession every morning). Institutions had been created to handle the more obdurate type of criminal.

It was to the dwarven head of one of these institutions that the bear-skin man stood talking animatedly that morning, pointing at Caramon as he stood with the other prisoners in the filthy, foul-smelling pen behind the block, and making a dramatic motion of knocking a door down with his shoulder.

The head of the institution did not seem impressed. This was not unusual, however. He had learned, long ago, that to seem impressed over a prisoner resulted in the asking price doubling on the spot. Therefore, the dwarf scowled at Caramon, spit on the ground, crossed his arms and, planting his feet firmly on the pavement, glared up at the bear-skin man.

"He's out of shape, too fat. Plus he's a drunk, look at his nose." The dwarf shook his head. "And he doesn't look mean. What did you say he did? Assaulted a cleric? Humpf!" The dwarf snorted. "The only thing it looks like he could assault'd be a wine jug!"

The bear-skin man was accustomed to this, of course.

"You'd be passing up the chance of a lifetime, Rockbreaker," he said smoothly. "You should have seen him bash that door down. I've never seen such strength in any man. Perhaps he is overweight, but that's easily cured. Fix him up and he'll be a heartthrob. The ladies'll adore him. Look at those melting brown eyes and that wavy hair." The bear-skin man lowered his voice. "It would be a real shame to lose him to the mines . . .. I tried to keep word of what he had done quiet, but Haarold got wind of it, I'm afraid."

Both the bear-skin man and the dwarf glanced at a human standing some distance away, talking and laughing with several of his burly guards. The dwarf stroked his beard, keeping his face impassive.

The bear-skin man went on, "Haarold's sworn to have him at all costs. Says he'll get the work of two ordinary humans out of him. Now, you being a preferred customer, I'll try to swing things your direction—”

"Let Haarold have him," growled the dwarf. "Fat slob."

But the bear-skin man saw the dwarf regarding Caramon with a speculative eye. Knowing from long experience when to talk and when to keep quiet, the bear-skin man bowed to the dwarf and went on his way, rubbing his hands.

Overhearing this conversation, and seeing the dwarf's gaze run over him like a man looks at a prize pig, Caramon felt the sudden, wild desire to break out of his bonds, crash through the pen where he stood caged, and throttle both the bear-skin man and the dwarf. Blood hammered in his brain, he strained against his bonds, the muscles in his arms rippled—a sight that caused the dwarf to open his eyes wide and caused the guards standing around the pen to draw their swords from their scabbards. But Tasslehoff suddenly jabbed him in the ribs with his elbow.

"Caramon, look!" the kender said in excitement.

For a moment, Caramon couldn't hear over the throbbing in " his ears. Tas poked him again.

"Look, Caramon. Over there, at the edge of the crowd, standing by himself. See?"

Caramon drew a shaking breath and forced himself to calm down. He looked over to where the kender was pointing, and suddenly the hot blood in his veins ran cold.

Standing on the fringes of the crowd was a black-robed figure. He stood alone. Indeed, there was even a wide, empty circle around him. None in the crowd came near him. Many made detours, going out of their way to avoid coming close to him. No one spoke to him, but all were aware of his presence. Those near him, who had been talking animatedly, fell into uncomfortable silence, casting nervous glances his direction.

The man's robes were a deep black, without ornamentation. No silver thread glittered on his sleeves, no border surrounded the black hood he wore pulled low over his face. He carried no staff, no familiar walked by his side. Let other mages wear runes of warding and protection, let other mages carry staves of power or have animals do their bidding. This man needed none. His power sprang from within—so great, it had spanned the centuries, spanned even planes of existence. It could be felt, it shimmered around him like the heat from the smith's furnace.

He was tall and well-built, the black robes fell from shoulders that were slender but muscular. His white hands—the only parts of his body that were visible—were strong and delicate and supple. Though so old that few on Krynn could venture even to guess his age, he had the body of one young and strong. Dark rumors told how he used his magic arts to overcome the debilities of age.

