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The Test of the Twins
by Margaret Weis
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| Advanced Dungeons & Dragons | Dragonlance Adventures | - | Dragon #83 | Dragon magazine |
| Dragonlance
A story of wonder, a saga of adventure,
The DRAGONLANCE tale evolves on
This scarred land enters its twilight
Amongst the turmoil on this oncetranquil
As a preview to the DRAGONLANCE
|
The magician and his brother rode
through the mists toward the secret place.
?We shouldn?t have come,? Caramon
muttered. His large, strong hand was on the
hilt of his great sword, and his eyes
searched every shadow. ?I have been in
many dangerous places, but nothing to
equal this!?
Raistlin glanced around. He
noticed
dark, twisted shadows and heard strange
sounds.
?They will not bother us, brother,? he
said gently. ?We have been invited. They
are guardians who keep out the unwanted.?
He did, however, draw his red robes closer
around his thin body and moved to ride
nearer Caramon.
?Mages invited us . . . I don?t trust ?em.?
Caramon scowled.
Raistlin glanced at him. ?Does that
include me, dear brother?? he asked softly.
Caramon did not reply.
Although twins; the two brothers could
not have been more different. Raistlin, frail
and sickly magician and scholar, pondered
this difference frequently. They were one
whole man split in two: Caramon the body,
Raistlin the mind. As such, the two needed
and depended on each other far more than
other brothers. But, in some ways, it was an
unwholesome dependence, for it was as if
each was incomplete without the other. At
least, this was how it seemed to Raistlin. He
bitterly resented whatever gods had played
such a trick which cursed him with a weak
body when he longed for mastery over
others. He was thankful that, at least, he
had been granted the skills of a magician. It
gave him the power he craved. These skills
almost made him the equal of his brother.
Caramon ? strong and muscular, a born
fighter ?always laughed heartily whenever
Raistlin discussed their differences. Caramon
enjoyed being his ?little? brother?s
protector. But, although he was very fond of
Raistlin, Caramon pitied his weaker twin.
Unfortunately, Caramon had a tendency to
express his brotherly concern in unthoughtful
ways. He often let his pity show, not
realizing it was like a knife twisting in his
brother?s soul.
Caramon admired his brother's skill as a
magician as one admires a festival juggler.
He did not treat it seriously or respectfully.
Caramon had met neither man nor monster
that could not be handled by the sword.
Therefore, he could not understand this
dangerous trip his brother was undertaking
for the sake of his magic.
"It's all parlor tricks, Raist," Caramon
protested. "Riding into that forsaken land
is nothing to risk our lives over."
Raistlin replied gently -- he always spoke
gently to Caramon -- that he was determined
on this course of action for reasons of
his own and that Caramon could come if he
so chose. Of course, Caramon went. The
two had rarely been separated from one
another since their birth.
The journey was long and hazardous.
Caramon's sword was frequently drawn.
Raistlin felt his strength ebbing. They were
near the end now. Raistlin rode in silence,
oppressed with the doubt and fear th at
shrouded him as it had when he first decided
on this course of action. Perhaps
Caramon was right, perhaps he was risking
their lives needlessly.
* * * *
*
It had been three months ago when the
Head of the Order arrived at his master's
home. Par-Salian had invited Raistlin to
visit with him as he dined -- much to the
master?s surprise.
?When do you take the Test, Raistlin??
the old man asked the young conjurer.
?Test?? Raistlin repeated, startled. No
need to ask which Test ? there was only
one.
?He is not ready, Par-Salian,? his master
protested. "He is young -- only twenty-one!
His spellbook is far from complete --"
"Yes," Par-Salian interrupted, his eyes
narrowing. "But you believe you are ready,
don't you, Raistlin?"
Raistlin had kept his eyes lowered, in the
proper show of humility, his hood drawn
over his face. Suddenly, he threw back his
hood and lifted his head, staring directly,
proudly, at Par-Salian. ?I am ready, Great
One,? Raistlin spoke coolly.
