Confused and frightened, Crysania lifted the medallion. It did not glow. It did nothing. The metal felt cold in her hand. Standing in the center of the room, holding the medallion, her teeth chattering, she willed herself to walk to a window.
“If I don’t,” she muttered through stiff lips, “I’ll die of the cold. We’ll all die,” she added, her gaze going back to the brothers. Raistlin wore his black velvet robes, but she remembered the icy feel of his hand in hers. Caramon was still dressed as he had been for the gladiator games in little more than golden armor and a loincloth.
Lifting her chin, Crysania cast a defiant glance at the unseen, whispering things that lurked around her, then she walked steadfastly out of the circle of magical light shed by Raistlin’s staff.
Almost instantly, the darkness came alive! The whispers grew louder and, in horror, she realized she could understand the words!
How loud your heart is calling, love,
How close the darkness at your breast,
How hectic are the rivers, love,
Drawn through your dying wrist.
And love, what heat your frail skin hides,
As pure as salt, as sweet as death,
And in the dark the red moon rides
The foxfire of your breath.
There was a touch of chill fingers on her skin. Crysania started in terror and shrank back, only to see nothing there! Nearly sick with fear and the horror of the gruesome love song of the dead, she could not move for a long moment.
“No!” she said angrily. “I will go on! These creatures of evil shall not stop me! I am a cleric of Paladine! Even if my god has abandoned me, I will not abandon my faith!”
Raising her head, Crysania thrust out her hand as though she would actually part the darkness like a curtain. Then she continued to walk to the window. The hiss of whispers sounded around her, she heard eerie laughter, but nothing harmed her, nothing touched her. Finally, after a journey that seemed miles long, she reached the windows.
Clinging to the curtains, shaking, her legs weak, she drew them aside and looked out, hoping to see the lights of the city of Palanthas to comfort her. There are other living beings out there, she said to herself, pressing her face against the glass. I’ll see the lights—
But the prophecy had not yet been fulfilled. Raistlin—as master of the past and the present—had not yet returned with power to claim the Tower as would happen in the future. And so the Tower remained cloaked in impenetrable darkness, as though a perpetual black fog hung about it. If the lights of the beautiful city of Palanthas glowed, she could not see them.
With a bleak sigh, Crysania grasped hold of the cloth and yanked. The rotting fabric gave way almost instantly, nearly burying her in a shroud of velvet brocade as the curtains tumbled down around her. Thankfully, she wrapped the heavy material around her shoulders like a cloak, huddling gratefully in its warmth.
Clumsily tearing down another curtain, she dragged it back across the dark room, hearing it scrape against the floor as it collected broken pieces of furniture on its way.
The staff’s magical light gleamed, guiding her through the darkness. Reaching it finally, she collapsed upon the floor, shaking with exhaustion and the reaction to her terror.
She hadn’t realized until now how tired she was. She had not slept in nights, ever since the storm began in Istar. Now that she was warmer, the thought of wrapping up in the curtain and slipping into oblivion was irresistibly tempting.
“Stop it!” she ordered herself. Forcing herself to stand up, she dragged the curtain over to Caramon and knelt beside him. She covered him with the heavy fabric, pulling it up over his broad shoulders. His chest was still, he was barely breathing. Placing her cold hand on his neck, she felt for the lifebeat. It was slow and irregular. And then she saw marks upon his neck, dead white marks—as of fleshless lips.
The disembodied head floated in Crysania’s memory. Shuddering, she banished it from her thoughts and, wrapped in the curtain, placed her hands upon Caramon’s forehead.
“Paladine,” she prayed softly, “if you have not turned from your cleric in anger, if you will only try to understand that what she does she does to honor you, if you can part this terrible darkness long enough to grant this one prayer—heal this man! If his destiny has not been fulfilled, if there is still something more he must do, grant him health. If not, then gather his soul gently to your arms, Paladine, that he may dwell eternally—”
Crysania could not go on. Her strength gave out. Weary, drained by terror and her own internal struggles, lost and alone in the vast darkness, she let her head sink into her hands and began to cry the bitter sobs of one who sees no hope.