And so he stood alone, as if a black sun had been dropped into the courtyard. Not even the glitter of his eyes could be seen within the dark depths of his hood.

"Who's that?" Tas asked a fellow prisoner conversationally, nodding at the black-robed figure.

"Don't you know?" the prisoner said nervously, as if reluctant to reply.

"I'm from out of town," Tas apologized.

"Why, that's the Dark One—Fistandantilus. You've heard of him, I suppose?"

"Yes," Tas said, glancing at Caramon as much as to say I told you so! "We've heard of him."

She spoke of Palanthas, so they assumed she must come from there. But she called continually for the Head of her Order—someone named Elistan. The clerics were familiar with the Heads of all the Orders on Krynn and this Elistan was not known. But she was so insistent that there was, at first, some fear that something might have happened to the current Head in Palanthas. Messengers were hastily dispatched.

Then, too, Crysania spoke of a Temple in Palanthas, where no Temple existed. Finally she talked quite wildly of dragons and the "return of the gods," which caused those in the room— Quarath and Elsa, head of the Revered Daughters—to look at each other in horror and make the signs of protection against blasphemy.Crysania was given an herbal potion, which calmed her, and eventually she fell asleep. The two stayed with her for long moments after she slept, discussing her case in low voices. Then the Kingpriest entered the room, coming to allay their fears.

"I cast an augury," said the musical voice, "and was told that Paladine called her to him to protect her from a spell of evil magic that had been used upon her. I don't believe any of us find that difficult to doubt."

Quarath and Elsa shook their head, exchanging knowing glances. The Kingpriest's hatred of magic-users was well known.

"She has been with Paladine, therefore, living in that wondrous realm which we seek to recreate upon this soil. Undoubtedly, while there, she was given knowledge of the future. She speaks of a beautiful Temple being built in Palanthas. Have we not plans to build such a Temple? She talks of this Elistan, who is probably some cleric destined to rule there."

"But . . . dragons, return of the gods?" murmured Elsa.

"As to the dragons," the Kingpriest said in a voice radiating warmth and amusement, "that is probably some tale of her childhood that haunted her in her illness, or perhaps had something to do with the spell cast upon her by the magic-user." His voice became stern. "It is said, you know, that the wizards have the power to make people see that which does not exist. As for her talk of the 'return of the gods' . . ."

The Kingpriest was silent for a moment. When he spoke again, it was with a hushed and breathless quality. "You two, my closest advisors, know of the dream in my heart. You know that someday—and that day is fast approaching—I will go to the gods and demand their help to fight the evil that is still present among us. On that day, Paladine himself will heed my prayers. He will come to stand at my side, and together we will battle the darkness until it is forever vanquished! This is what she has foreseen! This is what she means by the 'return of the gods!' "

Light filled the room, Elsa whispered a prayer, and even Quarath lowered his eyes.

"Let her sleep," said the Kingpriest. "She will be better by morning. I will mention her in my prayers to Paladine."

He left the room and it grew darker with his passing. Elsa stood looking after him in silence. Then, as the door shut to Crysania's chamber, the elven woman turned to Quarath.

"Does he have the power?" Elsa asked her male counterpart as he stood staring thoughtfully at Crysania. "Does he truly intend to do . . . what he spoke of doing?"

"What?" Quarath's thoughts had been far away. He glanced after the Kingpriest. "Oh, that? Of course he has the power. You saw how he healed this young woman. And the gods speak to him through the augury, or so he claims. When was the last time you healed someone, Revered Daughter?"

"Then you believe all that about Paladine taking her soul and letting her see the future?" Elsa appeared amazed. "You believe he truly healed her?"

"I believe there is something very strange about this young woman and about those two who came with her," Quarath said gravely. "I will take care of them. You keep an eye on her. As for the Kingpriest"—Quarath shrugged— "let him call down the power of the gods. If they come down to fight for him, fine. If not, it doesn't matter to us. We know who does the work of the gods on Krynn."

"I wonder," remarked Elsa, smoothing Crysania's dark hair back from her slumbering face. "There was a young girl in our Order who had the power of true healing. That young girl who was seduced by the Solamnic knight. What was his name?"

