CHAPTER 11

The hideous apparition came closer and closer to her. Crysania was possessed by a fear such as she had never known, a fear she could never have believed existed. As she shrank back before it, Crysania, for the first time in her life, contemplated death—her own death. It was not the peaceful transition to a blessed realm she had always believed existed. It was savage pain and howling darkness, eternal days and nights spent envying the living.

She tried to cry out for help, but her voice failed. There was no help anyway. The drunken warrior lay in a pool of his own blood. Her healing arts had saved him, but he would sleep long hours. The kender could not help her. Nothing could help her against this . . .

On and on the dark figure walked, nearer and nearer he came. Run! her mind screamed. Her limbs would not obey. It was all she could do to creep backward, and then her body seemed to move of its own volition, not through any direction of hers. She could not even look away from him. The orange flickering lights that were his eyes held her fast.

He raised a hand, a spectral hand. She could see through it, see through him, in fact, to the night-shadowed trees behind. The silver moon was in the sky, but it was not its bright light that gleamed off the antique armor of a long-dead Solamnic Knight. The creature shone with an unwholesome light of his own, glowing with the energy of his foul decay. His hand lifted higher and higher, and Crysania knew that when his hand reached a level even with her heart, she would die.

Through lips numb with fear, Crysania called out a name, "Paladine," she prayed. The fear did not leave her, she still could not wrench her soul away from the terrible gaze of those fiery eyes. But her hand went to her throat. Grasping hold of the medallion, she ripped it from her neck. Feeling her strength draining, her consciousness ebbing, Crysania raised her hand. The platinum medallion caught Solinari's light and flared bluewhite. The hideous apparition spoke—"Die!"

Crysania felt herself falling. Her body hit the ground, but the ground did not catch her. She was falling through it, or away from it. Falling . . . falling . . . closing her eyes . . . sleeping . . .. dreaming . . .

She was in a grove of oak trees. White hands clutched at her feet, gaping mouths sought to drink her blood. The darkness was endless, the trees mocked her, their creaking branches laughing horribly.

"Crysania," said a soft, whispering voice.

What was that, speaking her name from the shadows of the oaks? She could see it, standing in a clearing, robed in black.

"Crysania," the voice repeated.

"Raistlin!" She sobbed in thankfulness. Stumbling out of the terrifying grove of oak trees, fleeing the bone-white hands that sought to drag her down to join their endless torment, Crysania felt thin arms hold her. She felt the strange burning touch of slender fingers.

"Rest easy, Revered Daughter," the voice said softly. Trembling in his arms, Crysania closed her eyes. "Your trials are over. You have come through the Grove safely. There was nothing to fear, lady. You had my charm."

"Yes," Crysania murmured. Her hand touched her forehead where his lips had pressed against her skin. Then, realizing what she had been through, and realizing, too, that she had allowed him to see her give way to weakness, Crysania pushed the mage's arms away. Standing back from him, she regarded him coldly.

"Why do you surround yourself with such foul things?" she demanded. "Why do you feel the need for such . . . such guardians!" Her voice quavered in spite of herself.

Raistlin looked at her mildly, his golden eyes shining in the light of his staff. "What kind of guardians do you surround yourself with, Revered Daughter?" he asked. "What torment would I endure if I set foot upon the Temple's sacred grounds?"

Crysania opened her mouth for a scathing reply, but the words died on her lips. Indeed, the Temple was consecrated ground. Sacred to Paladine, if any who worshipped the Queen of Darkness entered its precincts, they would feel Paladine's wrath. Crysania saw Raistlin smile, his thin lips twitch. She felt her skin flush. How was he capable of doing this to her'? Never had any man been able to humiliate her so! Never had any man cast her mind in such turmoil!

