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, tri-
umphed 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 his-
torian 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 par-
ents, however, had carefully nurtured and pruned their daugh-
ter’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 per-
haps 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 skepti-
cal. The young woman – she was in her mid-twenties – had
been raised on stories of how the gods had inflicted the Cata-
clysm 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 fore-
runner 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