Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

“There are answers to your questions, Revered Daughter,” said a voice that sent a thrill of shocked recognition through her nerves, “there are answers, but you refuse to listen to them.”

She knew the voice, but—looking eagerly into the shadows of the hood, she could not recognize the face. She glanced at the hand on her shoulder, thinking she knew that hand. Black robes fell around it, and her heart lurched. But there were no silver runes upon the robes, such as he wore. Once more, she stared into the face. All she could see was the glitter of hidden eyes, pale skin... Then the hand left her shoulder and, reaching up, turned back the front of the hood.

At first, Crysania felt bitter disappointment. The young man’s eyes were not golden, not shaped like the hourglass that had become his symbol. The skin was not tinted gold, the face was not frail and sickly. This man’s face was pale, as if from long hours of study, but it was healthy, even handsome, except for its look of perpetual, bitter cynicism. The eyes were brown, clear and cold as glass, reflecting back all they saw, revealing nothing within. The man’s body was slender, but well-muscled.

The black, unadorned robes he wore revealed the outline of strong shoulders, not the stooped and shattered frame of the mage. And then the man smiled, the thin lips parted slightly.

“It is you!” Crysania breathed, starting up from her chair.

The man placed his hand upon her shoulder again, exerting a gentle pressure that forced her back down. “Please, remain seated, Revered Daughter,” he said. “I will join you. It is quiet here, and we can talk without interruption.” Turning, he motioned with a graceful gesture and a chair that had been across the room suddenly stood next to him. Crysania gasped slightly and glanced around the room. But, if anyone else had noticed, they were all studiously intent upon ignoring the mage. Looking back, Crysania found Raistlin watching her in amusement, and she felt her skin grow warm.

“Raistlin,” she said formally, to cover her confusion, “I am pleased to see you.”

“And I am pleased to see you, Revered Daughter,” he said in that mocking voice that grated on her nerves. “But my name is not’ Raistlin.”

She stared at him, flushing even more now in her embarrassment. “Forgive me,” she said, looking intently at his face, “but you reminded me strongly of someone I know—once knew.”

“Perhaps this will clear up the mystery,” he said softly. “My name, to those around here, is Fistandantilus.”

Crysania shivered involuntarily, the lights in the room seemed to darken. “No,” she said, shaking her head slowly, “that cannot be! You came back... to learn from him!”

“I came back to become him,” Raistlin replied.

“But... I’ve heard stories. He’s evil, foul—” She drew away from Raistlin, her gaze fixed on him in horror.

“The evil is no more,” Raistlin replied. “He is dead.”

“You?” The word was a whisper.

“He would have killed me, Crysania,” Raistlin said simply, “as he has murdered countless others. It was my life or his.”

“We have exchanged one evil for another,” Crysania answered in a sad, hopeless voice. She turned away.

I am losing her! Raistlin realized instantly. Silently, he regarded her. She had shifted in her chair, turning her face from him. He could see her profile, cold and pure as Solinari’s light. Coolly he studied her, much as he studied the small animals that came under his knife when he probed for the secrets of life itself. Just as he stripped away their skins to see the beating hearts beneath, so he mentally stripped away Crysania’s outer defenses to see her soul.

She was listening to the beautiful voice of the Kingpriest, and on her face was a look of profound peace. But Raistlin remembered her face as he had seen it on entering. Long accustomed to observing others and reading the emotions they thought they hid, he had seen the slight line appear between her black eyebrows, he had seen her gray eyes grow dark and clouded.

She had kept her hands in her lap, but he had seen the fingers twist the cloth of her gown. He knew of her conversation with Denubis. He knew she doubted, that her faith was wavering, teetering on the edge of the precipice. It would take little to shove her over the edge. And, with a bit of patience on his part, she might even jump over of her own accord.

Raistlin remembered how she had flinched at his touch. Drawing near her, he reached out and took hold of her wrist. She started and almost immediately tried to break free of his hold. But his grip was firm. Crysania looked up into his eyes and could not move.

“Do you truly believe that of me?” Raistlin asked in the voice of one who has suffered long and then returned to find it was all for nothing. He saw his sorrow pierce her heart. She tried to speak, but Raistlin continued, twisting the knife in her soul.

“Fistandantilus planned to return to our time, destroy me, take my body, and pick up where the Queen of Darkness left off. He plotted to bring the evil dragons under his control. The Dragon Highlords, like my sister, Kitiara, would have flocked to his standard. The world would be plunged into war, once again.” Raistlin paused. “That threat is now ended,” he said softly.

His eyes held Crysania, just as his hand held her wrist. Looking in them, she saw herself reflected in their mirrorlike surface. And she saw herself, not as the pale, studious, severe cleric she had heard herself called more than once, but as someone beautiful and caring. This man had come to her in trust and she had let him down. The pain in his voice was unendurable, and Crysania tried once again to speak, but Raistlin continued, drawing her ever nearer.

“You know my ambitions,” he said. “To you, I opened my heart. Is it my design to renew the war? Is it my desire to conquer the world? My sister, Kitiara, came to me to ask this very thing, to seek my help. I refused, and you, I fear, paid the consequences.” Raistlin sighed and lowered his eyes. “I told her about you, Crysania, and of your goodness and your power. She was enraged and sent her death knight to destroy you, thinking to end your influence over me.”

“Do I have influence over you then?” Crysania asked softly, no longer trying to break free of Raistlin’s hold. Her voice trembled with joy. “Can I dare hope that you have seen the ways of the church and—”

“The ways of this church?” Raistlin asked, his voice once again bitter and mocking. Withdrawing his hand abruptly, he sat back in his chair, gathering his black robes about him and regarding Crysania with a sneering smile.

Embarrassment, anger, and guilt stained Crysania’s cheeks a faint pink, her gray eyes darkened to deep blue. The color in her cheeks spread to her lips and suddenly she was beautiful, something Raistlin noticed without meaning to. The thought annoyed him beyond all bounds, threatening to disrupt his concentration. Irritably, he pushed it away.

“I know your doubts, Crysania,” he continued abruptly. “I know what you have seen. You have found the church to be far more concerned with running the world than teaching the ways of the gods. You have seen its clerics double-dealing, dabbling in politics, spending money for show that might have fed the poor. You thought to vindicate the church, when you came back; to discover that others caused the gods in their righteous anger to hurl the fiery mountain down upon those who forsook them. You sought to blame... magic-users, perhaps.”

Crysania’s flush deepened, she could not look at him and turned her face away, but her pain and humiliation were obvious.

Raistlin continued mercilessly. “The time of the Cataclysm draws near. Already, the true clerics have left the land... Yes, didn’t you know? Your friend, Denubis, has gone. You, Crysania, are the only true cleric left in the land.”