Ever since the evening she had met Raistlin at the home of Astinus, Crysania had not been able to banish him from her thoughts. She had looked forward to visiting the Tower this night, looked forward to it and dreaded it at the same time. She had told Elistan all about her talk with Raistlin, all—that is— except the "charm" he had given her. Somehow, she could not bring herself to tell Elistan that Raistlin had touched her, had— No, she wouldn't mention it.

Elistan had been upset enough as it was. He knew Raistlin, he had known the young man of old— the mage having been among the companions who rescued the cleric from Verminaard's prison at Pax Tharkas. Elistan had never liked or trusted Raistlin, but then no one had, not really. The cleric had not been surprised to hear that the young mage had donned the Black Robes. He was not surprised to hear about Crysania's warning from Paladine. He was surprised at Crysania's reaction to meeting Raistlin, however. He was surprised—and alarmed—at hearing Crysania had been invited to visit Raistlin in the Tower—a place where now beat the heart of evil in Krynn. Elistan would have forbidden Crysania to go,. but freedom of will was a teaching of the gods.

He told Crysania his thoughts and she listened respectfully. But she had gone to the Tower, drawn by a lure she could not begin to understand—although she told Elistan it was to "save the world."

"The world is getting on quite well," Elistan replied gravely.

But Crysania did not listen.

"Come inside," Raistlin said. "Some wine will help banish the evil memories of what you have endured." He regarded her intently. "You are very brave, Revered Daughter," he said and she heard no sarcasm in his voice. "Few there are with the strength to survive the terror of the Grove."

He turned away from her then, and Crysania was glad he did. She felt herself blushing at his praise.

"Keep near me," he warned as he walked ahead of her, his black robes rustling softly around his ankles. "Keep within the light of my staff."

Crysania did as she was bidden, noticing as she walked near him how the staff's light made her white robes shine as coldly as the light of the silver moon, a striking contrast to the strange warmth it shed over Raistlin's soft velvety black robes.

He led her through the dread Gates. She stared at them in curiosity, remembering the gruesome story of the evil mage who had cast himself down upon them, cursing them with his dying breath.Things whispered and jabbered around her. More than once, she turned at the sound, feeling cold fingers upon her neck or the touch of a chill hand upon hers. More than once, she saw movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she looked, there was never anything there. A foul mist rose up from the ground, rank with the smell of decay. making her bones ache. She began to shake uncontrollably and when, suddenly, she glanced behind her and saw two disembodied, staring eyes—she took a hurried step forward and slipped her hand around Raistlin's thin arm.

He regarded her with curiosity and a gentle amusement that made her blush again.

"There is no need to be afraid," he said simply. "I am master here. I will not let you come to harm."

"I-I'm not afraid," she said, though she knew he could feel her body quivering. "I . . . was just . . . unsure of my steps, that was all."

"I beg your pardon, Revered Daughter," Raistlin said, and now she could not be certain if she heard sarcasm in his voice or not. He came to a halt. "It was impolite of me to allow you to walk this unfamiliar ground without offering you my assistance. Do you find the walking easier now?"

"Yes, much," she said, flushing deeply beneath that strange gaze.

He said nothing, merely smiled. She lowered her eyes, unable to face him, and they resumed walking. Crysania berated herself for her fear all the way to the Tower, but she did not remove her hand from the mage’s arm. Neither of them spoke again until they reached the door to the Tower itself. It was a plain wooden door with runes carved on the outside of its surface. Raistlin said no word, made no motion that Crysania could see, but—at their approach—the door slowly opened. Light streamed out from inside, and Crysania felt so cheered by its bright and welcoming warmth, that—for an instant—she did not see another figure standing silhouetted within it.

When she did, she stopped and drew back in alarm.

Raistlin touched her hand with his thin, burning fingers.

"That is only my apprentice, Revered Daughter," he said. "Dalamar is flesh and blood, he walks among the living—at least for the moment."

