His voice rose to a shriek. In a frenzy, not realizing what he was doing, Raistlin began to claw at his skin with his nails as though his face were a mask, and he could tear it from his bones.
“Stop! Raistlin, what are you doing? Stop, please!”
He could barely hear the voice. Firm but gentle hands grasped his wrists, and he fought them, struggling. But then the madness passed. The dark and frightful waters in which he had been drowning receded, leaving him calm and drained. Once more, he could see and feel and hear.
His face stung. Looking down, he saw blood on his nails.
“Raistlin!” It was Crysania’s voice. Lifting his gaze, he saw her standing before him, holding his hands away from his face, her eyes wide and filled with concern.
“I’m all right,” Raistlin said coldly. “Leave me alone!” But, even as he spoke, he sighed and lowered his head again, shuddering as the horror of the dream washed over him. Pulling a clean cloth from a pocket, he began to dab at the wounds on his face.
“No, you’re not,” Crysania murmured, taking the cloth from his shaking hand and gently touching the bleeding gouges. “Please, let me do this,” she said, as he snarled something unintelligible. “I know you won’t let me heal you, but there is a clear stream near. Come, drink some water, rest and let me wash these.”
Sharp, bitter words were on Raistlin’s lips. He raised a hand to thrust her away. But then he realized that he didn’t want her to leave. The darkness of the dream receded when she was with him. The touch of warm, human flesh was comforting after the cold fingers of death.
And so, he nodded with a weary sigh.
Her face pale with anguish and concern, Crysania put her arm around him to support his faltering steps, and Raistlin allowed himself to be led through the forest, acutely conscious of the warmth and the motion of her body next to his.
Reaching the bank of the stream, the archmage sat down upon a large, flat rock, warmed by the autumn sun. Crysania dipped her cloth in the water and, kneeling next to him, cleaned the wounds on his face. Dying leaves fell around them, muffling sound, falling into the stream to be whisked away by the water.
Raistlin did not speak. His gaze followed the path of the leaves, watching as each clung to the branch with its last, feeble strength, watching as the ruthless wind tore it from its hold, watching as it swirled in the air to fall into the water, watching as it was carried off into oblivion by the swift-running stream. Looking past the leaves into the water, he saw the reflection of his face wavering there. He saw two long, bloody marks down each cheek, he saw his eyes—no longer mirrorlike, but dark and haunted. He saw fear, and he sneered at himself derisively.
“Tell me,” said Crysania hesitantly, pausing in her ministrations and placing her hand over his, “tell me what’s wrong. I don’t understand. You’ve been brooding ever since we left the Tower. Has it something to do with the Portal being gone? With what Astinus told you back in Palanthas?”
Raistlin did not answer. He did not even look at her. The sun was warm on his black robes, her touch was warmer than the sun. But, somewhere, some part of his mind was coldly balancing, calculating—tell her? What will I gain? More than if I kept silent?
Yes... draw her nearer, enfold her, wrap her up, accustom her to the darkness... .
“I know,” he said finally, speaking as if reluctantly, yet—for reason still not looking at her as he spoke but staring into the water, “that the Portal is in a place near Thorbardin, in the magical fortress called Zhaman. This I discovered from Astinus.
“Legend tells us that Fistandantilus undertook what some call the Dwarfgate Wars so that he could claim the mountain kingdom of Thorbardin for his own. Astinus relates much the same thing in his Chronicles”—Raistlin’s voice grew bitter “much the same thing! But, read between the lines, read closely, as I should have read but, in my arrogance, did not, and you will read the truth!”
His hands clenched. Crysania sat before him, the damp, blood-stained cloth held fast, forgotten as she listened, enthralled.
“Fistandantilus came here to do the very same thing I came here to do!” Raistlin’s words hissed with a strange, foreboding passion. “He cared nothing for Thorbardin! It was all a sham, a ruse! He wanted one thing—and that was to reach the Portal! The dwarves stood in his way, as they stand in mine. They controlled the fortress then, they controlled the land for miles around it. The only way he could reach it was to start a war so that he could get close enough to gain access to it! And, so, history repeats itself.
“For I must do what he did... I am doing what he did!”
His expression bitter, he stared silently into the water.
“From what I have read of Astinus’s Chronicles,” Crysania began, speaking hesitantly, “the war was bound to come anyway. There has long been bad blood between the hill dwarves and their cousins. You can’t blame yourself—”
Raistlin snarled impatiently. “I don’t give a damn about the dwarves! They can sink into the Sirrion, for all I care.” Now he looked at her, coldly, steadily. “You say you have read Astinus’s works on this. If so, think! What caused the end of the Dwarfgate Wars?”
Crysania’s eyes grew unfocused as she sought back in her mind, trying to recall. Then her face paled. “The explosion,” she said softly. “The explosion that destroyed the Plains of Dergoth. Thousands died and so did—”
“So did Fistandantilus!” Raistlin said with grim emphasis.
For long moments, Crysania could only stare at him. Then the full realization of what he meant sank in. “Oh, but surely not!” she cried, dropping the blood-stained cloth and clutching Raistlin’s hand with her own.. You’re not same person The circumstances are different. They must be!
You’ve made a mistake!”
Raistlin shook his head, smiling cynically. Gently disengaging his hand from hers, he reached out and touched her chin, raising her head so that she looked directly into his eyes. “No, the circumstances are not different. I have not made a mistake. I am caught in time, rushing forward to my own doom.”
“How do you know? How can you be certain?”
“I know because—one other perished with Fistandantilus that day.”
“Who?” Crysania asked, but even before he told her she felt a dark mantle of fear settle upon her shoulders, falling around her with a rustle as soft as the dying leaves.
“An old friend of yours.” Raistlin’s smile twisted. “Denubis!”
“Denubis!” she repeated soundlessly.
“Yes,” Raistlin replied, unconsciously letting his fingers trace along her firm jaw, cup her chin in his hand. “That much I learned from Astinus. If you will recall, your cleric friend was already drawn to Fistandantilus, even though he refused to admit it to himself. He had his doubts about the church, much the same as yours. I can only assume that during those final, horrifying days in Istar, Fistandantilus persuaded him to come—”
“You didn’t persuade me,” Crysania interrupted firmly. “I chose to come! It was my decision.”
“Of course,” Raistlin said smoothly, letting go of her. He hadn’t realized what he was doing, caressing her soft skin. Now, unbidden, he felt his blood stir. He found his gaze going to her curving lips, her white neck. He had a sudden vivid image of her in his brother’s arms. He remembered the wild surge of jealousy he had felt.
This must not happen! he reprimanded himself. It will interfere with my plans... He started to rise, but Crysania caught hold of his hand with both of hers and rested her cheek in his palm.
“No,” she said softly, her gray eyes looking up at him, shining in the bright sunlight that filtered through the leaves, holding him with her steadfast gaze, “we will alter time, you and I! You are more powerful than Fistandantilus. I am stronger in my faith than Denubis! I heard the Kingpriest’s demands of the gods. I know his mistake! Paladine will answer my prayers as he has in the past. Together, we will change the ending... you and I... .”