He is truly a magnificently built man, Crysania thought, then shuddered. Once again, she could see him entering that room beneath the doomed Temple, the bloody sword in his hand, death in his eyes...
“The water’s ready,” Caramon announced, and Crysania returned to the Tower with a start.
“Let me fix the potion,” she said quickly, thankful for something to do.
Raistlin opened his eyes as she came near him. Looking into them, she saw only a reflection of herself, pale, wan, disheveled. Wordlessly, he held out a small, velvet pouch. As she took it, he gestured to his brother, then sank back, exhausted.
Taking the pouch, Crysania turned to find Caramon watching her, a look of mingled perplexity and sadness giving his face an unaccustomed gravity. But all he said was, “Put a few of the leaves in this cup, then fill it with the hot water.”
“What is it?” Crysania asked curiously. Opening the pouch, her nose wrinkled at the strange, bitter scent of the herbs. Caramon poured the water into the cup she held.
“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “Raist always gathered the herbs and mixed them himself. Par-Salian gave the recipe to him after... after the Test, when he was so sick. I know”—he smiled at her—“it smells awful and must taste worse.” His glance went almost fondly to his brother. “But it will help him.” His voice grated harshly. Abruptly, he turned away.
Crysania carried the steaming potion to Raistlin, who clutched at it with trembling hands and eagerly brought the cup to his lips. Sipping at it, he breathed a sigh of relief and, once more, sank back among the cushions of the chair.
An awkward silence fell. Caramon was staring down at the fire once more. Raistlin, too, looked into the flames and drank his potion without comment. Crysania returned to her own chair to do what each of the others must be doing, she realized—trying to sort out thoughts, trying to make some sense of what had happened.
Hours ago, she had been standing in a doomed city, a city destined to die by the wrath of the gods. She had been on the verge of complete mental and physical collapse. She could admit this now, though she could not have then. How fondly she had imagined her soul to be girded round by the steel walls of her faith. Not steel, she saw now, with shame and regret. Not steel, but ice.
The ice had melted in the harsh light of truth, leaving her exposed and vulnerable. If it had not been for Raistlin, she would have perished back there in Istar.
Raistlin... Her face flushed. This was something else she had never thought to contend with—love, passion. She had been betrothed to a young man, years ago, and she had been quite fond of him. But she had not loved him. She had, in fact, never really believed in love—the kind of love that existed in tales told to children. To be that wrapped up in another person seemed a handicap, a weakness to be avoided. She remembered something Tanis Half-Elven had said about his wife, Laurana—what was it? “When she is gone, it is like I’m missing my right arm...”
What romantic twaddle, she had thought at the time. But now she asked herself, did she feel that way about Raistlin? Her thoughts went to the last day in Istar, the terrible storm, the flashing of the lightning, and how she had suddenly found herself in Raistlin’s arms. Her heart contracted with the swift ache of desire as she felt, once again, his strong embrace. But there was also a sharp fear, a strange revulsion. Unwillingly, she remembered the feverish gleam in his eyes, his exultation in the storm—as if he himself had called it down.
It was like the strange smell of the spell components that clung to him—the pleasant smell of roses and spice, but mingled with it—the cloying odor of decaying creatures, the acrid smell of sulphur.
Even as her body longed for his touch, something in her soul shrank away in horror...
Caramon’s stomach rumbled loudly. The sound, in the deathly still chamber, was startling.
Looking up, her thoughts shattered, Crysania saw the big man blush deeply in embarrassment.
Suddenly reminded of her own hunger—she couldn’t remember the last time she had been able to choke down a mouthful of food—Crysania began to laugh.
Caramon looked at her dubiously, perhaps thinking her hysterical. At the puzzled look on the big man’s face, Crysania only laughed harder. It felt good to laugh, in fact. The darkness in the room seemed pushed back, the shadows lifted from her soul. She laughed merrily and, finally, caugh t by the infectious nature of her mirth, Caramon began to laugh, too, though he still shook his head, his face red.
“Thus do the gods remind us we’re human,” Crysania said when she could speak, wiping the tears from her eyes. “Here we are, in the most horrible place imaginable, surrounded by creatures waiting eagerly to devour us whole, and all I can think of right now is how desperately hungry I am!”
“We need food,” said Caramon soberly, suddenly serious. “And decent clothing, if we’re going to be here long.” He looked at his brother. “How long are we going to be here?”
“Not long,” Raistlin replied. He had finished the potion, and his voice was already stronger. Some color had returned to his pale face. “I need time to rest, to recover my strength, and t o complete my studies. This lady”—his glittering gaze went to Crysania, and she shivered at the sudden impersonal tone in his voice—“needs to commune with her god and renew her faith. Then, we will be ready to enter the Portal. At which time, my brother, you may go where you will.”
Crysania felt Caramon’s questioning glance, but she kept her face smooth and expressionless, though Raistlin’s cool, casual mention of entering the dread Portal, of going into the Abyss and facing the Queen of Darkness froze her heart. She refused to meet Caramon’s eyes, therefore, and stared into the fire.
The big man sighed, then he cleared his throat. “Will you send me home?” he asked his twin.
“If that is where you wish to go.”
“Yes,” Caramon said, his voice deep and stern. “I want to go back to Tika and to... talk to Tanis.”
His voice broke. “I’ll have to... to explain, somehow, about Tas dying... back there in Istar... .”
“In the name of the gods, Caramon,” Raistlin snapped, making an irritated motion with his slender hand, “I thought we had seen some glimmer of an adult lurking in that hulking body of yours! You will undoubtedly return to find Tasslehoff sitting in your kitchen, regaling Tika with one stupid story after another, having robbed you blind in the meantime!”
“What?” Caramon’s face grew pale, his eyes widened.
“Listen to me, my brother!” Raistlin hissed, pointing a finger at Caramon. “The kender doomed himself when he disrupted Par-Salian’s spell. There is a very good reason for the prohibition against those of his race and the races of dwarves and gnomes traveling back in time. Since they were created by accident, through a quirk of fate and the god, Reorx’s, carelessness, these races are not within the flow of time, as are humans, elves, and ogres—those races first created by the gods.
“Thus, the kender could have altered time, as he was quick to realize when I inadvertently let slip that fact. I could not allow that to happen! Had he stopped the Cataclysm, as he intended, who knows what might have occurred? Perhaps we might have returned to our own time to find the Queen of Darkness reigning supreme and unchallenged, since the Cataclysm was sent, in part, to prepare the world to face her coming and give it the strength to defy her—”
“So you murdered him!” Caramon interrupted hoarsely.
“I told him to get the device”—Raistlin bit the words—“I taught him how to use it, and I sent him home!”
Caramon blinked. “You did?” he asked suspiciously.
Raistlin sighed and laid his head back into the cushions of the chair. “I did, but I don’t expect you to believe me, my brother.” His hands plucked feebly at the black robes he wore. “Why should you, after all?”