5

‘I killed him once . . .’

‘I’ve seen what you’re doing to him! You’re trying to murder him!’ Caramon shouted at ParSalian. Head of the Tower of High Sorcery—the last Tower of High Sorcery, located in the weird, alien forests of Wayreth— Par-Salian was the highest ranking in the Order of magic-users currently living on Krynn.

To the twenty-year-old warrior, the withered old man in the snowy white robes was a thing he might have broken with his bare hands. The young warrior had put up with a good deal the last two days, but now his patience had run out.

‘We are not in the business of murder,’ Par-Salian said in his soft voice. ‘Your brother knew what he faced when he agreed to undergo these Trials. He knew death was the penalty for failure.’

‘He didn’t, not really,’ Caramon mumbled, brushing his hand across his eyes, ‘Or if he did, he didn’t care. Sometimes his . . . his love for his magic clouds his thinking.’

‘Love? No.’ Par-Salian smiled sadly. ‘I do not think we could call it love.’

‘Well, whatever,’ Caramon muttered. ‘He didn’t realize what you were going to do to him! It’s all so damn serious—’

‘Of course,’ Par-Salian said mildly. ‘What would happen to you, warrior, if you went into battle without knowing how to use your sword?’

Caramon scowled. ‘Don’t try to weasel out—’

‘What would happen?’ Par-Salian persisted.

‘I’d be killed,’ Caramon said with the elaborate patience one uses when speaking to an elderly person who is growing a bit childish. ‘Now—’

‘Not only would you die,’ Par-Salian continued, ‘but your comrades, those who depend on you, might they also die because of your incompetence?’

‘Yes,’ Caramon said impatiently, starting to continue his tirade. Then, pausing, he fell silent.

‘You see my point,’ Par-Salian said gently. ‘We do not require this Test of all who would use magic. There are many with the gift who go through life, content with using the first elementary spells taught by the schools. These are enough to help them in their day-to-day lives, and that is all they want. But sometimes there comes a person like your brother. To him, the gift is more than a tool to help him through life. To him, the gift is life. He aspires higher. He seeks knowledge and power that can be dangerous—not only to the user but to those around him as well. Therefore we force all magic-users who would enter into those realms where true power can be attained to take the Test, to submit themselves to the Trials. Thus we weed out the incompetent . . .’

‘You’ve done your best to weed out Raistlin!’ Caramon snarled. ‘He’s not incompetent, but he’s frail and now he’s hurt, maybe dying!’

‘No, he isn’t incompetent. Quite the contrary. Your brother has done very well, warrior. He has defeated all of his enemies. He has handled himself like a true professional. Almost too professional.’ Par-Salian appeared thoughtful. ‘I wonder if someone hasn’t taken an interest in your brother.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ Caramon’s voice hardened with resolve. ‘And I don’t care. All I know is that I am putting a stop to it. Right now.’

‘You cannot. You will not be permitted. He isn’t dying—’

‘You can’t stop me!’ Caramon stated coldly. ‘Magic! Tricks to keep kids amused! True power! Bah! It’s not worth getting killed over—’

‘Your brother believes it is,’ Par-Salian said softly. ‘Shall I show you how much he believes in his magic? Shall I show you true power?’

Ignoring Par-Salian, Caramon took a step forward, determined to end his brother’s suffering. That step was his last—at least for some time. He found himself immobilized, frozen in place as surely as if his feet were encased in ice. Fear gripped Caramon. It was the first time he had ever been spellbound, and the helpless feeling of being totally under another’s control was more terrifying than facing six axe-wielding goblins.

‘Watch.’ Par-Salian began to chant strange words. ‘I am going to show you a vision of what might have been . . .’

Suddenly Caramon saw himself entering the Tower of High Sorcery! He blinked in astonishment. He was walking through the doors and down the eerie corridors! The image was so real that Caramon looked down at his own body in alarm, halfafraid he might find he wasn’t really there. But he was. He seemed to be in two places at the same time. True power. The warrior began to sweat, then shivered with a chill.

Caramon—the Caramon in the Tower—was searching for his brother. Up and down empty corridors he wandered, calling Raistlin’s name. And finally he found him.

The young mage lay on the cold stone floor. Blood trickled from his mouth. Near him was the body of a dark elf, dead—by Raistlin’s magic. But the cost had been terrible. The young mage himself seemed near death.

Caramon ran to his brother and lifted the frail body in his strong arms. Ignoring Raistlin’s frantic pleas to leave him alone, the warrior began to carry his twin from this evil Tower. He would take Raistlin from this place if it was the last thing he did.