Crysania did not understand that last remark, nor did she pay it much attention, hearing the underlying laughter in Raistlin's voice. She was too startled by the fact that live people lived here. How silly, she scolded herself. What kind of monster have I pictured this man? He is a man, nothing more. He is human, he is flesh and blood. The thought relieved her, made her relax. Stepping through the doorway, she felt almost herself. She extended her hand to the young apprentice as she would have given it to a new acolyte.

"My apprentice, Dalamar," Raistlin said, gesturing toward him. "Lady Crysania, Revered Daughter of Paladine."

"Lady Crysania," said the apprentice with becoming gravity, accepting her hand and bringing it to' his lips, bowing slightly. Then he lifted his head, and the black hood that shadowed his face fell back.

"An elf!" Crysania gasped. Her hand remained in his. "But, that's not possible," she began in confusion. "Not serving evil—”

"I am a dark elf, Revered Daughter," the apprentice said, and she heard a bitterness in his voice. "At least, that is what my people call me."

Crysania murmured in embarrassment. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean—”

She faltered and fell silent, not knowing where to look. She could almost feel Raistlin laughing at her. Once again, he had caught her off-balance. Angrily, she snatched her hand away from the apprentice's cool grip and withdrew her other hand from Raistlin's arm.

"The Revered Daughter has had a fatiguing journey, Dalamar," Raistlin said. "Please show her to my study and pour her a glass of wine. With your permission, Lady Crysania"—the mage bowed—"there are a few matters that demand my attention. Dalamar, anything the lady requires, you will provide at once."

"Certainly, Shalafi," Dalamar answered respectfully.

Crysania said nothing as Raistlin left, suddenly overwhelmed with a sense of relief and a numbing exhaustion. Thus must the warrior feel, battling for his life against a skilled opponent, she observed silently as she followed the apprentice up a narrow, winding staircase.

Raistlin's study was nothing like she had expected.

What had I expected, she asked herself. Certainly not this pleasant room filled with strange and fascinating books. The furniture was attractive and comfortable, a fire burned on the hearth, filling the room with warmth that was welcome after the chill of the walk to the Tower. The wine that Dalamar poured was delicious. The warmth of the fire seemed to seep into her blood as she drank a small sip.

Dalamar brought forward a small, ornately carved table and set it at her right hand. Upon this, he placed a bowl of fruit and a loaf of fragrant, still-warm bread.

"What is this fruit!" Crysania asked, picking up a piece and examining it in wonder. "I've never seen anything like this before."

"Indeed not, Revered Daughter," Dalamar answered, smiling. Unlike Raistlin, Crysania noticed, the young apprentice's smile was reflected in his eyes. "Shalafi has it brought to him from the Isle of Mithas."

"Mithas?" Crysania repeated in astonishment. "But that's on the other side of the world! The minotaurs live there. They allow none to enter their kingdom! Who brings it?"

She had a sudden, terrifying vision of the servant who might have been summoned to bring such delicacies to such a master. Hastily, she returned the fruit to the bowl.

"Try it, Lady Crysania," Dalamar said without a trace of amusement in his voice. "You will find it quite delicious. The Shalafi's health is delicate. There are so few things he can tolerate. He lives on little else but this fruit, bread, and wine."

Crysania's fear ebbed. "Yes," she murmured, her eyes going to the door involuntarily. "He is dreadfully frail, isn't he. And that terrible cough . . ." Her voice was soft with pity.

"Cough? Oh, yes," Dalamar said smoothly, "his . . . cough." He did not continue and, if Crysania thought this odd, she soon forgot it in her contemplation of the room.

The apprentice stood a moment, waiting to see if she required anything else. When Crysania did not speak, he bowed. "If you need nothing more, lady, I will retire. I have my own studies to pursue."

"Of course. I will be fine here," Crysania said, coming out of her thoughts with a start. "He is your teacher, then," she said in sudden realization. Now it was her turn to look at Dalamar intently. "Is he a good one! Do you learn from him?"

