Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

The scene shimmered, the colors swirled, it faded and was replaced by another, and then another. Crysania watched in agony as the mage ripped the pearl-white facade from the city, showing her blackness and corruption beneath. Bars, brothels, gambling dens, the wharves, the docks... all spewed forth their refuse of misery and suffering before Crysania’s shocked vision. No longer could she avert her face, there were no curtains to pull shut. Raistlin dragged her inside, brought her close to the hopeless, the starving, the forlorn, the forgotten.

“No,” she pleaded, shaking her head and trying to back away from the desk. “Please show me no more.”

But Raistlin was pitiless. Once again the colors swirled, and they left Palanthas. The dragon orb carried them around the world, and everywhere Crysania looked, she saw more horrors. Gully dwarves, a race cast off from their dwarven kin, living in squalor in whatever part of Krynn they could find that no one else wanted. Humans eking out a wretched existence in lands where rain had ceased to fall. The Wilder elves, enslaved by their own people. Clerics, using their power to cheat and amass great wealth at the expense of those who trusted them. It was too much. With a wild cry, Crysania covered her face with her hands. The room swayed beneath her feet. Staggering, she nearly fell. And then Raistlin’s arms were around her. She felt that strange, burning warmth from his body and the soft touch of the black velvet. There was a smell of spices, rose petals, and other, more mysterious odors. She could hear his shallow breathing rattle in his lungs.

Gently, Raistlin led Crysania back to her chair. She sat down, quickly drawing away from his touch. His nearness was both repelling and attracting at the same time, adding to her feelings of loss and confusion. She wished desperately that Elistan were here. He would know, he would understand. For there had to be an explanation! Such terrible suffering, such evil should not be allowed. Feeling empty and hollow, she stared into the fire.

“We are not so very different.” Raistlin’s voice seemed to come from the flames. “I live in my Tower, devoting myself to my studies. You live in your Tower, devoting yourself to your faith. And the world turns around us.”

“And that is true evil,” Crysania said to the flames. “To sit and do nothing.”

“Now you understand,” Raistlin said. “No longer am I content to sit and watch. I have studied long years for one reason, with one aim. And now that is within my grasp. I will make a difference, Crysania. I will change the world. That is my plan.”

Crysania looked up swiftly. Her faith had been shaken, but its core was strong. “Your plan! It is the plan Paladine warned me of in my dream. This plan to change the world will cause the world’s destruction!” Her hand clenched in her lap. “You must not go through with it! Paladine—”

Raistlin made an impatient gesture with his hand. His golden eyes flashed and, for a moment, Crysania shrank back, catching a glimpse of the smoldering fires within the man.

“Paladine will not stop me,” Raistlin said, “for I seek to depose his greatest enemy.”

Crysania stared at the mage, not understanding. What enemy could that be? What enemy could Paladine have upon this world. Then Raistlin’s meaning became clear. Crysania felt the blood drain from her face, cold fear made her shudder convulsively. Unable to speak, she shook her head. The enormity of his ambition and his desires was too fearful, too impossible to even contemplate.

“Listen,” he said, softly. “I will make it clear...”

And he told her his plans. She sat for what seemed like hours before the fire, held by the gaze of his strange, golden eyes, mesmerized by the sound of his soft, whispering voice, hearing him tell her of the wonders of his magic and of the magic now long lost, the wonders discovered by Fistandantilus.

Raistlin’s voice fell silent. Crysania sat for long moments, lost and wandering in a realm far from any she had ever known. The fire burned low in the gray hour before dawn. The room became lighter. Crysania shivered in the suddenly chill chamber.

Raistlin coughed, and Crysania looked up at him, startled. He was pale with exhaustion, his eyes seemed feverish, his hands shook. Crysania rose to her feet.

“I am sorry,” she said, her voice low. “I have kept you awake all night, and you are not well. I must go.”

Raistlin rose with her. “Do not worry about my health, Revered Daughter,” he said with a twisted smile. “The fire that burns within me is fuel enough to warm this shattered body. Dalamar will accompany you back through Shoikan Grove, if you like.”

“Yes, thank you,” Crysania murmured. She had forgotten that she must go back through that evil place. Taking a deep breath, she held her hand out to Raistlin. “Thank you for meeting with me,” she began formally. “I hope—”

Raistlin took her hand in his, the touch of his smooth flesh burned. Crysania looked into his eyes. She saw herself reflected there, a colorless woman dressed in white, her face framed by her dark, black hair.

“You cannot do this,” Crysania whispered. “It is wrong, you must be stopped.” She held onto his hand very tightly.

“Prove to me that it is wrong,” Raistlin answered, drawing her near. “Show me that this is evil. Convince me that the ways of good are the means of saving the world.”

“Will you listen?” Crysania asked wistfully. “You are surrounded by darkness. How can I reach you?”

“The darkness parted, didn’t it,” Raistlin said. “The darkness parted, and you came in.”

“Yes...” Crysania was suddenly aware of the touch of his hand, the warmth of his body. Flushing uncomfortably, she stepped back. Removing her hand from his grasp, she absently rubbed it, as if it hurt.

“Farewell, Raistlin Majere,” she said, without meeting his eyes.

“Farewell, Revered Daughter of Paladine,” he said.

The door opened and Dalamar stood within it, though Crysania had not heard Raistlin summon the young apprentice. Drawing her white hood up over her hair, Crysania turned from Raistlin and walked through the door. Moving down the gray, stone hallway, she could feel his golden eyes burning through her robes. When she arrived at the narrow winding staircase leading down, his voice reached her.

“Perhaps Paladine did not send you to stop me, Lady Crysania. Perhaps he sent you to help.”

Crysania paused and looked back. Raistlin was gone, the gray hall was bleak and empty. Dalamar stood beside her in silence, waiting.

Slowly, gathering the folds of her white robes in her hand so that she did not trip, Crysania descended the stairs.

And kept on descending... down... down... into unending sleep.

The Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth had been, for centuries, the last outpost of magic upon the continent of Ansalon. Here the mages had been driven, when the Kingpriest ordered them from the other Towers. Here they had come, leaving the Tower in Istar, now under the waters of the Blood Sea, leaving the accursed and blackened Tower in Palanthas.

The Tower in Wayreth was an imposing structure, an unnerving sight. The outer walls formed an equilateral triangle. A small tower stood at each angle of the perfect geometric shape. In the center stood the two main towers, slanted slightly, twisting just a little, enough to make the viewer blink and say to himself—aren’t those crooked?

The walls were built of black stone. Polished to a high gloss, it shone brilliantly in the sunlight and, in the night, reflected the light of two moons and mirrored the darkness of the third. Runes were carved upon the surface of the stone, runes of power and strength, shielding and warding; runes that bound the stones to each other; runes that bound the stones to the ground. The tops of the walls were smooth. There were no battlements for soldiers to man. There was no need.