Authors: Margaret Weis
Feeling Raistlin’s hand on his chest, Tas shrank down into the bed. “No!” he moaned, trying desperately to wriggle away. “I’ll be good, Raistlin! I’ll remember. Don’t hurt me, not like poor Gnimsh!”
But the archmage’s hand only rested lightly on the kender’s chest for an instant, then went to his forehead. Tas’s skin burned, but the touch of that hand burned worse.
“Lie still,” Raistlin commanded. Then, lifting Tas up by the arms, Raistlin stared intently into the kender’s sunken eyes.
Finally, Raistlin dropped Tas back down into the bed and, muttering a bitter curse, rose to his feet.
Lying upon a sweat-soaked pillow, Tas saw the black-robed figure hover over him an instant, then, with a flutter and swirl of robes, it turned and stalked out of the room. Tas tried to lift his head to see where Raistlin was going, but the effort was too much. He fell back limply.
Why am I so weak? he wondered. What’s wrong? I want to sleep. Maybe I’ll quit hurting then. Tas closed his eyes. But they flew open again as if he had wires attached to his hair. No, I can’t sleep! he thought fearfully. There are things out there in the darkness, horrible things, just waiting for me to sleep! I’ve seen them, they’re out there! They’re going to leap out and—
As if from a great distance, he heard Raistlin’s voice, talking to someone. Peering around, trying desperately to keep sleep away from him, Tas decided to concentrate on Raistlin. Maybe I’ll find out something, he thought drearily. Maybe I’ll find out what’s the matter with me.
Looking over, he saw the black-robed figure talking to a squat, dark figure. Sure enough, they were discussing him. Tas
tried to listen, but his mind kept doing strange things—going off to play somewhere without inviting his body along. So Tas couldn’t be certain if he was hearing what he was hearing or dreaming it.
“Give him some more of the potion. That should keep him quiet,” a voice that sounded like Raistlin’s said to the short, dark figure. “There’s little chance anyone will hear him down here, but I can’t risk it.”
The short, dark figure said something. Tas closed his eyes and let the cool waters of a blue, blue lake—Crystalmir Lake—lap over his burning skin. Maybe his mind had decided to take his body along after all.
“When I am gone,” Raistlin’s voice came up out of the water, “lock the door after me and extinguish the light. My brother has grown suspicious of late. Should he discover the magical door, he will undoubtedly come down here. He must find nothing. All these cells should appear empty.”
The figure muttered, and the door squeaked on its hinges.
The water of Crystalmir suddenly began to boil around Tas. Tentacles snaked up out of it, grasping for him. His eyes flew open. “Raistlin!” he begged. “Don’t leave me. Help me!”
But the door banged shut. The short, dark figure shuffled over to Tas’s bedside. Staring at it with a kind of dreamlike horror, Tas saw that it was a dwarf. He smiled.
“Flint?” he murmured through parched, cracked lips. “No! Arack!” He tried to run, but the tentacles in the water were reaching out for his feet.
“Raistlin!” he screamed, frantically trying to scramble backward. But his feet wouldn’t move. Something grabbed hold of him! The tentacles! Tas fought, shrieking in panic.
“Shut up, you bastard. Drink this.” The tentacles gripped him by the topknot and shoved a cup to his lips. “Drink, or I’ll pull your hair out by the roots!”
Choking, staring at the figure wildly, Tas took a sip. The liquid was bitter but cool and soothing. He was thirsty, so thirsty! Sobbing, Tas grabbed the cup away from the dwarf and gulped it down. Then he lay back on his pillow. Within moments, the tentacles slipped away, the pain in his limbs
left him, and the clear, sweet waters of Crystalmir closed over his head.
Crysania came out of a dream with the distinct impression that someone had called her name. Though she could not remember hearing a sound, the feeling was so strong and intense that she was immediately wide awake, sitting up in bed, before she was truly aware of what it was that had awakened her. Had it been a part of the dream? No. The impression remained and grew stronger.
Someone was in the room with her! She glanced about swiftly. Solinari’s light, coming through a small corner at the far end of the room, did little to illuminate it. She could see nothing, but she heard movement. Crysania opened her mouth to call the guard.…
And felt a hand upon her lips. Then Raistlin materialized out of night’s darkness, sitting on her bed.
“Forgive me for frightening you, Revered Daughter,” he said in a soft whisper, barely above a breath. “I need your help and I do not wish to attract the attention of the guards.” Slowly, he removed his hand.