"He is the most gifted of any in our Order, Lady Crysania," Dalamar said softly. "He is brilliant, skilled, controlled. Only one has lived who was as powerful—the great Fistandantilus. And my Shalafi is young, only twenty-eight. If he lives, he may well—”

"If he lives?" Crysania repeated, then felt irritated that she had unintentionally let a note of concern creep into her voice. It is right to feel concern, she told herself. After all, he is one of the gods' creatures. All life is sacred.

"The Art is fraught with danger, my lady," Dalamar was saying. "And now, if you will excuse me . . .."

"Certainly," Crysania murmured.

Bowing again, Dalamar padded quietly from the room, shutting the door behind him. Toying with her wine glass, Crysania stared into the dancing flames, lost in thought. She did not hear the door open—if indeed it did. She felt fingers touching her hair. Shivering, she looked around, only to see Raistlin sitting in a high-backed wooden chair behind his desk.

"Can I send for anything else? Is everything to your liking?" he asked politely.

"Y-yes," Crysania stammered, setting her wine glass down so that he would not see her hand shake. "Everything is fine. More than fine, actually. Your apprentice—Dalamar? He is quite charming."

"Isn't he," said Raistlin dryly. He placed the tips of the five fingers of each hand together and rested them upon the table.

"What marvelous hands you have," Crysania said, without thinking. "How slender and supple the fingers are, and so delicate." Suddenly realizing what she had been saying, she flushed and stammered. "B-but I-I suppose that is requisite to your Art—”

"Yes," Raistlin said, smiling, and this time Crysania thought she saw actual pleasure in his smile. He held his hands to the light cast by the flames. "When I was just a child, I could amaze and delight my brother with the tricks these hands could—even then—perform." Taking a golden coin from one of the secret pockets of his robes, Raistlin placed the coin upon the knuckles of his hand. Effortlessly, he made it dance and spin and whirl across his hand. It glistened in and out of his fingers. Flipping into the air, it vanished, only to reappear in his other hand. Crysania gasped in delight. Raistlin glanced up at her, and she saw the smile of pleasure twist into one of bitter pain.

"Yes," he said, "it was my one skill, my one talent. It kept the other children amused. Sometimes it kept them from hurting me."

"Hurting you?" Crysania asked hesitantly, stung by the pain in his voice.

He did not answer at once, his eyes on the golden coin he still held in his hand. Then he drew a deep breath. "I can picture your childhood," he murmured. "You come from a wealthy family, so they tell me. You must have been beloved, sheltered, protected, given anything you wanted. You were admired, sought after, liked."

Crysania could not reply. She felt suddenly overwhelmed with guilt.

"How different was my childhood." Again, that smile of bitter pain. "My nickname was the Sly One. I was sickly and weak. And too smart. They were such fools! Their ambitions so petty—like my brother, who never thought deeper than his food dish! Or my sister, who saw the only way to attain her goals was with her sword. Yes, I was weak. Yes, they protected me. But some day, I vowed I wouldn't need their protection! I would rise to greatness on my own, using my gift—my magic!"

His hand clenched, his golden-tinted skin turned pale. Suddenly he began to cough, the wrenching, wracking cough that twisted his frail body. Crysania rose to her feet, her heart aching with pain. But he motioned her to sit down. Drawing a cloth from a pocket, he wiped the blood from his lips.

"And this was the price I paid for my magic," he said when he could speak again. His voice was little more than a whisper. "They shattered my body and gave me this accursed vision, so that all I look upon I see dying before my eyes. But it was worth it, worth it all! For I have what I sought—power. I don't need them—any of them—anymore."

"But this power is evil!" Crysania said, leaning forward in her chair and regarding Raistlin earnestly.

"Is it?" asked Raistlin suddenly. His voice was mild. "Is ambition evil? Is the quest for power, for control over others evil? If so, then I fear, Lady Crysania, that you may as well exchange those white robes for black."

