Raistlin’s tortured body twisted in spasms and so did his soul, writhing in impotent rage, burning with the knowledge that he had failed.
Weak and puny human! he heard the voices of the gods shout. Thus do we remind you of your mortality!
He would not face Paladine’s triumph. To see the god sneering at him, glorying in his downfall—no! Better to die swiftly, let his soul seek what dark refuge it could find. But that bastard brother of his, that other half of him, the half he envied and despised, the half he should have been—by rights. To deny him this... this last blessed solace...
Pain convulsed his body. “Caramon!” Raistlin cried alone into the darkness. “Caramon, I need you! Caramon, don’t leave me!” He sobbed, clutching his stomach, curling up in a tight ball. “Don’t leave me... to face this... alone!”
And then his mind lost the thread of its consciousness. Visions came to the mage as his life spilled out from between his fingers. Dark dragon wings, a broken dragon orb... Tasslehoff . . a gnome...
My salvation...
My death...
Bright, white light, pure and cold and sharp as a sword, pierced the mage’s mind. Cringing, he tried to escape, tried to submerge himself in warm and soothing darkness. He could hear himself begging with Caramon to kill him and end the pain, end the bright and stabbing light.
Raistlin heard himself say those words, but he had no knowledge of himself speaking. He knew he spoke only because, in the reflection of the bright, pure light, he saw his brother turn away from him.
The light shone more brightly and it became a face of light, a beautiful, calm, pure face with dark, cool, gray eyes. Cold hands touched his burning skin.
“Let me heal you.”
The light hurt, worse than the pain of steel. Screaming, twisting, Raistlin tried to escape, but the hands held him firmly.
“Let me heal you.”
“Get... away!...”
“Let me heal you!”
Weariness, a vast weariness, came over Raistlin. He was tired of fighting—fighting the pain, fighting the ridicule, fighting the torment he’d lived with all his life.
Very well. Let the god laugh. He’s earned it, after all, Raistlin thought bitterly. Let him refuse to heal me. And then I’ll rest in the darkness... the soothing darkness...
Shutting his eyes, shutting them tightly against the light, Raistlin waited for the laughter—
—and saw, suddenly, the face of the god.
Caramon stood outside in the shadows of his brother’s tent, his aching head in his hands. Raistlin’s tortured pleas for death cut through him. Finally, he could stand it no longer. The cleric had obviously failed. Grasping the hilt of his sword, Caramon entered the tent and walked toward the bed.
At that moment, Raistlin’s cries ceased.
Lady Crysania slumped forward over his body, her head falling onto the mage’s chest.
He’s dead! Caramon thought. Raistlin’s dead.
Staring at his brothers face, he did not feel grief. Instead, he felt a kind of horror stealing over him at the sight, thinking, What a grotesque mask for death to wear!
Raistlin’s face was rigid as a corpse’s, his mouth gaped open, no sound came from it. The skin was livid. The sightless eyes, fixed in the sunken cheeks, stared straight before him.
Taking a step nearer, so numb he was unable to feel grief or sorrow or relief, Caramon looked closer at that strange expression on the dead man’s face and then realized, with a riveting shock, that Raistlin was not dead! The wide, fixed eyes stared at this world sightlessly, but that was only because they were seeing another.
A whimpering cry shook the mage’s body, more dreadful to hear than his screams of agony. His head moved slightly, his lips parted, his throat worked but made no sound.
And then Raistlin’s eyes closed. His head lolled to one side, the writhing muscles relaxed. The look of pain faded, leaving his face drawn, pallid. He drew a deep breath, let it out with a sigh, drew another...
Jolted by what he had seen, uncertain whether he should feel thankful or only more deeply grieved to know his brother lived, Caramon watched life return to his twin’s torn and bleeding body.
Slowly shaking off the paralyzed feeling that comes sometimes to one awakened suddenly from a deep sleep, Caramon knelt beside Crysania and, grasping her gently, helped her stand. She stared at him, blinking, without recognition. Then her gaze shifted immediately to Raistlin. A smile crossed her face. Closing her eyes, she murmured a prayer of thankfulness. Then, pressing her hand to her side, she sagged against Caramon. There was fresh blood visible on her white robes.
“You should heal yourself,” Caramon said, helping her from the tent, his strong arm supporting her faltering footsteps.
She looked up at him and, though weak, her face was beautiful in its calm triumph.
“Perhaps tomorrow,” she answered softly. “This night, a greater victory is mine. Don’t you see? This is the answer to my prayers.”
Looking at her peaceful, serene beauty, Caramon felt tears come to his eyes.
“So this is your answer?” he asked gruffly, glancing out over the camp. The fires had burned down to heaps of ash and coal. Out of the corner of his eye, Caramon saw someone go running off, and he knew that the news would be quickly spread that the wizard and the witch, between them, had somehow managed to restore the dead to life.
Caramon felt bile rise in his mouth. He could picture the talk, the excitement, the questions, the speculations, the dark looks and shaking heads, and his soul shrank from it. He wanted only to go to bed and sleep and forget everything.
But Crysania was talking. “This is your answer, too, Caramon,” she said fervently. “This is the sign from the gods we have both sought.” Stopping, she turned to face him, looking up at him earnestly. “Are you still as blind as you were in the Tower? Don’t you yet believe? We placed the matter in Paladine’s hands and the god has spoken. Raistlin was meant to live. He was meant to do this great deed. Together, he and I and you, if you will join us, will fight and overcome evil as I have fought and overcome death this night!”
Caramon stared at her. Then his head bowed, his shoulders slumped. I don’t want to fight evil, he thought wearily. I just want to go home. Is that too much to ask?
Lifting his hand, he began to rub his throbbing temple. And then he stopped, seeing in the slowly brightening light of dawn the marks of his brothers bloody fingers still upon his arm. “I’m posting a guard inside your tent,” he said harshly. “Get some sleep...”
He turned away.
“Caramon,” Crysania called.
“What?” He stopped with a sigh.
“You will feel better in the morning. I will pray for you tonight. Good night, my friend. Remember to thank Paladine for his grace in granting your brother his life.”
“Yeah, sure,” Caramon mumbled. Feeling uncomfortable, his headache growing worse, and knowing that he was soon going to be violently sick, he left Crysania and stumbled back to his tent.
Here, by himself, in the darkness, he was sick, retching in a corner until he no longer had anything left to bring up. Then, falling down upon his bed, he gave himself up at last to pain and to exhaustion.
But as the darkness closed mercifully over him, he remembered Crysania’s words—“thank Paladine for your brother’s life.”
The memory of Raistlin’s stricken face floated before Caramon, and the prayer stuck in his throat.
10
Tapping lightly on the guest stone that stood outside Duncan’s dwelling, Kharas waited nervously for the answer. It came soon. The door opened, and there stood his king.
“Enter and welcome, Kharas,” Duncan said, reaching out and pulling the dwarf.
Flushing in embarrassment, Kharas stepped inside his king’s dwelling place. Smiling at him kindly, to put him at ease, Duncan led the way through his house to his private study.