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 per-
form 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 shin-
ing 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 t-he door
opened, her hands – until now calmly folded – clasped
together in excitement.
Bertrem entered. His eyes went to Astinus, who sat immov-
able 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 Aes-
thetic disappeared back through the door as rapidly as his flut-
tering 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 dark-
ness 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 spar-
kles, 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 fig-
ure’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 crea-
ture? 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 had 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,