And then she felt a hand touch hers. She started in terror, but this hand was strong and warm. “There now, Tika,” said a deep, sleepy sounding voice. “It’ll be all right. Don’t cry.”
Lifting her tear-stained face, Crysania saw Caramon’s chest rise and fall with deep breaths. His face lost its deathly pallor, the white marks on his neck faded. Patting her hand soothingly, he smiled.
“It’s jus’ a bad dream, Tika,” he mumbled. “Be all gone … by morning.…”
Gathering the curtain up around his neck, snuggling in its warmth, Caramon gave a great, gaping yawn and rolled over onto his side to drift into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Too tired and numb even to offer thanks, Crysania could only sit and watch the big man sleep for a moment. Then a sound caught her ear—the sound of water dripping! Turning, she saw—for the first time—a glass beaker resting on the edge of the desk. The beaker’s long neck was broken and it lay upon its side, its mouth hanging over the edge. It had been empty a long time apparently, its contents spilled one hundred years before. But now it shone with a clear liquid that dripped upon the floor, gently, one drop at a time, each drop sparkling in the light of the staff.
Reaching out her hand, Crysania caught some of the drops in her palm, then lifted her hand hesitantly to her lips.
“Water!” she breathed.
The taste was faintly bitter, almost salty, but it seemed to her the most delicious water she had ever drunk. Forcing her aching body to move, she poured more water into her hand, gulping thirstily. Standing the beaker upright on the desk, she saw the water level rise again, replacing what she had taken.
Now she could thank Paladine with words that rose from the very depths of her being, so deep that she could not speak them. Her fear of the darkness and the creatures in it vanished. Her god had not abandoned her—he was with her still, even though—perhaps—she had disappointed him.
Her fears at ease, she took a final look at Caramon. Seeing him sleeping peacefully, the lines of pain smoothed from his face, she turned from him and walked over to where his brother lay huddled in his robes, his lips blue with cold.
Lying down beside the mage, knowing that the heat of their bodies would warm them both, Crysania wrapped the curtain over them and, resting her head on Raistlin’s shoulder, she closed her eyes and let the darkness enfold her.
CHAPTER
3
“She called him ‘Raistlin!’ ”
“But then—‘Fistandantilus!’ ”
“How can we be certain? This is not right! He came not through the Grove, as was foretold. He came not with power! And these others? He was supposed to come alone!”
“Yet sense his magic! I dare not defy him.…”
“Not even for such rich reward?”
“The blood smell has driven you mad! If it is he, and he discovers you have feasted on his chosen, he will send you back to the everlasting darkness where you will dream always of warm blood and never taste it!”
“And if it is not, and we fail in our duties to guard this place, then She will come in her wrath and make that fate seem pleasant!”
Silence. Then,
“There is a way we can make certain.…”
“It is dangerous. He is weak, we might kill him.”
“We must know! Better for him to
die than for us to fail in our duty to Her Dark Majesty.”
“Yes.… His death could be explained. His life … maybe not.”
Cold, searing pain penetrated the layers of unconsciousness like slivers of ice piercing his brain. Raistlin struggled in their grasp, fighting through the fog of sickness and exhaustion to return for one brief moment to conscious awareness. Opening his eyes, fear nearly suffocated him as he saw two pallid heads floating above him, staring at him with eyes of vast darkness. Their hands were on his chest—it was the touch of those icy fingers that tore through his soul.
Looking into those eyes, the mage knew what they sought and sudden terror seized him. “No,” he spoke without breath, “I will not live that again!”
“You will. We must know!” was all they said.
Anger at this outrage gripped Raistlin. Snarling a bitter curse, he tried to raise his arms from the floor to wrest the ghostly hands from their deadly grip. But it was useless. His muscles refused to respond, a finger twitched, nothing more.
