Firmly turning his back upon them, wondering, with a pang, if they could see him as he could see them, Caramon drew his sword from its sheath and stood, feet firmly planted on the shifting ground, waiting for his twin.
Caramon had no doubts, no doubts at all, that a battle between himself and Raistlin must end in his own death. Even weakened, Raistlin’s s magic would still be strong. And Caramon knew his brother well enough to know that Raistlin would never—if he could help it—allow himself to become totally vulnerable. There would always be one spell left, or at least—the silver dagger on his wrist. But, even though I will die, my objective will be accomplished, Caramon thought calmly. I am strong, healthy, and all it will take is one sword thrust through that thin, frail body.
He could do that much, he knew, before his brother’s magic withered him as it had withered him once, long ago, in the Tower of High Sorcery... .
Tears stung in his eyes, ran down his throat. He swallowed them, forcing his thoughts to something else to take his mind from his fear... his sorrow.
Lady Crysania.
Poor woman. Caramon sighed. He hoped, for her sake, she had died quickly... never knowing...
Caramon blinked, startled, staring ahead of him. What was happening? Where before there had been nothing to the pinkish, glowing horizon—now there was an object. It stood starkly black against the pink sky, and appeared flat, as if it had been cut out of paper. Tas’s words came to him again. But he recognized it—a wooden stake. The kind... the kind they had used in the old days to burn witches!
Memories flooded back. He could see Raistlin tied to the stake, see the heaps of wood stacked about his brother, who was struggling to free himself, shrieking defiance at those whom he had attempted to save from their own folly by exposing a charlatan cleric. But they had believed him to be a witch. “We got there just in time, Sturm and I,” Caramon muttered, remembering the knight’s sword flashing in the sun, its light alone driving back the superstitious peasants. Looking closer at the stake—which seemed, of its own accord, to move closer to him—Caramon saw a figure lying at the foot. Was it Raistlin? The stake slid closer and closer or was he walking toward it? Caramon turned his head again. The Portal was farther back, but he could still see it. Alarmed, fearing he might be swept away, he fought to stop himself and did so, immediately. Then, he heard the kender’s voice again. All you have to do to go anywhere is think yourself there. All you have to do to have anything you want is think of it, only be careful, because the Abyss can twist and distort what you see.
Looking at the wooden stake, Caramon thought himself there and instantly was standing right beside it. Turning once again, he glanced in the direction of the Portal and saw it, hanging like a miniature painting in between the sky and ground. Satisfied that he could return at any second, Caramon hurried toward the figure lying below the stake.
At first, he had thought it was garbed in black robes, and his heart lurched. But now he saw that it had only appeared as a black silhouette against the glowing ground. The robes it wore were white. And then he knew.
Of course, he had been thinking of her... .
“Crysania,” he said.
She opened her eyes and turned her head toward the sound of his voice, but her eyes did not fix on him. They stared past him, and he realized she was blind.
“Raistlin?” she whispered in a voice filled with such hope and longing that Caramon would have given anything, his life itself, to have confirmed that hope.
But, shaking his head, he knelt down and took her hand in his. “It is Caramon, Lady Crysania.”
She turned her sightless eyes toward the sound of his voice, weakly clasping his hand with her own. She stared toward him, confused. “Caramon? Where are we?”
“I entered the Portal, Crysania,” he said.
She sighed, closing her eyes. “So you are here in the Abyss, with us...
“Yes.”
“I have been a fool, Caramon,” she murmured, “but I am paying for my folly. I wish... I wish I knew... Has harm come to... to anyone... other than myself? And him?” The last word was almost inaudible.
“Lady—” Caramon didn’t know how to answer.
But Crysania stopped him. She could hear the sadness in his voice. Closing her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, she pressed his hand against her lips. “Of course. I understand!” she whispered. “That is why you have come. I’m sorry, Caramon! So sorry!”
She began to weep. Gathering her close, Caramon held her, rocking her soothingly, like a child. He knew, then, that she was dying. He could feel her life ebbing from her body even as he held it. But what had injured her, what wounds she had suffered he could not imagine, for there was no mark upon her skin.
“There is nothing to be sorry for, my lady,” he said, smoothing back the thick, shining black hair that tumbled over her deathly pale face. “You loved him. If that is your folly, then it is mine as well, and I pay for it gladly.”
“If that were only true!” She moaned. “But it was my pride, my ambition, that led me here!”
“Was it, Crysania?” Caramon asked. “If so, why did Paladine grant your prayers and open the Portal for you when he refused to grant the demands of the Kingpriest? Why did he bless you with that gift if not because he saw truly what was in your heart?”
“Paladine has turned his face from me!” she cried. Taking the medallion in her hand she tried to wrench it from her neck. But she was too weak. Her hand closed over the medallion and remained there. And, as she did so, a look of peace filled her face. “No,” she said, talking softly to herself, “he is here. He holds me. I see him so clearly...”
Standing up, Caramon lifted her in his arms. Her head sank back against his shoulder, she relaxed in his firm grasp. “We are going back to the Portal,” he told her.
She did not answer, but she smiled. Had she heard him, or was she listening to another voice? Facing the Portal that glimmered like a multicolored jewel in the distance, Caramon thought himself near it, and it moved rapidly forward.
Suddenly the air around him split and cracked. Lightning stabbed from the sky, lightning such as he had never seen. Thousands of purple, sizzling branches struck the ground, penning him for a spectacular instant in a prison whose bars were death. Paralyzed by the shock, he could not move. Even after the lightning vanished, he waited, cringing, for the explosive blast of thunder that must deafen him forever.
But there was only silence, silence and, far away, an agonized, piercing scream. Crysania’s eyes opened. “Raistlin,” she said. Her hand tightened around the medallion.
“Yes,” Caramon replied.
Tears slid down her cheeks. She closed her eyes and clung to Caramon. He moved on, toward the Portal, traveling slowly now, a disturbing, disquieting idea coming to his mind. Lady Crysania was dying, certainly. The lifebeat in her neck was weak, fluttering beneath his fingers like the heart of a baby bird. But she was not dead, not yet. Perhaps, if he could get her back through the Portal, she might live.
Could he get her through, though, without taking her through himself?
Holding her in his arms, Caramon drew nearer the Portal. Or rather, it drew nearer him, leaping up at him as he approached, growing in size, the dragon’s heads staring at him with their glittering eyes, their mouths open to grasp and devour him.
He could still see through it, he could see Tanis and Dalamar—one standing, the other sitting; neither moving, both frozen in time. Could they help him? Could they take Crysania?
“Tanis!” he called out. “Dalamar!”
But if either heard him shouting, they did not react to his cries.