Par-Salian nodded, his eyes glittering.
?Begin your journey in three months?
time,? the old man said, then went back to
eating his fish.
Raistlin?s master gave him a furious
glance, rebuking him for his impudence.
Par-Salian did not look at him again. The
young conjurer bowed and left without a
word.
The servant let him out; however, Raistlin
slipped back through the unlocked door,
cast a sleep spell upon the servant,
and
stood, hidden in the alcove, listening to the
conversation between his master and Par-
Salian.
?The Order has never tested one so
young,? the master said. ?And you chose
him! Of all my pupils, he is the most unworthy!
I simply do not understand.?
?You don?t like him, do you?? Par-Salian
asked mildly.
?No one does,? the master snapped.
?There is no compassion in him, no humanity.
He is greedy and grasping, difficult
to trust. Did you know that his nickname
among the other students is the Sly One?
He absorbs from everyone?s soul and gives
back nothing of his own. His eyes are mir-
rors; they reflect all he sees in cold, brittle
terms."
"He is highly intelligent," Par-Salian
suggested.
"Oh, there's no denying that," the master
sniffed. "He is my best pupil. And he has a
natural affinity for magic. Not one of those
surface-users."
?Yes,? Par-Salian agreed. ?Raistlin?s
magic springs from deep within."
"But it springs from a dark well,? the
master said, shaking his head. ?Sometimes
I look at him and shudder, seeing the Black
Robes fall upon him. That will be his destiny,
I fear."
"I think not," Par-Salian said thoughtfully.
"There is more to him than you see,
though I admit he keeps it well hidden.
More to him than he knows himself, I'll
wager."
?Mmmmm,? the master sounded very
dubious.
Raistlin smiled to himself, a twisted
smile. It came as no surprise to learn his
master?s true feelings. Raistlin sneered.
Who cared, he thought bitterly. As for Par-
Salian ? Raistlin shrugged it off.
"What of his brother?" Par-Salian asked.
Raistlin, his ear pressed against the door,
frowned.
"Ah," the master became effusive.
"Night and day. Caramon is handsome,
honorable, trusting, everyone's friend.
Theirs is a strange relationship. I have seen
Raistlin watch Caramon with a fierce,
burning love in his eyes. And the next
instant, I have seen such hatred and jealousy
I think the young man could murder
his twin without giving it a second
thought." He coughed, apologetically. "Let
me send you Algenon, Great One. He is
not as intelligent as Raistlin, but his heart is
true and good."
"Algenon is too good," Par-Salian
snorted. "He has never known torment or
suffering or evil. Set him in a cold, biting
wind and he will wither like a maiden's first
rose. But Raistlin -- well, one who constantly
battles evil within will not be overly
dismayed by evil without."
Raistlin heard chairs scrape. Par-Salian
stood up.
"Let's not argue. I was given a choice to
make and I have made it," Par-Salian said.
"Forgive me, Great One, I did not mean
to be contradictory," the master said stiffly,
hurt.
"Raistlin heard Par-Salian sigh wearily. "I
should be the one to apologize, old friend,"
he said. "Forgive me. There is trouble
coming upon us that the world may well not
survive. This choice has been a heavy burden
upon me. As you know, the Test may
well prove fatal to the young man."
"It has killed others more worthy," the
master murmured.
Their conversation turned to other matters,
so Raistlin crept away.
* * * * *
The young mage considered Par-Salian's
words many times during the weeks that
followed while he prepared for his journey.
Sometimes he would hug himself with pride
at being chosen by the Great One to take
the Test -- the greatest honor conferred on
a magician. But, at night, the words may
well prove fatal haunted his dreams.
He thought, as he drew nearer and
nearer the Towers, about those who had not
survived. Their belongings had been returned
to their families, without a single
word (other than Par-Salian?s regrets). For
this reason, many magicians did not take
the Test. After all, it gave no additional
power. It added no spells to the spellbook.
