Time of the Twins: Legends, Volume One (Dragonlance Legends)

by Tracy Hickman

  Astinus’s face grew graver as he listened, and even more stern.

  “Paladine told you this?” he demanded abruptly.

  Crysania, sensing, perhaps, this man’s disbelief, pursed her lips. A tiny line appearing between her brows was, however, the only sign of her anger, that and an even more studied calmness in her reply.

  “I regret having spoken of it, Astinus, forgive me. It was between my god and myself, and such sacred things should not be discussed. I brought it up simply to prove to you that this evil man will come. He cannot help himself. Paladine will bring him.”

  Astinus’s eyebrows rose so that they very nearly disappeared into his graying hair.

  “This ‘evil man’ as you call him, Revered Daughter, serves a goddess as powerful as Paladine—Takhisis, Queen of Darkness! Or perhaps I should not say serves,” Astinus remarked with a wry smile. “Not of him.…”

  Crysania’s brow cleared, her cool smile returned. “Good redeems its own,” she answered gently. “Evil turns in upon itself. Good will triumph again, as it did in the War of the Lance against Takhisis and her evil dragons. With Paladine’s help, I shall triumph over this evil as the hero, Tanis Half-Elven, triumphed over the Queen of Darkness herself.”

  “Tanis Half-Elven triumphed with the help of Raistlin Majere,” Astinus said imperturbably. “Or is that a part of the legend you choose to ignore?”

  Not a ripple of emotion marred the still, placid surface of Crysania’s expression. Her smile remained fixed. Her gaze was on the street.

  “Look, Astinus,” she said softly. “He comes.”

  The sun sank behind the distant mountains, the sky, lit by the afterglow, was a gemlike purple. Servants entered quietly, lighting the fire in the small chamber of Astinus. Even it burned quietly, as if the flames themselves had been taught by the historian to maintain the peaceful repose of the Great Library. Crysania sat once more in the uncomfortable chair, her hands folded once more in her lap. Her outward mein was calm and cool as always. Inwardly, her heart beat with excitement that was visible only by a brightening of her gray eyes.

  Born to the noble and wealthy Tarinius family of Palanthas, a family almost as ancient as the city itself, Crysania had received every comfort and benefit money and rank could bestow. Intelligent, strong-willed, she might easily have grown into a stubborn and willful woman. Her wise and loving parents, however, had carefully nurtured and pruned their daughter’s strong spirit so that it had blossomed into a deep and steadfast belief in herself. Crysania had done only one thing in her entire life to grieve her doting parents, but that one thing had cut them deeply. She had turned from an ideal marriage with a fine and noble young man to a life devoted to serving long-forgotten gods.

  She first heard the cleric, Elistan, when he came to Palanthas at the end of the War of the Lance. His new religion—or perhaps it should have been called the old religion—was spreading like wildfire through Krynn, because new-born legend credited this belief in old gods with having helped defeat the evil dragons and their masters, the Dragon Highlords.

  On first going to hear Elistan talk, Crysania had been skeptical. The young woman—she was in her mid-twenties—had been raised on stories of how the gods had inflicted the Cataclysm upon Krynn, hurling down the fiery mountain that rent the lands asunder and plunged the holy city of Istar into the Blood Sea. After this, so people related, the gods turned from men, refusing to have any more to do with them. Crysania was prepared to listen politely to Elistan, but had arguments at hand to refute his claims.

  She was favorably impressed on meeting him. Elistan, at that time, was in the fullness of his power. Handsome, strong, even in his middle years, he seemed like one of the clerics of old, who had ridden to battle—so some legends said—with the mighty knight, Huma. Crysania began the evening finding cause to admire him. She ended on her knees at his feet, weeping in humility and joy, her soul at last having found the anchor it had been missing.

  The gods had not turned from men, was the message. It was men who had turned from the gods, demanding in their pride what Huma had sought in humility. The next day, Crysania left her home, her wealth, her servants, her parents, and her betrothed to move into the small, chill house that was the forerunner of the new Temple Elistan planned to build in Palanthas.

  Now, two years later, Crysania was a Revered Daughter of Paladine, one of a select few who had been found worthy to lead the church through its youthful growing pangs. It was well the church had this strong, young blood. Elistan had given unstintingly of his life and his energy. Now, it seemed, the god he served so faithfully would soon be summoning his cleric to his side. And when that sorrowful event occurred, many believed Crysania would carry on his work.

  Certainly Crysania knew that she was prepared to accept the leadership of the church, but was it enough? As she had told Astinus, the young cleric had long felt her destiny was to perform some great service for the world. Guiding the church through its daily routines, now that the war was over, seemed dull and mundane. Daily she had prayed to Paladine to assign her some hard task. She would sacrifice anything, she vowed, even life itself, in the service of her beloved god.

  And then had come her answer.

  Now, she waited, in an eagerness she could barely restrain. She was not frightened, not even of meeting this man, said to be the most powerful force for evil now living on the face of Krynn. Had her breeding permitted it, her lip would have curled in a disdainful sneer. What evil could withstand the mighty sword of her faith? What evil could penetrate her shining armor?

  Like a knight riding to a joust, wreathed with the garlands of his love, knowing that he cannot possibly lose with such tokens fluttering in the wind, Crysania kept her eyes fixed on the door, eagerly awaiting the tourney’s first blows. When the door opened, her hands—until now calmly folded—clasped together in excitement.

