Caramon glanced around at her and, for the first time, it occurred to Crysania what she must look like. Wrapped in a rotting black velvet curtain, her white robes torn and stained with blood, black with dust and ash from the floor. Involuntarily, her hand went to her hair—once so smooth, carefully braided and coiled. Now it hung about her face in straggling wisps. She could feel the dried tears upon her cheeks, the dirt, the blood...
Self-consciously, she wiped her hand across her face and tried to pat back her hair. Then, realizing how futile and even stupid she must look, and angered still further by Caramon’s pitying expression, she drew herself up with shabby dignity.
“So, I am no longer the marble maiden you first met,” she said haughtily, “just as you are no longer the sodden drunk. It seems we have both learned a thing or two on our journey.”
“I know I have,” Caramon said gravely.
“Have you?” Crysania retorted. “I wonder! Did you learn as I did—that the mages sent me back in time, knowing that I would not return?”
Caramon stared at her. She smiled grimly.
“No. You were unaware of that small fact, or so your brother said. The time device could be used by only one person—the person to whom it was given—you! The mages sent me back in time to die— because they feared me!”
Caramon frowned. He opened his mouth, closed it, then shook his head. “You could have left Istar with that elf who came for you.”
“Would you have gone?” Crysania demanded. “Would you have given up your life in our time if you could help it? No! Am I so different?”
Caramon’s frown deepened and he started to reply, but at that moment, Raistlin coughed. Glancing at the mage, Crysania sighed and said, “You better build the fire, or we’ll all perish anyway.” Turning her back on Caramon, who still stood regarding her silently, she walked over to his brother.
Looking at the frail mage, Crysania wondered if he had heard. She wondered if he were even still conscious.
He was conscious, but if Raistlin was at all aware of what had passed between the other two, he appeared to be too weak to take any interest in it. Pouring some of the water into a cracked bowl, Crysania knelt down beside him. Tearing a piece from the cleanest portion of her robe, she wiped his face; it burned with fever even in the chill room.
Behind her, she heard Caramon gathering up bits of the broken wooden furniture and stacking it in the grate.
“I need something for tinder,” the big man muttered to himself. “Ah, these books—”
At that, Raistlin’s eyes flared open, his head moved and he tried feebly to rise.
“Don’t, Caramon!” Crysania cried, alarmed. Caramon stopped, a book in his hand.
“Dangerous, my brother!” Raistlin gasped weakly. “Spellbooks! Don’t touch them... .”
His voice failed, but the gaze of his glittering eyes was fixed on Caramon with a look of such apparent concern that even Caramon seemed taken aback. Mumbling something unintelligible, the big man dropped the book and began to search about the desk. Crysania saw Raistlin’s eyes close in relief.
“Here’s—Looks like... letters,” Caramon said after a moment of shuffling through paper on the floor. “Would—would these be all right?” he asked gruffly.
Raistlin nodded wordlessly, and, within moments, Crysania heard the crackling of flame. Lacquer-finished, the wood of the broken furniture caught quickly, and soon the fire burned with a bright, cheering light. Glancing into the shadows, Crysania saw the pallid faces withdraw—but they did not leave.
“We must move Raistlin near the fire,” she said, standing up, “and he said something about a potion—”
“Yes,” Caramon answered tonelessly. Coming to stand beside Crysania, he stared down at his brother. Then he shrugged. “Let him magic himself over there if that’s what he wants.”
Crysania’s eyes flashed in anger. She turned to Caramon, scathing words on her lips, but, at a weak gesture from Raistlin, she bit her lower lip and kept silent.
“You pick an inopportune time to grow up, my brother,” the mage whispered.
“Maybe,” said Caramon slowly, his face filled with unutterable sorrow. Shaking his head, he walked back over to stand by the fire. “Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.”
Crysania, watching Raistlin’s gaze follow his brother, was startled to see him smile a swift, secret smile and nod in satisfaction. Then, as he looked up at her, the smile vanished quickly. Lifting one arm; he motioned her to come near him.
“I can stand,” he breathed, “with your help.”
“Here, you’ll need your staff,” she said, extending her hand for it.
“Don’t touch it!” Raistlin ordered, catching hold of her hand in his. “No,” he repeated more gently, coughing until he could scarcely breathe. “Other hands... touch it... light fails...”
Shivering involuntarily, Crysania cast a swift glance around the room. Raistlin, seeing her, and seeing the shimmering shapes hovering just outside the light of the staff, shook his head. “No, I do not believe they would attack us,” he said softly as Crysania put her arms around him and helped him to rise. “They know who I am.” His lip curled in a sneer at this, and he choked. “They know who I am,” he repeated more firmly, “and they dare not cross me. But—” he coughed again, and leaned heavily upon Crysania, one arm around her shoulder, the other hand clutching his staff—“it will be safer to keep the light of the staff burning.”
The mage staggered as he spoke and nearly fell. Crysania paused to let him catch his breath.
Her own breath was coming more rapidly than normal, revealing the confused tangle of her emotions. Hearing the harsh rattle of Raistlin’s labored breathing, she was consumed with pity for his weakness. Yet, she could feel. the burning heat of the body pressed so near hers. There was the intoxicating scent of his spell components—rose petals, spice—and his black robes were soft to the touch, softer than the curtain around her shoulders. His gaze met hers as they stood there; for a moment, the mirrorlike surface of his eyes cracked and she saw warmth and passion. His arm around her tightened reflexively, drawing her closer without seeming to mean to do so.
Crysania flushed, wanting desperately to both run away and stay forever in that warm embrace.
Quickly, she lowered her gaze, but it was too late. She felt Raistlin stiffen. Angrily, he withdrew his arm. Pushing her aside, he gripped his staff for support.
But he was still too weak. He staggered and started to fall. Crysania moved to help him, but suddenly a huge body interposed itself between her and the mage. Strong arms caught Raistlin up as if he were no more than a child. Caramon carried his brother to a frayed and blackened, heavily cushioned chair he had dragged near the fire.
For a few moments, Crysania could not move from where she stood, leaning against the desk. It was only when she realized that she was alone in the darkness, outside the light of both fire and staff, that she walked hurriedly over near the fire herself.
“Sit down, Lady Crysania,” said Caramon, drawing up another chair and beating the dust and ash off with his hands as best he could.
“Thank you,” she murmured, trying, for some reason, to avoid the big man’s gaze. Sinking down into the chair, she huddled near the blaze, staring fixedly into the flames until she felt she had regained some of her composure.
When she was able to look around, she saw Raistlin lying back in his chair, his eyes closed, his breathing ragged. Caramon was heating water in a battered iron pot that he had dragged, from the looks of it, out of the ashes of the fireplace. He stood before it, staring intently into the water.
The firelight glistened on his golden armor, glowed on his smooth, tan skin. His muscles rippled as he flexed his great arms to keep warm.