Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

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... with out...

“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.