Dragonlance 04 - Time of the Twins (42 page)

"Who-who are you?" she faltered.

"My name is Loralon. And I have come to take you away. You were not intended to die, Crysania. You are the last true cleric now on Krynn and you may join us, who left many days ago."

"Loralon, the great cleric of Silvanesti," Crysania murmured. For long moments, she looked at him, then, bowing her head, she turned away, her eyes looking toward the altar. "I cannot go," she said firmly, her hands clasped nervously before her as she knelt. "Not yet. I must hear the Kingpriest. I must understand . . ."

"Don't you understand enough already?" Loralon asked sternly. "What have you felt in your soul this night?"

Crysania swallowed, then brushed back her hair with a trembling hand. "Awe, humility," she whispered. "Surely, all must feel that before the power of the gods . . ."

"Nothing else?" Loralon pursued. "Envy, perhaps? A desire to emulate them? To exist on the same level?"

"No!" Crysania answered angrily, then flushed, averting her face.

"Come with me now, Crysania," Loralon persisted. "A true faith needs no demonstrations, no justification for believing what it knows in its heart to be right."

"The words my heart speaks echo hollow in my mind," Crysania returned. "They are no more than shadows. I must see the truth, shining in the clear light of day! No, I will not leave with you. I will stay and hear what he says! I will know if the gods are justified!"

Loralon regarded her with a look that was more pitying than angry. "You do not look into the light, you stand in front of it. The shadow you see cast before you is your own. The next time you will see clearly, Crysania, is when you are blinded by darkness . . . darkness unending. Farewell, Revered Daughter."

Tasslehoff blinked and looked around. The old elf was gone! Had he ever really been there? the kender wondered uneasily. But he must have, because Tas could still remember his words. He felt chilled and confused. What had he meant? It all sounded so strange. And what had Crysania meant—being sent here to die?

Then the kender cheered up. Neither of them knew that the Cataclysm wasn't going to happen. No wonder Crysania was feeling gloomy and out of sorts.

"She'll probably perk up quite a bit when she finds out that the world isn't going to be devastated after all," Tas said to himself.

And then the kender heard distant voices raised in song. The processional! It was beginning. Tas almost whooped in excitement. Fearing discovery, he quickly covered his mouth with his hands. Then he took a last, quick peek out at Crysania. She sat forlornly, cringing at the sound of the music. Distorted by distance, it was shrill, harsh, and unlovely. Her face was so ashen Tas was momentarily alarmed, but then he saw her lips press together firmly, her eyes darken. She stared, unseeing, at her folded hands.

"You'll feel better soon," Tas told her silently, then the kender ducked back behind the curtain to remove the wonderful magical device from his pouch. Sitting down, he held the device in his hands, and waited.

The processional lasted forever, at least as far as the kender was concerned. He yawned. Important Missions were certainly dull, he decided irritably, and hoped someone would appreciate what he'd gone thmugh when it was all over. He would have dearly loved to tinker with the magical device, but Raistlin had impressed upon him that he was to leave it alone until the time came and then follow the instructions to the letter. So intent had been the look in Raistlin's eyes and so cold his voice that it had penetrated even the kender's careless attitude. Tas sat holding the magical object, almost afraid to move.

Then, just as he was beginning to give up in despair (and his left foot was slowing losing all sensation), he heard a burst of beautiful voices right outside the room! A brilliant light welled through the curtains. The kender fought his curiosity, but finally couldn't resist just one peep. He had, after all, never seen the Kingpriest. Telling himself that he needed to see what was going on, he peeked through the crack in the curtains again.

The light nearly blinded him.

"Great Reorx!" the kender muttered, covering his eyes with his hands. He recalled once looking up at the sun when a child, trying to figure out if it really was a giant gold coin and, if so, how he could get it out of the sky. He'd been forced to go to bed for three days with cold rags over his eyes.

