“My lady,” he said in a hushed, solemn voice, “if you are right, if your goodness and your love can turn him from those dark paths that he walks and lead him—by his own choice—into the light, I would... I would—” Caramon choked and turned his head hurriedly.
Hearing so much love in the big man’s voice and seeing the tears he tried to hide, Crysania was overcome with pain and remorse. She began to wonder if she had misjudged him. Standing up, she gently touched the man’s huge arm, feeling its great muscles tense as Caramon fought to bring himself under control.
“Must you return? Can’t you stay—”
“No.” Caramon shook his head. “I’ve got to get Tas, and the device Par-Salian gave me. It’s locked away. And then, I have friends... I’ve been trying to convince them to leave the city. It may be too late, but I’ve got to make one more attempt—”
“Certainly,” Crysania said. “I understand. Return as quickly as you can. Meet me... meet me in Raistlin’s rooms.”
“I will, my lady,” he replied fervently. “And now I must go, before my friends leave for practice.” Taking her hand in his, he clasped it firmly, then hurried away. Crysania watched him walk back out into the corridor, whose torchlights shone in the gloomy darkness. He moved swiftly and surely, not even flinching when he passed a window at the end of the corridor and was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant flash of lightning. It was hope that anchored his storm-tossed spirit, the same hope Crysania felt suddenly welling up inside her.
Caramon vanished into the darkness and Crysania, catching up her white robes in one hand, quickly turned and climbed the stairs to the part of the Temple that housed the black-robed mage.
Her good spirits and her hope failed slightly as she entered that corridor. Here the full fury of the storm seemed to rage unabated. Not even the heaviest curtains could keep out the blinding lightning, the thickest walls could not muffle the peals of thunder. Perhaps because of some ill-fitting window, even the wind itself seemed to have penetrated the Temple walls. Here no torches would burn, not that they were needed, so incessant was the lighting.
Crysania’s black hair blew in her eyes, her robes fluttered around her. As she neared the mage’s room at the end of the corridor, she could hear the rain beat against the glass. The air was cold and damp. Shivering, she hastened her steps and had raised her hand to knock upon the door when the corridor suddenly sizzled with a blue-white flash of lightning. The simultaneous explosion of thunder knocked Crysania against the door. It flew open, and she was in Raistlin’s arms.
It was like her dream. Almost sobbing in her terror, she nestled close to the velvet softness of the black robes and warmed herself by the heat of his body. At first, that body next to hers was tense, then she felt it relax. His arms tightened around her almost convulsively, a hand reached up to stroke her hair, soothingly, comfortingly.
“There, there,” he whispered as one might to a frightened child, “fear not the storm, Revered Daughter. Exult in it! Taste the power of the gods, Crysania! Thus do they frighten the foolish. They cannot harm us—not if you choose otherwise.”
Gradually Crysania’s sobs lessened. Raistlin’s words were not the gentle murmurings of a mother. Their meaning struck home to her. She lifted her head, looking up at him.
“What do you mean?” she faltered, suddenly frightened. A crack had appeared in his mirrorlike eyes, permitting her to see the soul burning within.
Involuntarily, she started to push away from him, but he reached out and, smoothing the tangled black hair from her face with trembling hands, whispered, “Come with me, Crysania! Come with me to a time when you will be the only cleric in the world, to the time when we may enter the portal and challenge the gods, Crysania! Think of it! To rule, to show the world such power as this!”
Raistlin let go his grasp. Raising his arms, the black robes shimmering about him as the lightning flared and the thunder roared, he laughed. And then Crysania saw the feverish gleam in his eyes and the bright spots of color on his deathly pale cheeks. He was thin, far thinner than when she had seen him last.
“You’re ill,” she said, backing up, her hands behind her, reaching for the door. “I’ll get help...”
“No!” Raistlin’s shout was louder than the thunder. His eyes regained their mirrored surface, his face was cold and composed. Reaching out, he grasped her wrist with a painful grip and jerked her back into the room. The door slammed shut behind her. “I am ill,” he said more quietly, “but there is no help, no cure for my malady but to escape this insanity. My plans are almost completed. Tomorrow, the day of the Cataclysm, the attention of the gods will be turned to the lesson they must inflict upon these poor wretches. The Dark Queen will not be able to stop me as I work my magic and carry myself forward to the one time in history when she is vulnerable to the power of a true cleric!”
“Let me go!” Crysania cried, pain and outrage submerging her fear. Angrily, she wrenched her arm free of his grasp. But she still remembered his embrace, the touch of his hands... Hurt and ashamed, Crysania turned away. “You must work your evil without me,” she said, her voice choked with her tears. “I will not go with you.”
“Then you will die,” Raistlin said grimly.
“Do you dare threaten me!” Crysania cried, whirling around to face him, shock and fury drying her eyes.
“Oh, not by my hand,” Raistlin said with a strange smile. “You will die by the hands of those who sent you here.”
Crysania blinked, stunned. Then she quickly regained her composure. “Another trick?” she asked coldly, backing away from him, the pain in her heart at his deception almost more than she could bear. She wanted only to leave before he saw how much he had been able to hurt her—
“No trick, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said simply. He gestured to a book with red binding that lay open upon his desk. “See for yourself. Long I studied—” He swept his hand about the rows and rows of books that lined the wall. Crysania gasped. These had not been here the last time. Looking at her, he nodded. “Yes, I brought them from far-off places. I traveled far in search of many of them. This one I finally found in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, as I suspected all along I might. Come, look at it.”
“What is it?” Crysania stared at the volume as if it might have been a coiled, poisonous serpent.
“A book, nothing more.” Raistlin smiled wearily. “I assure you it will not change into a dragon and carry you off at my command. I repeat—it is a book, an encyclopedia, if you will. A very ancient one, written during the Age of Dreams.”
“Why do you want me to see this? What does it have to do with me?” Crysania asked suspiciously. But she had ceased edging her way toward the door. Raistlin’s calm demeanor reassured her. She had even ceased to notice, for the moment, the lightning and cracking of the storm outside.
“It is an encyclopedia of magical devices produced during the Age of Dreams,” Raistlin continued imperturbably, never taking his eyes from Crysania, seeming to draw her nearer with his gaze as he stood beside the desk. “Read—”
“I cannot read the language of magic,” Crysania said, frowning, then her brow cleared. “Or are you going to ‘translate’ for me?” she inquired haughtily.
Raistlin’s eyes flared in swift anger, but the anger was almost instantly replaced by a look of sadness and exhaustion that went straight to Crysania’s heart. “It is not written in the language of magic,” he said softly. “I would not have asked you here otherwise.” Glancing down at the black robes he wore, he smiled the twisted, bitter smile. “Long ago, I willingly paid the penalty. I do not know why I should have hoped you would trust me.”