Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

She tried to cry out for help, but her voice failed. There was no help anyway. The drunken warrior lay in a pool of his own blood. Her healing arts had saved him, but he would sleep long hours. The kender could not help her. Nothing could help her against this... On and on the dark figure walked, nearer and nearer he came. Run! her mind screamed. Her limbs would not obey. It was all she could do to creep backward, and then her body seemed to move of its own volition, not through any direction of hers. She could not even look away from him. The orange flickering lights that were his eyes held her fast.

He raised a hand, a spectral hand. She could see through it, see through him, in fact, to the night-shadowed trees behind. The silver moon was in the sky, but it was not its bright light that gleamed off the antique armor of a long-dead Solamnic Knight. The creature shone with an unwholesome light of his own, glowing with the energy of his foul decay. His hand lifted higher and higher, and Crysania knew that when his hand reached a level even with her heart, she would die.

Through lips numb with fear, Crysania called out a name, “Paladine,” she prayed. The fear did not leave her, she still could not wrench her soul away from the terrible gaze of those fiery eyes. But her hand went to her throat. Grasping hold of the medallion, she ripped it from her neck. Feeling her strength draining, her consciousness ebbing, Crysania raised her hand. The platinum medallion caught Solinari’s light and flared blue-white. The hideous apparition spoke—“Die!”

Crysania felt herself falling. Her body hit the ground, but the ground did not catch her. She was falling through it, or away from it. Falling... falling... closing her eyes... sleeping... dreaming...

She was in a grove of oak trees. White hands clutched at her feet, gaping mouths sought to drink her blood. The darkness was endless, the trees mocked her, their creaking branches laughing horribly.

“Crysania,” said a soft, whispering voice.

What was that, speaking her name from the shadows of the oaks? She could see it, standing in a clearing, robed in black.

“Crysania,” the voice repeated.

“Raistlin!” She sobbed in thankfulness. Stumbling out of the terrifying grove of oak trees, fleeing the bone-white hands that sought to drag her down to join their endless torment, Crysania felt thin arms hold her. She felt the strange burning touch of slender fingers.

“Rest easy, Revered Daughter,” the voice said softly. Trembling in his arms, Crysania closed her eyes. “Your trials are over. You have come through the Grove safely. There was nothing to fear, lady. You had my charm.”

“Yes,” Crysania murmured. Her hand touched her forehead where his lips had pressed against her skin. Then, realizing what she had been through, and realizing, too, that she had allowed him to see her give way to weakness, Crysania pushed the mage’s arms away. Standing back from him, she regarded him coldly.

“Why do you surround yourself with such foul things?” she demanded. “Why do you feel the need for such... such guardians!” Her voice quavered in spite of herself.

Raistlin looked at her mildly, his golden eyes shining in the light of his staff. “What kind of guardians do you surround yourself with, Revered Daughter?” he asked. “What torment would I endure if I set foot upon the Temple’s sacred grounds?”

Crysania opened her mouth for a scathing reply, but the words died on her lips. Indeed, the Temple was consecrated ground. Sacred to Paladine, if any who worshipped the Queen of Darkness entered its precincts, they would feel Paladine’s wrath. Crysania saw Raistlin smile, his thin lips twitch. She felt her skin flush. How was he capable of doing this to her’? Never had any man been able to humiliate her so! Never had any man cast her mind in such turmoil!

Ever since the evening she had met Raistlin at the home of Astinus, Crysania had not been able to banish him from her thoughts. She had looked forward to visiting the Tower this night, looked forward to it and dreaded it at the same time. She had told Elistan all about her talk with Raistlin, all—that is—except the “charm” he had given her. Somehow, she could not bring herself to tell Elistan that Raistlin had touched her, had—No, she wouldn’t mention it.

Elistan had been upset enough as it was. He knew Raistlin, he had known the young man of old—the mage having been among the companions who rescued the cleric from Verminaard’s prison at Pax Tharkas. Elistan had never liked or trusted Raistlin, but then no one had, not really. The cleric had not been surprised to hear that the young mage had donned the Black Robes. He was not surprised to hear about Crysania’s warning from Paladine. He was surprised at Crysania’s reaction to meeting Raistlin, however. He was surprised—and alarmed—at hearing Crysania had been invited to visit Raistlin in the Tower—a place where now beat the heart of evil in Krynn. Elistan would have forbidden Crysania to go,. but freedom of will was a teaching of the gods.

He told Crysania his thoughts and she listened respectfully. But she had gone to the Tower, drawn by a lure she could not begin to understand—although she told Elistan it was to “save the world.”

“The world is getting on quite well,” Elistan replied gravely. But Crysania did not listen.

“Come inside,” Raistlin said. “Some wine will help banish the evil memories of what you have endured.” He regarded her intently. “You are very brave, Revered Daughter,” he said and she heard no sarcasm in his voice. “Few there are with the strength to survive the terror of the Grove.”

He turned away from her then, and Crysania was glad he did. She felt herself blushing at his praise.

“Keep near me,” he warned as he walked ahead of her, his black robes rustling softly around his ankles. “Keep within the light of my staff.”

Crysania did as she was bidden, noticing as she walked near him how the staff’s light made her white robes shine as coldly as the light of the silver moon, a striking contrast to the strange warmth it shed over Raistlin’s soft velvety black robes. He led her through the dread Gates. She stared at them in curiosity, remembering the gruesome story of the evil mage who had cast himself down upon them, cursing them with his dying breath. Things whispered and jabbered around her. More than once, she turned at the sound, feeling cold fingers upon her neck or the touch of a chill hand upon hers. More than once, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked, there was never anything there. A foul mist rose up from the ground, rank with the smell of decay making her bones ache. She began to shake uncontrollably and when, suddenly, she glanced behind her and saw two disembodied, staring eyes—she took a hurried step forward and slipped her hand around Raistlin’s thin arm.

He regarded her with curiosity and a gentle amusement that made her blush again.

“There is no need to be afraid,” he said simply. “I am master here. I will not let you come to harm.”

“I-I’m not afraid,” she said, though she knew he could feel her body quivering. “I... was just... unsure of my steps, that was all.”

“I beg your pardon, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said, and now she could not be certain if she heard sarcasm in his voice or not. He came to a halt. “It was impolite of me to allow you to walk this unfamiliar ground without offering you my assistance. Do you find the walking easier now?”

“Yes, much,” she said, flushing deeply beneath that strange gaze.

He said nothing, merely smiled. She lowered her eyes, unable to face him, and they resumed walking. Crysania berated herself for her fear all the way to the Tower, but she did not remove her hand from the mage’s arm. Neither of them spoke again until they reached the door to the Tower itself. It was a plain wooden door with runes carved on the outside of its surface. Raistlin said no word, made no motion that Crysania could see, but—at their approach—the door slowly opened. Light streamed out from inside, and Crysania felt so cheered by its bright and welcoming warmth, that—for an instant—she did not see another figure standing silhouetted within it. When she did, she stopped and drew back in alarm.