“No!” Crysania cried, then bit her lip, angry that this man had goaded her into showing her feelings. She paused, drawing a deep breath. “Paladine’s ways are not to be questioned or mocked,” she said with icelike calm, but she could not help her voice from softening almost imperceptibly. “And Elistan’s health is no concern of yours.”
“Perhaps I take a greater interest in his health than you realize,” Raistlin replied with what was, to Crysania, a sneering smile.
Crysania felt blood pound in her temples. Even as he had spoken, the mage moved around the chair, coming nearer the young woman. He was so close to her now that Crysania could feel a strange, unnatural heat radiate from his body through his black robes. She could smell a faintly cloying but pleasant scent about him. A spiciness—His spell components, she realized suddenly. The thought sickened and disgusted her. Holding the medallion of Paladine in her hand, feeling its smoothly chiseled edges bite into her flesh, she moved away from him again.
“Paladine came to me in a dream—” she said haughtily.
Raistlin laughed.
Few there were who had ever heard the mage laugh, and those who had heard it remembered it always, resounding through their darkest dreams. It was thin, high-pitched, and sharp as a blade. It denied all goodness, mocked everything right and true, and it pierced Crysania’s soul.
“Very well,” Crysania said, staring at him with a disdain that hardened her bright, gray eyes to steel blue, “I have done my best to divert you from this course. I have given you fair warning. Your destruction is now in the hands of the gods.”
Suddenly, perhaps realizing the fearlessness with which she confronted him, Raistlin’s laughter ceased. Regarding her intently, his golden eyes narrowed. Then he smiled, a secret inner smile of such strange joy that Astinus, watching the exchange between the two, rose to his feet. The historian’s body blocked the light of the fire. His shadow fell across them both. Raistlin started, almost in alarm. Half-turning, he regarded Astinus with a burning, menacing stare.
“Beware, old friend,” the mage warned, “or would you meddle with history?”
“I do not meddle,” Astinus replied, “as you well know. I am an observer, a recorder. In all things, I am neutral. I know your schemes, your plans as I know the schemes and plans of all who draw breath this day. Therefore, hear me, Raistlin Majere, and heed this warning. This one is beloved of the gods—as her name implies.”
“Beloved of the gods? So are we all, are we not, Revered Daughter?” Raistlin asked, turning to face Crysania once more. His voice was soft as the velvet of his robes. “Is that not written in the Disks of Mishakal? Is that not what the godly Elistan teaches?”
“Yes,” Crysania said slowly, regarding him with suspicion, expecting more mockery. But his metallic face was serious, he had the appearance, suddenly, of a scholar—intelligent, wise. “So it is written.” She smiled coldly. “I am pleased to find you have read the sacred Disks, though you obviously have not learned from them. Do you not recall what is said in the—”
She was interrupted by Astinus, snorting.
“I have been kept from my studies long enough.” The historian crossed the marble floor to the door of the antechamber. “Ring for Bertrem when you are ready to depart. Farewell, Revered Daughter. Farewell... old friend.”
Astinus opened the door. The peaceful silence of the library flowed into the room, bathing Crysania in refreshing coolness. She felt herself in control and she relaxed. Her hand let loose of the medallion. Formally and gracefully, she bowed her farewell to Astinus, as did Raistlin. And then the door shut behind the historian. The two were alone.
For long moments, neither spoke. Then Crysania, feeling Paladine’s power flowing through her, turned to face Raistlin. “I had forgotten that it was you and those with you who recovered the sacred Disks. Of course, you would have read them. I would like to discuss them with you further but, henceforth, in any future dealings we might have, Raistlin Majere,” she said in her cool voice, “I will ask you to speak of Elistan more respectfully. He—”
She stopped amazed, watching in alarm as the mage’s slender body seemed to crumble before her eyes.
Wracked by spasms of coughing, clutching his chest, Raistlin gasped for breath. He staggered. If it had not been for the staff he leaned upon, he would have fallen to the floor. Forgetting her aversion and her disgust, reacting instinctively, Crysania reached out and, putting her hands upon his shoulders, murmured a healing prayer. Beneath her hands, the black robes were soft and warm. She could feel Raistlin’s muscles twisting in spasms, sense his pain and suffering. Pity filled her heart.
Raistlin jerked away from her touch, shoving her to one side. His coughing gradually eased. Able to breathe freely once more, he regarded her with scorn.
“Do not waste your prayers on me, Revered Daughter,” he said bitterly. Pulling a soft cloth from his robes, he dabbed his lips and Crysania saw that it came away stained with blood. “There is no cure for my malady. This is the sacrifice, the price I paid for my magic.”
“I don’t understand,” she murmured. Her hands twitched, as she remembered vividly the velvety soft smoothness of the black robes, and she unconsciously clasped her fingers behind her back.
“Don’t you’?” Raistlin asked, staring deep into her soul with his strange, golden eyes. “What was the sacrifice you made for your power?”
A faint flush, barely visible in the dying firelight, stained Crysania cheeks with blood, much as the mage’s lips were stained. Alarmed at this invasion of her being, she averted her face, her eyes looking once more out the window. Night had fallen over Palanthas. The silver moon, Solinari, was a sliver of light in the dark sky. The red moon that was its twin had not yet risen. The black moon—She caught herself wondering, where is it? Can he truly see it?
“I must go,” Raistlin said, his breath rasping in his throat. “These spasms weaken me. I need rest.”
“Certainly.” Crysania felt herself calm once more. All the ends of her emotions tucked back neatly into place, she turned to face him again. “I thank you for coming—”
“But our business is not concluded,” Raistlin said softly. “I would like a chance to prove to you that these fears of your god are unfounded. I have a suggestion. Come visit me in the Tower of High Sorcery. There you will see me among my books and understand my studies. When you do, your mind will be at ease. As it teaches in the Disks, we fear only that which is unknown.” He took a step nearer her.
Astounded at his proposal, Crysania’s eyes opened wide. She tried to move away from him, but she had inadvertently let herself become trapped by the window. “I cannot go... to the Tower,” she faltered as his nearness smothered her, stole her breath. She tried to walk around him, but he moved his staff slightly, blocking her path. Coldly, she continued, “The spells laid upon it keep out all—”
“Except those I choose to admit,” Raistlin whispered. Folding the blood-stained cloth, he tucked it back into a secret pocket of his robes. Then, reaching out, he took hold of Crysania’s hand.
“How brave you are, Revered Daughter,” he commented. “You do not tremble at my evil touch.”
“Paladine is with me,” Crysania replied disdainfully.
Raistlin smiled, a warm smile, dark and secret—a smile for just the two of them. It fascinated Crysania. He drew her near to him. Then, he dropped her hand. Resting the staff against the chair, he reached out and took hold of her head with his slender hands, placing his fingers over the white hood she wore. Now, Crysania trembled at his touch, but she could not move, she could not speak or do anything more than stare at him in a wild fear she could neither suppress nor understand.