He shrugged. “It would probably matter little to me if I gave in to it, perhaps weaken me some temporarily, nothing more. It would certainly not affect my magic. But”—his gaze went through Caramon like a sliver of ice—“it would destroy Crysania when she found out. And she would find out!”
“You black-hearted bastard!” Caramon said through clenched teeth.
Raistlin raised an eyebrow. “Am I?” he asked simply. “If I were, wouldn’t I just take my pleasure as I found it? I am capable of understanding and controlling myself—unlike others.”
Caramon blinked. Spurring his horse, he proceeded down the trail again, lost in confusion.
Somehow, his brother had managed, once again, to turn everything upside down. Suddenly he, Caramon, felt consumed with guilt—a prey to animal instincts he wasn’t man enough to control, while his brother by admitting he was incapable of love-appeared noble and self-sacrificing. Caramon shook his head.
The two followed Crysania’s trail deeper into the woods. It was easy going, she had kept to the path, never veering, never bothering, even, to cover her tracks.
“Women!” Caramon muttered after a time. “If she was going to have a sulking fit, why didn’t she just do it the easy way and walk! Why did she have to take a blasted horseback ride halfway into the countryside?”
“You do not understand her, my brother,” Raistlin said, his gaze on the trail. “Such is not her intent. She has a purpose in this ride, believe me.”
“Bah!” Caramon snorted. “This from the expert on women! I’ve been married! I know! She’s ridden off in a huff, knowing we’ll come after her. We’ll find her somewhere along here, her horse ridden into the ground, probably lame. She’ll be cold and haughty. W e’ll apologize and... and I’ll let her have her damn tent if she wants it and—see there! What’d I tell you?” Bringing his horse to a halt, he gestured across the flat grasslands. “There’s a trail a blind gully dwarf could follow! Come on.”
Raistlin did not answer, but there was a thoughtful look on his thin face as he galloped after his brother. The two followed Crysania’s trail across the grasslands. They found where she entered the woods again, came to a stream and crossed it. But there, on the bank of the stream Caramon brought his horse to a halt.
“What the—” He looked left and right, guiding his animal around in a circle. Raistlin stopped, sighing, and leaned over the pommel of his saddle.
“I told you,” he said grimly. “She has a purpose. She is clever, my brother. Clever enough to know your mind and how it works... when it does work!”
Caramon glowered at his twin but said nothing.
Crysania’s trail had disappeared.
As Raistlin said, Crysania had a purpose. She was clever and intelligent, she guessed what Caramon would think and she purposefully misled him. Though certainly not skilled in woodslore herself, for months now, she had been with those who were. Often lonely—few spoke to the “witch”—and often left to her own devices by Caramon, who had problems of command to deal with, and Raistlin, who was wrapped up in his studies, Crysania had little to do but ride by herself, listening to the stories of those about her and learning from them.
Thus it had been a simple thing to double back on her own trail, riding her horse down the center of the stream, leaving no tracks to follow. Coming to a rocky part of the shore where, again, her horse would leave no tracks, she left the stream. Entering the woods, she avoided the main trail, searching instead for one of the many, smaller animal trails that led to the stream. Once on it, she covered her tracks as best she could. Although she did it crudely, she was fairly certain Caramon would not give her credit enough even for that, so she had no fear he would follow her.
If Crysania had known Raistlin rode with his brother, she might have had misgivings, for the mage seemed to know her mind better than she did herself. But she didn’t, so she continued ahead at a leisurely pace—to rest the horse and to give herself time to go over her plans.
In her saddlebags, she carried a map, stolen from Caramon’s tent. On the map was marked a small village nestled in the mountains. It was so small it didn’t even have a name—at least not one marked on the map. But this village was her destination. Here she planned to accomplish a two-fold purpose: she would alter time and she would prove—to Caramon and his brother and herself—that she was more than a piece of useless, even dangerous, baggage. She would prove her own worth.
Here, in this village, Crysania intended to bring back the worship of the ancient gods.
This was not a new thought for her. It was something she had often considered attempting but had not for a variety of reasons. The first was that both Caramon and Raistlin had absolutely forbidden her to use any clerical powers while in camp. Both feared for her life, having seen witch-burnings themselves in their younger days. (Raistlin had, in fact, nearly been a victim himself, until rescued by Sturm and Caramon.)
Crysania herself had enough common sense to know that none of the men or their families traveling with the army would listen to her, all of them firmly believing that she was a witch. The thought had crossed her mind that if she could get to people who knew nothing of her, tell them her story, give them the message that the gods had not abandoned man, but that man had abandoned the gods, then they would follow her as they would follow Goldmoon two hundred years later.
But it was not until she had been stung by Raistlin’s harsh words that she had gathered the courage to act. Even now, leading the horse at a walk through the quiet forest in the twilight, she could still hear his voice and see his flashing eyes as he reprimanded her.
I deserved it, she admitted to herself. I had abandoned my faith. I was using my “charms” to try to bring him to me, instead of my example to bring him to Paladine. Sighing, she absently brushed her fingers through her tangled hair. If it had not been for his strength of will, I would have fallen.
Her admiration for the young archmage, already strong, deepened—as Raistlin had foreseen. She determined to restore his faith in her and prove herself worthy, once more, of his trust and regard. For, she feared, blushing, he must have a very low opinion of her now. By returning to camp with a corps of followers, of true believers, she planned not only to show him that he was wrong—that time could be altered by bringing clerics into a world where, before, there were none—but also she hoped to extend her teachings throughout the army itself.
Thinking of this, making her plans, Crysania felt more at peace with herself than she had in the months since they’d come to this time period. For once she was doing something on her own. She wasn’t trailing along behind Raistlin or being ordered about by Caramon. Her spirits rose. By her calculations, she should reach the village just before dark.
The trail she was on had been steadily climbing up the side of the mountain. Now it topped a rise and then dipped down, descending into a small valley. Crysania halted the horse. There, nestled in the valley, she could at last see the village that was her destination.
Something struck her as odd about the village, but she was not yet a seasoned enough traveler to have learned to trust her instincts about such things. Knowing only that she wanted to reach the village before darkness fell, and eager to put her plan into immediate action, Crysania mounted her horse once more and rode down the trail, her hand closing over the medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck.
“Well, what do we do now?” Caramon asked, sitting astride his horse and looking both up and down the stream.
“You’re the expert on women,” Raistlin retorted.
“All right, I made a mistake,” Caramon grumbled. “That doesn’t help us. It’ll be dark soon, and then we’ll never find her trail. I haven’t heard you come up with any helpful suggestions,” he grumbled, glancing at his brother balefully. “Can’t you magic up something?”