“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, half-afraid 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.