Margaret Weis - War of the Twins

Crysania flushed, wanting desperately to both run away and stay forever in that warm embrace.

Quickly, she lowered her gaze, but it was too late. She felt Raistlin stiffen. Angrily, he withdrew his arm. Pushing her aside, he gripped his staff for support.

But he was still too weak. He staggered and started to fall. Crysania moved to help him, but suddenly a huge body interposed itself between her and the mage. Strong arms caught Raistlin up as if he were no more than a child. Caramon carried his brother to a frayed and blackened, heavily cushioned chair he had dragged near the fire.

For a few moments, Crysania could not move from where she stood, leaning against the desk. It was only when she realized that she was alone in the darkness, outside the light of both fire and staff, that she walked hurriedly over near the fire herself.

“Sit down, Lady Crysania,” said Caramon, drawing up another chair and beating the dust and ash off with his hands as best he could.

“Thank you,” she murmured, trying, for some reason, to avoid the big man’s gaze. Sinking down into the chair, she huddled near the blaze, staring fixedly into the flames until she felt she had regained some of her composure.

When she was able to look around, she saw Raistlin lying back in his chair, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Caramon was heating water in a battered iron pot that he had dragged, from the looks of it, out of the ashes of the fireplace. He stood before it, staring intently into the water.

The firelight glistened on his golden armor, glowed on his smooth, tan skin. His muscles rippled as he flexed his great arms to keep warm.

He is truly a magnificently built man, Crysania thought, then shuddered. Once again, she could see him entering that room beneath the doomed Temple, the bloody sword in his hand, death in his eyes...

“The water’s ready,” Caramon announced, and Crysania returned to the Tower with a start.

“Let me fix the potion,” she said quickly, thankful for something to do.

Raistlin opened his eyes as she came near him. Looking into them, she saw only a reflection of herself, pale, wan, disheveled. Wordlessly, he held out a small, velvet pouch. As she took it, he gestured to his brother, then sank back, exhausted.

Taking the pouch, Crysania turned to find Caramon watching her, a look of mingled perplexity and sadness giving his face an unaccustomed gravity. But all he said was, “Put a few of the leaves in this cup, then fill it with the hot water.”

“What is it?” Crysania asked curiously. Opening the pouch, her nose wrinkled at the strange, bitter scent of the herbs. Caramon poured the water into the cup she held.

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “Raist always gathered the herbs and mixed them himself. Par-Salian gave the recipe to him after... after the Test, when he was so sick. I know”—he smiled at her—“it smells awful and must taste worse.” His glance went almost fondly to his brother. “But it will help him.” His voice grated harshly. Abruptly, he turned away.

Crysania carried the steaming potion to Raistlin, who clutched at it with trembling hands and eagerly brought the cup to his lips. Sipping at it, he breathed a sigh of relief and, once more, sank back among the cushions of the chair.

An awkward silence fell. Caramon was staring down at the fire once more. Raistlin, too, looked into the flames and drank his potion without comment. Crysania returned to her own chair to do what each of the others must be doing, she realized—trying to sort out thoughts, trying to make some sense of what had happened.

Hours ago, she had been standing in a doomed city, a city destined to die by the wrath of the gods. She had been on the verge of complete mental and physical collapse. She could admit this now, though she could not have then. How fondly she had imagined her soul to be girded round by the steel walls of her faith. Not steel, she saw now, with shame and regret. Not steel, but ice.

The ice had melted in the harsh light of truth, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. If it had not been for Raistlin, she would have perished back there in Istar.

Raistlin... Her face flushed. This was something else she had never thought to contend with—love, passion. She had been betrothed to a young man, years ago, and she had been quite fond of him. But she had not loved him. She had, in fact, never really believed in love—the kind of love that existed in tales told to children. To be that wrapped up in another person seemed a handicap, a weakness to be avoided. She remembered something Tanis Half-Elven had said about his wife, Laurana—what was it? “When she is gone, it is like I’m missing my right arm...”

What romantic twaddle, she had thought at the time. But now she asked herself, did she feel that way about Raistlin? Her thoughts went to the last day in Istar, the terrible storm, the flashing of the lightning, and how she had suddenly found herself in Raistlin’s arms. Her heart contracted with the swift ache of desire as she felt, once again, his strong embrace. But there was also a sharp fear, a strange revulsion. Unwillingly, she remembered the feverish gleam in his eyes, his exultation in the storm—as if he himself had called it down.

It was like the strange smell of the spell components that clung to him—the pleasant smell of roses and spice, but mingled with it—the cloying odor of decaying creatures, the acrid smell of sulphur.

Even as her body longed for his touch, something in her soul shrank away in horror...

Caramon’s stomach rumbled loudly. The sound, in the deathly still chamber, was startling.

Looking up, her thoughts shattered, Crysania saw the big man blush deeply in embarrassment.

Suddenly reminded of her own hunger—she couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to choke down a mouthful of food—Crysania began to laugh.

Caramon looked at her dubiously, perhaps thinking her hysterical. At the puzzled look on the big man’s face, Crysania only laughed harder. It felt good to laugh, in fact. The darkness in the room seemed pushed back, the shadows lifted from her soul. She laughed merrily and, finally, caugh t by the infectious nature of her mirth, Caramon began to laugh, too, though he still shook his head, his face red.

“Thus do the gods remind us we’re human,” Crysania said when she could speak, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Here we are, in the most horrible place imaginable, surrounded by creatures waiting eagerly to devour us whole, and all I can think of right now is how desperately hungry I am!”

“We need food,” said Caramon soberly, suddenly serious. “And decent clothing, if we’re going to be here long.” He looked at his brother. “How long are we going to be here?”

“Not long,” Raistlin replied. He had finished the potion, and his voice was already stronger. Some color had returned to his pale face. “I need time to rest, to recover my strength, and t o complete my studies. This lady”—his glittering gaze went to Crysania, and she shivered at the sudden impersonal tone in his voice—“needs to commune with her god and renew her faith. Then, we will be ready to enter the Portal. At which time, my brother, you may go where you will.”

Crysania felt Caramon’s questioning glance, but she kept her face smooth and expressionless, though Raistlin’s cool, casual mention of entering the dread Portal, of going into the Abyss and facing the Queen of Darkness froze her heart. She refused to meet Caramon’s eyes, therefore, and stared into the fire.

The big man sighed, then he cleared his throat. “Will you send me home?” he asked his twin.

“If that is where you wish to go.”

“Yes,” Caramon said, his voice deep and stern. “I want to go back to Tika and to... talk to Tanis.”