Raistlin sighed. “Still, I cannot—in honor—keep this from him.”
Crysania’s lips tightened. “No, Raistlin. I do not think it would be wise to tell him.” Seeing Raistlin look dubious, she continued earnestly. “There is nothing Caramon can do. If the kender is truly ill, as you suspect, I can heal him, but he will be weak for several days. It would only be an added worry to your brother. Caramon plans to march in a few days’ time. We will tend the kender, then have him completely recovered, ready to meet his friend on the field if such is his desire.”
The archmage sighed again, in reluctance and doubt. Then, he shrugged. “Very well, Revered Daughter,” he said. “I will be guided by you in this. Your words are wise. We will not tell Caramon that the kender has returned.”
He moved close to her, and Crysania, looking up at him, caught a strange smile upon his face, a smile that—for just this once—was reflected in his glittering eyes. Startled, upset without quite knowing why, she drew back, but he put his arm around her, enveloping her in the soft folds of his black sleeves, holding her close.
Closing her eyes, she forgot that smile. Nestling close, wrapped in his warmth, she listened to his rapid heartbeat...
Murmuring the words of magic, he transformed them both into nothingness. Their shadows seemed to hover for an instant in the moonlight, then these, too, vanished with a whisper.
“You are keeping him here? In the dungeons?” Crysania asked, shivering in the chill, dank air.
“Shirak. “Raistlin caused the crystal atop the Staff of Magius to fill the room with soft light. “He lies over there,” the mage said, pointing.
A crude bed stood up against one wall. Giving Raistlin a reproachful glance, Crysania hurried to the bedside. As the cleric knelt beside the kender and laid her hand on his feverish forehead, Tas cried out. His eyes flared open, but he stared at her unseeing. Raistlin, following more slowly, gestured to a dark dwarf who was crouched in a corner. “Leave us,” the mage motioned, then came to stand by the bedside. Behind him, he heard the door to the cell close.
“How can you keep him locked up in the darkness like this?” Crysania demanded.
“Have you ever treated plague victims before, Lady Crysania?” Raistlin asked in an odd tone.
Startled, she looked up at him, then flushed and averted her eyes.
Smiling bitterly, Raistlin answered his own question. “No, of course not. The plague never came to Palanthas. It never struck the beautiful, the wealthy... He made no effort to hide his contempt, and Crysania felt her skin burn as though she were the one with the fever.
“Well, it came to us,” Raistlin continued. “It swept through the poorer sections of Haven. Of course, there were no healers. Nor were there even many who would stay to care for those who were afflicted. Even their own family members fled them. Poor, pathetic souls. I did what I could, tending them with the herb skill I had acquired. If I could not cure them, at least I could ease their pain. My Master disapproved.” Raistlin spoke in an undertone, and Crysania realized that he had forgotten her presence. “So did Caramon—fearing for my health, he said. Bah!” Raistlin laughed without mirth. “He feared for himself. The thought of the plague frightens him more than an army of goblins. But how could I turn my back on them? They had no one... no one. Wretched, dying... dying alone.”
Staring at him dumbly, Crysania felt tears sting her eyes. Raistlin did not see her. In his mind, he was back in those stinking little hovels that huddled on the outskirts of town as though they had run there to hide. He saw himself moving among the sick in his red robes, forcing the bitter medicine down their throats, holding the dying in his arms, easing their last moments. He worked among the sick grimly, asking for no thanks, expecting none. His face—the last human face many would see—expressed neither compassion nor caring. Yet the dying found comfort. Here was one who understood, here was one who lived with pain daily, here was one who had looked upon death and was not afraid...
Raistlin tended the plague victims. He did what he felt he had to do at the risk of his own life, but why? For a reason he had yet to understand. A reason, perhaps, forgotten...
“At any rate”—Raistlin returned to the present—“I discovered that light hurt their eyes. Those who recovered were occasionally stricken blind by—”
A terrified shriek from the kender interrupted him.
Tasslehoff was staring at him wildly. “Please, Raistlin! I’m trying to remember! Don’t take me back to the Dark Queen—”
“Hush, Tas,” Crysania said softly, gripping the kender with both hands as Tas seemed to be trying, literally, to climb into the wall behind him. “Calm down, Tas. It is Lady Crysania. Do you know me? I’m going to help you.”
Tas transferred his wide-eyed, feverish gaze to the cleric, regarding her blankly for a moment. Then, with a sob, he clutched at her. “Don’t let him take me back to the Abyss, Crysania! Don’t let him take you! It’s horrible, horrible. We’ll all die, die like poor Gnimsh. The Dark Queen told me!”
“He’s raving,” Crysania murmured, trying to disengage Tas’s clinging hands and force him to lie back down. “What strange delusions. Is this common with plague victims?”
“Yes,” Raistlin replied. Regarding Tas intently, the mage knelt by the bedside. “Sometimes it’s best to humor them. It may calm him. Tasslehoff—”
Raistlin laid his hand upon the kender’s chest. Instantly, Tas collapsed back onto the bed, shrinking away from the mage, shivering and staring at him in horror. “I’ll be good, Raistlin.” He whimpered. “Don’t hurt me, not like poor Gnimsh. Lightning, lightning!”
“Tas,” said Raistlin firmly, with a hint of anger and exasperation in his voice that caused Crysania to glance over at him reprovingly.
But, seeing only a look of cool concern on his face, she supposed she must have mistaken his tone. Closing her eyes, she touched the medallion of Paladine she wore around her neck and began to murmur a healing prayer.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Tas. Shhh, lie still.” Seeing Crysania lost in her communion with her god, Raistlin hissed, “Tell me, Tas. Tell me what the Dark Queen said.”
The kender’s face lost its bright, feverish flush as Crysania’s soft words flowed over him, sweeter and cooler than the waters of his delirious imaginings. The diminishing fever left Tas’s face a ghastly, ashen color. A faint glimmering of sense returned to his eye—. But he never took his gaze from Raistlin.
“She told me... before we left...” Tas choked.
“Left?” Raistlin leaned forward. “I thought you said you escaped!”
Tas blanched, licking his dry, cracked lips. He tried to tear his gaze away from the mage, but Raistlin’s eyes, glittering in the light of the staff, held the kender fast, draining the truth from him. Tas swallowed. His throat hurt.
“Water,” he pleaded.
“When you’ve told me!” Raistlin snarled with a glance at Crysania, who was still kneeling, her head in her hands, praying to Paladine.
Tas gulped painfully. “I... I thought we were... escaping. We used th—the device and began... to rise. I saw... the Abyss, the plane, flat, empty, fall away beneath m-my feet. And”—Tas shuddered—“it wasn’t empty anymore! There... there were shadows and—” He tossed his head, moaning. “Oh, Raistlin, don’t make me remember! Don’t make me go back there!”
“Hush!” Raistlin whispered, covering Tas’s mouth with his hand. Crysania glanced up in concern, only to see Raistlin tenderly stroking the kender’s cheek. Seeing Tas’s terrified expression and pale face, Crysania frowned and shook her head.