War of the Twins by Margaret Weis Read Free Book Online Page B

waved a hand—“friends of my brother’s out there will let me.”
    “I believe they will,” Crysania said, speaking with equal coolness as she, too, rose to her feet. “They did not hinder me when … when I tore down the curtains.” She could not help a quiver creeping into her voice at the memory of being trapped by those shadows of death.
    Caramon glanced around at her and, for the first time, it occurred to Crysania what she must look like. Wrapped in a rotting black velvet curtain, her white robes torn and stained with blood, black with dust and ash from the floor. Involuntarily, her hand went to her hair—once so smooth, carefully braided and coiled. Now it hung about her face in straggling wisps. She could feel the dried tears upon her cheeks, the dirt, the blood.…
    Self-consciously, she wiped her hand across her face and tried to pat back her hair. Then, realizing how futile and even stupid she must look, and angered still further by Caramon’s pitying expression, she drew herself up with shabby dignity.
    “So, I am no longer the marble maiden you first met,” she said haughtily, “just as you are no longer the sodden drunk. It seems we have both learned a thing or two on our journey.”
    “I know
I
have,” Caramon said gravely.
    “Have you?” Crysania retorted. “I wonder! Did you learn—as I did—that the mages sent
me
back in time, knowing that I would not return?”
    Caramon stared at her. She smiled grimly.
    “No. You were unaware of that small fact, or so your brother said. The time device could be used by only one person—the person to whom it was given—you! The mages sent me back in time to die—because they feared me!”
    Caramon frowned. He opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. “You could have left Istar with that elf who came for you”
    “Would
you
have gone?” Crysania demanded. “Would you have given up your life in our time if you could help it? No! Am I so different?”
    Caramon’s frown deepened and he started to reply, but at that moment, Raistlin coughed. Glancing at the mage, Crysania sighed and said, “You better build the fire, or we’ll all perish anyway.” Turning her back on Caramon, who still stood regarding her silently, she walked over to his brother.
    Looking at the frail mage, Crysania wondered if he had heard. She wondered if he were even still conscious.
    He was conscious, but if Raistlin was at all aware of whathad passed between the other two, he appeared to be too weak to take any interest in it. Pouring some of the water into a cracked bowl, Crysania knelt down beside him. Tearing a piece from the cleanest portion of her robe, she wiped his face; it burned with fever even in the chill room.
    Behind her, she heard Caramon gathering up bits of the broken wooden furniture and stacking it in the grate.
    “I need something for tinder,” the big man muttered to himself. “Ah, these books—”
    At that, Raistlin’s eyes flared open, his head moved and he tried feebly to rise.
    “Don’t, Caramon!” Crysania cried, alarmed. Caramon stopped, a book in his hand.
    “Dangerous, my brother!” Raistlin gasped weakly. “Spellbooks! Don’t touch them.…”
    His voice failed, but the gaze of his glittering eyes was fixed on Caramon with a look of such apparent concern that even Caramon seemed taken aback. Mumbling something unintelligible, the big man dropped the book and began to search about the desk. Crysania saw Raistlin’s eyes close in relief.
    “Here’s—Looks like … letters,” Caramon said after a moment of shuffling through paper on the floor. “Would—would these be all right?” he asked gruffly.
    Raistlin nodded wordlessly, and, within moments, Crysania heard the crackling of flame. Lacquer-finished, the wood of the broken furniture caught quickly, and soon the fire burned with a bright, cheering light. Glancing into the shadows, Crysania saw the pallid faces withdraw—but they did not leave.
    “We must move