But—just as they came near the door that led out of the Tower—a wraith appeared before them. Another test, Caramon thought grimly. Well this will be one test Raistlin won’t have to handle. Gently laying his brother down, the warrior turned to meet this final challenge.

What happened then made no sense. The watching Caramon blinked in astonishment. He saw himself cast a magic spell. Dropping his sword, he held strange objects in his hands and began to speak words he didn’t understand! Lightning bolts shot from his hands! The wraith vanished with a shriek.

The real Caramon looked wildly at Par-Salian, but the mage only shook his head and—wordlessly—pointed back to the image that wavered before Caramon’s eyes. Frightened and confused, Caramon turned back to watch.

He saw Raistlin rise slowly.

‘How did you do that?’ Raistlin asked, propping himself up against the wall.

Caramon didn’t know. How could he do something that took his brother years of study! But the warrior saw himself rattling off a glib explanation. Caramon also saw the look of pain and anguish on his brother’s face.

‘No, Raistlin!’ the real Caramon cried. ‘It’s a trick! A trick of this old man’s! I can’t do that! I’d never steal your magic from you! Never!’

But the image Caramon—swaggering and brash—went over to ‘rescue’ his ‘little’ brother, to save him from himself.

Raising his hands, Raistlin held them out toward his brother. But not to embrace him. No. The young mage, sick and injured and totally consumed with jealousy, began to speak the words of the one spell, the last spell he had strength to cast.

Flames flared from Raistlin’s hands. The magical fire billowed forth—and engulfed his brother.

Caramon watched in horror, too stunned to speak, as his own image was consumed in fire . . . .He watched as his brother collapsed onto the cold stone floor.

‘No! Raist—’

Cool, gentle hands touched his face. He could hear voices, but their words were meaningless. He could understand, if he chose. But he didn’t want to understand. His eyes were closed. He could open them, but he refused. Opening his eyes, hearing those words, would only make the pain real.

‘I must rest,’ Caramon heard himself say, and he sank back into darkness.

He was approaching another Tower, a different Tower. The Tower of the Stars in Silvanesti. Once more Raistlin was with him, only now his brother wore the Black Robes. And now it was Raistlin’s turn to help Caramon. The big warrior was wounded. Blood pulsed steadily from a spear-wound that had nearly taken off his arm.

‘I must rest,’ Caramon said again.

Gently Raistlin laid him down, making him comfortable, his back propped up against the cold stone of the Tower. And then Raistlin started to leave.

‘Raist! Don’t—’ Caramon cried. ‘You can’t leave me here!’

Looking around, the injured, defenseless warrior saw hordes of the undead elves who had attacked them in Silvanesti waiting to leap upon him. Only one thing held them back, his brother’s magical power.

‘Raist! Don’t leave me!’ he screamed.

‘How does it feel to be weak and alone?’ Raistlin asked him softly.

‘Raist, My brother . . .’

‘I killed him once, Tanis, I can do it again!’

‘Raist! No! Raist!’

‘Caramon, please . . .’ Another voice. This one gentle. Soft hands touched him. ‘Caramon, please! Wake up! Come back, Caramon. Come back to me. I need you.’

No! Caramon pushed away that voice. He pushed away the soft hands. No, I don’t want to come back. I won’t. I’m tired. I hurt. I want to rest.

But the hands, the voice, wouldn’t let him rest. They grabbed him, pulling him from the depths where he longed to sink.

And now he was falling, falling into a horrible red darkness. Skeletal fingers clutched at him, eyeless heads whirled past him, their mouths gaping in silent cries. He drew a breath, then sank into blood. Struggling, smothering, he finally fought his way back to the surface and gasped for air once more. Raistlin! But no, he’s gone. His friends. Tanis. Gone, too. He saw him swept away. The ship. Gone. Cracked in half. Sailors cut apart, their blood mingling with the blood-red sea.

Tika! She was near him. He pulled her close. She was gasping for air. But he could not hold onto her. The swirling water tore her from his arms and swept him under. This time he could not find the surface. His lungs were on fire, bursting. Death . . .rest . . . sweet, warm . . .

But always those hands! Dragging him back to the gruesome surface. Making him breathe the burning air. No, let me go!

And then other hands, rising up from the blood-red water. Firm hands, they took him down from the surface. He fell down . . . down . . . into merciful darkness. Whispered words of magic soothed him, he breathed . . . breathed water . . . and his eyes closed . . . the water was warm and comforting . . . He was a child once more.

But not complete. His twin was missing.

No! Waking was agony. Let him float in that dark dream forever. Better than the sharp, bitter pain.

But the hands tugged at him. The voice called to him.

‘Caramon, I need you . . .’

Tika.

‘I’m no cleric, but I believe he’ll be all right now. Let him sleep awhile.’

