From the fiery inferno in which he stood, the mage beckoned.
Crysania gasped, shrinking back against Caramon.
Raistlin beckoned again, his black robes flowing about his body, rippling with the wind of the fire storm he had created. Standing within the center of the flames, he held out his hands to Crysania.
“No!” Caramon cried, holding fast to her. But Crysania, never taking her eyes from Raistlin, gently loosened the big mans grip and walked forward.
“Come to me, Revered Daughter!” Raistlin’s soft voice touched her through the chaos and she knew she was hearing it in her heart. “Come to me through the flame. Come taste the power of the gods...”
The heat of the blazing fire that enveloped the archmage burned and scorched her soul. It seemed her skin must blacken and shrivel. She heard her hair crackling. Her breath was sucked from her lungs, searing them painfully. But the fire’s light entranced her, the flames danced, luring her forward, even as Raistlin’s soft voice urged her toward him.
“No!” Behind her, she could hear Caramon cry out, but he was nothing to her, less than the sound of her own heart beating. She reached the curtain of flame. Raistlin extended his hand, but, for an instant, she faltered, hesitating.
His hand burned! She saw it withering, the flesh black and charred.
“Come to me, Crysania... .” whispered his voice.
Reaching out her hand, trembling, she thrust it into the flame. For an instant, there was searing, heart-stopping pain. She cried out in horror and anguish, then Raistlin’s hand closed over hers, drawing her through the blazing curtain. Involuntarily, she closed her eyes. Cool wind soothed her. She could breathe sweet air. The only heat she felt was the warm, familiar heat from the mage s body. Opening her eyes, she saw that she stood close to him. Raising her head, she gazed up into his face... and felt a swift, sharp ache in her heart.
Raistlin’s thin face glistened with sweat, his eyes reflected the pure, white flame of the burning bodies, his breath came fast and shallow. He seemed lost, unaware of his surroundings. And there was a look of ecstasy on his face, a look of exultation, of triumph.
“I understand,” Crysania said to herself, holding onto his hands. “I understand. This is why he cannot love me. He has only one love in this life and that is his magic. To this love he will give everything, for this love he will risk everything!”
The thought was painful, but it was a pleasant kind of melancholy pain.
“Once again,” she said to herself, her eyes dimming with tears, “he is my example. Too long have I let myself be preoccupied with petty thoughts of this world, of myself. He is right. Now I taste the power of the gods. I must be worthy—of them and of him!”
Raistlin closed his eyes. Crysania, holding onto him, felt the magic drain from him as though his life’s blood were flowing from a wound. His arms fell to his sides. The ball of flame that had enveloped them flickered and died.
With a sigh that was little more than a whisper, Raistlin sank to his knees upon the scorched ground. The rain resumed. Crysania could hear it hiss as it struck the charred remains of the still-smoldering village. Steam rose into the air, flitting among the skeletons of the buildings, drifting down the street like ghosts of the former inhabitants.
Kneeling beside the archmage, Crysania smoothed back his brown hair with her hand. Raistlin opened his eyes, looking at her without recognition. And in them she saw deep, undying sorrow—the look of one who has been permitted to enter a realm of deadly, perilous beauty and who now finds himself, once more, cast down into the gray, rain-swept world.
The mage slumped forward, his head bowed, his arms hanging limply. Crysania looked up at Caramon as the big man hurried over.
“Are you all right?” he asked her.
“I’m all right,” she whispered. “How is he?”
Together, they helped Raistlin rise to his feet. He seemed completely unaware of their very existence. Tottering with exhaustion, he sagged against his brother.
“He’ll be fine. This always happens.” Caramon’s voice died, then he muttered, “Always happens! What I am saying? I’ve never seen anything like that in my life! Name of the gods”—he stared at his twin in awe—“I’ve never seen power like that! I didn’t know! I didn’t know...”
Supported by Caramon’s strong arm, Raistlin leaned against his twin. He began to cough, gasping for air, choking until he could barely stand. Caramon held onto him tightly. Fog and smoke swirled about their feet, the rain splashed down around them. Here and there came the crash of burning wood, the hiss of water upon flame. When the coughing fit passed, Raistlin raised his head, life and recognition returning to his eyes.
“Crysania,” he said softly, “I asked you to do that because you must have implicit faith in me and in my power. If we succeed in our quest, Revered Daughter, then we will enter the Portal and we will walk with our eyes open into the Abyss—a place of horror unimaginable.”
Crysania began to shiver uncontrollably as she stood before him, held mesmerized by his glittering eyes.
“You must be strong, Revered Daughter,” he continued intently. “And that is the reason I brought you on this journey. I have gone through my own trials. You had to go through yours. In Istar, you faced the trials of wind and water. You came through the trial of darkness within the Tower, and now you have withstood the trial by fire. But one more trial awaits you, Crysania! One more, and you must prepare for it, as must we all.”
His eyes closed wearily, he staggered. Caramon, his face grim and suddenly haggard, caught hold of his twin and, lifting him, carried him to the waiting horses.
Crysania hurried after them, her concerned gaze on Raistlin. Despite his weakness, there was a look of sublime peace and exultation on his face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“He sleeps,” Caramon said, his voice deep and gruff, concealing some emotion she could not guess at.
Reaching the horses, Crysania stopped a moment, turning to look behind her.
Smoke rose from the charred ruins of the village. The skeletons of the buildings had collapsed into heaps of pure white ash, the trees were nothing but branched smoke drifting up to the heavens. Even as she watched, the rain beat down upon the ash, changing it to mud, washing it away. The fog blew to shreds, the smoke was swept away on the winds of the storm.
The village was gone as though it had never been.
Shivering, Crysania clutched her cloak about her and turned to Caramon, who was placing Raistlin into his saddle, shaking him, forcing him to wake up enough to ride.
“Caramon,” Crysania said as the warrior came over to help her. “What did Raistlin mean—‘another trial.’ I saw the look on your face when he said it. You know, don’t you? You understand?”
Caramon did not answer immediately. Next to them, Raistlin swayed groggily in his saddle. Finally, his head bowed, the mage lapsed once more into sleep. After assisting Crysania, Caramon walked over to his own horse and mounted. Then, reaching over, he took the reins from the limp hands of his slumbering brother. They rode back up the mountain, through the rain, Caramon never once looking behind at the village.
In silence, he guided the horses up the trail. Next to him, Raistlin slumped over his mount’s neck. Caramon steadied his brother with a firm, gentle hand.
“Caramon?” Crysania asked softly as they reached the summit of the mountain.
The warrior turned to look at Crysania. Then, with a sigh, his gaze went to the south, where, far from them, lay Thorbardin. The storm clouds massed thick and dark upon the distant horizon.