Fury and pain and bitter frustration made him shriek, but it was a sound no one heard—not even himself. The hands tightened their grasp, the pain stabbed him, and he sank—not into darkness—but into remembrance.
There were no windows in the Learning Room where the seven apprentice magic-users worked that morning. No sunlight was admitted, nor was the light of the two moons—silver and red. As for the third moon, the black moon, its presence could be felt here as elsewhere on Krynn without being seen.
The room was lit by thick beeswax candles that stood in silver candleholders on the table. The candles could thus be easily picked up and carried about to suit the convenience of the apprentices as they went about their studies.
This was the only room in the great castle of Fistandantilus lit by candles. In all others, glass globes with continual light spells cast upon them hovered in the air, shedding magical radiance to lighten the gloom that was perpetual in this dark fortress. The globes were not used in the Learning Room, however, for one very good reason—if brought into this room, their light would instantly fail—a Dispel Magic spell was in constant effect here. Thus the need for candles and the need to keep out any influence that might be gleaned from the sun or the two light-shedding moons.
Six of the apprentices sat near each other at one table, some talking together, a few studying in silence. The seventh sat apart, at a table far across the room. Occasionally one of the six would raise his head and cast an uneasy glance at the one who sat apart, then lower his head quickly, for, no matter who looked or at what time, the seventh always seemed to be staring back at them.
The seventh found this amusing, and he indulged in a bitter smile. Raistlin had not found much to smile about during these months he had been living in the castle of Fistandantilus. It had not been an easy time for him. Oh, it had been simple enough to maintain the deception, keeping Fistandantilus from guessing his true identity, concealing his true powers, making it seem as if he were simply one of this group of fools working to gain the favor of the great wizard and thus become his apprentice.
Deception was life’s blood to Raistlin. He even enjoyed his little games of oneupsmanship with the apprentices, always doing things just a little bit better, always keeping them nervous, offguard. He enjoyed his game with Fistandantilus, too. He could sense the archmage watching him. He knew what the great wizard was thinking—who is this apprentice? Where does he get the power that the archmage could feel burn within the young man but could not define.
Sometimes Raistlin thought he could detect Fistandantilus studying his face, as though thinking it looked familiar.…
No, Raistlin enjoyed the game. But it was totally unexpected that he come upon something he had not enjoyed. And that was to be forcibly reminded of the most unhappy time of his life—his old school days.
The Sly One—that had been his nickname among the apprentices at his old Master’s school. Never liked, never trusted, feared even by his own Master, Raistlin spent a lonely, embittered youth. The only person who ever cared for him had been his twin brother, Caramon, and his love was so patronizing and smothering that Raistlin often found the hatred of his classmates easier to accept.
And now, even though he despised these idiots seeking to please a Master who would—in the end—only murder the one chosen, even though he enjoyed fooling them and taunting them, Raistlin still felt a pang sometimes, in the loneliness of the night, when he heard them together, laughing.…
Angrily, he reminded himself that this was all beneath his concern. He had a greater goal to achieve. He had to concentrate, conserve his strength. For today was the day, the day Fistandantilus would choose his apprentice.
You six will leave, Raistlin thought to himself. You will leave hating and despising me, and none of you will ever know that one of you owes me his life!
The door to the Learning Room opened with a creak, sending a jolt of alarm through the six black-robed figures sitting at the table. Raistlin, watching them with a twisted smile, saw the same sneering smile reflected on the wizened, gray face of the man who stood in the doorway.
The wizard’s glittering gaze went to each of the six in turn, causing each to pale and lower his hooded head while hands toyed with spell components or clenched in nervousness.
Finally, Fistandantilus turned his black eyes to the seventh apprentice, who sat apart. Raistlin met his gaze without flinching, his twisted smile twisted further—into mockery. Fistandantilus’s brows contracted. In swift anger, he slammed the door shut. The six apprentices started at the booming sound that shattered the silence.
