Time of the Twins

Wracked by spasms of coughing, clutching his chest, Raistlin gasped for breath. He staggered. If it had not been for the staff he leaned upon, he would have fallen to the floor. Forgetting her aversion and her disgust, reacting instinctively, Crysania reached out and, putting her hands upon his shoulders, murmured a healing prayer. Beneath her hands, the black robes were soft and warm. She could feel Raistlin’s muscles twisting in spasms, sense his pain and suffering. Pity filled her heart.

Raistlin jerked away from her touch, shoving her to one side. His coughing gradually eased. Able to breathe freely once more, he regarded her with scorn.

“Do not waste your prayers on me, Revered Daughter,” he said bitterly. Pulling a soft cloth from his robes, he dabbed his lips and Crysania saw that it came away stained with blood. “There is no cure for my malady. This is the sacrifice, the price I paid for my magic.”

“I don’t understand,” she murmured. Her hands twitched, as she remembered vividly the velvety soft smoothness of the black robes, and she unconsciously clasped her fingers behind her back.

“Don’t you’?” Raistlin asked, staring deep into her soul with his strange, golden eyes. “What was the sacrifice you made for your power?”

A faint flush, barely visible in the dying firelight, stained Crysania cheeks with blood, much as the mage’s lips were stained. Alarmed at this invasion of her being, she averted her face, her eyes looking once more out the window. Night had fallen over Palanthas. The silver moon, Solinari, was a sliver of light in the dark sky. The red moon that was its twin had not yet risen. The black moon—She caught herself wondering, where is it? Can he truly see it?

“I must go,” Raistlin said, his breath rasping in his throat. “These spasms weaken me. I need rest.”

“Certainly.” Crysania felt herself calm once more. All the ends of her emotions tucked back neatly into place, she turned to face him again. “I thank you for coming—”

“But our business is not concluded,” Raistlin said softly. “I would like a chance to prove to you that these fears of your god are unfounded. I have a suggestion. Come visit me in the Tower of High Sorcery. There you will see me among my books and understand my studies. When you do, your mind will be at ease. As it teaches in the Disks, we fear only that which is unknown.” He took a step nearer her.

Astounded at his proposal, Crysania’s eyes opened wide. She tried to move away from him, but she had inadvertently let herself become trapped by the window. “I cannot go... to the Tower,” she faltered as his nearness smothered her, stole her breath. She tried to walk around him, but he moved his staff slightly, blocking her path. Coldly, she continued, “The spells laid upon it keep out all—”

“Except those I choose to admit,” Raistlin whispered. Folding the blood-stained cloth, he tucked it back into a secret pocket of his robes. Then, reaching out, he took hold of Crysania’s hand.

“How brave you are, Revered Daughter,” he commented. “You do not tremble at my evil touch.”

“Paladine is with me,” Crysania replied disdainfully.

Raistlin smiled, a warm smile, dark and secret—a smile for just the two of them. It fascinated Crysania. He drew her near to him. Then, he dropped her hand. Resting the staff against the chair, he reached out and took hold of her head with his slender hands, placing his fingers over the white hood she wore. Now, Crysania trembled at his touch, but she could not move, she could not speak or do anything more than stare at him in a wild fear she could neither suppress nor understand.

Holding her firmly, Raistlin leaned down and brushed his blood-flecked lips across her forehead. As he did so, he muttered strange words. Then he released her.

Crysania stumbled, nearly falling. She felt weak and dizzy. Her hand went to her forehead where the touch of his lips burned into her skin with a searing pain. “What have you done?” she cried brokenly. “You cannot cast a spell upon me! My faith protects—”

“Of course.” Raistlin sighed wearily, and there was an expression of sorrow in his face and voice, the sorrow of one who is constantly suspected, misunderstood. “I have simply given you a charm that will allow you to pass through Shoikan Grove. The way will not be easy”—his sarcasm returned—“but, undoubtedly your faith will sustain you!”

Pulling his hood low over his eyes, the mage bowed silently to Crysania, who could only stare at him, then he walked toward the door with slow, faltering steps. Reaching out a skeletal hand, he pulled the bell rope. The door opened and Bertrem entered so swiftly and suddenly that Crysania knew he must have been posted outside. Her lips tightened. She flashed the Aesthetic such a furious, imperious glance that the man paled visibly, though totally unaware of what crime he had committed, and mopped his shining forehead with the sleeve of his robe.