Caramon’s eyes filled with tears. The beauty of the song pierced his heart. There was hope! Inside the Forest, he would find all the answers! He’d find the help he sought.
“Caramon!” Tasslehoff was jumping up and down with excitement. “Caramon, that’s wonderful! How did you do it? Hear the birds’? Let’s go! Quickly.”
“Crysania—” Caramon said, starting to turn back. “We’ll have to make a litter. You’ll have to help—” But before he could finish, he stopped, staring in astonishment at two white-robed figures, who glided out of the golden woods. Their white hoods were pulled low over their heads, he could not see their faces. Both bowed before him solemnly, then walked across the glade to where Crysania lay in her deathlike sleep. Lifting her still body with ease, they bore her gently back to where Caramon stood. Coming to the edge of the Forest, they stopped, turning their hooded heads, looking at him expectantly.
“I think they’re waiting for you to go in first, Caramon,” Tas said cheerfully. “You go on ahead, I’ll get Bupu.”
The gully dwarf remained standing in the center of the glade, regarding the Forest with deep suspicion, which Caramon, looking at the white-robed figures, suddenly shared.
“Who are you?” he asked.
They did not answer. They simply stood, waiting.
“Who cares who they are!” Tas said, impatiently grabbing hold of Bupu and dragging her along, her sack bumping against her heels.
Caramon scowled. “You go first.” He gestured at the white-robed figures. They said nothing, nor did they move.
“Why are you waiting for me to enter that Forest?” Caramon stepped back a pace. “Go ahead”—he gestured—“take her to the Tower. You can help her. You don’t need me—”
The figures did not speak, but one raised his hand, pointing.
“C’mon, Caramon,” Tas urged. “Look, it’s like he was inviting us!”
They will not bother us, brother... We have been invited! Raistlin’s words, spoken seven years ago.
“Mages invited us. I don’t trust ’em.” Caramon softly repeated the answer he had made then.
Suddenly, the air was filled with laughter—strange, eerie, whispering laughter. Bupu threw her arms around Caramon’s leg, clinging to him in terror. Even Tasslehoff seemed a bit disconcerted. And then came a voice, as Caramon had heard it seven years before.
Does that include me, dear brother?
11
The hideous apparition came closer and closer to her. Crysania was possessed by a fear such as she had never known, a fear she could never have believed existed. As she shrank back before it, Crysania, for the first time in her life, contemplated death—her own death. It was not the peaceful transition to a blessed realm she had always believed existed. It was savage pain and howling darkness, eternal days and nights spent envying the living.
She tried to cry out for help, but her voice failed. There was no help anyway. The drunken warrior lay in a pool of his own blood. Her healing arts had saved him, but he would sleep long hours. The kender could not help her. Nothing could help her against this... On and on the dark figure walked, nearer and nearer he came. Run! her mind screamed. Her limbs would not obey. It was all she could do to creep backward, and then her body seemed to move of its own volition, not through any direction of hers. She could not even look away from him. The orange flickering lights that were his eyes held her fast.
He raised a hand, a spectral hand. She could see through it, see through him, in fact, to the night-shadowed trees behind. The silver moon was in the sky, but it was not its bright light that gleamed off the antique armor of a long-dead Solamnic Knight. The creature shone with an unwholesome light of his own, glowing with the energy of his foul decay. His hand lifted higher and higher, and Crysania knew that when his hand reached a level even with her heart, she would die.
Through lips numb with fear, Crysania called out a name, “Paladine,” she prayed. The fear did not leave her, she still could not wrench her soul away from the terrible gaze of those fiery eyes. But her hand went to her throat. Grasping hold of the medallion, she ripped it from her neck. Feeling her strength draining, her consciousness ebbing, Crysania raised her hand. The platinum medallion caught Solinari’s light and flared blue-white. The hideous apparition spoke—“Die!”
Crysania felt herself falling. Her body hit the ground, but the ground did not catch her. She was falling through it, or away from it. Falling... falling... closing her eyes... sleeping... dreaming...
She was in a grove of oak trees. White hands clutched at her feet, gaping mouths sought to drink her blood. The darkness was endless, the trees mocked her, their creaking branches laughing horribly.
“Crysania,” said a soft, whispering voice.
What was that, speaking her name from the shadows of the oaks? She could see it, standing in a clearing, robed in black.
“Crysania,” the voice repeated.
“Raistlin!” She sobbed in thankfulness. Stumbling out of the terrifying grove of oak trees, fleeing the bone-white hands that sought to drag her down to join their endless torment, Crysania felt thin arms hold her. She felt the strange burning touch of slender fingers.
“Rest easy, Revered Daughter,” the voice said softly. Trembling in his arms, Crysania closed her eyes. “Your trials are over. You have come through the Grove safely. There was nothing to fear, lady. You had my charm.”
“Yes,” Crysania murmured. Her hand touched her forehead where his lips had pressed against her skin. Then, realizing what she had been through, and realizing, too, that she had allowed him to see her give way to weakness, Crysania pushed the mage’s arms away. Standing back from him, she regarded him coldly.
“Why do you surround yourself with such foul things?” she demanded. “Why do you feel the need for such... such guardians!” Her voice quavered in spite of herself.
Raistlin looked at her mildly, his golden eyes shining in the light of his staff. “What kind of guardians do you surround yourself with, Revered Daughter?” he asked. “What torment would I endure if I set foot upon the Temple’s sacred grounds?”
Crysania opened her mouth for a scathing reply, but the words died on her lips. Indeed, the Temple was consecrated ground. Sacred to Paladine, if any who worshipped the Queen of Darkness entered its precincts, they would feel Paladine’s wrath. Crysania saw Raistlin smile, his thin lips twitch. She felt her skin flush. How was he capable of doing this to her’? Never had any man been able to humiliate her so! Never had any man cast her mind in such turmoil!
Ever since the evening she had met Raistlin at the home of Astinus, Crysania had not been able to banish him from her thoughts. She had looked forward to visiting the Tower this night, looked forward to it and dreaded it at the same time. She had told Elistan all about her talk with Raistlin, all—that is—except the “charm” he had given her. Somehow, she could not bring herself to tell Elistan that Raistlin had touched her, had—No, she wouldn’t mention it.
Elistan had been upset enough as it was. He knew Raistlin, he had known the young man of old—the mage having been among the companions who rescued the cleric from Verminaard’s prison at Pax Tharkas. Elistan had never liked or trusted Raistlin, but then no one had, not really. The cleric had not been surprised to hear that the young mage had donned the Black Robes. He was not surprised to hear about Crysania’s warning from Paladine. He was surprised at Crysania’s reaction to meeting Raistlin, however. He was surprised—and alarmed—at hearing Crysania had been invited to visit Raistlin in the Tower—a place where now beat the heart of evil in Krynn. Elistan would have forbidden Crysania to go,. but freedom of will was a teaching of the gods.