“He is the most gifted of any in our Order, Lady Crysania,” Dalamar said softly. “He is brilliant, skilled, controlled. Only one has lived who was as powerful—the great Fistandantilus. And my Shalafi is young, only twenty-eight. If he lives, he may well—”
“If he lives?” Crysania repeated, then felt irritated that she had unintentionally let a note of concern creep into her voice. It is right to feel concern, she told herself. After all, he is one of the gods’ creatures. All life is sacred.
“The Art is fraught with danger, my lady,” Dalamar was saying. “And now, if you will excuse me...”
“Certainly,” Crysania murmured.
Bowing again, Dalamar padded quietly from the room, shutting the door behind him. Toying with her wine glass, Crysania stared into the dancing flames, lost in thought. She did not hear the door open—if indeed it did. She felt fingers touching her hair. Shivering, she looked around, only to see Raistlin sitting in a high-backed wooden chair behind his desk.
“Can I send for anything else? Is everything to your liking?” he asked politely.
“Y-yes,” Crysania stammered, setting her wine glass down so that he would not see her hand shake. “Everything is fine. More than fine, actually. Your apprentice—Dalamar? He is quite charming.”
“Isn’t he,” said Raistlin dryly. He placed the tips of the five fingers of each hand together and rested them upon the table. “What marvelous hands you have,” Crysania said, without thinking. “How slender and supple the fingers are, and so delicate.” Suddenly realizing what she had been saying, she flushed and stammered. “B-but I-I suppose that is requisite to your Art—”
“Yes,” Raistlin said, smiling, and this time Crysania thought she saw actual pleasure in his smile. He held his hands to the light cast by the flames. “When I was just a child, I could amaze and delight my brother with the tricks these hands could—even then—perform.” Taking a golden coin from one of the secret pockets of his robes, Raistlin placed the coin upon the knuckles of his hand. Effortlessly, he made it dance and spin and whirl across his hand. It glistened in and out of his fingers. Flipping into the air, it vanished, only to reappear in his other hand. Crysania gasped in delight. Raistlin glanced up at her, and she saw the smile of pleasure twist into one of bitter pain. “Yes,” he said, “it was my one skill, my one talent. It kept the other children amused. Sometimes it kept them from hurting me.”
“Hurting you?” Crysania asked hesitantly, stung by the pain in his voice.
He did not answer at once, his eyes on the golden coin he still held in his hand. Then he drew a deep breath. “I can picture your childhood,” he murmured. “You come from a wealthy family, so they tell me. You must have been beloved, sheltered, protected, given anything you wanted. You were admired, sought after, liked.”
Crysania could not reply. She felt suddenly overwhelmed with guilt.
“How different was my childhood.” Again, that smile of bitter pain. “My nickname was the Sly One. I was sickly and weak. And too smart. They were such fools! Their ambitions so petty—like my brother, who never thought deeper than his food dish! Or my sister, who saw the only way to attain her goals was with her sword. Yes, I was weak. Yes, they protected me. But some day, I vowed I wouldn’t need their protection! I would rise to greatness on my own, using my gift—my magic!”
His hand clenched, his golden-tinted skin turned pale. Suddenly he began to cough, the wrenching, wracking cough that twisted his frail body. Crysania rose to her feet, her heart aching with pain. But he motioned her to sit down. Drawing a cloth from a pocket, he wiped the blood from his lips.
“And this was the price I paid for my magic,” he said when he could speak again. His voice was little more than a whisper. “They shattered my body and gave me this accursed vision, so that all I look upon I see dying before my eyes. But it was worth it, worth it all! For I have what I sought—power. I don’t need them—any of them—anymore.”
“But this power is evil!” Crysania said, leaning forward in her chair and regarding Raistlin earnestly.
“Is it?” asked Raistlin suddenly. His voice was mild. “Is ambition evil? Is the quest for power, for control over others evil? If so, then I fear, Lady Crysania, that you may as well exchange those white robes for black.”
“How dare you?” Crysania cried, shocked. “I don’t—”
“Ah, but you do,” Raistlin said with a shrug. “You would not have worked so hard to rise to the position you have in the church without having your share of ambition, of the desire for power.” Now it was his turn to lean forward. “Haven’t you always said to yourself—there is something great I am destined to do? My life will be different from the lives of others. I am not content to sit and watch the world pass by. I want to shape it, control it, mold it!”
Held fast by Raistlin’s burning gaze, Crysania could not move or utter a word. How could he know? she asked herself, terrified. Can he read the secrets of my heart?
“Is that evil, Lady Crysania?” Raistlin repeated gently, insistently.
Slowly, Crysania shook her head. Slowly, she raised her hand to her throbbing temples. No, it wasn’t evil. Not the way he spoke of it, but something wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t think. She was too confused. All that kept running through her mind was: How alike we are, he and I!
He was silent, waiting for her to speak. She had to say something. Hurriedly, she took a gulp of wine to give herself time to collect her scattered thoughts.
“Perhaps I do have those desires,” she said, struggling to find the words, “but, if so, my ambition is not for myself. I use my skills and talents for others, to help others. I use it for the church—”
“The church!” Raistlin sneered.
Crysania’s confusion vanished, replaced by cold anger. “Yes,” she replied, feeling herself on safe and secure ground, surrounded by the bastion of her faith. “It was the power of good, the power of Paladine, that drove away the evil in the world. It is that power I seek. That power that—”
“Drove away the evil?” Raistlin interrupted.
Crysania blinked. Her thoughts had carried her forward. She hadn’t even been totally aware of what she was saying. “Why, yes—”
“But evil and suffering still remain in the world,” Raistlin persisted.
“Because of such as you!” Crysania cried passionately.
“Ah, no, Revered Daughter,” Raistlin said. “Not through any act of mine. Look—” He motioned her near with one hand, while with the other he reached once again into the secret pockets of his robe.
Suddenly wary and suspicious, Crysania did not move, staring at the object he drew forth. It was a small, round piece of crystal, swirling with color, very like a child’s marble. Lifting a silver stand from where it stood on a corner of his desk, Raistlin placed the marble on top of it. The thing appeared ludicrous, much too small for the ornate stand. Then Crysania gasped. The marble was growing! Or perhaps she was shrinking! She couldn’t be certain. But the glass globe was now the right size and rested comfortably upon the silver stand.
“Look into it,” Raistlin said softly.
“No,” Crysania drew back, staring fearfully at the globe. “What is that?”
“A dragon orb,” Raistlin replied, his gaze holding her fast. “It is the only one left on Krynn. It obeys my commands. I will not allow you to come to harm. Look inside the orb, Lady Crysania—unless you fear the truth.”
“How do I know it will show me the truth?” Crysania demanded, her voice shaking. “How do I know it won’t show me just what you tell it to show me?”
“If you know the way the dragons orbs were made long ago,” Raistlin replied, “you know they were created by all three of the Robes—the White, the Black, and the Red. They are not tools of evil, they are not tools of good. They are everything and nothing. You wear the medallion of Paladine”—the sarcasm had returned—“and you are strong in your faith. Could I force you to see what you did not want to see?”