"How dare you?" Crysania cried, shocked. "I don't—”

"Ah, but you do," Raistlin said with a shrug. "You would not have worked so hard to rise to the position you have in the church without having your share of ambition, of the desire for power." Now it was his turn to lean forward. "Haven't you always said to yourself—there is something great I am destined to do? My life will be different from the lives of others. I am not content to sit and watch the world pass by. I want to shape it, control it, mold it!"

Held fast by Raistlin's burning gaze, Crysania could not move or utter a word. How could he know? she asked herself, terrified. Can he read the secrets of my heart?

"Is that evil, Lady Crysania?" Raistlin repeated gently, insistently.

Slowly, Crysania shook her head. Slowly, she raised her hand to her throbbing temples. No, it wasn't evil. Not the way he spoke of it, but something wasn't quite right. She couldn't think. She was too confused. All that kept running through her mind was: How alike we are, he and I!

He was silent, waiting for her to speak. She had to say something. Hurriedly, she took a gulp of wine to give herself time to collect her scattered thoughts.

"Perhaps I do have those desires," she said, struggling to find the words, "but, if so, my ambition is not for myself. I use my skills and talents for others, to help others. I use it for the church—”

"The church!" Raistlin sneered.

Crysania's confusion vanished, replaced by cold anger. "Yes," she replied, feeling herself on safe and secure ground, surrounded by the bastion of her faith. "It was the power of good, the power of Paladine, that drove away the evil in the world. It is that power I seek. That power that—”

"Drove away the evil?" Raistlin interrupted.

Crysania blinked. Her thoughts had carried her forward. She hadn't even been totally aware-of what she was saying. "Why, yes—”

"But evil and suffering still remain in the world," Raistlin persisted.

"Because of such as you!" Crysania cried passionately.

"Ah, no, Revered Daughter," Raistlin said. "Not through any act of mine. Look—” He motioned her near with one hand, while with the other he reached once again into the secret pockets of his robe.

Suddenly wary and suspicious, Crysania did not move, staring at the object he drew forth. It was a small, round piece of crystal, swirling with color, very like a child's marble. Lifting a silver stand from where it stood on a corner of his desk, Raistlin placed the marble on top of it. The thing appeared ludicrous, much too small for the ornate stand. Then Crysania gasped. The marble was growing! Or perhaps she was shrinking! She couldn't be certain. But the glass globe was now the right size and rested comfortably upon the silver stand.

"Look into it," Raistlin said softly.

"No," Crysania drew back, staring fearfully at the globe. "What is that?"

"A dragon orb," Raistlin replied, his gaze holding her fast. "It is the only one left on Krynn. It obeys my commands. I will not allow you to come to harm. Look inside the orb, Lady Crysania—unless you fear the truth."

"How do I know it will show me the truth?" Crysania demanded, her voice shaking. "How do I know it won't show me just what you tell it to show me?"

"If you know the way the dragons orbs were made long ago," Raistlin replied, "you know they were created by all three of the Robes—the White, the Black, and the Red. They are not tools of evil, they are not tools of good. They are everything and nothing. You wear the medallion of Paladine"—the sarcasm had returned—"and you are strong in your faith. Could I force you to see what you did not want to see?"

"What will I see?" Crysania whispered, curiosity and a strange fascination drawing her near the desk.

"Only what your eyes have seen, but refused to look at."

Raistlin placed his thin fingers upon the glass, chanting words of command. Hesitantly, Crysania leaned over the desk and looked into the dragon orb. At first she saw nothing inside the glass globe but a faint swirling green color. Then she drew back. There were hands inside the orb! Hands that were reaching out . . ..

"Do not fear," murmured Raistlin. "The hands come for me."

And, indeed, even as he spoke, Crysania saw the hands inside the orb reach out and touch Raistlin's hands. The image vanished. Wild, vibrant colors whirled madly inside the orb for an instant, making Crysania dizzy with their light and their brilliance. Then they, too, were gone. She saw . . .