"Soth," said Quarath. "Lord Soth, of Dargaard Keep. Oh, I don't doubt it. You occasionally find some, particularly among the very young or the very old, who have the power. Or think they do. Frankly, I am convinced most of it is simply a result of people wanting to believe in something so badly that they convince themselves it is true. Which doesn't hurt any of us. Watch this young woman closely, Elsa. If she continues to talk about such things in the morning, after she is recovered, we may need to take drastic measures. But, for now—”

He fell silent. Elsa nodded. Knowing that the young woman would sleep soundly under the influence of the potion, the two of them left Crysania alone, asleep in a room in the great Temple of Istar.

Crysania woke the next morning feeling as if her head were stuffed with cotton. There was a bitter taste in her mouth and she was terribly thirsty. Dizzily, she sat up, trying to piece together her thoughts. Nothing made any sense. She had a vague, horrifying memory of a ghastly creature from beyond the grave approaching her. Then she had been with Raistlin in the Tower of High Sorcery, and then a dim memory of being surrounded by mages dressed in white, red, and black, an impression of singing stones, and a feeling of having taken a long journey.

She also had a memory of awakening and finding herself in the presence of a man whose beauty had been overpowering, whose voice filled her mind and her soul with peace. But he said he was the Kingpriest and that she was in the Temple of the Gods in Istar. That made no sense at all. She remembered calling for Elistan, but no one seemed to have heard of him. She told them about him—how he was healed by Goldmoon, cleric of Mishakal, how he led the fight against the evil dragons, and how he was telling the people about the return of the gods. But her words only made the clerics regard her with pity and alarm. Finally, they gave her an odd-tasting potion to drink, and.she had fallen asleep.

Now she was still confused but determined to find out where she was and what was happening. Getting out of bed, she forced herself to wash as she did every morning, then she sat down at the strange-looking dressing table and calmly brushed and braided her long, dark hair. The familiar routine made her feel more relaxed.

She even took time to look around the bedroom, and she couldn't help but admire its beauty and splendor. But she did think, however, that it seemed rather out of place in a Temple devoted to the gods, if that was truly where she was. Her bedroom in her parent's home in Palanthas had not been half so splendid, and it had been furnished with every luxury money could buy.

Her mind went suddenly to what Raistlin had shown her— the poverty and want so near the Temple—and she flushed uncomfortably.

"Perhaps this is a guest room," Crysania said to herself, speaking out loud, finding the familiar sound of her own voice comforting. "After all, the guest rooms in our new Temple are certainly designed to make our guests comfortable. Still"—she frowned, her gaze going to a costly golden statue of a dryad, holding a candle in her golden hands—"that is extravagant. It would feed a family for months."

How thankful she was he couldn't see this! She would speak to the Head of this Order, whoever he was. (Surely she must have been mistaken, thinking he said he was the Kingpriest!)

Having made up her mind to action, feeling her head clear, Crysania removed the night clothes she had been wearing and put on the white robes she found laid out neatly at the foot of her bed.

What quaint, old-fashioned robes, she noticed, slipping them over her head. Not at all like the plain, austere white robes worn by those of her Order in Palanthas. These were heavily decorated. Golden thread sparkled on the sleeves and hem, crimson and purple ribbon ornamented the front, and a heavy golden belt gathered the folds around her slender waist. More extravagance. Crysania bit her lip in displeasure, but she also took a peep at herself in a gilt-framed mirror. It certainly was becoming, she had to admit, smoothing the folds of the gown.

It was then that she felt the note in her pocket.

Reaching inside, she pulled out a piece of rice paper that had been folded into quarters. Staring at it curiously, wondering idly if the owner of the robes had left it by accident, she was startled to see it addressed to herself. Puzzled, she opened it.

