Bright white light blinded him. He was falling, falling, falling endlessly, spiraling down from darkness into day.
Opening his eyes, Raistlin looked into Crysania’s face.
Her face, but it was not the face he remembered. It was aging, dying, even as he watched. In her hand, she held the platinum medallion of Paladine. Its pure white radiance shone brightly in the eerie pinkish light around them.
Raistlin closed his eyes to blot out the sight of the cleric’s aging face, summoning back memories of how it looked in the past—delicate, beautiful, alive with love and passion. Her voice came to him, cool, firm.
“I very nearly lost you.”
Reaching up, but without opening his eyes, he grabbed hold of the cleric’s arms, clinging to her desperately. “What do I look like? Tell me! I’ve changed, haven’t I?”
“You are as you were when I first met you in the Great Library,” Crysania said, her voice still firm, too firm—tight, tense.
Yes, thought Raistlin, I am as I was. Which means I have returned to the present. He felt the old frailty, the old weakness, the burning pain in his chest, and with it the choking huskiness of the cough, as though cobwebs were being spun in his lungs. He had but to look, he knew, and he would see the gold-tinged skin, the white hair, the hourglass eyes...
Shoving Crysania away, he rolled over onto his stomach, clenching his fists in fury, sobbing in anger and fear.
“Raistlin!” True terror was in Crysania’s voice now. “What is it? Raistlin, where are we? What’s wrong?”
“I succeeded,” he snarled. Opening his eyes, he saw her face, withering in his sight. “I succeeded. We are in the Abyss.”
Her eyes opened wide, her lips parted. Fear mingled with joy.
Raistlin smiled bitterly. “And my magic is gone.”
Startled, Crysania stared at him. “I don’t understand—”
Twisting in agony, Raistlin screamed at her. “My magic is gone! I am weak, helpless, here—in her realm!” Suddenly, recollecting that she might be listening, watching, enjoying, Raistlin froze. His scream died in the blood-tinged froth upon his lips. He looked about, warily.
“But, no, you haven’t defeated me!” he whispered. His hand closed over the Staff of Magius, lying at his side. Leaning upon it heavily, he struggled to his feet. Crysania gently put her strong arm around him, helping him stand.
“No,” he murmured, staring into the vastness of the empty Plains, into the pink, empty sky, “I know where you are! I sense it! You are in Godshome. I know the lay of the land. I know how to move about, the kender gave me the key in his feverish ramblings. The land below mirrors the land above. I will seek you out, though the journey be long and treacherous.
“Yes!”—he looked all around him—“I feel you probing my mind, reading my thoughts, anticipating all I say and do. You think it will be easy to defeat me! But I sense your confusion, too. There is one with me whose mind you cannot touch! She defends and protects me, do you not, Crysania?”
“Yes, Raistlin,” Crysania replied softly, supporting the archmage.
Raistlin took a step, another, and another. He leaned upon Crysania, he leaned upon his staff. And still, each step was an effort, each breath he drew burned. When he looked about this world, all he saw was emptiness.
Inside him, all was emptiness. His magic was gone.
Raistlin stumbled. Crysania caught him and held onto him, clasping him close, tears running down her cheeks.
He could hear laughter... .
Maybe I should give up now! he thought in bitter despair. I am tired, so very tired. And without my magic, what am I?
Nothing. Nothing but a weak, wretched child...
3
For long moments after Dalamar’s pronouncement, there was silence in the room. Then the silence was broken by the scratching of a pen as Astinus recorded the dark elf’s words in his great book.
“May Paladine have mercy,” Elistan murmured. “Is she with him?”
“Of course,” Dalamar snapped irritably, revealing a nervousness that all the skills of his Art could not hide. “How else do you think he succeeded? The Portal is locked to all except the combined forces of a Black-Robed wizard of such powers as his and a White-Robed cleric of such faith as hers.”
Tanis glanced from one to the other, confused. “Look,” he said angrily, “I don’t understand. What’s going on? Who are you talking about? Raistlin? What’s he done? Does it have something to do with Crysania? And what about Caramon? He’s Vanished, too. Along with Tas! I—”
“Get a grip on the impatient human half of your nature, Half-Elven,” Astinus remarked, still writing in firm, black strokes. “And you, Dark Elf, begin at the beginning instead of in the middle.”
“Or the end, as the case may be,” Elistan remarked in a low voice.
Moistening his lips with the wine, Dalamar—his gaze still on the fire—related the strange tale that Tanis, up until now, had only known in part. Much the half-elf could have guessed, much astounded him, much filled him with horror.
“Lady Crysania was captivated by Raistlin. And, if the truth be told, he was attracted to her, I believe. Who can tell with him? Ice water is too hot to run in his veins. Who knows how long he has plotted this, dreamed of this? But, at last, he was ready. He planned a journey, back in time, to seek the one thing he lacked—the knowledge of the greatest wizard who has ever lived—Fistandantilus.
“He set a trap for Lady Crysania, planning to lure her back in time with him, as well as his twin brother—”
“Caramon?” asked Tanis in astonishment.
Dalamar ignored him. “But something unforeseen occurred. The Shalafi’s half-sister, Kitiara, a Dragon Highlord...”
Blood pounded in Tanis’s head, dimming his vision and obscuring his hearing. He felt that same blood pulse in his face. He had the feeling his skin might be burning to the touch, so hot was it. Kitiara!
She stood before him, dark eyes flashing,—dark hair curling about her face, her lips slightly parted in that charming, crooked smile, the light gleaming off her armor... .
She looked down on him from the back of her blue dragon, surrounded by her minions, lordly and powerful, strong and ruthless...
She lay in his arms, languishing, loving, laughing...
Tanis sensed, though he could not see, Elistan’s sympathetic but pitying gaze. He shrank from the stern, knowing look of Astinus. Wrapped up in his own guilt, his own shame, his own wretchedness, Tanis did not notice that Dalamar, too, was having trouble with his countenance which was pale, rather than flushed. He did not hear the dark elf’s voice quiver when he spoke the woman’s name.
After a struggle, Tanis regained control of himself and was able to continue listening. But he felt, once again, that old pain in his heart, the pain he had thought forever vanished. He was happy with Laurana. He loved her more deeply and tenderly than he had supposed it possible for a man to love a woman. He was at peace with himself. His life was rich, full. And now he was astonished to discover the darkness still inside of him, the darkness he thought he had banished forever.
“At Kitiara’s command, the death knight, Lord Soth, cast a spell upon Lady Crysania, a spell that should have killed her. But Paladine interceded. He took her soul to dwell with him, leaving the shell of her body behind. I thought the Shalafi was defeated. But, no. He turned this betrayal of his sister’s into an advantage. His twin brother, Caramon, and the kender, Tasslehoff, took Lady Crysania to the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, hoping that the mages would be able to cure her. They could not, of course, as Raistlin well knew. They could only send her back in time to the one period in the history of Krynn when there lived a Kingpriest powerful enough to call upon Paladine to restore the woman’s soul to her body. And this, of course, was exactly what Raistlin wanted.”