Tika brushed away her tears quickly, trying to appear strong and in control.

‘What . . . what was wrong?’ she made herself ask calmly, though she was unable to restrain a shudder. ‘Was he hurt when the ship . . . went into th-the whirlpool. He’s been like this for days! Ever since you found us.’

‘No, I don’t think so. If he had been injured, the sea elves would have healed him. This was something within himself. Who is this ‘Raist’ he talks about?’

‘His twin brother,’ Tika said hesitantly.

‘What happened? Did he die?’

‘No-no. I-I’m not quite sure what happened. Caramon loved his brother very much and he . . . Raistlin betrayed him.’

‘I see.’ The man nodded solemnly. ‘It happens, up there. And you wonder why I choose to live down here.’

‘You saved his life!’ Tika said. ‘And I don’t know you . . . your name.’

‘Zebulah,’ the man answered, smiling. ‘And I didn’t save his life. He came back for love of you.’

Tika lowered her head, her red curls hid her face. ‘I hope so,’ she whispered. ‘I love him so much. I would die myself, if it would save him.’

Now that she was certain Caramon would be all right, Tika focused her attention on this strange man. She saw he was middle-aged, clean-shaven, his eyes as wide and frank as his smile. Human, he was dressed in red robes. Pouches dangled from his belt.

‘You’re a magic-user,’ Tika said suddenly. ‘Like Raistlin!’

‘Ah, that explains it.’ Zebulah smiled. ‘Seeing me, in his semi-conscious state, made this young man think of his brother.’

‘But what are you doing here?’ Tika glanced around at her strange surroundings, seeing them for the first time.

She had seen them, of course, when the man brought her here, but she hadn’t noticed them in her worry. Now she realized she was in a chamber of a ruined, crumbling building. The air was warm and stifling. Plants grew lustily in the moist air.

There was some furniture, but it was as ancient and ruined as the room in which it was haphazardly placed. Caramon lay on a three-legged bed—the fourth corner being held up by a stack of old, moss-covered books. Thin rivulets of water, like small, glistening snakes, trickled down a stone wall that gleamed with moisture. Everything gleamed with moisture, in fact, reflecting the pale, eerie, green light that glowed from the moss growing on the wall. The moss was everywhere, of every different color and variety. Deep green, golden yellow, coral red—it climbed the walls and crawled across the domed ceiling.

‘What am I doing here?’ she murmured. ‘And where is here?’

‘Here is— Well, I suppose you could say here’ Zebulah answered pleasantly. ‘The sea elves saved you from drowning and I brought you here.’

‘Sea elves? I never heard of sea elves,’ Tika said, glancing around curiously, as if she might see one hiding in a closet. ‘And I don’t remember elves saving me. All I remember is some sort of huge, gentle fish . . .’

‘Oh, you needn’t look around for the sea elves. You won’t see them. They fear and distrust KreeaQUEKH— ‘air-breathers’ in their language. And those fish were the sea elves, in the only shape they let KreeaQUEKH see them. Dolphins, you call them.’

Caramon stirred and moaned in his sleep. Laying her hand upon his forehead, Tika brushed back his damp hair, soothing him.

‘Why did they save our lives, then?’ she asked.

‘Do you know any elves, land elves?’ Zebulah asked.

‘Yes,’ Tika answered softly, thinking of Laurana.

‘Then you know that to all elves, life is sacred.’

‘I understand.’ Tika nodded. ‘And like the land elves, they renounce the world rather than help it.’

‘They are doing what they can to help,’ Zebulah rebuked her severely. ‘Do not criticize what you do not understand, young woman.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Tika said, flushing. She changed the subject. ‘But you, you’re human. Why—’

‘Why am I here? I have neither the time nor the inclination to relate my story to you, for it is obvious you would not understand me either. None of the others do.’

Tika caught her breath. ‘There are others? Have you seen any more from our ship . . . our friends?’

Zebulah shrugged. ‘There are always others down here. The ruins are vast, and many hold small pockets of air. We take those we rescue to the nearest dwellings. As for your friends, I couldn’t say. If they were on the ship with you, they were most likely lost. The sea elves have given the dead the proper rituals and sent their souls upon their way.’ Zebulah stood up. ‘I’m glad your young man survived. There’s lots of food around here. Most of the plants you see are edible. Wander about the ruins if you like. I’ve laid a magic spell on them so you can’t get into the sea and drown. Fix the place up. You’ll find more furniture—’

‘But wait!’ Tika cried. ‘We can’t stay here! We must return to the surface. Surely there must be some way out?’

