“What?” he interrupted, clutching at her with a hot hand. “What are you doing?”
“I am going to heal you,” Crysania said, smiling at him with gentle patience. “I am a cleric of Paladine.”
“Paladine!” The young man grimaced in pain, thencatching his breath—looked up at her in disbelief. “That’s who I thought you said. How can you be one of his clerics? They vanished, so it’s told, right before the Cataclysm.”
“It’s a long story,” Crysania replied, drawing the sheets over the young man’s shivering body, “and one I will tell you later. But, for now, believe that I am truly a cleric of this great god and that he will heal you!”
“No!” the young man cried, his hand wrapping around hers so tightly it hurt. “I am a cleric, too, a cleric of the Seeker gods. I tried to heal my people’—his voice cracked—“but there... there was nothing I could do. They died!” His eyes closed in agony. “I prayed! The gods... didn’t answer.”
“That’s because these gods you pray to are false gods,” Crysania said earnestly, reaching out to smooth back the young j man’s sweat-soaked hair. Opening his eyes, he regarded her intently. He was handsome, Crysania saw, in a serious, scholarly fashion. His eyes were blue, his hair golden.
“Water,” he murmured through parched lips. She helped him sit up. Thirstily, he drank from the bowl, then she eased him back down on the bed. Staring at her still, he shook his head, then shut his eyes wearily.
“You know of Paladine, of the ancient gods?” Crysania asked softly.
The young man’s eyes opened, there was a gleam of light in them. “Yes,” he said bitterly. “I know of them. I know they smashed the land. I know they brought storms and pestilence upon us. I know evil things have been unleashed in this land. And then they left. In our hour of need, they abandoned us!”
Now it was Crysania’s turn to stare. She had expected denial, disbelief, or even total ignorance of the gods. She knew she could handle that. But this bitter anger? This was not the confrontation she had been prepared to face. Expecting superstitious mobs, she had found instead a mass grave and a dying young cleric.
“The gods did not abandon us,” she said, her voice quivering in her earnestness. “They are here, waiting only for the sound of a prayer. The evil that came to Krynn man brought upon himself, through his own pride and willful ignorance.”
The story of Goldmoon healing the dying Elistan and thereby converting him to the ancient faith came vividly to Crysania, filling her with exultation. She would heal this young cleric, convert him...
“I am going to help you,” she said. “Then there will be time to talk, time for you to understand.”
Kneeling down beside the bed once more, she clasped the medallion she wore around her neck and again began, “Paladine—”
A hand grabbed her roughly, hurting her, breaking her hold on the medallion. Startled, she looked up. It was the young cleric. Half-sitting up, weak, shivering with fever, he still stared at her with a gaze that was intense but calm.
“No,” he said steadily, “you must understand. You don’t need to convince me. I believe you!” He looked up into the shadows above him with a grim and bitter smile. “Yes, Paladine is with you. I can sense his great presence. Perhaps my eyes have been opened the nearer I approach death.”
“This is wonderful!” Crysania cried ecstatically. “I can—”
“Wait!” The cleric gasped for breath, still holding her hand. “Listen! Because I believe I refuse... to let you heal me.”
“What?” Crysania stared at him, uncomprehending. Then, “You’re sick, delirious,” she said firmly. “You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I do,” he replied. “Look at me. Am I rational? Yes?”
Crysania, studying him, had to nod her head.
“Yes, you must admit it. I am... not delirious. I am fully conscious, comprehending.”
“Then, why—?”
“Because,” he said softly, each breath coming from him with obvious pain, “if Paladine is here—and I believe he is, now then why is he... letting this happen! Why did he let my people die? Why does he permit this suffering? Why did he cause it? Answer me!” He clutched at her angrily. “Answer me!”
Her own questions! Raistlin’s questions! Crysania felt her mind stumbling in confused darkness. How could she answer him, when she was searching so desperately for these answers herself?
Through numb lips, she repeated Elistan’s words: “We must have faith. The ways of the gods cannot be known to us, we cannot see—”
Lying back down, the young man shook his head wearily and Crysania herself fell silent, feeling helpless in the face of such violent, intense anger. I’ll heal him anyway, she determined. He is sick and weak in mind and body. He cannot be expected to understand...
Then she sighed. No. In other circumstances, Paladine might have allowed it. The god will not grant my prayers, Crysania knew in despair,. In his divine wisdom, he will gather the young man to himself and then all will be made clear.
But it could not be so now.
Suddenly, Crysania realized bleakly that time could not be altered, at least not this way, not by her. Goldmoon would restore man’s faith in the ancient gods in a time when terrible anger such as this had died, when man would be ready to listen and to accept and believe. Not before.
Her failure overwhelmed her. Still kneeling by the bed, she bowed her head in her hands and asked to be forgiven for not being willing to accept or understand.
Feeling a hand touch her hair, she looked up. The young man was smiling wanly at her.
“I’m sorry,” he said gently, his fever-parched lips twitching. “Sorry... to disappoint you.”
“I understand,” Crysania said quietly, “and I will respect your wishes.”
“Thank you,” he replied. He was silent. For long moments, the only sound that could be heard was his labored breathing. Crysania started to stand up, but she felt his hot hand close over hers. “Do one thing for me,” he whispered.
“Anything,” she said, forcing herself to smile, though she could barely see him through her tears.
“Stay with me tonight... while I die... .”
6
Climbing the stairs leading up to the scaffold. Head bowed. Hands tied behind my back. I struggle to free myself, even as I mount the stairs, though I know it is useless—I have spent days, weeks, struggling to free myself, to no avail.
The black robes trip me. I stumble. Someone catches me, keeps me from falling, but drags me forward, nonetheless. I have reached the top. The block, stained dark with blood, is before me. Frantically now I seek to free my hands! If only I can loosen them! I can use my magic! Escape! Escape!
“There is no escape!” laughs my executioner, and I know it is myself speaking! My laughter! My voice! “Kneel, pathetic wizard! Place your head upon the cold and bloody pillow!”
No! I shriek with terror and rage and fight desperately, but hands grab me from behind. Viciously, they force me to my knees. My shrinking flesh touches the chill and slimy block! Still I wrench and twist and scream and still they force me down.
A black hood is drawn over my head... but I can hear the executioner coming closer, I can hear his black robes rustling around his ankles, I can hear the blade being lifted... lifted...
“Raist! Raistlin! Wake up!”
Raistlin’s eyes opened. Staring upward, dazed and wild with terror, he had no idea for a moment where he was or who had wakened him.
“Raistlin, what is it?” the voice repeated.
Strong hands held him firmly, a familiar voice, warm with concern, blotting out the whistling scream of the executioner’s falling axe blade...
“Caramon!” Raistlin cried, clutching at his brother. “Help me! Stop them! Don’t let them murder me! Stop them! Stop them!”