  Bertrem entered. His eyes went to Astinus, who sat immovable as a pillar of stone in a hard, uncomfortable chair near the fire.

  “The mage, Raistlin Majere,” Bertrem said. His voice cracked on the last syllable. Perhaps he was thinking about the last time he had announced this visitor—the time Raistlin had been dying, vomiting blood on the steps of the Great Library. Astinus frowned at Bertrem’s lack of self-control, and the Aesthetic disappeared back through the door as rapidly as his fluttering robes permitted.

  Unconsciously, Crysania held her breath. At first she saw nothing, only a shadow of darkness in the doorway, as if night itself had taken form and shape within the entrance. The darkness paused there.

  “Come in, old friend,” Astinus said in his deep, passionless voice.

  The shadow was lit by a shimmer of warmth—the firelight gleamed on velvety soft, black robes—and then by tiny sparkles, as the light glinted off silver threads, embroidered runes around a velvet cowl. The shadow became a figure, black robes completely draping the body. For a brief moment, the figure’s only human appendage that could be seen was a thin, almost skeletal hand clutching a wooden staff. The staff itself was topped by a crystal ball, held fast in the grip of a carved golden dragon’s claw.

  As the figure entered the room, Crysania felt the cold chill of disappointment. She had asked Paladine for some difficult task! What great evil was there to fight in this? Now that she could see him clearly, she saw a frail, thin man, shoulders slightly stooped, who leaned upon his staff as he walked, as if too weak to move without its aid. She knew his age, he would be about twenty-eight now. Yet he moved like a human of ninety—his steps slow and deliberate, even faltering.

  What test of my faith lies in conquering this wretched creature? Crysania demanded of Paladine bitterly. I have no need to fight him. He is being devoured from within by his own evil!

  Facing Astinus, keeping his back to Crysania, Raistlin folded back his black hood.

  “Greetings again, Deathless One,” he said to Astinus in a soft voice.

  “Greetings, Raistlin Majere,” Astinus said without rising. His voice h
ad a faint sardonic note, as if sharing some private joke with the mage. Astinus gestured. “May I present Crysania of the House of Tarinius.”

  Raistlin turned.

  Crysania gasped, a terrible ache in her chest caused her throat to close, and for a moment she could not draw a breath. Sharp, tingling pins jabbed her fingertips, a chill convulsed her body. Unconsciously, she shrank back in her chair, her hands clenching, her nails digging into her numb flesh.

  All she could see before her were two golden eyes shining from the depths of darkness. The eyes were like a gilt mirror, flat, reflective, revealing nothing of the soul within. The pupils—Crysania stared at the dark pupils in rapt horror. The pupils within the golden eyes were the shape of hourglasses! And the face—Drawn with suffering, marked with the pain of the tortured existence the young man had led for seven years, ever since the cruel Tests in the Tower of High Sorcery left his body shattered and his skin tinged gold, the mage’s face was a metallic mask, impenetrable, unfeeling as the golden dragon’s claw upon his staff.

  “Revered Daughter of Paladine,” he said in a soft voice, a voice filled with respect and—even reverence.

  Crysania started, staring at him in astonishment. Certainly that was not what she had expected.

  Still, she could not move. His gaze held her, and she wondered in panic if he had cast a spell upon her. Seeming to sense her fear, he walked across the room to stand before her in an attitude that was both patronizing and reassuring. Looking up, she could see the firelight flickering in his golden eyes.

  “Revered Daughter of Paladine,” Raistlin said again, his soft voice enfolding Crysania like the velvety blackness of his robes. “I hope I find you well?” But now she heard bitter, cynical sarcasm in that voice. This she had expected, this she was prepared for. His earlier tone of respect had taken her by surprise, she admitted to herself angrily, but her first weakness was past. Rising to her feet, bringing her eyes level with his, she unconsciously clasped the medallion of Paladine with her hand. The touch of the cool metal gave her courage.

  “I do not believe we need to exchange meaningless social amenities,” Crysania stated crisply, her face once more smooth and cold. “We are keeping Astinus from his studies. He will appreciate our completing our business with alacrity.”

  “I could not agree more,” the black-robed mage said with a slight twist of his thin lip that might have been a smile. “I have come in response to your request. What is it you want of me?”

  Crysania sensed he was laughing at her. Accustomed only to the highest respect, this increased her anger. She regarded him with cold gray eyes. “I have come to warn you, Raistlin Majere, that your evil designs are known to Paladine. Beware, or he will destroy you—”

  “How?” Raistlin asked suddenly, and his strange eyes flared with a strange, intense light. “How will he destroy me?” he repeated. “Lightning bolts? Flood and fire? Perhaps another fiery mountain?”

  He took another step toward her. Crysania moved coolly away from him, only to back into her chair. Gripping the hard wooden back firmly, she walked around it, then turned to face him.

  “It is your own doom you mock,” she replied quietly.

  Raistlin’s lip twisted further still, but he continued talking, as if he had not heard her words. “Elistan?” Raistlin’s voice sank to a hissing whisper. “He will send Elistan to destroy me?” The mage shrugged. “But no, surely not. By all reports, the great and holy cleric of Paladine is tired, feeble, dying.…”

  “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 b
lack 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—”