‘They all ask me that,’ Zebulah said with a touch of impatience. ‘And, frankly, I agree. There must be some way out. People seem to find it on occasion. Then, there are those who simply decide that—like me—they don’t want to leave. I have several old friends who have been around for years. But, see for yourself. Look around. Just be careful you stay in the parts of the ruins we’ve arranged.’ He turned toward the door.

‘Wait! Don’t go!’ Jumping up, tipping over the rickety chair she sat upon, Tika ran after the red-robed magic-user. ‘You might see my friends. You could tell them—’

‘Oh, I doubt it,’ Zebulah replied. ‘To tell you the truth—and no offense, young woman—I’m fed up with your conversation. The longer I live here, the more KreeaQUEKH like you irritate me. Always in a hurry. Never satisfied to stay in one place. You and your young man would be much happier down here in this world than up there in that one. But no, you’ll kill yourselves trying to find your way back. And what do you face up there? Betrayal!’ He glanced back at Caramon.

‘There is a war up there!’ Tika cried passionately. ‘People are suffering. Don’t you care about that?’

‘People are always suffering up there,’ Zebulah said. ‘Nothing I can do about it. No, I don’t care. After all, where does caring get you? Where did it get him?’ With an angry gesture at Caramon, Zebulah turned and left, slamming the ramshackle door behind him.

Tika stared after the man uncertainly, wondering if she shouldn’t run out and grab him and hang onto him. He was apparently their only link to the world up there. Wherever down here was . . .

‘Tika . . .’

‘Caramon!’ Forgetting Zebulah, Tika ran to the warrior, who was struggling to sit up.

‘Where in the name of the Abyss are we?’ he asked, looking around with wide eyes. ‘What happened? The ship—’

‘I’m—I’m not sure,’ Tika faltered. ‘Do you feel well enough to sit? Perhaps you should lie down . . .’

‘I’m all right,’ Caramon snapped. Then, feeling her flinch at his harshness, he reached out and pulled her in his arms. ‘I’m sorry, Tika. Forgive me. It’s just . . . I . . .’ He shook his head.

‘I understand,’ Tika said softly. Resting her head on his chest, she told him about Zebulah and the sea elves. Caramon listened, blinking in confusion as he slowly absorbed all he heard. Scowling, he looked at the door.

‘I wish I’d been conscious,’ he muttered. ‘That Zebulah character knows the way out, more than likely. I’d have made him show us.’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Tika said dubiously. ‘He’s a magic-user like—’ She broke off hurriedly. Seeing the pain in Caramon’s face, she nestled closer to him, reaching up to stroke his face.

‘Do you know, Caramon,’ she said softly, ‘he’s right in a way. We could be happy here. Do you realize, this is the first time we’ve ever been alone. I mean really and truly alone together? And it’s so still and peaceful and beautiful in a way. The glowing light from the moss is so soft and eerie, not harsh and glaring like sunlight. And listen to the water murmuring, its singing to us. Then there’s this old, old furniture, and this funny bed . . .’

Tika stopped talking. She felt Caramon’s arms tighten around her. His lips brushed her hair. Her love for him surged through her, making her heart stand still with pain and longing. Swiftly she put her arms around him, holding him close, feeling his heart beat against hers.

‘Oh, Caramon!’ she whispered breathlessly. ‘Let’s be happy! Please! I—I know that—that sometime we’ll have to leave. We’ll have to find the others and return to the world above. But for now, let’s be alone—together!’

‘Tika!’ Caramon clasped her, crushing her to him as if he would mold their bodies into one, single, living being. ‘Tika, I love you! I-I told you once that I couldn’t make you mine until I could commit myself to you completely. I can’t do that—not yet.’

‘Yes, you can!’ Tika said fiercely. Pushing away from him, she looked into his eyes. ‘Raistlin’s gone, Caramon! You can make your own life!’

Caramon shook his head gently. ‘Raistlin’s still a part of me. He always will be, just as I’ll always be a part of him. Can you understand?’

No, she couldn’t, but she nodded anyway, her head drooping.

Smiling, Caramon drew a quivering breath. Then he put his hand beneath her chin and raised her head. Her eyes were beau tiful, he thought. Green with flecks of brown. They shimmered now with tears. Her skin was tan from living outdoors and more freckled than ever. Those freckles embarrassed her. Tika would have given seven years of her life for creamy skin like Laurana’s. But Caramon loved every freckle, he loved the crisp, curling red hair that clung to his hands.

Tika saw the love in his eyes. She caught her breath. He drew her near. His heart beating faster, he whispered, ‘I’ll give you what I can of myself, Tika, if you’ll settle for that. I wish, for your sake, it was more.’

‘I love you!’ was all she said, clasping him around the neck.

He wanted to be certain she understood. ‘Tika—’ he began.

‘Hush, Caramon . . .’