"Palanthas," she said, startled. Floating on the mists of morning, she could see the entire city, gleaming like a pearl, spread out before her eyes. And then the city began to rush up at her, or perhaps she was falling down into it. Now she was hovering over New City, now she was over the Wall, now she was inside Old City. The Temple of Paladine rose before her, the beautiful, sacred grounds peaceful and serene in the morning sunlight. And then she was behind the Temple, looking over a high wall.

She caught her breath. "What is this?" she asked.

"Have you never seen it?" Raistlin replied. "This alley so near the sacred grounds?"

Crysania shook her head, "N-no," she answered, her voice breaking. "And, yet, I must have. I have lived in Palanthas all my life. I know all of—”

"No, lady," Raistlin said, his fingertips lightly caressing the dragon orb's crystalline surface. "No, you know very little."

Crysania could not answer. He spoke the truth, apparently, for she did not know this part of the city. Littered with refuse, the alley was dark and dismal. Morning's sunlight did not find its way past the buildings that leaned over the street as if they had no more energy to stand upright. Crysania recognized the buildings now. She had seen them from the front. They were used to store everything from grain to casks of wine and ale. But how much different they looked from the front! And who were these people, these wretched people?

"They live there," Raistlin answered her unspoken question.

"Where?" Crysania asked in horror. "There? Why?"

"They live where they can. Burrowing into the heart of the city like maggots, they feed off its decay. As for why?" Raistlin shrugged. "They have nowhere else to go."

"But this is terrible! I'll tell Elistan. We'll help them, give them money—”

"Elistan knows," Raistlin said softly.

"No, he can't! That's impossible!"

"You knew. If not about this, then you knew of other places in your fair city that are not so fair."

"I didn't—” Crysania began angrily, then stopped. Memories washed over her in waves—her mother averting her face as they rode in their carriage through certain parts of town, her father quickly drawing shut the curtains in the carriage windows or leaning out to tell the driver to take a different road.

The scene shimmered, the colors swirled, it faded and was replaced by another, and then another. Crysania watched in agony as the mage ripped the pearl-white facade from the city, showing her blackness and corruption beneath. Bars, brothels, gambling dens, the wharves, the docks . . . all spewed forth their refuse of misery and suffering before Crysania's shocked vision. No longer could she avert her face, there were no curtains to pull shut. Raistlin dragged her inside, brought her close to the hopeless, the starving, the forlorn, the forgotten.

"No," she pleaded, shaking her head and trying to back away from the desk. "Please show me no more."

But Raistlin was pitiless. Once again the colors swirled, and they left Palanthas. The dragon orb carried them around the world, and everywhere Crysania looked, she saw more horrors. Gully dwarves, a race cast off from their dwarven kin, living in squalor in whatever part of Krynn they could find that no one else wanted. Humans eking out a wretched existence in lands where rain had ceased to fall. The Wilder elves, enslaved by their own people. Clerics, using their power to cheat and amass great wealth at the expense of those who trusted them.

It was too much. With a wild cry, Crysania covered her face with her hands. The room swayed beneath her feet. Staggering, she nearly fell. And then Raistlin's arms were around her. She felt that strange, burning warmth from his body and the soft touch of the black velvet. There was a smell of spices, rose petals, and other, more mysterious odors. She could hear his shallow breathing rattle in his lungs.

Gently, Raistlin led Crysania back to her chair. She sat down, quickly drawing away from his touch. His nearness was both repelling and attracting at the same time, adding to her feelings of loss and confusion. She wished desperately that Elistan were here. He would know, he would understand. For there had to be an explanation! Such terrible suffering, such evil should not be allowed. Feeling empty and hollow, she stared into the fire.

"We are not so very different." Raistlin's voice seemed to come from the flames. "I live in my Tower, devoting myself to my studies. You live in your Tower, devoting yourself to your faith. And the world turns around us."

"And that is true evil," Crysania said to the flames. "To sit and do nothing."