One could practice magic quite well without
it, and many did so. But they were not
considered "true" magic-users by their
peers, and they knew it. The Test gave a
mage an aura that surrounded him, exuded
from him. When entering the presence of
others, this aura was deeply felt by all and,
therefore, commanded respect.
Raistlin hungered for that respect. But
did he hunger for it enough to be willing to
die trying to obtain it?
"There it is!" Caramon interrupted his
thoughts, reining his horse in sharply.
"The fabled Towers of High Sorcery,"
Raistlin said, staring in awe.
The two tall stone towers resembled
skeletal fingers, clawing out of the grave.
"We could turn back now," Caramon
croaked, his voice breaking.
Raistlin looked at his brother in astonishment.
For the first time since he could
remember, Raistlin saw fear in Caramon.
The young conjurer felt an unusual sensation
-- a warmth spread over him. He
reached out and put a steady hand on his
brother's trembling arm. "Do not be afraid,
Caramon," Raistlin said. "I am with you."
Caramon looked at Raistlin, then
laughed nervously to himself. He urged his
horse forward.
* * * * *
The two entered the Tower. Vast stone
walls and darkness swallowed them
up, then
they heard the voice: "Approach."
The two walked ahead. Raistlin walked
steadfastly, but Caramon moved. warily, his
hand on the hilt of his sword. They came to
stand before a withered figure sitting in the
center of a cold, empty chamber.
"Welcome, Raistlin," Par-Salian said.
"Do you consider yourself prepared to
undergo your final Test?"
"I do, Par-Salian, Greatest of Them All."
Par-Salian studied the young man before
him. The conjurer's pale, thin cheeks were
stained with a faint flush, as though fever
burned in his blood. "Who accompanies
you?" Par-Salian asked.
"My twin brother Caramon, Great
Mage." Raistlin's mouth twisted into a
snarl. "As you see, Great One, I am no
fighter. My brother came to protect me."
Par-Salian stared at the brothers, reflecting
on the odd humor of the gods. Twins!
This Caramon is huge. Six feet tall, he must
weigh over two hundred pounds. His face
-- a face of smiles and boisterous laughter;
the eyes are as open as his heart. Poor
Raistlin.
Par-Salian turned his gaze back to the
young man whose red robes hung from
thin, stooped shoulders. Obviously weak,
Raistlin was one who could never take what
he wanted, so he had learned, long ago,
that magic could compensate for his deficiencies.
Par-Salian looked into the eyes.
No, they were not mirrors as the master
had said -- not for those with the power to
see deeply. There was good inside the young
man -- an inner core of strength that would
enable his fragile body to endure much. But
now his soul was a cold, shapeless mass,
dark with pride, greed, and selfishness.
Therefore, as a shapeless mass of metal is
plunged into a white-hot fire and emerges
shining steel, so Par-Salian intended to
forge this conjurer.
"Your brother cannot stay," the Mage
admonished softly.
"I am aware of that, Great One," Raistlin
replied with a hint of impatience.
"He will be well cared for in your absence,
" Par-Salian continued. "And, of
course, he will be allowed to carry home
your valuables should the test prove beyond
your skill."
"Carry home . . . valuables . . ." Caramon
's face became grim as he considered
this statement. Then it darkened as he
understood the full meaning of the Mage's
words. "You mean --"
Raistlin's voice cut in, sharp, edged. "He
means, dear brother, that you will take
home my possessions in the event of my
death."
Par-Salian shrugged.
"Failure, invariably, proves fatal."
"Yes, you're right. I forgot that death
could be a result of this . . . ritual." Caramon
's face crumpled into wrinkles of fear.
He laid his hand on his brother's arm. "I
think you should forget this, Raist. Let?s go
home."