"I wonder how he does that?" Tas asked, daring to peep through his fingers again. He stared into the heart of the light just as he had stared into the sun. And he saw the truth. The sun wasn't a golden coin. The Kingpriest was just a man.

The kender did not experience the terrible shock felt by Crysania when she saw through the illusion to the real man. Perhaps this was because Tas had no preconceived notions of what the Kingpriest should look like. Kender hold absolutely no one and nothing in awe (though Tas had to admit he felt a bit queer around the death knight, Lord Soth). He was, therefore, only mildly surprised to see that the most holy Kingpriest was simply a middle-aged human, balding, with pale blue eyes and the terrified look of a deer caught in a thicket. Tas was surprised— and disappointed.

"I've gone to all this trouble for nothing," the kender thought irritably. "There isn't going to be a Cataclysm. I don't think this man could make me angry enough to throw a pie at him, let alone a whole fiery mountain."

But Tas had nothing else to do (and he was really dying to work the magical device), so he decided to stick around and watch and listen. Something might happen after all. He tried to see Crysania, wondering how she felt about this, but the halo of light surrounding the Kingpriest was so bright he couldn't see anything else in the room.

The Kingpriest walked to the front of the altar, moving slowly, his eyes darting left and right. Tas wondered if the Kingpriest would see Crysania, but apparently he was blinded by his own light as well, for his eyes passed right over her. Arriving at the atlar, he did not kneel to pray, as had Crysania. Tas thought he might have started to, but then the Kingpriest angrily shook his head and remained standing.

From his vantage point behind and slightly to the left of the altar, Tas had an excellent look at the man's face. Once again, the kender gripped the magical device in excitement. For, the look of sheer terror in the watery eyes had been hidden by a mask of arrogance.

"Paladine," the Kingpriest trumpeted, and Tas had the distinct impression that the man was conferring-with some underling. "Paladine, you see the evil that surrounds me! You have been witness to the calamities that have been the scourge of Krynn these past days. You know that this evil is directed against me, personally, because I am the only one fighting it! Surely you must see now that this doctrine of balance will not work!"

The Kingpriest's voice lost the harsh blare, becoming soft as a flute. "I understand, of course. You had to practice this doctrine in the old days, when you were weak. But you have me now, your right arm, your true representative upon Krynn. With our combined might, I can sweep evil from this world! Destroy the ogre races! Bring the wayward humans into line! Find new homelands far away for the dwarves and kender and gnomes, those races not of your own creation—”

How insulting! Tas thought, incensed. I've half a mind to let them go ahead and drop a mountain on him!

"And I will rule in glory," the Kingpriest's voice rose to a crescendo, "creating an age to rival even the fabled Age of Dreams!" The Kingpriest spread his arms wide. "You gave this and more to Huma, Paladine, who was nothing but a renegade knight of low birth! I demand that you give me, too, the power to drive away the shadows of evil that darken this land!"

The Kingpriest fell silent, waiting, his arms upraised.

Tas held his breath, waiting, too, clutching the magical device in his hands.

And then, the kender felt it—the answer. A horror crept over him, a fear he'd never experienced before, not even in the presence of Lord Soth or the Shoikan Grove. Trembling, the kender sank to his knees and bowed his head, whimpering and shaking, pleading with some unseen force for mercy, for forgiveness. Beyond the curtain, he could hear his own incoherent mumblings echoed, and he knew Crysania was there and that she, too, felt the terrible hot anger that rolled over him like the thunder from the storm.

But the Kingpriest did not speak a word.He simply remained, staring up expectantly into the heavens he could not see through the vast walls and ceilings of his Temple . . . the heavens he could not see because of his own light.

"What about these?" Caramon asked, raising his bound wrists.

Raag shook his head. Although Arack didn’t really think even Caramon would be foolish enough to try and overpower the ogre unarmed, the dwarf had seen enough madness in the man's eyes last night not to risk taking chances.

