Time of the Twins

“An elf!” Crysania gasped. Her hand remained in his. “But, that’s not possible,” she began in confusion. “Not serving evil—”

“I am a dark elf, Revered Daughter,” the apprentice said, and she heard a bitterness in his voice. “At least, that is what my people call me.”

Crysania murmured in embarrassment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

She faltered and fell silent, not knowing where to look. She could almost feel Raistlin laughing at her. Once again, he had caught her off-balance. Angrily, she snatched her hand away from the apprentice’s cool grip and withdrew her other hand from Raistlin’s arm.

“The Revered Daughter has had a fatiguing journey, Dalamar,” Raistlin said. “Please show her to my study and pour her a glass of wine. With your permission, Lady Crysania”—the mage bowed—“there are a few matters that demand my attention. Dalamar, anything the lady requires, you will provide at once.”

“Certainly, Shalafi,” Dalamar answered respectfully.

Crysania said nothing as Raistlin left, suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of relief and a numbing exhaustion. Thus must the warrior feel, battling for his life against a skilled opponent, she observed silently as she followed the apprentice up a narrow, winding staircase.

Raistlin’s study was nothing like she had expected.

What had I expected, she asked herself. Certainly not this pleasant room filled with strange and fascinating books. The furniture was attractive and comfortable, a fire burned on the hearth, filling the room with warmth that was welcome after the chill of the walk to the Tower. The wine that Dalamar poured was delicious. The warmth of the fire seemed to seep into her blood as she drank a small sip.

Dalamar brought forward a small, ornately carved table and set it at her right hand. Upon this, he placed a bowl of fruit and a loaf of fragrant, still-warm bread.

“What is this fruit!” Crysania asked, picking up a piece and examining it in wonder. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

“Indeed not, Revered Daughter,” Dalamar answered, smiling. Unlike Raistlin, Crysania noticed, the young apprentice’s smile was reflected in his eyes. “Shalafi has it brought to him from the Isle of Mithas.”

“Mithas?” Crysania repeated in astonishment. “But that’s on the other side of the world! The minotaurs live there. They allow none to enter their kingdom! Who brings it?”

She had a sudden, terrifying vision of the servant who might have been summoned to bring such delicacies to such a master. Hastily, she returned the fruit to the bowl.

“Try it, Lady Crysania,” Dalamar said without a trace of amusement in his voice. “You will find it quite delicious. The Shalafi’s health is delicate. There are so few things he can tolerate. He lives on little else but this fruit, bread, and wine.”

Crysania’s fear ebbed. “Yes,” she murmured, her eyes going to the door involuntarily. “He is dreadfully frail, isn’t he. And that terrible cough...” Her voice was soft with pity.

“Cough? Oh, yes,” Dalamar said smoothly, “his... cough.” He did not continue and, if Crysania thought this odd, she soon forgot it in her contemplation of the room.

The apprentice stood a moment, waiting to see if she required anything else. When Crysania did not speak, he bowed. “If you need nothing more, lady, I will retire. I have my own studies to pursue.”

“Of course. I will be fine here,” Crysania said, coming out of her thoughts with a start. “He is your teacher, then,” she said in sudden realization. Now it was her turn to look at Dalamar intently. “Is he a good one! Do you learn from him?”

“He is the most gifted of any in our Order, Lady Crysania,” Dalamar said softly. “He is brilliant, skilled, controlled. Only one has lived who was as powerful—the great Fistandantilus. And my Shalafi is young, only twenty-eight. If he lives, he may well—”

“If he lives?” Crysania repeated, then felt irritated that she had unintentionally let a note of concern creep into her voice. It is right to feel concern, she told herself. After all, he is one of the gods’ creatures. All life is sacred.

“The Art is fraught with danger, my lady,” Dalamar was saying. “And now, if you will excuse me...”

“Certainly,” Crysania murmured.

Bowing again, Dalamar padded quietly from the room, shutting the door behind him. Toying with her wine glass, Crysania stared into the dancing flames, lost in thought. She did not hear the door open—if indeed it did. She felt fingers touching her hair. Shivering, she looked around, only to see Raistlin sitting in a high-backed wooden chair behind his desk.

“Can I send for anything else? Is everything to your liking?” he asked politely.

“Y-yes,” Crysania stammered, setting her wine glass down so that he would not see her hand shake. “Everything is fine. More than fine, actually. Your apprentice—Dalamar? He is quite charming.”