Cole David - Time of the Twins v. 1

Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman. Time of the Twins -------------------------------------------------------------- Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman. Time of the Twins (1986) ("DragonLance Legends" #1). -------------------------------------------------------------- DRAGONLANCE LEGENDS Volume 1 Margaret Weis was born and grew up in Independence, Missouri. Her first book, a biography of Frank and Jesse James, was inspired by her childhood fascination with their graves at a local cemetery. She graduated in creative writing from the University of Missouri and worked for a publisher for fourteen years, during which time she advanced to the position of editor.

She then accepted a job as fiction editor with TSR, Inc., where she now works. Besides the Dragonlance Chronicles, the Dragonlance Legends and the Dragonlance Tales, she has published a great many books for younger readers and is working on her own science fantasy trilogy as well as a fantasy trilogy, with Tracy Hickman, entitled The Necroclast. She lives in Wisconsin with her two children and three cats. Tracy Hickman was born in Salt Lake City, Utah, in 1955. He served as a missionary in Indonesia for nearly two years before returning home to marry his childhood sweetheart. He now combines being an author with being a games designer with TSR, Inc., and is the creator of the complete Dragonlance(TM) package, including games, books and minia tures.

The Dragonlance Chronicles were his first novels. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife and their two children. LEGENDS Volume 1 TIME OF THE TWINS Poetry by Michael Williams Illustrations by Valerie Valusek Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman To Samuel G. and Alta Hickman My grandpa who tossed me into bed in his own special way and my grandma nanny who is always so very wise. Thank you all for the bedtime stories, life, love, and history. You will live forever - Tracy Raye Hickman This book about the physical and spiritual bonds binding brothers together could be dedicated to only one person - my sister.

To Terry Lynn Weis Wilhelm, with love - Margaret Weis ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS We wish to gratefully acknowledge the work of the follow ing: Michael Williams - for splendid poetry and warm friendship. Steve Sullivan - for his wonderful maps. (Now you know where you are, Steve!) Patrick Price - for his helpful advice and thoughtful criticism. Jean Black - our editor, who had faith in us from the begin ning. Valerie Valusek - for her exquisite pen and ink drawings. Ruth Hoyer - for cover and interior design.

Roger Moore - for DRAGON(R) articles and the story of Tas slehoff and the woolly mammoth. The DRAGONLANCE(TM) team: Harold Johnson, Laura Hick man, Douglas Niles, Jeff Grubb, Michael Dobson, Michael Breault, Bruce Heard. The 1987 DRAGONLANCE CALENDAR artists: Clyde Caldwell, Larry Elmore, Keith Parkinson, and Jeff Easley. * BOOK 1 * The Meeting A lone figure trod softly toward the distant light. Walking unheard, his footfalls were sucked into the vast darkness all around him. "It's like being sucked into time," he thought, sighing as he glanced at the still, silent rows. "It's like being sucked into time," he thought, sighing as he glanced at the still, silent rows.

He wished, briefly, that he were being sucked away somewhere, so that he did not have to face the difficult task ahead of him. "All the knowledge of the world is in these books," he said to himself wistfully. "And I've never found one thing to help make the intrusion upon their author any easier." Bertrem came to a halt outside the door to summon his cour age. His flowing Aesthetic's robes settled themselves about him, falling into correct and orderly folds. His stomach, how ever, refused to follow the robes' example and lurched about wildly. Bertrem ran his hand across his scalp, a nervous gesture left over from a younger age, before his chosen profession had cost him his hair.

What was bothering him? he wondered bleakly - other than going in to see the Master, of course, something he had not done since... since... He shuddered. Yes, since the young mage had nearly died upon their doorstep during the last war. War... change, that was what it was.

Like his robes, the world had finally seemed to settle around him, but he felt change coming once again, just as he had felt it two years ago. He wished he could stop it.... Bertrem sighed. "I'm certainly not going to stop anything by standing out here in the darkness," he muttered. He felt uncom fortable anyway, as though surrounded by ghosts. A bright light shone from under the door, beaming out into the hallway.

Giving a quick glance backward at the shadows of the books, peaceful corpses resting in their tombs, the Aesthetic quietly opened the door and entered the study of Astinus of Palanthas. Though the man was within, he did not speak, nor even look up. Walking with gentle, measured tread across the rich rug of lamb's wool that lay upon the marble floor, Bertrem paused before the great, polished wooden desk. For long moments he said nothing, absorbed in watching the hand of the historian guide the quill across the parchment in firm, even strokes. "Well, Bertrem?" Astinus did not cease his writing. Bertrem, facing Astinus, read the letters that - even upside down - were crisp and clear and easily decipherable.

This day, as above Darkwatch rising 29, Bertrem entered my study. "Crysania of the House of Tarinius is here to see you, Master. She says she is expected...." Bertrem's voice trailed off in a whisper, it having taken a great deal of the Aesthetic's courage to get that far. Astinus continued writing. "Master," Bertrem began faintly, shivering with his daring. "I - we are at a loss.

She is, after all, a Revered Daughter of Pal adine and I - we found it impossible to refuse her admittance. What sh -" "Take her to my private chambers," Astinus said without ceasing to write or looking up. Bertrem's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, rendering him momentarily speechless. The letters flowed from the quill pen to the white parchment. This day, as above Afterwatch rising 28, Crysania of Tari nius arrived for her appointment with Raistlin Majere. "Are we to admit hi -" Astinus looked up now, annoyance and irritation creasing his brow. "Are we to admit hi -" Astinus looked up now, annoyance and irritation creasing his brow.

As his pen ceased its eternal scratching on the parch ment, a deep unnatural silence settled upon the room. Bertrem paled. The historian's face might have been reckoned hand some in a timeless, ageless fashion. But none who saw his face ever remembered it. They simply remembered the eyes - dark, intent, aware, constantly moving, seeing everything. Those eyes could also communicate vast worlds of impatience, reminding Bertrem that time was passing.

Even as the two spoke, whole minutes of history were ticking by, unrecorded. "Forgive me, Master!" Bertrem bowed in profound rever ence, then backed precipitately out of the study, closing the door quietly on his way. Once outside, he mopped his shaved head that was glistening with perspiration, then hurried down the silent, marble corridors of the Great Library of Palanthas. Astinus paused in the doorway to his private residence, his gaze on the woman who sat within. Located in the western wing of the Great Library, the resi dence of the historian was small and, like all other rooms in the library, was filled with books of every type and binding, lining the shelves on the walls and giving the central living area a faint musty odor, like a mausoleum that had been sealed for centu ries. The furniture was sparse, pristine.

The chairs, wooden and handsomely carved, were hard and uncomfortable to sit upon. A low table, standing by a window, was absolutely free of any ornament or object, reflecting the light from the setting sun upon its smooth black surface. Everything in the room was in the most perfect order. Even the wood for the evening fire the late spring nights were cool, even this far north - was stacked in such orderly rows it resembled a funeral pyre. And yet, cool and pristine and pure as was this private cham ber of the historian, the room itself seemed only to mirror the cold, pristine, pure beauty of the woman who sat, her hands folded in her lap, waiting. Crysania of Tarinius waited patiently.