Raistlin twitched at his brother's touch,
his thin body shuddering. "Do I counsel
you to refuse battle?" he flared. Then,
controlling his anger, he continued more
calmly. "This is my battle, Caramon. Do
not worry. I will not fail."
Caramon pleaded. "Please, Raist . . .
I?m supposed to take care of you--"
"Leave me!" Raistlin's control cracked,
splintered, wounding his brother.
Caramon fell backward. "All right," he
mumbled. "I'll . . . I'll meet you . . . outside.
-- He flashed the Mage a threatening
glance. Then he turned and walked out of
the chamber, his huge battlesword clanking
against his thigh.
A door thudded, then there was silence.
"I apologize for my brother," Raistlin
said, his lips barely moving.
"Do you?" Par-Salian asked. "Why?"
The young man scowled. "Because he
always . . . Oh, can't we just get on with
this?" His hands clenched beneath the
sleeves of his robe.
"Of course," the Mage replied, leaning
back in his chair.
Raistlin stood straight, eyes open and
unblinking. Then he drew in a sharp
breath.
The Mage made a gesture. There was a
sound, a shattering crack. Quickly, the
conjurer vanished.
* * * * *
A voice spoke from the nether regions.
"Why must we test this one so severely?"
Par-Salian's twisted hands clasped and
unclasped. "Who questions the gods?" he
frowned. "They demanded a sword. I
found one, but his metal is white hot.
He
must be beaten . . . tempered. . . made
useful."
"And if he breaks?"
"Then we will bury the pieces," murmured
the Mage.
* * * * *
Raistlin dragged himself away from the
dead body of the dark elf. Wounded and
exhausted, he crawled into a shadowy corridor
and slumped against a wall. Pain
twisted him. He clutched his stomach and
retched. When the convulsion subsided, he
lay back on the stone floor and waited for
death.
Why are they doing this to me? he wondered
through a dreamy haze of pain. Only
a young conjurer, he had been subjected to
trials devised by the most renowned Mages
-- living and dead. The fact that he must
pass these tests was no longer his main
thought; survival, however, was. Each trial
had wounded him, and his health had always
been precarious. If he survived this
ordeal -- and he doubted he would ? he
could imagine his body to be like a shattered
crystal, held together by the force of
his own will.
But then, of course, there was Caramon,
who would care for him -- as always.
Ha! The thought penetrated the haze,
even made Raistlin laugh harshly. No,
death was preferable to a life of total dependence
on his brother. Raistlin lay back on
the stone floor, wondering how much longer
they would let him suffer. . . .
. . . And a huge figure materialized out of
the shadowy darkness of the corridor.
This is it, Raistlin thought, my final test.
The one I won't survive.
He decided simply not to fight, even
though he had one spell left. Maybe death
would be quick and merciful.
He lay on his back, staring at the dark
shadow as it drew closer and closer. It came
to stand next to him. He could sense its
living presence, hear its breathing. It bent
over him. Involuntarily, he closed his eyes.
"Raist?"
He felt cold fingers touch his burning
flesh.
"Raist!" the voice sobbed. "In the name
of the gods, what have they done to you?"
"Caramon," Raistlin spoke, but he
couldn't hear his own voice. His throat was
raw from coughing.
"I'm taking you out of here," his brother
announced firmly.
Raistlin felt strong arms slip under his
body. He smelled the familiar smell of sweat
and leather, heard the familiar sound of
armor creak and broadsword clank.
"No!" In an effort not to show his belief
that he had failed to Caramon, Raistlin
pushed against his brother's massive chest
with a frail, fragile hand. "Leave me, Caramon!
My tests are not complete! Leave
me!" His voice was an inaudible croak,
then he gagged violently.
Caramon lifted him easily, cradled him in
his strong arms. "Nothing is worth this.
Rest easy, Raist." The big man choked. As
they walked under a flickering torch, Raistlin
could see tears on his brother's cheeks.
He made one last effort.
"They won't allow us to go, Caramon!"
