Margaret Weis: War of the Twins

Crysania drew a deep breath, “Then the light from the medallion began to fail—”

Raistlin nodded.

“—and those... things came toward us. I called out to you, using the name Fistandantilus. That made them pause. Then”—Crysania’s voice lost its fear and was edged with anger—“your brother grabbed me and threw me down on the floor, shouting something about ‘let them see him as he exists in their own darkness!’ When Paladine’s light no longer touched you, those creatures—” She shuddered and covered her face with her hands, still hearing Raistlin’s terrible scream echoing in her mind.

“My brother said that?” Raistlin asked softly after a moment.

Crysania moved her hands to look at him, puzzled at his tone of mingled admiration and astonishment. “Yes,” she said coldly after a moment. “Why?”

“He saved our lives,” Raistlin remarked, his voice once more caustic. “The great dolt actually had a good idea. Perhaps you should leave him blind—it aids his thinking”

Raistlin tried to laugh, but it turned to a cough that nearly choked him instead. Crysania started toward him to help him, but he halted her with a fierce look, even as his body twisted in pain. Rolling to his side, he retched.

He fell back weakly, his lips stained with blood, his hands twitching. His breathing was shallow and too fast. Occasionally a coughing spasm wrenched his body.

Crysania stared at him helplessly.

“You told me once that the gods could not heal this malady. But you’re dying, Raistlin! Isn’t there something I can do?” she asked softly, not daring to touch him.

He nodded, but for a minute could neither speak nor move. Finally, with an obvious effort, he lifted a trembling hand from the chill floor and motioned Crysania near. She bent over him. Reaching up, he touched her cheek, drawing her face close to his. His breath was warm against her skin.

“Water!” He gasped inaudibly. She could understand him only by reading the movements of his blood-caked lips. “A potion... will help... .” Feebly, his hand moved to a pocket in his robes. “And... and warmth, fire! I... have not... the strength...”

Crysania nodded, to show she understood.

“Caramon?” His lips formed the words.

“Those—those things attacked him,” she said, glancing over at the big warrior’s motionless body. “I’m not sure if he’s still alive... .”

“We need him! You... must... heal him!” He could not continue but lay panting for air, his eyes closed.

Crysania swallowed, shivering. “Are—are you sure?” she asked hesitantly. “He tried to murder you—”

Raistlin smiled, then shook his head. The black hood rustled gently at the motion. Opening his eyes, he looked up at Crysania and she could see deep within their brown depths. The flame within the mage burned low, giving the eyes a soft warmth much different from the raging fire she had seen before.

“Crysania...” he breathed, “I... am going... to lose consciousness... You... will... be alone... in this place of darkness... My brother... can help... Warmth...” His eyes closed, but his grasp on Crysania’s hand tightened, as though endeavoring to use her lifeforce to cling to reality. With a violent struggle, he opened his eyes again to look directly into hers. “Don’t leave this room!” he mouthed. His eyes rolled back in his head.

You will be alone! Crysania glanced around fearfully, feeling suffocated with terror. Water! Warmth! How could she manage? She couldn’t! Not in this chamber of evil!

“Raistlin!” she begged, grasping his frail hand in both her hands and resting her cheek against it. “Raistlin, please don’t leave me!” she whispered, cringing at the touch of his cold flesh. “I can’t do what you ask! I haven’t the power! I can’t create water out of dust—”

Raistlin’s eyes opened. They were nearly as dark as the room in which he lay. Moving his hand, the hand she held, he traced a line from her eyes down her cheek. Then the hand went limp, his head lolled to one side.

Crysania raised her own hand to her skin in confusion, wondering what he meant by such a strange gesture? It had not been a caress. He was trying to tell her something, that much had been apparent by his insistent gaze. But what? Her skin burned at his touch... bringing back memories...

And then she knew.

I can’t create water out of dust...

“My tears!” she murmured.

Sitting alone in the chill chamber, kneeling beside Raistlin’s still body, seeing Caramon lying nearby, pale and lifeless, Crysania suddenly envied both of them fiercely. How easy it would be, she thought, to slip into unconsciousness and let the darkness take me! The evil of the place—which had seemingly fled at the sound of Raistlin’s voice—was returning. She could feel it on her neck like a cold draft. Eyes stared at her from the shadows, eyes that were kept back, apparently, only by the light of the Staff of Magius, which still gleamed. Even unconscious, Raistlin’s hand rested on it.

Crysania lay the archmage’s other hand, the hand she held, gently across his chest. Then she sat back, her lips pressed tightly together, swallowing her tears.

“He’s depending on me,” she said to herself, talking to dispel the sounds of whispering she heard around her. “In his weakness, he is relying on my strength. All my life,” she continued, wiping tears from her eyes and watching the water gleam on her fingers in the staff’s light, “I have prided myself on my strength. Yet, until now, I never knew what true strength was., Her eyes went to Raistlin. “Now, I see it in him! I will not let him down!

“Warmth,” she said, shivering so much that she could barely stand. “He needs warmth. We all do.” She sighed helplessly. “Yet how am I to do that! If we were in Ice Wall Castle, my prayers alone would be enough to keep us warm. Paladine would aid us. But this chill is not the chill of ice or snow.

“It is deeper than that—freezing the spirit more than the blood. Here, in this place of evil, my faith might sustain me, but it will never warm us!”

Thinking of this and glancing around the room dimly seen by the light of the staff, Crysania saw the shadowy forms of tattered curtains hanging from the windows. Made of heavy velvet, they were large enough to cover all of them. Her spirits rose, but sank almost instantly as she realized they were far across the room. Barely visible within the writhing darkness, the windows were outside of the staff’s circle of bright light.

“I’ll have to walk over there,” she said to herself, “in the shadows!” Her heart almost failed her, her strength ebbed. “I will ask Paladine’s help.” But, as she spoke, her gaze went to the medallion lying cold and dark on the floor.

Bending down to pick it up, she hesitated, fearing for a moment to touch it, remembering in sorrow how its light had died at the coming of the evil.

Once again, she thought of Loralon, the great elven cleric who had come to take her away before the Cataclysm. She had refused, choosing instead to risk her life, to hear the words of the Kingpriest—the words that called down the wrath of the gods. Was Paladine angry? Had he abandoned her in his anger, as many believed he had abandoned all of Krynn following the terrible destruction of Istar? Or was his divine guidance simply unable to penetrate the chill layers of evil that shrouded the accursed Tower of High Sorcery?

Confused and frightened, Crysania lifted the medallion. It did not glow. It did nothing. The metal felt cold in her hand. Standing in the center of the room, holding the medallion, her teeth chattering, she willed herself to walk to a window.

“If I don’t,” she muttered through stiff lips, “I’ll die of the cold. We’ll all die,” she added, her gaze going back to the brothers. Raistlin wore his black velvet robes, but she remembered the icy feel of his hand in hers. Caramon was still dressed as he had been for the gladiator games in little more than golden armor and a loincloth.