Time of the Twins

“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.

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.