He raised his head, gasping for breath.
"You're only putting yourself in danger!"
"Let them come," Caramon said grimly,
walking with firm steps down the dimly lit
corridor.
Raistlin sank back, helpless, his head
resting on Caramon's shoulder. He felt
comforted by his brother?s strength, though
he cursed him inwardly.
You fool! Raistlin closed his eyes wearily.
You great, stubborn fool! Now we'll both
die. And, of course, you will die protecting
me. Even in death I'll be indebted to you!
"Ah . . ."
Raistlin heard and felt the sharp intake of
breath into his brother's body. Caramon's
walk had slowed. Raistlin raised his head
and peered ahead.
"A wraith," he breathed.
"Mmmmm . . ." Caramon rumbled
deeply in his chest -- his battle-cry.
"My magic can destroy it," Raistlin
protested as Caramon laid him gently on
the stone floor. Burning Hands, Raistlin
thought grimly. A weak spell against a
wraith, but he had to try. "Move, Caramon!
I have just enough strength left."
Caramon did not answer. He turned
around and walked toward the wraith,
blocking Raistlin?s view.
Clinging to the wall, the conjurer clawed
his way to a standing position and raised his
hand. Just as he was about to expend his
strength in one last shout, hoping to warn
off his brother, he stopped and stared in
disbelief. Caramon raised his hand. Where
before he had held a sword, now he held a
rod of amber. In the other hand, his shield
hand, he held a bit of fur. He rubbed the
two together, spoke some magic words ?
and a lightning bolt flashed, striking the
wraith in the chest. It shrieked, but kept
coming, intent on draining Caramon?s life
energy. Caramon kept his hands raised. He
spoke again. Another bolt sizzled, catching
the wraith in its head. And suddenly there
was nothing.
"Now we'll get out of here," Caramon
said with satisfaction. The rod and the fur
were gone. He turned around. "The door is
just ahead ?"
"How did you do that?" Raistlin said,
propping himself up against the wall.
Caramon halted, alarmed by his brother
's wild, frenzied stare.
"Do what?" the fighter blinked.
"The magic!" Raistlin shrieked in fury.
"The magic!"
"Oh, that," Caramon shrugged. "I've
always been able to. Most of the time I
don't need it, what with my sword and all,
but you're hurt real bad and I've got to get
you out of here. I didn't want to take time
fighting that character. Don't bother about
it, Raist. It can still be your little specialty.
Like I said before, most of the time I don't
need it."
This is impossible, Raistlin's mind told
him. He couldn't have acquired in moments
what it took years of study to attain.
This doesn't make sense. Fight the sickness
and the weakness and the pain! Think!
But it wasn't the physical pain that clouded
Raistlin's mind. It was the old inner pain
clawing at him, tearing at him with poisoned
talons. Caramon, strong and cheerful,
good and kind, open and honest.
Everyone's friend.
Not like Raistlin -- the runt, the sly one.
All I ever had was my magic, Raistlin's
mind shrieked. And now he has that too!
Propping himself against the wall for
support, Raistlin raised both his hands, put
his thumbs together, and pointed them at
Caramon. He began murmuring magic
words, but different from those that Caramon
had spoken.
"Raist?" Caramon backed up. "What
are you doing? C'mon! Let me help you.
I'll take care of you -just like always . . .
Raist! I'm your brother!"
Raistlin's parched lips cracked in a grin.
Hatred and jealousy -- long kept bubbling
and molten beneath a layer of cold, solid
rock -- burst forth. Magic coursed through
his body and flamed out of his hands. He
was astonished as he watched the fire flare,
billow, and engulf Caramon. When the
fighter became a living torch, Raistlin knew
from his training that what he was seeing
simply could not be. The instant that he
realized something was wrong with this
occurrence, the burning image of his
brother vanished. A moment later, Raistlin
lost consciousness and slumped to the
ground.
* * * * *
"Awaken, Raistlin, your trials are complete.
