One other person in the room watched Crysania flee the audience chamber. He watched as Raistlin ate the orange, draining the fruit of its juice first, then devouring the pulp.
His face pale with anger vying with fear, Quarath left the Hall of Audience, returning to his own room, where he paced the floor until dawn.
11
It became known in later history as the Night of Doom, that night the true clerics left Krynn. Where they went and what their fate may have been, not even Astinus records. Some say they were seen during the bleak, bitter days of the War of the Lance, three hundred years later. There are many elves who will swear on all they hold dear that Loralon, greatest and most devout of the elven clerics, walked the tortured lands of Silvanesti, grieving at its downfall and blessing the efforts of those who gave of themselves to help in its rebuilding.
But, for most on Krynn, the passing of the true clerics went unnoticed. That night, however, proved to be a Night of Doom in many ways for others.
Crysania fled the Hall of Audience of the Kingpriest in confusion and fear. Her confusion was easily explained. She had seen that greatest of beings, the Kingpriest, the man that even clerics in her own day still revered, as a human afraid of his own shadow, a human who hid himself behind spells and who let others rule for him. All of the doubts and misgivings she had developed about the church and its purpose on Krynn returned.
As for what she feared, that she could not or would not define.
On first leaving the Hall, she stumbled along blindly without any clear idea of where she was going or what she was doing. Then she sought refuge in a corner, dried her tears, and pulled herself together. Ashamed of her momentary loss of control, she knew at once what she had to do.
She must find Denubis. She would prove Raistlin wrong.
Walking through the empty corridors lit by Solinari’s waning light, Crysania went to Denubis’s chamber. This tale of vanishing clerics could not be true. Crysania had, in fact, never believed in the old legends about the Night of Doom, considering them children’s tales. Now, she still refused to believe it. Raistlin was... mistaken.
She hurried on without pause, familiar with the way. She had visited Denubis in his chambers several times to discuss theology or history, or to listen to his stories of his homeland.
She knocked on the door.
There was no answer.
“He’s asleep,” Crysania said to herself, irritated at the sudden shiver that shook her body. “Of course, it’s past Deep Watch. I’ll return in the morning.”
But she knocked again and even called out softly, “Denubis.”
Still no answer.
“I’ll come back. After all, it’s only been a few hours since I saw him,” she said to herself again, but she found her hand on the doorknob, gently turning it. “Denubis?” she whispered, her heart throbbing in her throat. The room was dark, it faced into an inner courtyard and so the window let in nothing of the moon’s light. For a moment Crysania’s will failed her. “This is ridiculous!” she reprimanded herself, already envisioning Denubis’s embarrassment and her own if the man woke up to find her creeping into his bed chamber in the dead of night.
Firmly, Crysania threw open the door, letting the light from the torches in the corridor shine into the small room. It was just the way he had left it—neat, orderly... and empty.
Well, not quite empty. The man’s books, his quill pens, even his clothes were still there, as if he had just stepped out for a few minutes, intending to return directly. But the spirit of the room was gone, leaving it cold and vacant as the still-made bed.
For a moment, the lights in the corridor blurred before Crysania’s eyes. Her legs felt weak and she leaned against the door.
Then, as before, she forced herself to be calm, to think rationally. Firmly, she shut the door and, even more firmly, made herself walk down the sleeping corridors toward her own room.
Very well, the Night of Doom had come. The true clerics were gone. It was nearly Yule. Thirteen days after Yule, the Cataclysm would strike. That thought brought her to a halt. Feeling weak and sick, she leaned against a window and stared unseeing into a garden bathed in white moonlight. So this was the end of her plans, her dreams, her goals. She would be forced to go back to her own time and report nothing but dismal failure.
The silver garden swam in her sight. She had found the church corrupt, the Kingpriest apparently at fault for the terrible destruction of the world. She had even failed in her original intent, to draw Raistlin from the folds of darkness. He would never listen to her. Right now, probably, he was laughing at her with that terrible, mocking laugh...
“Revered Daughter?” came a voice.
Hastily wiping her eyes, Crysania turned. “Who is there?” she asked, trying to clear her throat. Blinking rapidly, she stared into the darkness, then caught her breath as a dark, robed figure emerged from the shadows. She could not speak, her voice failed.
“I was on my way to my chambers when I saw you standing here,” said the voice, and it was not laughing or mocking. It was cool and tinged with cynicism, but there was a strange quality to it, a warmth, that made Crysania tremble.
“I hope you are not ill,” Raistlin said, coming over to stand beside her. She could not see his face, hidden by the shadows of the dark hood. But she could see his eyes, glittering, clear and cold in the moonlight.
“No,” Crysania murmured in confusion and turned her face away, devoutly hoping that all traces of tears were gone. But it did little good. Weariness, strain, and her own failings overwhelmed her. Though she sought desperately to control them, the tears came again, sliding down her cheeks.
“Go away, please,” she said, squeezing her eyes shut, swallowing the tears like bitter medicine.
She felt warmth envelop her and the softness of velvet black robes brush against her bare arm. She smelled the sweet scent of spices and rose petals and a vaguely cloying scent of decay—bat’s wings, perhaps, the skull of some animal—those mysterious things magicians used to cast their spells. And then she felt a hand touch her cheek, slender fingers, sensitive and strong and burning with that strange warmth.
Either the fingers brushed the tears away or they dried at their burning touch, Crysania wasn’t certain. Then the fingers gently lifted her chin and turned her head away from the moonlight. Crysania couldn’t breathe, her heartbeat stifled her. She kept her eyes closed, fearing what she might see. But she could feel Raistlin’s slender body, hard beneath the soft robes, press against hers. She could feel that terrible warmth...
Crysania suddenly wanted his darkness to enfold her and hide her and comfort her. She wanted that warmth to burn away the cold inside of her. Eagerly, she raised her arms and reached out her hands... and he was gone. She could hear the rustle of his robes receding in the stillness of the corridor.
Startled, Crysania opened her eyes. Then, weeping once more, she pressed her cheek against the cold glass. But these were tears of joy.
“Paladine,” she whispered, “thank you. My way is clear. I will not fail!”
A dark-robed figure stalked the Temple halls. Any who met it shrank away from it in terror, shrank from the anger that could be felt if not seen on the hooded face. Raistlin at last entered his own deserted corridor, hit the door to his room with a blast that nearly shattered it, and caused flames to leap up in the grate with nothing more than a glance. The fire roared up the chimney and Raistlin paced, hurling curses at himself until he was too tired to walk. Then he sank into a chair and stared at the fire with a feverish gaze.
“Fool!” he repeated. “I should have foreseen this!” His fist clenched. “I should have known. This body, for all its strength, has the great weakness common to mankind. No matter how intelligent, how disciplined the mind, how controlled the emotions, that waits in the shadows like a great beast, ready to leap out and take over.” He snarled in rage and dug his nails into his palm until it bled. “I can still see her! I can see her ivory skin, her pale, soft lips. I can smell her hair and feel the curving softness of her body next to mine!”