She might have been made of marble, Astinus thought, with one difference—marble could be warmed by the sun.
“Greetings, Revered Daughter of Paladine,” Astinus said, entering and shutting the door behind him.
“Greetings, Astinus,” Crysania of Tarinius said, rising to her feet.
As she walked across the small room toward him, Astinus was somewhat startled to note the swiftness and almost masculine length of her stride. It seemed oddly incongruous with her delicate features. Her handshake, too, was firm and strong, not typical of Palanthian women, who rarely shook hands and then did so only by extending their fingertips.
“I must thank you for giving up your valuable time to act as a neutral party in this meeting,” Crysania said coolly. “I know how you dislike taking time from your studies.”
“As long as it is not wasted time, I do not mind,” Astinus replied, holding her hand and regarding her intently. “I must admit, however, that I resent this.”
“Why?” Crysania searched the man’s ageless face in true perplexity. Then—in sudden understanding—she smiled, a cold smile that brought no more life to her face than the moonlight upon snow. “You don’t believe he will come, do you?”
Astinus snorted, dropping the woman’s hand as though he had completely lost interest in her very existence. Turning away, he walked to the window and looked out over the city of Palanthas, whose gleaming white buildings glowed in the sun’s radiance with a breathtaking beauty, with one exception. One building remained untouched by the sun, even in brightest noontime.
And it was upon this building that Astinus’s gaze fixed. Thrusting itself up in the center of the brilliant, beautiful city, its black stone towers twisted and writhed, its minarets—newly repaired and constructed by the powers of magic—glistened blood-red in the sunset, giving the appearance of rotting, skeletal fingers clawing their way up from some unhallowed burial ground.
“Two years ago, he entered the Tower of High Sorcery,” Astinus said in his calm, passionless voice as Crysania joined him at the window. “He entered in the dead of night in darkness, the only moon in the sky was the moon that sheds no light. He walked through the Shoikan Grove—a stand of accursed oak trees that no mortal—not even those of the kender race—dare approach. He made his way to the gates upon which hung still the body of the evil mage who, with his dying breath, cast the curse upon the Tower and leapt from the upper windows, impaling himself upon its gates—a fearsome watchman. But when he came there, the watchman bowed before him, the gates opened at his touch, then they shut behind him. And they have not opened again these past two years. He has not left and, if any have been admitted, none have seen them. And you expect him... here?”
“The master of past and of present.” Crysania shrugged. “He came, as was foretold.”
Astinus regarded her with some astonishment.
“You know his story?”
“Of course,” the cleric replied calmly, glancing up at him for an instant, then turning her clear eyes back to look at the Tower, already shrouding itself with the coming night’s shadows. “A good general always studies the enemy before engaging in battle. I know Raistlin Majere very well, very well indeed. And I know—he will come this night.”
Crysania continued gazing at the dreadful Tower, her chin lifted, her bloodless lips set in a straight, even line, her hands clasped behind her back.
Astinus’s face suddenly became grave and thoughtful, his eyes troubled, though his voice was cool as ever. “You seem very sure of yourself, Revered Daughter. How do you know this?”
“Paladine has spoken to me,” Crysania replied, never taking her eyes from the Tower. “In a dream, the Platinum Dragon appeared before me and told me that evil—once banished from the world—had returned in the person of this black-robed wizard, Raistlin Majere. We face dire peril, and it has been given to me to prevent it.” As Crysania spoke, her marble face grew smooth, her gray eyes were clear and bright. “It will be the test of my faith I have prayed for!” She glanced at Astinus. “You see, I have known since childhood that my destiny was to perform some great deed, some great service to the world and its people. This is my chance.”
Astinus’s face grew graver as he listened, and even more stern.
“Paladine told you this?” he demanded abruptly.
Crysania, sensing, perhaps, this man’s disbelief, pursed her lips. A tiny line appearing between her brows was, however, the only sign of her anger, that and an even more studied calmness in her reply.
“I regret having spoken of it, Astinus, forgive me. It was between my god and myself, and such sacred things should not be discussed. I brought it up simply to prove to you that this evil man will come. He cannot help himself. Paladine will bring him.”
Astinus’s eyebrows rose so that they very nearly disappeared into his graying hair.
“This ‘evil man’ as you call him, Revered Daughter, serves a goddess as powerful as Paladine—Takhisis, Queen of Darkness! Or perhaps I should not say serves,” Astinus remarked with a wry smile. “Not of him...”
Crysania’s brow cleared, her cool smile returned. “Good redeems its own,” she answered gently. “Evil turns in upon itself. Good will triumph again, as it did in the War of the Lance against Takhisis and her evil dragons. With Paladine’s help, I shall triumph over this evil as the hero, Tanis Half-Elven, triumphed over the Queen of Darkness herself.”
“Tanis Half-Elven triumphed with the help of Raistlin Majere,” Astinus said imperturbably. “Or is that a part of the legend you choose to ignore?”
Not a ripple of emotion marred the still, placid surface of Crysania’s expression. Her smile remained fixed. Her gaze was on the street.
“Look, Astinus,” she said softly. “He comes.”
The sun sank behind the distant mountains, the sky, lit by the afterglow, was a gemlike purple. Servants entered quietly, lighting the fire in the small chamber of Astinus. Even it burned quietly, as if the flames themselves had been taught by the historian to maintain the peaceful repose of the Great Library. Crysania sat once more in the uncomfortable chair, her hands folded once more in her lap. Her outward mien was calm and cool as always. Inwardly, her heart beat with excitement that was visible only by a brightening of her gray eyes.
Born to the noble and wealthy Tarinius family of Palanthas, a family almost as ancient as the city itself, Crysania had received every comfort and benefit money and rank could bestow. Intelligent, strong-willed, she might easily have grown into a stubborn and willful woman. Her wise and loving parents, however, had carefully nurtured and pruned their daughter’s strong spirit so that it had blossomed into a deep and steadfast belief in herself. Crysania had done only one thing in her entire life to grieve her doting parents, but that one thing had cut them deeply. She had turned from an ideal marriage with a fine and noble young man to a life devoted to serving long-forgotten gods.
She first heard the cleric, Elistan, when he came to Palanthas at the end of the War of the Lance. His new religion—or perhaps it should have been called the old religion—was spreading like wildfire through Krynn, because new-born legend credited this belief in old gods with having helped defeat the evil dragons and their masters, the Dragon Highlords.
On first going to hear Elistan talk, Crysania had been skeptical. The young woman—she was in her mid-twenties—had been raised on stories of how the gods had inflicted the Cataclysm upon Krynn, hurling down the fiery mountain that rent the lands asunder and plunged the holy city of Istar into the Blood Sea. After this, so people related, the gods turned from men, refusing to have any more to do with them. Crysania was prepared to listen politely to Elistan, but had arguments at hand to refute his claims.