Caramon sighed. He had, indeed, considered that possibility as he had considered many others last night, but had rejected it. The important thing was to stay alive—at least until he had made certain Raistlin was dead. After that, it didn't matter anymore . . .

Poor Tika . . .. She would wait and wait, until one day she would wake and realize he was never coming home.

"Move!" Raag grunted.

Caramon moved, following the ogre up the damp and twisting stairs leading from the storage rooms beneath the arena. He shook his head, clearing it of thoughts of Tika. Those might weaken his resolve, and he could not afford that. Raistlin must die. It was as if the lightning last night had illuminated a part of Caramon's mind that had lain in darkness for years. At last he saw the true extent of his brother's ambition, his lust for power. At last Caramon quit making excuses for him. It galled him, but he had to admit that even that dark elf, Dalamar, knew Raistlin far better than he, his twin brother.

Love had blinded him, and it had, apparently, blinded Crysania, too. Caramon recalled a saying of Tanis's: "I've never seen anything done out of love come to evil." Caramon snorted. Well, there was a first time for everything—that had been a favorite saying of old Flint's. A first time . . . and a last.

Just how he was going to kill his brother, Caramon didn't know. But he wasn't worried. There was a strange feeling of peace within him. He was thinking with a clarity and a logic that amazed him. He knew he could do it. Raistlin wouldn't be able to stop him either, not this time. The magic time travel spell would require the mage’s complete concentration. The only thing that could possibly stop Caramon was death itself.

And therefore, Caramon said grimly to himself, I'll have to live.

He stood quietly without moving a muscle or speaking a word as Arack and Raag struggled to get him into his armor.

"I don't like it," the dwarf muttered more than once to the ogre as they dressed Caramon. The big man’s calm, emotionless expression made the dwarf more uneasy than if he had been a raging bull. The only time Arack saw a flicker of life on Caramon's stoic face was when he buckled his shortsword onto his belt. Then the big man had glanced down at it, recognizing the useless prop for what it was. Arack saw him smile bitterly.

"Keep your eye on him," Arack instructed, and Raag nodded. "And keep him away from the others until he goes into the arena."

Raag nodded again, then led Caramon, hands bound, into the corridors beneath the arena where the others waited. Kiiri and Pheragas glanced over at Caramon as he entered. Kiiri's lip curled, and she turned coldly away. Caramon met Pheragas's gaze unflinchingly, his eyes neither begging nor pleading. This was not what Pheragas had expected, apparently. At first the black man seemed confused, then—after a few whispered words from Kiiri – he, too, turned away. But Caramon saw the man's shoulders slump and he saw him shake his head.

There was a roar from the crowd then, and Caramon shifted his gaze to what he could see of the stands. It was nearly midday, the Games started promptly at High Watch. The sun shone in the sky, the crowd—having had some sleep—was large and in a particularly good humor. There were some preliminary fights scheduled—to whet the crowd's appetite and to heighten the tension. But the true attraction was the Final Bout—the one that would determine the champion—the slave who wins either his freedom or—in the Red Minotaur's case—wealth enough to last him years.

Arack wisely kept up the pacing of the first few fights, making them light, even comic. He'd imported a few gully dwarves for the occasion. Giving them real weapons (which, of course, they had no idea how to use), he sent them into the arena. The audience howled its delight, laughing until many were in tears at the sight of the gully dwarves tripping over their own swords, viciously stabbing each other with the hilts of their daggers, or turning and running, shrieking, out of the arena. Of course, the audience didn't enjoy the event nearly as much as the gully dwarves themselves, who finally tossed aside all weapons and launched into a mud fight. They had to be forcibly removed from the ring.

The crowd applauded, but now many began to stomp their feet in good humored, if impatient, demand for the main attraction. Arack allowed this to go on for several moments, knowing—like the showman he was—that it merely heightened their excitement. He was right. Soon the stands were rocking as the crowd clapped and stomped and chanted.

