Pheragas said nothing, only flicked a glance at Kiiri, who shrugged.
"What is it?" Caramon shouted above the roar of the crowd. The Red Minotaur had just won by neatly tripping up his opponent and pinning him to the mat, thrusting the points of the trident down around his neck.
The young man staggered to his feet, feigning shame, anger, and humiliation as he had been taught. He even shook his fist at his victorious opponent before he stalked from the arena. But, instead of grinning as he passed Caramon and his team, enjoying a shared joke on the audience, the young man appeared strangely preoccupied and never looked at them. His face was pale, Caramon saw, and beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. His face twisted with pain, and he had his hand clasped over the bloody scratches.
"Lord Onygion's man," Pheragas said quietly, laying a hand on Caramon's arm. "Count yourself fortunate, my friend. You can quit worrying."
"What?" Caramon gaped at the two in confusion. Then he heard a shrill scream and a thud from within the underground tunnel. Whirling around, Caramon saw the young man fall into a writhing heap on the floor, clutching his chest and screaming in agony.
"No!" Kiiri commanded, holding onto Caramon. "Our turn next. Look, Red Minotaur comes off."
The minotaur sauntered past them, ignoring them as that race ignores all it considers beneath them. The Red Minotaur also walked past the dying young man without a glance. Arack came scurrying down the tunnel, Raag behind. With a gesture, the dwarf ordered the ogre to remove the now lifeless body.
Caramon hesitated, but Kiiri sank her nails into his arm, dragging him out into the hideous sunlight. "The score for the Barbarian is settled," she hissed out of the corner of her mouth. "Your master had nothing to do with it, apparently. It was Lord Onygion, and now he and Quarath are even."
The crowd began to cheer and the rest of Kiiri's words were lost. The spectators had begun to forget their oppression at the sight of their favorite trio. But Caramon didn't hear them. Raistlin had told him the truth! He hadn't had anything to do with the Barbarian's death. It had been coincidence, or perhaps the dwarf's perverted idea of a joke. Caramon felt a sensation of relief flow over him.
He could go home! At last he understood. Raistlin had tried to tell him. Their paths were different, but his brother had the right to walk his as he chose. Caramon was wrong, the magicusers were wrong, Lady Crysania was wrong. He would go home and explain. Raistlin wasn't harming anyone, he wasn't a threat. He simply wanted to pursue his studies in peace.
Walking out into the arena, Caramon waved back to the cheering crowd in elation.
The big man even enjoyed that day's fighting. The bout was rigged, of course, so that his team would win—setting up the final battle between them and the Red Minotaur on the day of the Cataclysm. But Caramon didn't need to worry about that. He would be long gone, back at home with Tika. He would warn his two friends first, of course, and urge them to leave this doomed city. Then he'd apologize to his brother, tell him he understood, take Lady Crysania and Tasslehoff back to their own time, and begin his life anew. He'd leave tomorrow, or perhaps the day after.
But it was at the moment when Caramon and his team were taking their bows after a well-acted battle that the cyclone struck the Temple of Istar.
The green sky had deepened to the color of dark and stagnant swamp water when the swirling clouds appeared, snaking down out of the vast emptiness to wrap their sinuous coils about one of the seven towers of the Temple and tear it from its foundations. Lifting it into the air, the cyclone broke the marble into fragments fine as hail and sent it rattling down upon the city in a stinging rain.
No one was hurt seriously, though many suffered small cuts from being struck by the sharp pieces of rock. The part of the Temple that was destroyed was used for study and for the work of the church. It had—fortunately—been empty during the holiday. But the inhabitants of the Temple and the city itself were thrown into a panic.
Fearing that cyclones might start descending everywhere, people fled the arena and clogged the streets in panicked efforts to reach their homes. Within the Temple, the Kingpriest's musical voice fell silent, his light wavered. After surveying the wreckage, he and his ministers—the Revered Sons and Daughters of Paladine—descended to an inner sanctuary to discuss the matter. Everyone else hurried about, trying to clean up, the wind having overturned furniture, knocked paintings off the walls, and sent clouds of dust drifting down over everything.
