This is the beginning, Crysania thought fearfully, trying to force her numb hands to quit shaking as she picked up fragments of fine china from the dining hall. This is only the beginning...
And it will get worse.
14
It is the forces of evil, working to defeat me,” cried the Kingpriest, his musical voice sending a thrill of courage through the souls of those listening. “But I will not give in! Neither must you! We must be strong in the face of this threat...”
“No,” Crysania whispered to herself in despair. “No, you have it all wrong! You don’t understand! How can you be so blind!”
She was sitting at Morning Prayers, twelve days after the First of the Thirteen Warnings had been given—but had not been heeded. Since then, reports had poured in from all parts of the continent, telling of other strange events—a new one each day.
“King Lorac reports that, in Silvanesti, the trees wept blood for an entire day,” the Kingpriest recounted, his voice swelling with the awe and horror of the events he related. “The city of Palanthas is covered in a dense white fog so thick people wander around lost if they venture out into the streets.
“In Solamnia, no fires will burn. Their hearths lie cold and barren. The forges are shut down, the coals might as well be ice for all the warmth they give. Yet, on the plains of Abanasinia, the prairie grass has caught fire. The flames rage out of control, filling the skies with black smoke and driving the Plainsmen from their tribal lodges.
“Just this morning, the griffons carried word that the elven city of Qualinost is being invaded by the forest animals, suddenly turned strange and savage—”
Crysania could bear it no longer. Though the women glanced at her in shock as she stood up, she ignored their glowering looks and left the Services, fleeing into the corridors of the Temple.
A jagged flash of lightning blinded her, the vicious crack of thunder immediately following made her cover her face with her hands.
“This must cease or I will go mad!” she murmured brokenly, cowering in a corner.
For twelve days, ever since the cyclone, a thunderstorm raged over Istar, flooding the city with rain and hail. The flash of lightning and peals of thunder were almost continuous, shaking the Temple, destroying sleep, battering the mind. Tense, numb with fatigue and exhaustion and terror, Crysania sank down in a chair, her head in her hands.
A gentle touch on her arm made her start in alarm, jumping up. She faced a tall, handsome young man wrapped in a sopping wet cloak. She could see the outlines of strong, muscular shoulders.
“I’m sorry, Revered Daughter, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said in a deep voice that was as vaguely familiar as his face.
“Caramon!” Crysania gasped in relief, clutching at him as something real and solid. There was another bright flash and explosion. Crysania squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth, feeling even Caramon’s strong, muscular body tense nervously. He held onto her, steadying her.
“I-I had to go to Morning Prayers,” Crysania said when she could be heard. “It must be horrible out there. You’re soaked to the skin!”
“I’ve tried for days to see you—” Caramon began.
“I-I know,” Crysania faltered. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I-I’ve been busy—”
“Lady Crysania,” Caramon interrupted, trying to keep his voice steady. “We’re not talking about an invitation to a Yule Party. Tomorrow this city will cease to exist! I—”
“Hush!” Crysania commanded. Nervously, she glanced about. “We cannot talk here!” A flash of lightning and a shattering crash made her cringe, but she regained control almost immediately. “Come with me.”
Caramon hesitated then, frowning, followed her as she led the way through the Temple into one of several dark, inner rooms. Here, the lightning at least could not penetrate and the thunder was muffled. Shutting the door carefully, Crysania sat down in a chair and motioned Caramon to do the same.
Caramon stood a moment, then sat down, uncomfortable and on edge, acutely conscious of the circumstances of their last meeting when his drunkenness had nearly gotten them all killed. Crysania might have been thinking of this, too. She regarded him with eyes that were cold and gray as the dawn. Caramon flushed.
“I am glad to see your health has improved,” Crysania said, trying to keep the severity out of her voice and failing entirely.
Caramon’s flush grew deeper. He looked down at the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Crysania said abruptly. “Please forgive me. I-I haven’t slept for nights, ever since this started.” She put a trembling hand to her forehead. “I can’t think,” she added hoarsely. “This incessant noise...”
“I understand,” Caramon said, glancing up at her. “And you have every right to despise me. I despise myself for what I was. But that really doesn’t matter now. We’ve got to leave, Lady Crysania!”
“Yes, you’re right.” Crysania drew a deep breath. “We’ve got to get out of here. We have only hours left to escape. I am well aware of it, believe me.” Sighing, she looked down at her hands. “I have failed,” she said dully. “I kept hoping, up until this last moment, that somehow things might change. But the Kingpriest is blind! Blind!”
“That’s not why you’ve been avoiding me though, is it?” Caramon asked, his voice expressionless. “Preventing me from leaving?”
Now it was Crysania who blushed. She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. “No,” she said so softly Caramon barely heard. “No, I-I didn’t want to leave without... with out...
“Raistlin,” Caramon finished. “Lady Crysania, he has magic of his own. It brought him here in the first place. He has made his choice. I’ve come to realize that. We should leave—”
“Your brother has been terribly ill,” Crysania said abruptly.
Caramon looked up quickly, his face drawn with concern.
“I have tried for days to see him, ever since Yule, but he refused admittance to all, even to me. And now, today, he has sent for me,” Crysania continued, feeling her face burn under Caramon’s penetrating gaze. “I am going to talk to him, to persuade him to come with us. If his health is impaired, he will not have the strength to use his magic.”
“Yes,” Caramon muttered, thinking about the difficulty involved in casting such a powerful, complex spell. It had taken Par-Salian days, and he was in good health. “What’s wrong with Raist?” he asked suddenly.
“The nearness of the gods affects him,” Crysania replied, “as it does others, though they refuse to admit it.” Her voice died in sorrow, but she pressed her lips together tightly for a moment, then continued. “We must be prepared to move quickly, if he agrees to come with us—”
“If he doesn’t?” Caramon interrupted.
Crysania blushed. “I think... he will,” she said, overcome by confusion, her thoughts going back to the time in his chambers when he had been so near her, the look of longing and desire in his eyes, the admiration. “I’ve been... talking to him... about the wrongness of his ways. I’ve shown him how evil can never build or create, how it can only destroy and turn in upon itself. He has admitted the validity of my arguments and promised to think about them.”
“And he loves you,” Caramon said softly.
Crysania could not meet the man’s gaze. She could not answer. Her heart beat so she could not, for a moment, hear above the pulsing of her blood. She could sense Caramon’s dark eyes regarding her steadily as the thunder rumbled and shook the Temple around them. Crysania gripped her hands together to stop their trembling. Then she was aware of Caramon rising to his feet.