She had been blind to the horrors of the stricken Temple. Even now, she glanced at the blood on her dress and could not remember how it got there. But here, in this room, things stood out with vivid clarity, though the laboratory was lit only by light streaming from a crystal atop a magical staff. Staring around, overawed by a sense of evil, she could not make herself walk beyond the door.
Suddenly, she heard a sound and felt a touch on her arm. Whirling in alarm, she saw dark, living, shapeless creatures, trapped and held in cages. Smelling her warm blood, they stirred in the staff's light, and it was the touch of one of their grasping hands she had felt. Shuddering, Crysania backed out of their way and bumped into something solid.
It was an open casket containing the body of what might have once been a young man. But the skin was stretched like parchment across his bones, his mouth was open in a ghastly, silent scream. The ground lurched beneath her feet, and the body in the casket bounced up wildly, staring at her from empty eye sockets.
Crysania gasped, no sound came from her throat, her body was chilled by cold sweat. Clutching her head in shaking hands, she squeezed her eyes shut to blot out the horrible sight. The world started to slip away, then she heard a soft voice.
"Come, my dear," said the voice that had been in her mind. "Come. You are safe with me, now. The creatures of Fistandantilus's evil cannot harm you while I am here."
Crysania felt life return to her body. Raistlin's voice brought comfort. The sickness passed, the ground quit shaking, the dust settled. The world lapsed into deathly silence.
Thankfully, Crysania opened her eyes. She saw Raistlin standing some distance from her, watching her from the shadows of his hooded head, his eyes glittering in the light of his staff. But, even as Crysania looked at him, she caught a glimpse of the writhing, caged shapes. Shuddering, she kept— her gaze on Raistlin's pale face.
"Fistandantilus?" she asked through dry lips. "He built this?"
"Yes, this laboratory is his," Raistlin replied coolly. "It is one he created years and years ago. Unbeknownst to any of the clerics, he used his great magic to burrow beneath the Temple like a worm, eating away solid rock, forming it into stairs and secret doors, casting his spells upon them so that few knew of their existence."
Crysania saw a thin-lipped sardonic smile cross Raistlin's face as he turned to the light.
'He showed it to few, over the years. Only a handful of apprentices were ever allowed to share the secret." Raistlin shrugged. "And none of these lived to tell about it." His voice softened. "But then Fistandantilus made a mistake. He showed it to one young apprentice. A frail, brilliant, sharp-tongued young man, who observed and memorized every turn and twist of the hidden corridors, who studied every word of every spell that revealed secret doorways, reciting them over and over, committing them to memory, before he slept, night after night. And thus, we stand here, you and I, safe—for the moment—from the anger of the gods."
Making a motion with his hand, he gestured for Crysania to come to the back part of the room where he stood at a large, ornately carved, wooden desk. On it rested a silverbound spellbook he had been reading. A circle of silver powder was spread around the desk. "That's right. Keep your eyes on me. The darkness is not so terrifying then, is it?"
Crysania could not answer. She realized that, once again, she had allowed him, in her weakness, to read more in her eyes than she had intended him to see. Flushing, she looked quickly away.
"I-I was only startled, that's all," she said. But she could not repress a shudder as she glanced back at the casket. "What is— or was—that?" she whispered in horror.
"One of the Fistandantilus's apprentices, no doubt," Raistlin answered. "The mage sucked the life force from him to extend his own life. It was something he did . . . frequently."
Raistlin coughed, his eyes grew shadowed and dark with some terrible memory, and Crysania saw a spasm of fear and pain pass over his usually impassive face. But before she could ask more, there was the sound of a crash in the doorway. The black-robed mage quickly regained his composure. He looked up, his gaze going past Crysania.
"Ah, enter, my brother. I was just thinking of the Test, which naturally brought you to mind."
Caramon! Faint with relief, Crysania turned to welcome the big man with his solid, reassuring presence, his jovial, goodnatured face. But her words of greeting died on her lips, swallowed up by the darkness that only seemed to grow deeper with the warrior's arrival.
"Speaking of tests, I am pleased you survived yours, brother," Raistlin said, his sardonic smile returned. "This lady"—he glanced at Crysania—"will have need of a bodyguard where we go. I can't tell you how much it means to me to have someone along I know and trust."
Crysania shrank from the terrible sarcasm, and she saw Caramon flinch as though Raistlin's words had been tiny, poisoned barbs, shooting in his flesh. The mage seemed neither to notice nor care, however. He was reading his spellbook, murmuring soft words and tracing symbols in the air with his delicate hands.
"Yes, I survived your test," Caramon said quietly. Entering the room, he came into the light of the staff. Crysania caught her breath in fear.
"Raistlin!" she cried, backing away from Caramon as the big man came slowly forward, the bloody sword in his hand. "Raistlin, look!" Crysania said, stumbling into the desk near where the mage was standing, unknowingly stepping into the circle of silver powder. Grains of it clung to the bottom of her robe, shimmering in the staff's light.
Irritated at the interruption, the mage glanced up.
"I survived your test," Caramon repeated, "as you survived the Test in the Tower. There, they shattered your body. Here, you shattered my heart. In its place is nothing now, just a cold emptiness as black as your robes. And, like this swordblade, it is stained with blood. A poor wretch of a minotaur died upon this blade. A friend gave his life for me, another died in my arms. You've sent the kender to his death, haven't you? And how many more have died to further your evil designs?" Caramon's voice dropped to a lethal whisper. "This ends it, my brother. No more will die because of you. Except one—myself. It's fitting, isn't it, Raist? We came into this world together; together, we'll leave it."
He took another step forward. Raistlin seemed about to speak, but Caramon interrupted.
