Time of the Twins

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.