This is the beginning, Crysania thought fearfully, trying to force her numb hands to quit shaking as she picked up fragments of fine china from the dining hall. This is only the beginning . . .
And it will get worse.
"No," Crysania whispered to herself in despair. "No, you have it all wrong! You don't understand! How can you be so blind!"
She was sitting at Morning Prayers, twelve days after the First of the Thirteen Warnings had been given—but had not been heeded. Since then, reports had poured in from all parts of the continent, telling of other strange events—a new one each day.
"King Lorac reports that, in Silvanesti, the trees wept blood for an entire day," the Kingpriest recounted, his voice swelling with the awe and horror of the events he related. "The city of Palanthas is covered in a dense white fog so thick people wander around lost if they venture out into the streets.
"In Solamnia, no fires will burn. Their hearths lie cold and barren. The forges are shut down, the coals might as well be ice for all the warmth they give. Yet, on the plains of Abanasinia, the prairie grass has caught fire. The flames rage out of control, filling the skies with black smoke and driving the Plainsmen from their tribal lodges.
"Just this morning, the griffons carried word that the elven city of Qualinost is being invaded by the forest animals, suddenly turned strange and savage—”
Crysania could bear it no longer. Though the women glanced at her in shock as she stood up, she ignored their glowering looks and left the Services, fleeing into the corridors of the Temple.
A jagged flash of lightning blinded her, the vicious crack of thunder immediately following made her cover her face with her hands.
"This must cease or I will go mad!" she murmured brokenly, cowering in a corner.
For twelve days, ever since the cyclone, a thunderstorm raged over Istar, flooding the city with rain and hail. The flash of lightning and peals of thunder were almost continuous, shaking the Temple, destroying sleep, battering the mind. Tense, numb with fatigue and exhaustion and terror, Crysania sank down in a chair, her head in her hands.
A gentle touch on her arm made her start in alarm, jumping up. She faced a tall, handsome young man wrapped in a sopping wet cloak. She could see the outlines of strong, muscular shoulders.
"I'm sorry, Revered Daughter, I didn't mean to scare you," he said in a deep voice that was as vaguely familiar as his face.
"Caramon!" Crysania gasped in relief, clutching at him as something real and solid. There was another bright flash and explosion. Crysania squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth, feeling even Caramon's strong, muscular body tense nervously. He held onto her, steadying her.
"I-I had to go to Morning Prayers," Crysania said when she could be heard. "It must be horrible out there. You're soaked to the skin!"
"I've tried for days to see you—” Caramon began.
"I-I know," Crysania faltered. "I'm sorry. It's just that I-I've been busy—”
"Lady Crysania," Caramon interrupted, trying to keep his voice steady. "We're not talking about an invitation to a Yule Party. Tomorrow this city will cease to exist! I—”
"Hush!"Crysania commanded.Nervously, she glanced about. "We cannot talk here!" A flash of lightning and a shattering crash made her cringe, but she regained control almost immediately. "Come with me."
Caramon hesitated then, frowning, followed her as she led the way through the Temple into one of several dark, inner rooms. Here, the lightning at least could not penetrate and the thunder was muffled. Shutting the door carefully, Crysania sat down in a chair and motioned Caramon to do the same.
Caramon stood a moment, then sat down, uncomfortable and on edge, acutely conscious of the circumstances of their last meeting when his drunkenness had nearly gotten them all killed. Crysania might have been thinking of this, too. She regarded him with eyes that were cold and gray as the dawn. Caramon flushed.
"I am glad to see your health has improved," Crysania said, trying to keep the severity out of her voice and failing entirely.
Caramon's flush grew deeper. He looked down at the floor.
"I'm sorry," Crysania said abruptly. "Please forgive me. I-I haven't slept for nights, ever since this started." She put a trembling hand to her forehead. "I can't think," she added hoarsely. "This incessant noise . . ."
