Free War of the Twins by Margaret Weis

and kissed his brother on the forehead. Caramon flinched, as though he had been touched with a redhot iron.
    Raistlin released his grip.
    Caramon stared at him in anguish. “I don’t know!” he murmured brokenly. “The gods help me—I don’t know!”
    With a shuddering sob, he covered his face with his hands. His head sank into his brother’s lap.
    Raistlin stroked his brother’s brown, curling hair. “There, now, Caramon,” he said gently. “I have given you the charm. The things of darkness cannot harm you, not so long as I am here.”

C HAPTER
5     
    aramon stood in the doorway to the study, peering out into the darkness of the corridor beyond—a darkness that was alive with whispers and eyes. Beside him was Raistlin, one hand on his twin’s arm, the Staff of Magius in his other.
    “All will be well, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “Trust me.”
    Caramon glanced at his twin out of the corner of his eye. Seeing his look, Raistlin smiled sardonically. “I will send one of these with you,” the mage continued, motioning with his slender hand.
    “I’d rather not!” Caramon muttered, scowling as the pair of disembodied eyes nearest him drew nearer still.
    “Attend him,” Raistlin commanded the eyes. “He is under my protection. You see me? You know who I am?”
    The eyes lowered their gaze in reverence, then fixed their cold and ghastly stare upon Caramon. The big warrior shuddered and cast one final glance at Raistlin, only to see his brother’s face turn grim and stern.
    “The guardians will guide you safely through the Grove. You may have more to fear, however, once you leave it. Be wary, my brother. This city is not the beautiful, serene place it will become in two hundred years Now, refugees pack it, living in the gutters, the streets, wherever they can. Carts rumble over the cobblestones every morning, removing the bodies of those who died during the night. There are men out there who will murder you for your boots. Buy a sword, first thing, and carry it openly in your hand.”
    “I’ll worry about the town,” Caramon snapped. Turning abruptly, he walked off down the corridor, trying without much success to ignore the pale, glowing eyes that floated near his shoulder.
    Raistlin watched until his brother and the guardian had passed beyond the staff’s radius of magical light and were swallowed up by the noisome darkness. Waiting until even the echoes of his brother’s heavy footfalls had faded, Raistlin turned and reentered the study.
    Lady Crysania sat in her chair, trying without much success to comb her fingers through her tangled hair. Padding softly across the floor to stand near her, unseen, Raistlin reached into one of the pockets of his black robes and drew forth a handful of fine white sand. Coming up behind her, the mage raised his hand and let the sand drift down over the woman’s dark hair.
    “Ast tasark simiralan krynawi,”
Raistlin whispered, and almost immediately Crysania’s head drooped, her eyes closed, and she drifted into a deep, magical sleep. Moving to stand before her, Raistlin stared at her for long moments.
    Though she had washed the stain of tears and blood from her face, the marks of her journey through darkness were still visible in the blue shadows beneath her long lashes, a cut upon her lip, and the pallor of her complexion. Reaching out his hand, Raistlin gently brushed back the hair that fell in dark tendrils across her eyes.
    Crysania had cast aside the velvet curtain she had been using as a blanket as the room was warmed by the fire. Her white robes, torn and stained with blood, had come loosearound her neck. Raistlin could see the soft curves of her breasts beneath the white cloth rising and falling with her deep, even breathing.
    “Were I as other men, she would be mine,” he said softly.
    His hand lingered near her face, her dark, crisp hair curling around his fingers.
    “But I am not as other men,” Raistlin murmured. Letting her hair