Irritated at the interruption, the mage glanced up.
“I survived your test,” Caramon repeated, “as you survived the Test in the Tower. There, they shattered your body. Here, you shattered my heart. In its place is nothing now, just a cold emptiness as black as your robes. And, like this swordblade, it is stained with blood. A poor wretch of a minotaur died upon this blade. A friend gave his life for me, another died in my arms. You’ve sent the kender to his death, haven’t you? And how many more have died to further your evil designs?” Caramon’s voice dropped to a lethal whisper. “This ends it, my brother. No more will die because of you. Except one—myself. It’s fitting, isn’t it, Raist? We came into this world together; together, we’ll leave it.”
He took another step forward. Raistlin seemed about to speak, but Caramon interrupted.
“You cannot use your magic to stop me, not this time. I know about this spell you plan to cast. I know it will take all of your power, all of your concentration. If you use even the smallest bit of magic against me, you will not have the strength to leave this place, and my end will be accomplished all the same. If you do not die at my hands, you will die at the hands of the gods.”
Raistlin gazed at his brother without comment, then, shrugging, he turned back to read in his book. It was only when Caramon took one more step forward, and Raistlin heard the man’s golden armor clank, that the mage sighed in exasperation and glanced up at his twin. His eyes, glittering from the depths of his hood, seemed the only points of light in the room.
“You are wrong, my brother,” Raistlin said softly. “There is one other who will die.” His mirrorlike gaze went to Crysania, who stood alone, her white robes shimmering in the darkness, between the two brothers.
Caramon’s eyes were soft with pity as he, too, looked at Crysania, but the resolution on his face did not waver. “The gods will take her to them,” he said gently. “She is a true cleric. None of the true clerics died in the Cataclysm. That is why Par-Salian sent her back.” Holding out his hand, he pointed. “Look, there stands one, waiting.”
Crysania had no need to turn and look, she felt Loralon’s presence.
“Go to him, Revered Daughter,” Caramon told her. “Your place is in the light, not here in the darkness.”
Raistlin said nothing, he made no motion of any kind, just stood quietly at the desk, his slender hand resting upon the spellbook.
Crysania did not move. Caramon’s words beat in her mind like the wings of the evil creatures who fluttered about the Tower of High Sorcery. She heard the words, yet they held no meaning for her. All she could see was herself, holding the shining light in her hand, leading the people. The Key... the Portal... She saw Raistlin holding the Key in his hand, she saw him beckoning to her. Once more, she felt the touch of Raistlin’s lips, burning, upon her forehead.
A light flickered and died. Loralon was gone.
“I cannot,” Crysania tried to say, but no voice came. None was needed. Caramon understood. He hesitated, looking at her for one, long moment, then he sighed.
“So be it,” Caramon said coolly, as he, too, advanced into the silver circle. “Another death will not matter much to either of us now, will it, my brother?”
Crysania stared, fascinated, at the bloodstained sword shining in the staff’s light. Vividly, she pictured it piercing her body and, looking up into Caramon’s eyes, she saw that he pictured the same thing, and that even this would not deter him. She was nothing to him, not even a living, breathing human. She was merely an obstacle in his path, keeping him from his true objective—his brother.
What terrible hatred, Crysania thought, and then, looking deep into the eyes that were so near her own now, she had a sudden flash of insight—what terrible love!
Caramon lunged at her with an outstretched hand, thinking to catch her and hurl her aside. Acting out of panic, Crysania dodged his grasp, stumbling back up against Raistlin, who made no move to touch her. Caramon’s hand gripped nothing but a sleeve of her robe, ripping and tearing it. In a fury, he cast the white cloth to the ground, and now Crysania knew she must die. Still, she kept her body between him and his brother.
Caramon’s sword flashed.
In desperation, Crysania clutched the medallion of Paladine she wore around her throat.
“Halt!” She cried the word of command even as she shut her eyes in fear. Her body cringed, waiting for the terrible pain as the steel tore through her flesh. Then, she heard a moan and the clatter of a sword falling to the stone. Relief surged through her body, making her weak and faint. Sobbing, she felt herself falling.
But slender hands caught and held her; thin, muscular arms gathered her near, a soft voice spoke her name in triumph. She was enveloped in warm blackness, drowning in warm blackness, sinking down and down. And in her ear, she heard whispered the words of the strange language of magic.
Like spiders or caressing hands, the words crawled over her body. The chanting of the words grew louder and louder, Raistlin’s voice stronger and stronger. Silver light flared, then vanished. The grip of Raistlin’s arms around Crysania tightened in ecstasy, and she was spinning around and around, caught up in that ecstasy, whirling away with him into the blackness.
She put her arms about him and laid her head on his chest and let herself sink into the darkness. As she fell, the words of magic mingled with the singing of her blood and the singing of the stones in the Temple...
And through it all, one discordant note—a harsh, heartbroken moan.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot heard the stones singing, and he smiled dreamily. He was a mouse, he remembered, scampering forward through the silver powder while the stones sang...
Tas woke up suddenly. He was lying on a cold stone floor, covered with dust and debris. The ground beneath him was beginning to shiver and shake once more. Tas knew, from the strange and unfamiliar feeling of fear building up inside of him that this time the gods meant business. This time, the earth-quake would not end.
“Crysania! Caramon!” Tas shouted, but he heard only the echo of his shrill voice come back, bouncing hollowly off the shivering walls.
Staggering to his feet, ignoring the pain in his head, Tas saw that the torch still shone above that darkened room Crysania had entered, that part of the building seemingly the only part untouched by the convulsive heaving of the ground. Magic, Tas thought vaguely, making his way inside and recognizing wizardly things. He looked for signs of life, but all he saw were the horrible caged creatures, hurling themselves upon their cell doors, knowing the end of their tortured existence was near, yet unwilling to give up life, no matter how painful.
Tas stared around wildly. Where had everyone gone? “Caramon?” he said in a small voice. But there was no answer, only a distant rumbling as the shaking of the ground grew worse and worse. Then, in the dim light of the torch outside, Tas caught a glimpse of metal shining on the floor near a desk. Staggering across the floor, Tas managed to reach it.
His hand closed about the golden hilt of a gladiator’s sword. Leaning back against the desk for support, he stared at the silver blade, stained black with blood. Then he lifted something else that had been lying on the floor beneath the sword—a remnant of white cloth. He saw golden embroidery portraying the symbol of Paladine shine dully in the torchlight. There was a circle of powder on the floor, powder that once might have been silver but was now burned black.
“They’ve gone,” Tas said softly to the caged, gibbering creatures. “They’ve gone... I’m all alone.”
A sudden heaving of the ground sent the kender to the floor on his hands and knees. There was a snapping and rending sound, so loud it nearly deafened him, causing Tas to raise his head. As he stared up at the ceiling in awe, it split wide open. The rock cracked. The foundation of the Temple parted.