“I wasn’t frightened,” Crysania protested. He smiled, and she flushed. He was so near her that he could feel her trembling. “You just … startled me, that’s all. I was dreaming. You seemed a part of the dream.”
“To be sure,” Raistlin replied quietly. “The Portal is here, and thus we are very near the gods.”
It isn’t the nearness of the gods that is making me tremble, Crysania thought with a quivering sigh, feeling the burning warmth of the body beside hers, smelling his mysterious, intoxicating fragrance. Angrily, she moved away from him, firmly suppressing her desires and longings.
He
is above such things. Would she show herself weaker?
She returned to the subject abruptly. “You said you needed my help. Why?” Sudden fear gripped her. Reaching out impulsively, she grasped his hand. “You are well, aren’t you? Your wound—?”
A swift spasm of pain crossed Raistlin’s face, then his
expression grew bitter and hard. “No, I am well,” he said curtly.
“Thanks be to Paladine,” Crysania said, smiling, letting her hand linger in his.
Raistlin’s eyes grew narrow. “The god has no thanks of mine!” he muttered. The hand holding hers clenched, hurting her.
Crysania shivered. It seemed for an instant as if the burning heat of the mage’s body so near hers was drawing out her own, leaving her chilled. She tried to remove her hand from his, but Raistlin, brought out of his bitter reverie by her movement, turned to look at her.
“Forgive me, Revered Daughter,” he said, releasing her. “The pain was unendurable. I prayed for death. It was denied me.”
“You know the reason,” Crysania said, her fear lost in her compassion. Her hand hesitated a moment, then dropped to the coverlet near his trembling hand, yet not touching him.
“Yes, and I accept it. Still, I cannot forgive him. But that is between your god and myself,” Raistlin said reprovingly.
Crysania bit her lip. “I accept my rebuke. It was deserved.” She was silent a moment. Raistlin, too, was not inclined to speak, the lines in his face deepening.
“You told Caramon that the gods were with us. So, then, you have communed with my god … with Paladine?” Crysania ventured to ask hesitantly.
“Of course,” Raistlin smiled his twisted smile. “Does that surprise you?”
Crysania sighed. Her head drooped, the dark hair falling around her shoulders. The faint moonlight in the room made her black hair glimmer with a soft, blue radiance, made her skin gleam purest white. Her perfume filled the room, filled the night. She felt a touch upon her hair. Lifting her head, she saw Raistlin’s eyes burn with a passion that came from a source deep within, a source that had nothing to do with magic. Crysania caught her breath, but at that moment Raistlin stood up and walked away.
Crysania sighed. “So, you have communed with both the gods, then?” she asked wistfully.
Raistlin half-turned. “I have communed with all three,” he replied of offhandedly.
“Three?” She was startled. “Gilean?”
“Who is Astinus but Gilean’s mouthpiece?” Raistlin said scornfully. “If, indeed, he is not Gilean himself, as some have speculated. But, this must be nothing new to you—”
“I have never talked to the Dark Queen,” Crysania said.
“Haven’t you?” Raistlin asked with a penetrating look that shook the cleric to the core of her soul. “Does she not know of your heart’s desire? Hasn’t she offered it to you?”
Looking into his eyes, aware of his nearness, feeling desire sweep over her, Crysania could not reply. Then, as he continued to watch her, she swallowed and shook her head. “If she has,” she answered in almost inaudible tones, “she has given it with one hand and denied it to me with the other.”
Crysania heard the black robes rustle as if the mage had started. His face, visible in the moonlight, was, for an instant, worried and thoughtful. Then it smoothed.
“I did not come here to discuss theology,” Raistlin said with a slight sneer. “I have another, more immediate worry.”
“Of course.” Crysania flushed, nervously brushing her tangled hair out of her face. “Once again, I apologize. You needed me, you said—”
“Tasslehoff is here.”
“Tasslehoff?” Crysania repeated in blank amazement.
“Yes, and he is very ill. Near death, in fact. I need your healing skills.”
“But, I don’t understand. Why—How did he come to be here?” Crysania stammered, bewildered. “You said he had returned to our own time.”
“So I believed,” Raistlin replied gravely. “But, apparently, I was mistaken. The magical device brought him here, to this time. He has been wandering the world in the manner of kender, enjoying himself thoroughly. Eventually, hearing of the war, he arrived here to share in the adventure. Unfortunately, he has, in his wanderings, contracted the plague.”
