Margaret Weis - Time of the Twins

It was like her dream. Almost sobbing in her terror, she nestled close to the velvet softness of the black robes and warmed herself by the heat of his body. At first, that body next to hers was tense, then she felt it relax. His arms tightened around her almost convulsively, a hand reached up to stroke her hair, soothingly, comfortingly.

“There, there,” he whispered as one might to a frightened child, “fear not the storm, Revered Daughter. Exult in it! Taste the power of the gods, Crysania! Thus do they frighten the foolish. They cannot harm us—not if you choose otherwise.”

Gradually Crysania’s sobs lessened. Raistlin’s words were not the gentle murmurings of a mother. Their meaning struck home to her. She lifted her head, looking up at him.

“What do you mean?” she faltered, suddenly frightened. A crack had appeared in his mirrorlike eyes, permitting her to see the soul burning within.

Involuntarily, she started to push away from him, but he reached out and, smoothing the tangled black hair from her face with trembling hands, whispered, “Come with me, Crysania! Come with me to a time when you will be the only cleric in the world, to the time when we may enter the portal and challenge the gods, Crysania! Think of it! To rule, to show the world such power as this!”

Raistlin let go his grasp. Raising his arms, the black robes shimmering about him as the lightning flared and the thunder roared, he laughed. And then Crysania saw the feverish gleam in his eyes and the bright spots of color on his deathly pale cheeks. He was thin, far thinner than when she had seen him last.

“You’re ill,” she said, backing up, her hands behind her, reaching for the door. “I’ll get help...”

“No!” Raistlin’s shout was louder than the thunder. His eyes regained their mirrored surface, his face was cold and composed. Reaching out, he grasped her wrist with a painful grip and jerked her back into the room. The door slammed shut behind her. “I am ill,” he said more quietly, “but there is no help, no cure for my malady but to escape this insanity. My plans are almost completed. Tomorrow, the day of the Cataclysm, the attention of the gods will be turned to the lesson they must inflict upon these poor wretches. The Dark Queen will not be able to stop me as I work my magic and carry myself forward to the one time in history when she is vulnerable to the power of a true cleric!”

“Let me go!” Crysania cried, pain and outrage submerging her fear. Angrily, she wrenched her arm free of his grasp. But she still remembered his embrace, the touch of his hands... Hurt and ashamed, Crysania turned away. “You must work your evil without me,” she said, her voice choked with her tears. “I will not go with you.”

“Then you will die,” Raistlin said grimly.

“Do you dare threaten me!” Crysania cried, whirling around to face him, shock and fury drying her eyes.

“Oh, not by my hand,” Raistlin said with a strange smile. “You will die by the hands of those who sent you here.”

Crysania blinked, stunned. Then she quickly regained her composure. “Another trick?” she asked coldly, backing away from him, the pain in her heart at his deception almost more than she could bear. She wanted only to leave before he saw how much he had been able to hurt her—

“No trick, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said simply. He gestured to a book with red binding that lay open upon his desk. “See for yourself. Long I studied—” He swept his hand about the rows and rows of books that lined the wall. Crysania gasped. These had not been here the last time. Looking at her, he nodded. “Yes, I brought them from far-off places. I traveled far in search of many of them. This one I finally found in the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth, as I suspected all along I might. Come, look at it.”

“What is it?” Crysania stared at the volume as if it might have been a coiled, poisonous serpent.

“A book, nothing more.” Raistlin smiled wearily. “I assure you it will not change into a dragon and carry you off at my command. I repeat—it is a book, an encyclopedia, if you will. A very ancient one, written during the Age of Dreams.”

“Why do you want me to see this? What does it have to do with me?” Crysania asked suspiciously. But she had ceased edging her way toward the door. Raistlin’s calm demeanor reassured her. She had even ceased to notice, for the moment, the lightning and cracking of the storm outside.

“It is an encyclopedia of magical devices produced during the Age of Dreams,” Raistlin continued imperturbably, never taking his eyes from Crysania, seeming to draw her nearer with his gaze as he stood beside the desk. “Read—”

“I cannot read the language of magic,” Crysania said, frowning, then her brow cleared. “Or are you going to ‘translate’ for me?” she inquired haughtily.

Raistlin’s eyes flared in swift anger, but the anger was almost instantly replaced by a look of sadness and exhaustion that went straight to Crysania’s heart. “It is not written in the language of magic,” he said softly. “I would not have asked you here otherwise.” Glancing down at the black robes he wore, he smiled the twisted, bitter smile. “Long ago, I willingly paid the penalty. I do not know why I should have hoped you would trust me.”

Biting her lip, feeling deeply ashamed, though she had no idea why, Crysania crossed around to the other side of the desk. She stood there, hesitantly. Sitting down, Raistlin beckoned to her, and she took a step forward to stand beside the open book. The mage spoke a word of command, and the staff that leaned up against the wall near Crysania burst into a flood of yellow light, startling her nearly as much as the lightning.

“Read,” Raistlin said, indicating the page.

Trying to compose herself, Crysania glanced down, scanning the page, though she had no idea what she sought. Then, her attention was captured. Device of Time Journeying read one of the entries and, beside it, was pictured a device similar to the one the kender had described.

“This is it?” she asked, looking up at Raistlin. “The device Par-Salian gave Caramon to get us back?”

The mage nodded, his eyes reflecting the yellow light of the staff.

“Read,” he repeated softly.

Curious, Crysania scanned the text. There was little more than a paragraph, describing the device, the great mage—now long forgotten—who had designed and built it—the requirements for its use. Much of the description was beyond her understanding, dealing with things arcane. She grasped at bits and pieces—

...will carry the person already under a time spell forward or backward... must be assembled correctly and the facets turned in the prescribed order... will transport one person only, the person to whom it is given at the time the spell is cast... device’s use is restricted to elves, humans, ogres... no spell word required...

Crysania came to the end and glanced up at Raistlin uncertainly. He was watching her with a strange, expectant look. There was something there he was waiting for her to find. And, deep within, she felt a disquiet, a fear, a numbness, as if her heart understood the text more quickly than her brain.

“Again,” Raistlin said.

Trying to concentrate, though she was now once more aware of the storm outside that seemed to be growing in intensity,Crysania looked back at the text.

And there it was. The words leaped out at her, reaching for her throat, choking her.

Transport one person only...

Transport one person only!

Crysania’s legs gave way. Fortunately, Raistlin moved a chair behind her or she might have fallen to the floor.

For long moments she stared into the room. Though lit by lightning and the magical light of the staff, it had, for her, grown suddenly dark.