"You cannot use your magic to stop me, not this time. I know about this spell you plan to cast. I know it will take all of your power, all of your concentration. If you use even the smallest bit of magic against me, you will not have the strength to leave this place, and my end will be accomplished all the same. If you do not die at my hands, you will die at the hands of the gods."
Raistlin gazed at his brother without comment, then, shrugging, he turned back to read in his book. It was only when Caramon took one more step forward, and Raistlin heard the man's golden armor clank, that the mage sighed in exasperation and glanced up at his twin. His eyes, glittering from the depths of his hood, seemed the only points of light in the room.
"You are wrong, my brother," Raistlin said softly. "There is one other who will die." His mirrorlike gaze went to Crysania, who stood alone, her white robes shimmering in the darkness, between the two brothers.
Caramon's eyes were soft with pity as he, too, looked at Crysania, but the resolution on his face did not waver. "The gods will take her to them," he said gently. "She is a true cleric. None of the true clerics died in the Cataclysm. That is why Par-Salian sent her back." Holding out his hand, he pointed. "Look, there stands one, waiting."
Crysania had no need to turn and look, she felt Loralon's presence.
"Go to him, Revered Daughter," Caramon told her. "Your place is in the light, not here in the darkness."
Raistlin said nothing, he made no motion of any kind, just stood quietly at the desk, his slender hand resting upon the spellbook.
Crysania did not move. Caramon's words beat in her mind like the wings of the evil creatures who fluttered about the Tower of High Sorcery. She heard the words, yet they held no meaning for her. All she could see was herself, holding the shin ing light in her hand, leading the people. The Key . . . the Portal . . . She saw Raistlin holding the Key in his hand, she saw him beckoning to her. Once more, she felt the touch of Raistlin's lips, burning, upon her forehead.
A light flickered and died. Loralon was gone.
"I cannot," Crysania tried to say, but no voice came. None was needed. Caramon understood. He hesitated, looking at her for one, long moment, then he sighed.
"So be it," Caramon said coolly, as he, too, advanced into the silver circle. "Another death will not matter much to either of us now, will it, my brother?"
Crysania stared, fascinated, at the bloodstained sword shining in the staff's light. Vividly, she pictured it piercing her body and, looking up into Caramon's eyes, she saw that he pictured the same thing, and that even this would not deter him. She was nothing to him, not even a living, breathing human. She was merely an obstacle in his path, keeping him from his true objective—his brother.
What terrible hatred, Cyrsania thought, and then, looking deep into the eyes that were so near her own now, she had a sudden flash of insight—what terrible love!
Caramon lunged at her with an outstretched hand, thinking to catch her and hurl her aside. Acting out of panic, Crysania dodged his grasp, stumbling back up against Raistlin, who made no move to touch her. Caramon's hand gripped nothing but a sleeve of her robe, ripping and tearing it. In a fury, he cast the white cloth to the ground, and now Crysania knew she must die. Still, she kept her body between him and his brother.
Caramon's sword flashed.
In desperation, Crysania clutched the medallion of Paladine she wore around her throat.
"Halt!" She cried the word of command even as she shut her eyes in fear. Her body cringed, waiting for the terrible pain as the steel tore through her flesh. Then, she heard a moan and the clatter of a sword falling to the stone. Relief surged through her body, making her weak and faint. Sobbing, she felt herself falling.
But slender hands caught and held her; thin, muscular arms gathered her near, a soft voice spoke her name in triumph. She was enveloped in warm blackness, drowning in warm blackness, sinking down and down. And in her ear, she heard whispered the words of the strange language of magic.
Like spiders or caressing hands, the words crawled over her body. The chanting of the words grew louder and louder, Raistlin's voice stronger and stronger. Silver light flared, then vanished. The grip of Raistlin's arms around Crysania tightened in ecstasy, and she was spinning around and around, caught up in that ecstasy, whirling away with him into the blackness.
She put her arms about him and laid her head on his chest and let herself sink into the darkness. As she fell, the words of magic mingled with the singing of her blood and the singing of the stones in the Temple . . ..
And through it all, one discordant note—a harsh, heartbroken moan.
Tasslehoff Burrfoot heard the stones singing, and he smiled dreamily. He was a mouse, he remembered, scampering forward through the silver powder while the stones sang . . ..
Tas woke up suddenly. He was lying on a cold stone floor, covered with dust and debris. The ground beneath him was begining to shiver and shake once more. Tas knew, from the strange and unfamiliar feeling of fear building up inside of him that this time the gods meant business. This time, the earthquake would not end.
"Crysania! Caramon!" Tas shouted, but he heard only the echo of his shrill voice come back, bouncing hollowly off the shivering walls.
Staggering to his feet, ignoring the pain in his head, Tas saw that the torch still shone above that darkened room Crysania had entered, that part of the building seemingly the only part untouched by the convulsive heaving of the ground. Magic, Tas thought vaguely, making his way inside and recognizing wizardly things. He looked for signs of life, but all he saw were the horrible caged creatures, hurling themselves upon their cell doors, knowing the end of their tortured existence was near, yet unwilling to give up life, no matter how painful.
Tas stared around wildly. Where had everyone gone? "Caramon?" he said in a small voice. But there was no answer, only a distant rumbling as the shaking of the ground grew worse and worse. Then, in the dim light of the torch outside, Tas caught a glimpse of metal shining on the floor near a desk. Staggering across the floor, Tas managed to reach it.
His hand closed about the golden hilt of a gladiator's sword. Leaning back against the desk for support, he stared at the sil ver blade, stained black with blood. Then he lifted something else that had been lying on the floor beneath the sword—a remnant of white cloth. He saw golden embroidery portraying the symbol of Paladine shine dully in the torchlight. There was a circle of powder on the floor, powder that once might have been silver but was now burned black.
"They've gone," Tas said softly to the caged, gibbering creatures. "They've gone . . .. I'm all alone."