He told Crysania his thoughts and she listened respectfully. But she had gone to the Tower, drawn by a lure she could not begin to understand—although she told Elistan it was to “save the world.”
“The world is getting on quite well,” Elistan replied gravely. But Crysania did not listen.
“Come inside,” Raistlin said. “Some wine will help banish the evil memories of what you have endured.” He regarded her intently. “You are very brave, Revered Daughter,” he said and she heard no sarcasm in his voice. “Few there are with the strength to survive the terror of the Grove.”
He turned away from her then, and Crysania was glad he did. She felt herself blushing at his praise.
“Keep near me,” he warned as he walked ahead of her, his black robes rustling softly around his ankles. “Keep within the light of my staff.”
Crysania did as she was bidden, noticing as she walked near him how the staff’s light made her white robes shine as coldly as the light of the silver moon, a striking contrast to the strange warmth it shed over Raistlin’s soft velvety black robes. He led her through the dread Gates. She stared at them in curiosity, remembering the gruesome story of the evil mage who had cast himself down upon them, cursing them with his dying breath. Things whispered and jabbered around her. More than once, she turned at the sound, feeling cold fingers upon her neck or the touch of a chill hand upon hers. More than once, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked, there was never anything there. A foul mist rose up from the ground, rank with the smell of decay making her bones ache. She began to shake uncontrollably and when, suddenly, she glanced behind her and saw two disembodied, staring eyes—she took a hurried step forward and slipped her hand around Raistlin’s thin arm.
He regarded her with curiosity and a gentle amusement that made her blush again.
“There is no need to be afraid,” he said simply. “I am master here. I will not let you come to harm.”
“I-I’m not afraid,” she said, though she knew he could feel her body quivering. “I... was just... unsure of my steps, that was all.”
“I beg your pardon, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said, and now she could not be certain if she heard sarcasm in his voice or not. He came to a halt. “It was impolite of me to allow you to walk this unfamiliar ground without offering you my assistance. Do you find the walking easier now?”
“Yes, much,” she said, flushing deeply beneath that strange gaze.
He said nothing, merely smiled. She lowered her eyes, unable to face him, and they resumed walking. Crysania berated herself for her fear all the way to the Tower, but she did not remove her hand from the mage’s arm. Neither of them spoke again until they reached the door to the Tower itself. It was a plain wooden door with runes carved on the outside of its surface. Raistlin said no word, made no motion that Crysania could see, but—at their approach—the door slowly opened. Light streamed out from inside, and Crysania felt so cheered by its bright and welcoming warmth, that—for an instant—she did not see another figure standing silhouetted within it. When she did, she stopped and drew back in alarm.
Raistlin touched her hand with his thin, burning fingers.
“That is only my apprentice, Revered Daughter,” he said. “Dalamar is flesh and blood, he walks among the living—at least for the moment.”
Crysania did not understand that last remark, nor did she pay it much attention, hearing the underlying laughter in Raistlin’s voice. She was too startled by the fact that live people lived here. How silly, she scolded herself. What kind of monster have I pictured this man? He is a man, nothing more. He is human, he is flesh and blood. The thought relieved her, made her relax. Stepping through the doorway, she felt almost herself. She extended her hand to the young apprentice as she would have given it to a new acolyte.
“My apprentice, Dalamar,” Raistlin said, gesturing toward him. “Lady Crysania, Revered Daughter of Paladine.”
“Lady Crysania,” said the apprentice with becoming gravity, accepting her hand and bringing it to’ his lips, bowing slightly. Then he lifted his head, and the black hood that shadowed his face fell back.
“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?”