Raistlin shook his head. Then, speaking gently to his horse, he rode forward. Caramon followed, hurrying to catch up, and there was the sound of steel sliding from a scabbard.
“You will not need your sword, my brother,” Raistlin said without turning.
The horses’ hooves clopped through the mud of the road, their sound thudding too loudly in the thick, rain-soaked air. Despite Raistlin’s words, Caramon kept his hand upon the hilt of his sword until they rode into the outskirts of the small village. Dismounting, he handed the reins of his horse to his brother, then, cautiously, approached the same small inn Crysania had first seen.
Peering inside, he saw the table set for dinner, the broken crockery. A dog came dashing up to him hopefully, licking his hand and whimpering. Cats slunk beneath the chairs, vanishing into the shadows with a guilty, furtive air. Absently patting the dog, Caramon was about to walk inside when Raistlin called.
“I heard a horse. Over there.”
Sword drawn, Caramon walked around the corner of the building. After a few moments, he returned, his weapon sheathed, his brow furrowed.
“It’s hers,” he reported. “Unsaddled, fed, and watered.”
Nodding his hooded head as though he had expected this information, Raistlin pulled his cloak more tightly about him.
Caramon glanced uneasily about the village. Water dripped from the eaves, the door to the inn swung on rusty hinges, making a shrill squeaking sound. No light came from any of the houses, no sounds of children’s laughter or women calling to each other or men complaining about the weather as they went to their work. “What is it, Raist?”
“Plague,” said Raistlin.
Caramon choked and instantly covered his mouth and nose with his cloak. From within the shadows of the cowl, Raistlin’s mouth twisted in an ironic smile.
“Do not fear, my brother,” he said, dismounting from his horse. Taking the reins, Caramon tied both animals to a post, then came to stand beside his twin. “We have a true cleric with us, have you forgotten?”
“Then where is she?” Caramon growled in a muffled voice, still keeping his face covered.
The mage’s head turned, staring down the rows of silent, empty houses. “There, I should guess,” he remarked finally. Caramon followed his gaze and saw a single light flickering in the window of a small house at the other end of the village.
“I’d rather be walking into a camp of ogres,” Caramon muttered as he and his brother slogged through the muddy, deserted streets. His voice was gruff with a fear he could not hide. He could face with equanimity the prospect of dying with six inches of cold steel in his gut. But the thought of dying helplessly, wasted by something that could not be fought, that floated unseen upon the air, filled the big man with horror.
Raistlin did not reply. His face remained hidden. What his thoughts might have been, his brother could not guess. The two reached the end of the row of houses, the rain spattering all around them with thudding plops. They were nearing the light when Caramon happened to glance to his left.
“Name of the gods!” he whispered as he stopped abruptly and grasped his brother by the arm.
He pointed to the mass grave.
Neither spoke. With croaks of anger at their approach, the carrion birds rose into the air, black wings flapping. Caramon gagged. His face pale, he turned hurriedly away. Raistlin continued to stare at the sight a moment, his thin lips tightening into a straight line.
“Come, my brother,” he said coldly, walking toward the small house again.
Glancing in at the window, hand on the hilt of his sword, Caramon sighed and, nodding his head, gave his brother a sign. Raistlin pushed gently upon the door, and it opened at his touch.
A young man lay upon a rumpled bed. His eyes were closed, his hands folded across his chest. There was a look of peace upon the still, ashen face, though the closed eyes were sunken into gaunt cheekbones and the lips were blue with the chill of death. A cleric dressed in robes that might once have been white knelt on the floor beside him, her head bowed on her folded hands. Caramon started to say something, but Raistlin checked him with a hand on his arm, shaking his hooded head, unwilling to interrupt her.
Silently, the twins stood together in the doorway, the rain dripping around them.
Crysania was with her god. Intent upon her prayers, she was unaware of the twins’ entrance until, finally, the jingle and creak of Caramon’s armor brought her back to reality. Lifting her head, her dark, tousled hair falling about her shoulders, she regarded them without surprise.
Her face, though pale with weariness and sorrow, was composed. Though she had not prayed to Paladine to send them, she knew the god answered prayers of the heart as well as those spoken openly. Bowing her head once more, giving thanks, she sighed, then rose to her feet and turned to face them.
Her eyes met Raistlin s eyes, the light of the failing fire causing them to gleam even in the depths of his hood. When she spoke, her voice seemed to her to blend with the sound of the falling raindrops.
“I failed,” she said.
Raistlin appeared undisturbed. He glanced at the body of the young man. “He would not believe?”
“Oh, he believed.” She, too, looked down at the body. “He refused to let me heal him. His anger was... very great.” Reaching down, she drew the sheet up over the still form. “Paladine has taken him. Now he understands, I am certain.”
“He does,” Raistlin remarked. “Do you?”
Crysania’s head bowed, her dark hair fell around her face. She stood so still for so long that Caramon, not understanding, cleared his throat and shifted uneasily.
“Uh, Raist—” he began softly.
“Shh!” Raistlin whispered.
Crysania raised her head. She had not even heard Caramon. Her eyes were a deep gray now, so dark they seemed to reflect the archmage’s black robes. “I understand,” she said in a firm voice. “For the first time, I understand and I see what I must do. In Istar, I saw belief in the gods lost. Paladine granted my prayer and showed me the Kingpriest’s fatal weakness—pride. The god gave me to know how I might avoid that mistake. He gave me to know that, if I asked, he would answer.
“But Paladine also showed me, in Istar, how weak I was. When I left the wretched city and came here with you, I was little more than a frightened child, clinging to you in the terrible night. Now, I have regained my strength. The vision of this tragic sight has burned into my soul.”
As Crysania spoke, she drew nearer Raistlin. His eyes held hers in an unblinking gaze. She saw herself in their flat surface. The medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck shone with a cold, white light. Her voice grew fervent, her hands clasped together tightly.
“That sight will be before my eyes,” she said softly, coming to stand before the archmage, “as I walk with you through the Portal, armed with my faith, strong in my belief that together you and I will banish darkness from the world forever!”
Reaching out, Raistlin took hold of her hands. They were numb with cold. He enclosed them in his own slender hands, warming them with his burning touch.
“We have no need to alter time!” Crysania said. “Fistandantilus was an evil man. What he did, he did for his own personal glory. But we care, you and I. That alone will be sufficient to change the ending. I know—my god has spoken to me!”
Slowly, smiling his thin-lipped smile, Raistlin brought Crysania’s hands to his mouth and kissed them, never taking his eyes from her.
Crysania felt her cheeks flush, then caught her breath. With a choked, half-strangled sound, Caramon turned abruptly and walked out the door.