She was listening to the beautiful voice of the Kingpriest, and on her face was a look of profound peace. But Raistlin remembered her face as he had seen it on entering. Long accustomed to observing others and reading the emotions they thought they hid, he had seen the slight line appear between her black eyebrows, he had seen her gray eyes grow dark and clouded.
She had kept her hands in her lap, but he had seen the fingers twist the cloth of her gown. He knew of her conversation with Denubis. He knew she doubted, that her faith was wavering, teetering on the edge of the precipice. It would take little to shove her over the edge. And, with a bit of patience on his part, she might even jump over of her own accord.
Raistlin remembered how she had flinched at his touch. Drawing near her, he reached out and took hold of her wrist. She started and almost immediately tried to break free of his hold. But his grip was firm. Crysania looked up into his eyes and could not move.
“Do you truly believe that of me?” Raistlin asked in the voice of one who has suffered long and then returned to find it was all for nothing. He saw his sorrow pierce her heart. She tried to speak, but Raistlin continued, twisting the knife in her soul.
“Fistandantilus planned to return to our time, destroy me, take my body, and pick up where the Queen of Darkness left off. He plotted to bring the evil dragons under his control. The Dragon Highlords, like my sister, Kitiara, would have flocked to his standard. The world would be plunged into war, once again.” Raistlin paused. “That threat is now ended,” he said softly.
His eyes held Crysania, just as his hand held her wrist. Looking in them, she saw herself reflected in their mirrorlike surface. And she saw herself, not as the pale, studious, severe cleric she had heard herself called more than once, but as someone beautiful and caring. This man had come to her in trust and she had let him down. The pain in his voice was unendurable, and Crysania tried once again to speak, but Raistlin continued, drawing her ever nearer.
“You know my ambitions,” he said. “To you, I opened my heart. Is it my design to renew the war? Is it my desire to conquer the world? My sister, Kitiara, came to me to ask this very thing, to seek my help. I refused, and you, I fear, paid the consequences.” Raistlin sighed and lowered his eyes. “I told her about you, Crysania, and of your goodness and your power. She was enraged and sent her death knight to destroy you, thinking to end your influence over me.”
“Do I have influence over you then?” Crysania asked softly, no longer trying to break free of Raistlin’s hold. Her voice trembled with joy. “Can I dare hope that you have seen the ways of the church and—”
“The ways of this church?” Raistlin asked, his voice once again bitter and mocking. Withdrawing his hand abruptly, he sat back in his chair, gathering his black robes about him and regarding Crysania with a sneering smile.
Embarrassment, anger, and guilt stained Crysania’s cheeks a faint pink, her gray eyes darkened to deep blue. The color in her cheeks spread to her lips and suddenly she was beautiful, something Raistlin noticed without meaning to. The thought annoyed him beyond all bounds, threatening to disrupt his concentration. Irritably, he pushed it away.
“I know your doubts, Crysania,” he continued abruptly. “I know what you have seen. You have found the church to be far more concerned with running the world than teaching the ways of the gods. You have seen its clerics double-dealing, dabbling in politics, spending money for show that might have fed the poor. You thought to vindicate the church, when you came back; to discover that others caused the gods in their righteous anger to hurl the fiery mountain down upon those who forsook them. You sought to blame... magic-users, perhaps.”
Crysania’s flush deepened, she could not look at him and turned her face away, but her pain and humiliation were obvious.
Raistlin continued mercilessly. “The time of the Cataclysm draws near. Already, the true clerics have left the land... Yes, didn’t you know? Your friend, Denubis, has gone. You, Crysania, are the only true cleric left in the land.”
Crysania stared at Raistlin in shock. “That’s... impossible,” she whispered. Her eyes glanced around the room. And she could hear, for the first time, the conversations of those gathered in knots away from the Kingpriest. She heard talk of the Games, she heard arguments over the distribution of public funds, the routing of armies, the best means to bring a rebellious land under control—ail in the name of the church.
And then, as if to drown out the other, harsh voices, the sweet, musical voice of the Kingpriest welled up in her soul, calming her troubled spirit. The Kingpriest was here, still. Turning from the darkness, she looked toward his light and felt her faith, once more strong and pure, rise up to defend her. Coolly, she looked back at Raistlin.
“There is still goodness in the world,” she said sternly. Standing she started to leave. “As long as that holy man, who is surely blessed of the gods, rules, I cannot believe that the gods visited their wrath upon the church. Say, rather, it was on the world for ignoring the church,” she continued, her voice low and passionate. Raistlin had risen as well and, watching her intently, moved nearer to her.
She did not seem to notice but kept on. “Or for ignoring the Kingpriest! He must foresee it! Perhaps even now he is trying to prevent it! Begging the gods to have mercy!”
“Look at this man,” Raistlin whispered, “ ‘blessed’ of the gods.” Reaching out, the mage took hold of Crysania with his strong hands and forced her to face the Kingpriest. Overwhelmed with guilt for having doubted and angry with herself for having carelessly allowed Raistlin to see within her, Crysania angrily tried to free herself of his hold, but he gripped her firmly, his fingers burning into her skin.
“Look!” he repeated. Shaking her slightly, he made her raise her head to look directly into the light and glory that surrounded the Kingpriest.
Raistlin felt the body he held so near his own start to tremble, and he smiled in satisfaction. Moving his black-hooded head near hers, Raistlin whispered in her ear, his breath touching her cheek.
“What do you see, Revered Daughter?”
His only answer was a heartbroken moan.
Raistlin’s smile deepened. “Tell me,” he persisted.
“A man,” Crysania faltered, her shocked gaze on the Kingpriest. “Only a human man. He looks weary and... and frightened. His skin sags, he hasn’t slept for nights. Pale blue eyes dart here and there in fear—” Suddenly, she realized what she had been saying. Accutely aware of Raistlin’s nearness, the warmth and the feel of the strong, muscled body beneath the soft, black robes, Crysania broke free of his grip.
“What spell is this you have cast over me?” she demanded angrily, turning to confront him.
“No spell, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said quietly. “I have broken the spell he weaves around himself in his fear. It is that fear which will prove his undoing and bring down destruction upon the world.”
Crysania stared at Raistlin wildly. She wanted him to be lying, she willed him to be lying. But then she realized that, even if he was, it didn’t matter. She could no longer lie to herself.
Confused, frightened, and bewildered, Crysania turned around and, half-blinded by her tears, ran out of the Hall of Audience.
Raistlin watched her go, feeling neither elation nor satisfaction at his victory. It was, after all, no more than he had expected. Sitting down again, near the fire, he selected an orange from a bowl of fruit sitting on a table and casually tore off its peel as he stared thoughtfully into the flames.