"
Raistlin opened his eyes. The darkness
was gone; sunshine streamed through a
window. He lay in a bed. Looking down at
him was the withered face of Par-Salian.
"Why?" Raistlin rasped, clutching at the
Mage in fury. "Why did you do that to
me?"
Par-Salian laid his hand on the frail
young man's shoulder. "The gods asked for
a sword, Raistlin, and now I can give them
one -- you. Evil is coming upon the land.
The fate of all this world called Krynn
swings in the balance. Through the aid of
your hand and others, the balance will be
restored."
Raistlin stared, then laughed, briefly and
bitterly. "Save Krynn? How? You have
shattered my body. I can't even see properly!
" He stared in terror. . . .
. . . For, as Raistlin watched, he could see
the Mage's face dying. Then, when he
turned his gaze to the window, the stones he
looked at crumbled before his eyes. Wherever
he looked, everything was falling into
ruin and decay. Then, the moment passed,
and his vision cleared.
Par-Salian handed him a mirror. Raistlin
saw that his own face was sunken and hollow.
His skin was a golden color now, with
a faint metallic cast; this would be a symbol
of the agony he had endured. But it was his
eyes that caused him to recoil in horror, for
the black pupils were no longer round --
they were the shape of hourglasses!
"You see through hourglass eyes now,
Raistlin. And so you see time, as it touches
all things. You see death, whenever you look
on life. Thus you will always be aware of
the brief timespan we spend in the world.?
Par-Salian shook his head. "There will be
no joy in your life, Raistlin, I fear -- indeed,
little joy for anyone living on Krynn."
Raistlin laid the mirror face down. "My
brother?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"It was an illusion that I created -- my
personal challenge for you to look deeper
into your own heart and examine the ways
in which you deal with those closest to you,?
Par-Salian said gently. "As for your brother,
he is here, safe . . . quite safe. Here he
comes now."
As Caramon entered the room, Raistlin
sat up, shoving Par-Salian aside. Caramon
appeared relieved to see that Raistlin had
enough energy to greet him, but Caramon?s
eyes reflected a certain sadness that comes
from learning an unpleasant truth.
"I didn't think you would want to recognize
the illusion for what it was," Par-Salian
said. "But you did; after all, what magic-user
can work spells, carrying a sword or
wearing armor?"
"Then I did not fail?" Raistlin murmured
hoarsely.
"No," Par-Salian smiled. "The final of
the Test was the defeat of the dark elf --
truly superb for one of your experience."
Raistlin looked at his brother's haunted
face, his averted eyes. "He watched me
kill him, didn't he?" Raistlin whispered.
"Yes," Par-Salian looked from one to the
other. "I am sorry I had to do this to you,
Raistlin. You have much to learn, mage --
mercy, compassion, forbearance. It is my
hope that the trials you face ahead of you
will teach you what you lack now. If not,
you will succumb in the end to the fate your
master foresaw. But, as of now, you and
your brother truly know each other. The
barriers between you have been battered
down, though I am afraid each of you has
suffered wounds in the encounter. I hope
the scars make you stronger."
Par-Salian rose to leave. "Use your
powers well, mage. The time is close at
hand when your strength must save the
world."
Raistlin bowed his head and sat in silence
until Par-Salian had left the room. Then he
stood up, leaning on a wooden staff. He
staggered and nearly fell.
Caramon jumped forward. Raistlin met
his brother's eyes. Caramon faltered,
stopped.
Raistlin sighed. For long moments, there
was no sound at all in the room. Then
Raistlin felt his strength begin to give way.
Pain wracked his body. He grew dizzy, shut
his eyes to block their horrible vision. He
held out his arms. "Help me, brother," the
mage whispered, weeping. "Help me,
Caramon."
"I'm here, Raist," his brother's voice was
near him, then his brother's arms were
around him, supporting him.
"Forgive me," both spoke together."
MARCH 1984