"I understand," Caramon said, glancing up at her. "And you have every right to despise me. I despise myself for what I was. But that really doesn't matter now. We've got to leave, Lady Crysania!"
"Yes, you're right." Crysania drew a deep breath. "We've got to get out of here. We have only hours left to escape. I am well aware of it, believe me." Sighing, she looked down at her hands. "I have failed," she said dully. "I kept hoping, up until this last moment, that somehow things might change. But the Kingpriest is blind! Blind!"
"That's not why you've been avoiding me though, is it?" Caramon asked, his voice expressionless. "Preventing me from leaving?"
Now it was Crysania who blushed. She looked down at her hands, twisting in her lap. "No," she said so softly Caramon barely heard. "No, I-I didn't want to leave without . . . without . . .
"Raistlin," Caramon finished. "Lady Crysania, he has magic of his own. It brought him here in the first place. He has made his choice. I've come to realize that. We should leave—”
"Your brother has been terribly ill," Crysania said abruptly.
Caramon looked up quickly, his face drawn with concern.
"I have tried for days to see him, ever since Yule, but he refused admittance to all, even to me. And now, today, he has sent for me," Crysania continued, feeling her face burn under Caramon's penetrating gaze. "I am going to talk to him, to persuade him to come with us. If his health is impaired, he will not have the strength to use his magic."
"Yes,” Caramon muttered, thinking about the difficulty involved in casting such a powerful, complex spell. It had taken Par-Salian days, and he was in good health. "What's wrong with Raist?" he asked suddenly.
"The nearness of the gods affects him," Crysania replied, "as it does others, though they refuse to admit it." Her voice died in sorrow, but she pressed her lips together tightly for a moment, then continued. "We must be prepared to move quickly, if he agrees to come with us—”
"If he doesn't?" Caramon interrupted.
Crysania blushed. "I think . . . he will," she said, overcome by confusion, her thoughts going back to the time in his chambers when he had been so near her, the look of longing and desire in his eyes, the admiration. "I've been . . . talking to him . . . about the wrongness of his ways. I've shown him how evil can never build or create, how it can only destroy and turn in upon itself. He has admitted the validity of my arguments and promised to think about them."
"And he loves you," Caramon said softly.
Crysania could not meet the man's gaze. She could not answer. Her heart beat so she could not, for a moment, hear above the pulsing of her blood. She could sense Caramon's dark eyes regarding her steadily as the thunder rumbled and shook the Temple around them. Crysania gripped her hands together to stop their trembling. Then she was aware of Caramon rising to his feet.
"My lady," he said in a hushed, solemn voice, "if you are right, if your goodness and your love can turn him from those dark paths that he walks and lead him—by his own choice— into the light, I would . . . I would—” Caramon choked and turned his head hurriedly.
Hearing so much love in the big man's voice and seeing the tears he tried to hide, Crysania was overcome with pain and remorse. She began to wonder if she had misjudged him. Standing up, she gently touched the man's huge arm, feeling its great muscles tense as Caramon fought to bring himself under control.
"Must you return? Can't you stay—”
"No." Caramon shook his head. "I've got to get Tas, and the device Par-Salian gave me. It's locked away. And then, I have friends . . . I've been trying to convince them to leave the city. It may be too late, but I've got to make one more attempt—”
"Certainly," Crysania said. "I understand. Return as quickly as you can. Meet me . . . meet me in Raistlin's rooms."
"I will, my lady," he replied fervently. "And now I must go, before my friends leave for practice." Taking her hand in his, he clasped it firmly, then hurried away. Crysania watched him walk back out into the corridor, whose torchlights shone in the gloomy darkness. He moved swiftly and surely, not even flinching when he passed a window at the end of the corridor and was suddenly illuminated by a brilliant flash of lightning. It was hope that anchored his storm-tossed spirit, the same hope Crysania felt suddenly welling up inside her.
Caramon vanished into the darkness and Crysania, catching up her white robes in one hand, quickly turned and climbed the stairs to the part of the Temple that housed the black-robed mage.