“This is terrible! Of course I’ll come.” Catching up her fur cloak from the end of her bed, she wrapped it around her
shoulders, noticing, as she did so, that Raistlin turned away from her. Staring out the window, into the silver moonlight, she saw the muscles of his jaw tighten, as if with some inner struggle.
“I am ready,” Crysania said in smooth, businesslike tones, fastening her cloak. Raistlin turned back and extended his hand to her. Crysania looked at him, puzzled.
“We must travel the pathways of the night,” he said quietly. “As I told you, I do not want to alert the guards.”
“But why not?” she said. “What difference—”
“What will I tell my brother?”
Crysania paused. “I see.…”
“You understand my dilemma?” Raistlin asked, regarding her intently. “If I tell him, it will be a worry to him, at a time he can ill afford to add burdens to those he already carries. Tas has broken the magical device. That will upset Caramon, too, even though he is aware I plan to send him home. But—I should tell him the kender is here.”
“Caramon
has
looked worried and unhappy these past few days,” Crysania said thoughtfully, concern in her voice.
“The war is not going well,” Raistlin informed her bluntly. “The army is crumbling around him. The Plainsmen talk every day of leaving. They may be gone now, for all we know. The dwarves under Fireforge are an untrustworthy lot, pressuring Caramon into striking before he is ready. The supply wagons have vanished, no one knows what has become of them. His own army is restless, upset. On top of all this, to have a kender roaming about, chattering aimlessly, distracting him …”
Raistlin sighed. “Still, I cannot—in honor—keep this from him.”
Crysania’s lips tightened. “No, Raistlin. I do not think it would be wise to tell him.” Seeing Raistlin look dubious, she continued earnestly. “There is nothing Caramon can do. If the kender is truly ill, as you suspect, I can heal him, but he will be weak for several days. It would only be an added worry to your brother. Caramon plans to march in a few days’ time. We will tend the kender, then have him completely
recovered, ready to meet his friend on the field if such is his desire.”
The archmage sighed again, in reluctance and doubt. Then, he shrugged. “Very well, Revered Daughter,” he said. “I will be guided by you in this. Your words are wise. We will not tell Caramon that the kender has returned.”
He moved close to her; and Crysania, looking up at him caught a strange smile upon his face, a smile that—for just this once—was reflected in his glittering eyes. Startled, upset without quite knowing why, she drew back, but he put his arm around her, enveloping her in the soft folds of his black sleeves, holding her close.
Closing her eyes, she forgot that smile. Nestling close, wrapped in his warmth, she listened to his rapid heartbeat.…
Murmuring the words of magic, he transformed them both into nothingness. Their shadows seemed to hover for an instant in the moonlight, then these, too, vanished with a whisper.
“You are keeping him here? In the dungeons?” Crysania asked, shivering in the chill, dank air.
“
Shirak
.” Raistlin caused the crystal atop the Staff of Magius to fill the room with soft light. “He lies over there,” the mage said, pointing.
A crude bed stood up against one wall. Giving Raistlin a reproachful glance, Crysania hurried to the bedside. As the cleric knelt beside the kender and laid her hand on his feverish forehead, Tas cried out. His eyes flared open, but he stared at her unseeing. Raistlin, following more slowly, gestured to a dark dwarf who was crouched in a corner. “Leave us,” the mage motioned, then came to stand by the bedside. Behind him, he heard the door to the cell close.
“How can you keep him locked up in the darkness like this?” Crysania demanded.
“Have you ever treated plague victims before, Lady Crysania?” Raistlin asked in an odd tone.
Startled, she looked up at him, then flushed and averted her eyes.
Smiling bitterly, Raistlin answered his own question. “No, of course not. The plague never came to Palanthas. It never struck the beautiful, the wealthy.…” He made no effort to hide his contempt, and Crysania felt her skin burn as though she were the one with the fever.
“Well, it came to us,” Raistlin continued. “It swept through the poorer sections of Haven. Of course, there were no healers. Nor were there even many who would stay to care for those who were afflicted. Even their own family members fled them. Poor, pathetic souls. I did what I could, tending them with the herb skill I had acquired. If I could not cure them, at least I could ease their pain. My Master disapproved.” Raistlin spoke in an undertone, and Crysania realized that he had forgotten her presence. “So did Caramon—fearing for my health, he said. Bah!” Raistlin laughed without mirth. “He feared for himself. The thought of the plague frightens him more than an army of goblins. But how could I turn my back on them? They had no one … no one. Wretched, dying … dying alone.”