"Now you understand," Raistlin said. "No longer am I content to sit and watch. I have studied long years for one reason, with one aim. And now that is within my grasp. I will make a difference, Crysania. I will change the world. That is my plan."

Crysania looked up swiftly. Her faith had been shaken, but its core was strong. "Your plan! It is the plan Paladine warned me of in my dream. This plan to change the world will cause the world's desruction!" Her hand clenched in her lap. "You must not go through with it! Paladine—”

Raistlin made an impatient gesture with his hand. His golden eyes flashed and, for a moment, Crysania shrank back, catching a glimpse of the smoldering fires within the man.

"Paladine will not stop me," Raistlin said, "for I seek to depose his greatest enemy."

Crysania stared at the mage, not understanding. What enemy could that be? What enemy could Paladine have upon this world. Then Raistlin's meaning became clear. Crysania felt the blood drain from her face, cold fear made her shudder convulsively. Unable to speak, she shook her head. The enormity of his ambition and his desires was too fearful, too impossible to even contemplate.

"Listen," he said, softly. "I will make it clear . . .."

And he told her his plans. She sat for what seemed like hours before the fire, held by the gaze of his strange, golden eyes, mesmerized by the sound of his soft, whispering voice, hearing him tell her of the wonders of his magic and of the magic now long lost, the wonders discovered by Fistandantilus.

Raistlin's voice fell silent. Cyrsania sat for long moments, lost and wandering in a realm far from any she had ever known. The fire burned low in the gray hour before dawn. The room became lighter. Crysania shivered in the suddenly chill chamber.

Raistlin coughed, and Crysania looked up at him, startled. He was pale with exhaustion, his eyes seemed feverish, his hands shook. Crysania rose to her feet.

"I am sorry," she said, her voice low. "I have kept you awake all night, and you are not well. I must go."

Raistlin rose with her. "Do not worry about my health, Revered Daughter," he said with a twisted smile. "The fire that burns within me is fuel enough to warm this shattered body. Dalamar will accompany you back through Shoikan Grove, if you like."

"Yes, thank you," Crysania murmured. She had forgotten that she must go back through that evil place. Taking a deep breath, she held her hand out to Raistlin. "Thank you for meeting with me," she began formally. "I hope—”

Raistlin took her hand in his, the touch of his smooth flesh burned. Crysania looked into his eyes. She saw herself reflected there, a colorless woman dressed in white, her face framed by her dark, black hair.

"You cannot do this," Crysania whispered. "It is wrong, you must be stopped." She held onto his hand very tightly.

"Prove to me that it is wrong," Raistlin answered, drawing her near. "Show me that this is evil. Convince me that the ways of good are the means of saving the world."

"Will you listen?" Crysania asked wistfully. "You are surrounded by darkness. How can I reach you?"

"The darkness parted, didn't it," Raistlin said. "The darkness parted, and you came in."

"Yes . . ." Crysania was suddenly aware of the touch of his hand, the warmth of his body. Flushing uncomfortably, she stepped back. Removing her hand from his grasp, she absently rubbed it, as if it hurt.

"Farewell, Raistlin Majere," she said, without meeting his eyes.

"Farewell, Revered Daughter of Paladine," he said.

The door opened and Dalamar stood within it, though Crysania had not heard Raistlin summon the young apprentice. Drawing her white hood up over her hair, Crysania turned from Raistlin and walked through the door. Moving down the gray, stone hallway, she could feel his golden eyes burning through her robes. When she arrived at the narrow winding staircase leading down, his voice reached her.

"Perhaps Paladine did not send you to stop me, Lady Crysania. Perhaps he sent you to help."

Crysania paused and looked back. Raistlin was gone, the gray hall was bleak and empty. Dalamar stood beside her in silence, waiting.

Slowly, gathering the folds of her white robes in her hand so that she did not trip, Crysania descended the stairs.

And kept on descending . . . down . . . down . . . into unending sleep.