The wizard walked to the front of the Learning Room, his steps slow and faltering. He leaned upon a staff and his old bones creaked as he lowered himself into a chair. The wizard’s gaze went once more to the six apprentices seated before him and, as he looked at them—at their youthful, healthy bodies—one of Fistandantilus’s withered hands raised to caress a pendant he wore on a long, heavy chain around his neck. It was an odd-looking pendant—a single, oval bloodstone set in plain silver.
Often the apprentices discussed this pendant among themselves, wondering what it did. It was the only ornamentation Fistandantilus ever wore, and all knew it must be highly valuable. Even the lowest level apprentice could sense the powerful spells of protection and warding laid upon it, guarding it from every form of magic. What did it do? they whispered, and their speculations ranged from drawing beings from the celestial planes to communicating with Her Dark Majesty herself.
One of their number, of course, could have told them. Raistlin knew what it did. But he kept his knowledge to himself.
Fistandantilus’s gnarled and trembling hand closed over the bloodstone eagerly, as his hungry gaze went from one apprentice to the other. Raistlin could have sworn the wizard licked his lips, and the young mage felt a moment of sudden fear.
What if I fail? he asked himself, shuddering. He is powerful! The most powerful wizard who ever lived! Am I strong enough? What if—
“Begin the test,” Fistandantilus said in a cracked voice, his gaze going to the first of the six.
Firmly, Raistlin banished his fears. This was what he had worked a lifetime to attain. If he failed, he would die. He had faced death before. In fact, it would be like meeting an old friend.…
One by one, the young mages rose from their places, opened their spellbooks, and recited their spells. If the Dispel Magic had not been laid upon the Learning Room, it would have been filled with wonderful sights. Fireballs would have exploded within its walls, incinerating all who were within range; phantom dragons would have breathed illusory fire; dread beings would have been dragged shrieking from other planes of existence. But, as it was, the room remained in candlelit calm, silent except for the chantings of the spellcasters and the rustling of the leaves of the spellbooks.
One by one, each mage completed his test, then resumed his seat. All performed remarkably well. This was not unexpected. Fistandantilus permitted only seven of
the most skilled of the young male magic-users who had already passed the grueling Test at the Tower of High Sorcery to study further with him. Out of that number, he would choose one to be his assistant.
So they supposed.
The archmage’s hand touched the bloodstone. His gaze went to Raistlin. “Your turn, mage,” he said. There was a flicker in the old eyes. The wrinkles on the wizard’s forehead deepened slightly, as though trying to recall the young man’s face.
Slowly, Raistlin rose to his feet, still smiling the bitter, cynical smile, as if this were all beneath him. Then, with a nonchalant shrug, he slammed shut his spellbook. The other six apprentices exchanged grim glances at this. Fistandantilus frowned, but there was a spark in his dark eyes.
Glibly, sneeringly, Raistlin began to recite the complicated spell from memory. The other apprentices stirred at this show of skill, glaring at him with hatred and undisguised envy. Fistandantilus watched, his frown changing to a look of hunger so malevolent that it nearly broke Raistlin’s concentration.
Forcing himself to keep his mind firmly on his work, the young mage completed the spell, and—suddenly—the Learning Room was lit by a brilliant flare of multicolored light, its silence shattered by the sound of an explosion!
Fistandantilus started, the grin wiped off his face. The other apprentices gasped.
“How did you break the Dispel Magic spell?” Fistandantilus demanded angrily. “What strange power is this?”
In answer, Raistlin opened his hands. In his palms he held a ball of blue and green flame, blazing with such radiance that no one could look at it directly. Then, with that same, sneering smile, he clapped his hands. The flame vanished.
The Learning Room was silent once more, only now it was the silence of fear as Fistandantilus rose to his feet. His rage shimmering around him like a halo of flame, he advanced upon the seventh apprentice.
Raistlin did not shrink from that anger. He remained standing calmly, coolly watching the wizard’s approach.
War of the Twins: Legends, Volume Two (Dragonlance Legends) Page 3