Her good spirits and her hope failed slightly as she entered that corridor. Here the full fury of the storm seemed to rage unabated. Not even the heaviest curtains could keep out the blinding lightning, the thickest walls could not muffle the peals of thunder. Perhaps because of some ill-fitting window, even the wind itself seemed to have penetrated the Temple walls. Here no torches would burn, not that they were needed, so incessant was the lighting.
Crysania's black hair blew in her eyes, her robes fluttered around her. As she neared the mage's room at the end of the corridor, she could hear the rain beat against the glass. The air was cold and damp. Shivering, she hastened her steps and had raised her hand to knock upon the door when the corridor suddenly sizzled with a blue-white flash of lightning. The simultaneous explosion of thunder knocked Crysania against the door. It flew open, and she was in Raistlin's arms.
It was like her dream. Almost sobbing in her terror, she nestled close to the velvet softness of the black robes and warmed herself by the heat of his body. At first, that body next to hers was tense, then she felt it relax. His arms tightened around her almost convulsively, a hand reached up to stroke her hair, soothingly, comfortingly.
"There, there," he whispered as one might to a frightened child, "fear not the storm, Revered Daughter. Exult in it! Taste the power of the gods, Crysania! Thus do they frighten the foolish. They cannot harm us—not if you choose otherwise."
Gradually Crysania’s sobs lessened. Raistlin’s words were not the gentle murmurings of a mother. Their meaning struck home to her. She lifted her head, looking up at him.
"What do you mean?" she faltered, suddenly frightened. A crack had appeared in his mirrorlike eyes, permitting her to see the soul burning within.
Involuntarily, she started to push away from him, but he reached out and, smoothing the tangled black hair from her face with trembling hands, whispered, "Come with me, Crysania! Come with me to a time when you will be the only cleric in the world, to the time when we may enter the portal and challenge the gods, Crysania! Think of it! To rule, to show the world such power as this!"
Raistlin let go his grasp. Raising his arms, the black robes shimmering about him as the lightning flared and the thunder roared, he laughed. And then Crysania saw the feverish gleam in his eyes and the bright spots of color on his deathly pale cheeks. He was thin, far thinner than when she had seen him last.
"You're ill," she said, backing up, her hands behind her, reaching for the door. "I'll get help . . ."
"No!" Raistlin's shout was louder than the thunder. His eyes regained their mirrored surface, his face was cold and composed. Reaching out, he grasped her wrist with a painful grip and jerked her back into the room. The door slammed shut behind her. "I am ill," he said more quietly, "but there is no help, no cure for my malady but to escape this insanity. My plans are almost completed. Tomorrow, the day of the Cataclysm, the attention of the gods will be turned to the lesson they must inflict upon these poor wretches. The Dark Queen will not be able to stop me as I work my magic and carry myself forward to the one time in history when she is vulnerable to the power of a true cleric!"
"Let me go!" Crysania cried, pain and outrage submerging her fear. Angrily, she wrenched her arm free of his grasp. But she still remembered his embrace, the touch of his hands . . . Hurt and ashamed, Crysania turned away. "You must work your evil without me," she said, her voice choked with her tears. "I will not go with you."
"Then you will die," Raistlin said grimly.
"Do you dare threaten me!" Crysania cried, whirling around to face him, shock and fury drying her eyes.
"Oh, not by my hand," Raistlin said with a strange smile. "You will die by the hands of those who sent you here."
Crysania blinked, stunned. Then she quickly regained her composure. "Another trick?" she asked coldly, backing away from him, the pain in her heart at his deception almost more than she could bear. She wanted only to leave before he saw how much he had been able to hurt her—
"No trick, Revered Daughter," Raistlin said simply. He gestured to a book with red binding that lay open upon his desk. "See for yourself. Long I studied—” He swept his hand about the rows and rows of books that lined the wall. Crysania gasped. These had not been here the last time. Looking at her, he nodded. "Yes, I brought them from far-off places. I traveled far in search of many of them. This one I finally found in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, as I suspected all along I might. Come, look at it."