She was favorably impressed on meeting him. Elistan, at that time, was in the fullness of his power. Handsome, strong, even in his middle years, he seemed like one of the clerics of old, who had ridden to battle—so some legends said—with the mighty knight, Huma. Crysania began the evening finding cause to admire him. She ended on her knees at his feet, weeping in humility and joy, her soul at last having found the anchor it had been missing.
The gods had not turned from men, was the message. It was men who had turned from the gods, demanding in their pride what Huma had sought in humility. The next day, Crysania left her home, her wealth, her servants, her parents, and her betrothed to move into the small, chill house that was the forerunner of the new Temple Elistan planned to build in Palanthas.
Now, two years later, Crysania was a Revered Daughter of Paladine, one of a select few who had been found worthy to lead the church through its youthful growing pangs. It was well the church had this strong, young blood. Elistan had given unstintingly of his life and his energy. Now, it seemed, the god he served so faithfully would soon be summoning his cleric to his side. And when that sorrowful event occurred, many believed Crysania would carry on his work.
Certainly Crysania knew that she was prepared to accept the leadership of the church, but was it enough? As she had told Astinus, the young cleric had long felt her destiny was to perform some great service for the world. Guiding the church through its daily routines, now that the war was over, seemed dull and mundane. Daily she had prayed to Paladine to assign her some hard task. She would sacrifice anything, she vowed, even life itself, in the service of her beloved god.
And then had come her answer.
Now, she waited, in an eagerness she could barely restrain. She was not frightened, not even of meeting this man, said to be the most powerful force for evil now living on the face of Krynn. Had her breeding permitted it, her lip would have curled in a disdainful sneer. What evil could withstand the mighty sword of her faith? What evil could penetrate her shining armor?
Like a knight riding to a joust, wreathed with the garlands of his love, knowing that he cannot possibly lose with such tokens fluttering in the wind, Crysania kept her eyes fixed on the door, eagerly awaiting the tourney’s first blows. When the door opened, her hands—until now calmly folded—clasped together in excitement.
Bertrem entered. His eyes went to Astinus, who sat immovable as a pillar of stone in a hard, uncomfortable chair near the fire.
“The mage, Raistlin Majere,” Bertrem said. His voice cracked on the last syllable. Perhaps he was thinking about the last time he had announced this visitor—the time Raistlin had been dying, vomiting blood on the steps of the Great Library. Astinus frowned at Bertrem’s lack of self-control, and the Aesthetic disappeared back through the door as rapidly as his fluttering robes permitted.
Unconsciously, Crysania held her breath. At first she saw nothing, only a shadow of darkness in the doorway, as if night itself had taken form and shape within the entrance. The darkness paused there.
“Come in, old friend,” Astinus said in his deep, passionless voice.
The shadow was lit by a shimmer of warmth—the firelight gleamed on velvety soft, black robes—and then by tiny sparkles, as the light glinted off silver threads, embroidered runes around a velvet cowl. The shadow became a figure, black robes completely draping the body. For a brief moment, the figure’s only human appendage that could be seen was a thin, almost skeletal hand clutching a wooden staff. The staff itself was topped by a crystal ball, held fast in the grip of a carved golden dragon’s claw.
As the figure entered the room, Crysania felt the cold chill of disappointment. She had asked Paladine for some difficult task! What great evil was there to fight in this? Now that she could see him clearly, she saw a frail, thin man, shoulders slightly stooped, who leaned upon his staff as he walked, as if too weak to move without its aid. She knew his age, he would be about twenty-eight now. Yet he moved like a human of ninety—his steps slow and deliberate, even faltering.
What test of my faith lies in conquering this wretched creature? Crysania demanded of Paladine bitterly. I have no need to fight him. He is being devoured from within by his own evil!
Facing Astinus, keeping his back to Crysania, Raistlin folded back his black hood.
“Greetings again, Deathless One,” he said to Astinus in a soft voice.
“Greetings, Raistlin Majere,” Astinus said without rising. His voice had a faint sardonic note, as if sharing some private joke with the mage. Astinus gestured. “May I present Crysania of the House of Tarinius.”
Crysania gasped, a terrible ache in her chest caused her throat to close, and for a moment she could not draw a breath. Sharp, tingling pins jabbed her fingertips, a chill convulsed her body. Unconsciously, she shrank back in her chair, her hands clenching, her nails digging into her numb flesh.
All she could see before her were two golden eyes shining from the depths of darkness. The eyes were like a gilt mirror, flat, reflective, revealing nothing of the soul within. The pupils—Crysania stared at the dark pupils in rapt horror. The pupils within the golden eyes were the shape of hourglasses! And the face—Drawn with suffering, marked with the pain of the tortured existence the young man had led for seven years, ever since the cruel Tests in the Tower of High Sorcery left his body shattered and his skin tinged gold, the mage’s face was a metallic mask, impenetrable, unfeeling as the golden dragon’s claw upon his staff.
“Revered Daughter of Paladine,” he said in a soft voice, a voice filled with respect and—even reverence.
Crysania started, staring at him in astonishment. Certainly that was not what she had expected.
Still, she could not move. His gaze held her, and she wondered in panic if he had cast a spell upon her. Seeming to sense her fear, he walked across the room to stand before her in an attitude that was both patronizing and reassuring. Looking up, she could see the firelight flickering in his golden eyes.
“Revered Daughter of Paladine,” Raistlin said again, his soft voice enfolding Crysania like the velvety blackness of his robes. “I hope I find you well?” But now she heard bitter, cynical sarcasm in that voice. This she had expected, this she was prepared for. His earlier tone of respect had taken her by surprise, she admitted to herself angrily, but her first weakness was past. Rising to her feet, bringing her eyes level with his, she unconsciously clasped the medallion of Paladine with her hand. The touch of the cool metal gave her courage.
“I do not believe we need to exchange meaningless social amenities,” Crysania stated crisply, her face once more smooth and cold. “We are keeping Astinus from his studies. He will appreciate our completing our business with alacrity.”
“I could not agree more,” the black-robed mage said with a slight twist of his thin lip that might have been a smile. “I have come in response to your request. What is it you want of me?”
Crysania sensed he was laughing at her. Accustomed only to the highest respect, this increased her anger. She regarded him with cold gray eyes. “I have come to warn you, Raistlin Majere, that your evil designs are known to Paladine. Beware, or he will destroy you—”
“How?” Raistlin asked suddenly, and his strange eyes flared with a strange, intense light. “How will he destroy me?” he repeated. “Lightning bolts? Flood and fire? Perhaps another fiery mountain?”
He took another step toward her. Crysania moved coolly away from him, only to back into her chair. Gripping the hard wooden back firmly, she walked around it, then turned to face him.
“It is your own doom you mock,” she replied quietly.
Raistlin’s lip twisted further still, but he continued talking, as if he had not heard her words. “Elistan?” Raistlin’s voice sank to a hissing whisper. “He will send Elistan to destroy me?” The mage shrugged. “But no, surely not. By all reports, the great and holy cleric of Paladine is tired, feeble, dying...”