And thus it was that no one in the crowd felt the first tremor.

Caramon felt it, and his stomach lurched as the ground shuddered beneath his feet. He was chilled with fear—not fear of dying, but fear that he might die without accomplishing his objective. Glancing up anxiously into the sky, he tried to recall every legend he had ever heard about the Cataclysm. It had struck near midafternoon, he thought he remembered. But there had been earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, dreadful natural disasters of all kinds throughout Krynn, even before the fiery mountain smashed the city of Istar so far beneath the ground that the seas rushed in to cover it.

Vividly, Caramon saw the wreckage of this doomed city as he had seen it after their ship had been sucked into the whirlpool of what was now known as the Blood Sea of Istar. The sea elves had rescued them then, but there would be no rescue for these people. Once more, he saw the twisted and shattered buildings. His soul recoiled in horror and he realized, with a start, that he had been keeping that terrible sight from his mind.

I never really believed it would happen, he realized, shivering with fear as the ground shivered in sympathy. I have hours only, maybe not that long. I must get out of here! I must reach Raistlin!

Then, he calmed down. Raistlin was expecting him. Raistlin needed him—or at least he needed a "trained fighter." Raistlin would ensure that he had plenty of time—time to win and get to him. Or time to lose and be replaced.

But it was with a feeling of vast relief that Caramon felt the tremor cease. Then he heard Arack's voice coming from the center of the arena, announcing the Final Bout.

"Once they fought as a team, ladies and gentlemen, and as all of you know, they were the best team we've seen here in long years. Many's the time you saw each one risk his or her life to save a teammate. They were like brothers"—Caramon flinched at this—"but now they're bitter enemies, ladies and gentlemen. For when it comes to freedom, to wealth, to winning this greatest of all the Games—love has to sit in the back row. They'll give their all, you may be sure of that, ladies and gentlemen. This is a fight to the death between Kiiri the Sirine, Pheragas of Ergoth, Caramon the Victor, and the Red Minotaur. They won't leave this arena unless it's feet first!"

The crowd cheered and roared. Even though they knew it was fake, they loved convincing themselves it wasn’t. The roaring grew louder as the Red Minotaur entered, his bestial face disdainful as always. Kiiri and Pheragas glanced at him, then at the trident he held, then at each other. Kiiri's hand closed tightly around her dagger.

Caramon felt the ground shake again. Then Arack called his name. It was time for the Game to begin.

Tasslehoff felt the first tremors and for a moment thought it was just his imagination, a reaction to that terrible anger rolling around them. Then he saw the curtains swaying back and forth, and he realized that this was it . . ..

Activate the device! came a voice into Tasslehoff's brain. His hands trembling, looking down at the pendant, Tas repeated the instructions.

"Thy time is thy own, let's see, I turn the face toward me. There. Though across it you travel. I shift this plate from right to left. Its expanses you see—back plate drops to form two disks connected by rods . . . it works!" Highly excited, Tas continued. "Whirling through forever, twist top facing me counterclockwise from bottom. Obstruct not its flow. Make sure the pendant chain is clear. There, that's right. Now, Grasp firmly the end and the beginning. Hold the disks at both ends. Turn them back upon themselves, like so, and All that is loose shall be secure. The chain will wind itself into the body! Isn't this wonderful! It's doing it! Now, Destiny be over your own head. Hold it over my head and—Wait! Something's not right! I don't think this is supposed to be happening . . ."

A tiny jeweled piece fell off the device, hitting Tas on the nose. Then another, and another, until the distraught kender was standing in a perfect rain of small, jeweled pieces.

"What?" Tas stared wildly at the device he held up over his head. Frantically he twisted the ends again. This time the rain of jeweled pieces became a positive downpour, clattering on the floor with bright, chime-like tones.

