my turn to ask questions. What is there about YOU that is
different from other humans? For there is something,
something besides your golden skin and eyes that see death
in the living. Looking at you, I perceive the shadow of
another. You are young, yet there is a timelessness about
you. Who are YOU, Raistlin, that this has happened
between us?”
To her amazement, Raistlin blanched, his eyes
widening in fear, then narrowing in suspicion. “It seems we
both have our secrets.” He shrugged. “And now, Amberyl, it
appears that we will never know what caused this to
happen. All that should really concern us is what must be
done to rid ourselves of this . . . this VALIN?”
Shutting her eyes, Amberyl licked her lips. Her mouth
was dry, the cave was suddenly unbearably cold. Shivering,
she tried more than once to speak.
“What?” Raistlin’s voice grated.
“I … must bear . . . your child,” Amberyl said weakly,
her throat constricting.
For long moments there was silence. Amberyl did not
dare open her eyes, she did not dare look at the mage.
Ashamed and afraid, she buried her face in her arms. But an
odd sound made her look up.
Raistlin was lying back on his blankets, laughing. It
was almost inaudible laughter, more a wheeze and a
choking, but laughter nonetheless – taunting, cutting
laughter. And Amberyl saw, with pity in her heart, that its
sharp edge was directed against himself.
“Don’t, please, don’t,” Amberyl said, crawling nearer to
the mage.
“Look at me, lady!” Raistlin gasped, his laughter catching
in his throat, setting him to coughing. Grinning at her
mirthlessly, he gestured outside. “You had best wait for my
brother,” he said. “Caramon will be back soon… .”
“No, he won’t,” Amberyl said softly, creeping closer
still to Raistlin. “Your brother will not be back before
morning.”
Raistlin’s lips parted. His eyes – filled with a sudden
hunger – devoured Amberyl’s face. “Morning,” he repeated.
“Morning,” she said.
Reaching up a trembling hand, Raistlin brushed back
the beautiful hair from her delicate face. “The fire will be
out long before morning.”
“Yes,” said Amberyl softly, blushing, resting her cheek
against the mage’s hand. “It – it’s already growing cold in
here. We will have to do something to keep warm … or we
will perish. . . .”
Raistlin drew his hand over her smooth skin, his finger
touching her soft lips. Her eyes closed, she leaned toward
him. His hand moved to touch her long eyelashes, as fine as
elven lace. Her body pressed close to his. He could feel her
shivering. Putting his arm around her, he drew her close. As
he did so, the fire’s last little flame flickered and died.
Darkness warmer and softer than the blankets covered them.
Outside they could hear the wind laughing, the trees
whispering to themselves.
“Or we will perish . . .” Raistlin murmured.
Amberyl woke from a fitful sleep wondering, for a
moment, where she was. Stirring slightly, she felt the
mage’s arm wrapped around her protectively, the warmth of
his body lying next to hers. Sighing, she rested her head
against his shoulder, listening to the shallow, too rapid
breathing. She let herself lie there, surrounded by his
warmth, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible.
Outside, she could no longer hear the wind and knew
the storm must have ended. The darkness that covered them
was giving way to dawn. She could barely make out the
blackened remnants of the firewood in the gray half-light.
Turning slightly, she could see Raistlin’s face.
He was a light sleeper. He stirred and muttered at her
movement, coughing, starting to wake. Amberyl touched
his eyelids lightly with her fingertips, and he sighed deeply
and relaxed back into sleep, the lines of pain smoothing
from his face.
How young he looks, she thought to herself. How
young and vulnerable. He has been deeply hurt. That is why
he wears the armor of arrogance and unfeeling. It chafes
him now. He is not used to it. But something tells me he
will become all too accustomed to this armor before his
brief life ends.
Moving carefully and quietly so as not to disturb him –