Lady Crysania,

I knew you intended to seek my help in returning to the past in an effort to prevent the young mage, Raistlin, from carrying out the evil he plots. Upon your way to us, however, you were attacked by a death knight. To save you, Paladine took your soul to his heavenly dwelling. There are none among us now, even Elistan himself, who can bring you back. Only those clerics living at the time of the Kingpriest have this power. So we have sent you back in time to Istar, right before the Cataclysm, in the company of Raistlin's brother, Caramon. We send you to fulfill a twofold purpose. First, to heal you of your grievous wound and, second, to allow you to try to succeed in your efforts to save the young mage from himself.

If, in this, you see the workings of the gods, perhaps then you may consider your efforts blessed. I would counsel only this—that the gods work in ways strange to mortal men, since we can see only that part of the picture being painted around us. I had hoped to discuss this with you personally, before you left, but that proved impossible. I can only caution you of one thing—beware of Raistlin.

You are virtuous, steadfast in your faith, and proud of both your virtue and your faith. This is a deadly combination, my dear. He will take full advantage of it.

Remember this, too. You and Caramon have gone back in dangerous times. The days of the Kingpriest are numbered. Caramon is on a mission that could prove dangerous to his life. But you, Crysania, are in danger of both your life and your soul. I foresee that you will be forced to choose—to save one, you must give up the other. There are many ways for you to leave this time period, one of which is through Caramon. May Paladine be with you.

Par-Salian

Order of the White Robes

The Tower of High Sorcery

Wayreth

Crysania sank down on the bed, her knees giving way beneath her. The hand that held the letter trembled. Dazedly, she stared at it, reading it over and over without comprehending the words. After a few moments, however, she grew calmer and forced herself to go over each word, reading one sentence at a time until she was certain she had grasped the meaning.

This took nearly a half hour of reading and pondering. At last she believed she understood. Or at least most of it. The memory of why she had been journeying to the Forest of Wayrefth returned. So, Par-Salian had known. He had been expecting her. All the better. And he was right—the attack by the death knight had obviously been an example of Paladine's intervention, insuring that she come back here to the past. As for that remark about her faith and her virtue—!

Crysania rose to her feet. Her pale face was fixed in firm resolve, there was a faint spot of color in each cheek, and her eyes glittered in anger. She was only sorry she had not been able to confront him with that in person! How dare he?

Her lips drawn into a tight, straight line, Crysania refolded the note, drawing her fingers across it swiftly, as though she would like to tear it apart. A small golden box—the kind of box used by ladies of the court to hold their jewelry—stood on the dressing table beside the gilt-edged mirror and the brush. Picking up the box, Crysania withdrew the small key from the lock, thrust the letter inside, and snapped the lid shut. She inserted the key, twisted it, and heard the lock click. Dropping the key into the pocket where she had found the note, Crysania looked once more into the mirror.

She smoothed the black hair back from her face, drew up the hood of her robe, and draped it over her head. Noticing the flush on her cheeks, Crysania forced herself to relax, allow her anger to seep away. The old mage meant well, after all, she reminded herself. And how could one of magic possibly understand one of faith? She could rise above petty anger. She was, after all, hovering on the edge of her moment of greatness. Paladine was with her. She could almost sense his presence. And the man she had met was truly the Kingpriest!

She smiled, remembering the feeling of goodness he had inspired. How could he have been responsible for the Cataclysm? No, her soul refused to believe it. History must have maligned him. True, she had been with him for only a few seconds, but a man so beautiful, so good and holy—responsible for such death and destruction? It was impossible! Perhaps she would be able to vindicate him. Perhaps that was another reason Paladine had sent her back here—to discover the truth!

Joy filled Crysania's soul. And, at that moment, she heard her joy answered, it seemed, in the pealing of the bells ringing for Morning Prayers. The beauty of the music brought tears to her eyes. Her heart bursting with excitement and happiness, Crysania left her room and hurried out into the magnificent corridors, nearly running into Elsa.

"In the name of the gods," exclaimed Elsa in astonishment, "can it be possible? How are you feeling?"

"I am feeling much better, Revered Daughter," Crysania said in some confusion, remembering that what they had heard her say earlier must have seemed to be wild and incoherent ramblings. "As-as though I had awakened from a strange and vivid dream."