Tasslehoff wasn't sure, but he didn't think it was supposed to do this. Still, one never knew, especially about wizard's toys. He watched it, holding his breath, waiting for the light . . .

The ground suddenly leaped beneath his feet, hurling him through the curtains and sending him sprawling on the floor at the feet of the Kingpriest. But the man never noticed the ashenfaced kender. The Kingpriest was staring about him in magnificent unconcern, watching with detached curiosity the curtains that rippled like waves, the tiny cracks that suddenly branched through the marble altar. Smiling to himself, as if assured that this was the acquiescence of the gods, the Kingpriest turned from the crumbling altar and made his way back down the central aisle, past the shuddering benches, and out into the main part of the Temple.

"No!" Tas moaned, rattling the device. At that moment, the tubes connecting either end of the sceptre separated in his hands. The chain slipped between his fingers. Slowly, trembling nearly as much as the floor on which he lay, Tasslehoff struggled to his feet. In his hand, he held the broken pieces of the magical device.

"What have I done?" Tas wailed. "I followed Raistlin's instructions, I'm sure I did! I—”

And suddenly the kender knew. Tears caused the glimmering, shattered pieces to blur in his gaze. "He was so nice to me," Tas murmured. "He made me repeat the instructions over and over—to make certain you have them right, he said." Tas squeezed shut his eyes, willing that when he opened them, this would all be a bad dream.

But when he did, it wasn't.

"I had them right. He meant for me to break it!" Tas whimpered, shivering. "Why? To strand us all back here? To leave us all to die'? No! He wants Crysania, they said so, the mages in the Tower. That's it!" Tas whirled around. "Crysania!"

But the cleric neither heard nor saw him. Staring straight unhead, unmoved, even though the ground shook beneath her knees as she knelt, Crysania's gray eyes glowed with an eerie, inner light. Her hands, still folded as if in prayer, clenched each other so tightly that the fingers had turned purplish red, the knuckles white.

Her lips moved. Was she praying?

Scrambling back behind the curtains, Tas quickly picked up every tiny jeweled piece of the device, gathered up the chain that had nearly slipped down a crack in the floor, then stuck everything into one pouch, closing it securely. Giving the floor a final look, he crept out into the Sacred Chamber.

"Crysania," he whispered. He hated to disturb her prayers, but this was too urgent to give up.

"Crysania?" he said, coming over to stand in front of her, since it was obvious she wasn't even aware of his existence.

Watching her lips, he read their unspoken utterings.

"I know," she was saying, "I know his mistake! Perhaps for me, the gods will grant what they denied him!"

Drawing a deep breath, she lowered her head. "Paladine, thank you! Thank you!" Tas heard her intone fervently. Then, swiftly, she rose to her feet. Glancing around in some astonishment at the objects in the room that were moving in a deadly dance, her gaze flicked, unseeing, right over the kender.

"Crysania!" Tas babbled, this time clutching at her white robes. "Crysania, I broke it! Our only way back! I broke a dragon orb once. But that was on purpose! I never meant to break this. Poor Caramon! You've got to help me! Come with me, talk to Raistlin, make him fix it!"

The cleric stared down at Tasslehoff blankly, as if he were a stranger accosting her on the street. "Raistlin!" she murmured, gently but firmly detaching the kender's hands from her robes. "Of course! He tried to tell me, but I wouldn't listen. And now I know, now I know the truth!"

Thrusting Tas away from her, Crysania gathered up her flowing white robes, darted out from among the benches, and ran down the center aisle without a backward glance as the Temple shook on its very foundations.

It wasn't until Caramon started to mount the stairs leading out into the arena, that Raag finally removed the bindings from the gladiator's wrists. Flexing his fingers, grimacing, Caramon followed Kiiri and Pheragas and the Red Minotaur out into the center of the arena. The audience cheered. Caramon, taking his place between Kiiri and Pheragas, looked up at the sky nervously. It was past High Watch, the sun was beginning its slow descent.