Standing in the oppressive silence, the rain beating down upon his head, Caramon heard a voice thudding at his brain with the same monotonous, dull tone as the drops spattering about him.
He seeks to become a god. He seeks to become a god!
Sick and afraid, Caramon shook his head in anguish. His interest in the army, his fascination with being a “general,” his attraction to Crysania, and all the other, thousand worries had driven from his mind the real reason he had come back. Now with Crysania’s words—it returned to him, hitting him like a wave of chill sea water.
Yet all he could think of was Raistlin as he was last night. How long had it been since he’d heard his brother laugh like that? How long had it been since they’d shared that warmth, that closeness? Vividly, he remembered watching Raistlin s face as he guarded his twin’s sleep. He saw the harsh lines of cunning smooth, the bitter creases around the mouth fade. The archmage looked almost young again, and Caramon remembered their childhood and young manhood together—those days that had been the happiest of his life.
But then came, unbidden, a hideous memory, as though his soul were taking a perverse delight in torturing and confusing him. He saw himself once more in that dark cell in Istar, seeing clearly, for the first time, his brothers vast capability for evil. He remembered his firm determination that his brother must die. He thought of Tasslehoff... .
But Raistlin had explained all that! He had explained things at Istar. Once again, Caramon felt himself foundering. What if Par-Salian is wrong, what if they are all wrong? What if Raist and Crysania could save the world from horror and suffering like this?
“I’m just a jealous, bumbling fool,” Caramon mumbled, wiping the rainwater from his face with a trembling hand. “Maybe those old wizards are all like me, all jealous of him.”
The darkness deepened about him, the clouds above grew denser, changing from gray to black. The rain beat down more heavily.
Raistlin came out the door, Crysania with him, her hand on his arm. She was wrapped in her thick cloak, her grayish-white hood drawn up over her head. Caramon cleared his throat.
“I’ll go bring him out and put him with the others,” he said gruffly, starting for the door. “Then I’ll fill in the grave—”
“No, my brother,” Raistlin said. “No. This sight will not be hidden in the ground.” He cast back his hood, letting the rain wash over his face as he lifted his gaze to the clouds. “This sight will flare in the eyes of the gods! The smoke of their destruction will rise to heaven! The sound will resound in their ears!”
Caramon, startled at this unusual outburst, turned to look at his twin. Raistlin’s thin face was nearly as gaunt and pale as the corpse’s inside the small house, his voice tense with anger.
“Come with me,” he said, abruptly breaking free of Crysania’s hold and striding toward the center of the small village. Crysania followed, holding her hood to keep the slashing wind and rain from blowing it off. Caramon came after, more slowly.
Stopping in the middle of the muddy, rain-soaked street, Raistlin turned to face Crysania and his brother as they came up to him.
“Get the horses, Caramon—ours and Crysania’s. Lead them to those woods outside of town”—the mage pointed “blindfold them, then return to me.”
Caramon stared at him.
“Do it!” Raistlin commanded, his voice rasping.
Caramon did as he was told, leading the horses away.
“Now, stand there,” Raistlin continued when his twin returned. “Do not move from that spot. Do not come close to me, my brother, no matter what happens.” His gaze went to Crysania, who was standing near him, then back to his brother. “You understand, Caramon.”
Caramon nodded wordlessly and, reaching out, gently took Crysania’s hand.
“What is it?” she asked, holding back.
“His magic,” Caramon replied.
He fell silent as Raistlin cast a sharp, imperious glance at him. Alarmed by the strange, fiercely eager expression on Raistlin’s face, Crysania suddenly drew nearer Caramon, shivering. The big man, his eyes on his frail twin, put his arm around her. Standing together in the pounding rain, almost not daring to breathe lest they disturb him, they watched the archmage.
Raistlin’s eyes closed. Lifting his face to the heavens, he raised his arms, palms outward, toward the lowering skies. His lips moved, but—for a moment—they could not hear him. Then, though he did not seem to raise his voice, each could begin to make out words—the spidery language of magic. He repeated the same words over and over, his soft voice rising and falling in a chant. The words never changed, but the way he spoke them, the inflection of each, varied every time he repeated the phrase.
A hush settled over the valley. Even the sound of the falling rain died in Caramon’s ears. All he could hear was the soft chanting, the strange and eerie music of his brother’s voice. Crysania pressed closer still, her dark eyes wide, and Caramon patted her reassuringly.
As the chanting continued, a feeling of awe crept over Caramon. He had the distinct impression that he was being drawn irresistibly toward Raistlin, that everything in the world was being drawn toward the archmage, though—in looking fearfully around—Caramon saw that he hadn’t moved from the spot. But, turning back to stare at his brother, the feeling returned even more forcibly.
Raistlin stood in the center of the world, his hands outstretched, and all sound, all light, even the air itself, seemed to rush eagerly into his grasp. The ground beneath Caramon’s feet began to pulse in waves that flowed toward the archmage.
Raistlin lifted his hands higher, his voice rising ever so slightly. He paused, then he spoke each word in the chant slowly, firmly. The winds rose, the ground heaved. Caramon had the wild impression that the world was rushing in upon his brother, and he braced his feet, fearful that he, too, would be sucked into Raistlin’s dark vortex.
Raistlin’s fingers stabbed toward the gray, boiling heavens. The energy that he had drawn from ground and air surged through him. Silver lightning flashed from his fingers, striking the clouds. Brilliant, jagged light forked down in answer, touching the small house where the body of the young cleric lay. With a shattering explosion, a ball of blue-white flame engulfed the building.
Again Raistlin spoke and again the silver lightning shot from his fingers. Again another streak of light answered, striking the mage! This time it was Raistlin who was engulfed in red-green flame.
Crysania screamed. Struggling in Caramon’s grasp, she sought to free herself. But, remembering his brothers words, Caramon held her fast, preventing her from rushing to Raistlin’s side.
“Look!” he whispered hoarsely, gripping her tightly. “The flames do not touch him!”
Standing amidst the blaze, Raistlin lifted his thin arms higher, and the black robes blew around him as though he were in the center of a violent wind storm. He spoke again. Fiery fingers of flame spread out from him, lighting the darkness, racing through the wet grass, dancing on top of the water as though it were covered with oil. Raistlin stood in the center, the hub of a vast, spoked wheel of flame.
Crysania could not move. Awe and terror such as she had never before experienced paralyzed her. She held onto Caramon, but he offered her no comfort. The two clung together like frightened children as the flames surged around them. Traveling through the streets, the fire reached the buildings and ignited them with one bursting explosion after another.
Purple, red, blue, and green, the magical fire blazed upward, lighting the heavens, taking the place of the cloud-shrouded sun. The carrion birds wheeled in fear as the tree they had occupied became a living torch.
Raistlin spoke again, one last time. With a burst of pure, white light, fire leaped down from the heavens, consuming the bodies in the mass grave.
Wind from the flames gusted about Crysania, blowing the hood from her head. The heat was intense, beating upon her face. The smoke choked her, she could not breathe. Sparks showered around her, flames flickered at her feet until it seemed that she, too, must end up part of the conflagration. But nothing touched her. She and Caramon stood safely in the midst of the blaze. And then Crysania became aware of Raistlin’s gaze upon her.