just prior to the Cataclysm, when Fistandantilus was at the
height of his power.”
Dalamar felt dizzy, his thoughts swirled in confusion. What
would They say? Amidst all Their speculation, They had cer-
tainly not foreseen this!
“Steady, my apprentice.” Raistlin’s soft voice seemed to come
to Dalamar from far away. “This has unnerved you. Some
wine?”
The mage walked over to a table. Lifting a carafe, he poured
a small glass of blood-red liquid and handed it to the dark elf.
Dalamar took it gratefully, startled to see his hand shaking.
Raistlin poured a small glass for himself.
“I do not drink this strong wine often, but tonight it seems we
should have a small celebration. A toast to – how did you put
it? – one of true holy powers. This, then, to Lady Crysania!”
Raistlin drank his wine in small sips. Dalamar gulped his
down. The fiery liquid bit into his throat. He coughed.
“Shalafi, if the Live One reported correctly, Lord Soth cast a
death spell upon Lady Crysania, yet she still lives. Did you
restore her life?”
Raistlin shook his head. “No, I simply gave her visible signs
of life so that my dear brother would not bury her. I cannot be
certain what happened, but it is not difficult to guess. Seeing
the death knight before her and knowing her fate, the Revered
Daughter fought the spell with the only weapon she had, and a
powerful one it was – the holy medallion of Paladine. The god
protected her, transporting her soul to the realms where the
gods dwell, leaving her body a shell upon the ground. There
are none – not even I – who can bring her soul and body back
together again. Only a high cleric of Paladine has that power.”
“Elistan?”
“Bah, the man is sick, dying….”
“Then she is lost to you!”
“No,” said Raistlin gently. “You fail to understand, appren-
tice. Through inattention, I lost control. But I have regained it
quickly. Not only that, I will make this work to my advantage.
Even now, they approach the Tower of High Sorcery. Crysania
was going there, seeking the help of the mages. When she
arrives, she will find that help, and so will my brother.”
“You want them to help her?” Dalamar asked in confusion.
“She plots to destroy you!”
Raistlin quietly sipped his wine, watching the young appren-
tice intently. “Think about it, Dalamar,” he said softly, “think
about it, and you will come to understand. But” – the mage set
down his empty glass – “I have kept you long enough.”
Dalamar glanced out the window. The red moon, Lunitari,
was starting to sink out of sight behind the black jagged edges
of the mountains. The night was nearing its midpoint.
“You must make your journey and be back before I leave in
the morning,” Raistlin continued. “There will undoubtedly be
some last-minute instructions, besides many things I must
leave in your care. You will be in charge here, of course, while I
am gone.”
Dalamar nodded, then frowned. “You spoke of my journey,
Shalafi? I am not going anywhere -” The dark elf stopped,
choking as he remembered that he did, indeed, have some-
where to go, a report to make.
Raistlin stood regarding the young elf in silence, the look of
horrified realization dawning on Dalamar’s face reflected in the
mage’s mirrorlike eyes. Then, slowly, Raistlin advanced upon
the young apprentice, his black robes rustling gently about his
ankles. Stricken with terror, Dalamar could not move. Spells
of protection slipped from his ‘grasp. His mind could think of
nothing, see nothing, except two flat, emotionless, golden
eyes.
Slowly, Raistlin lifted his hand and laid it gently upon Dala-
mar’s chest, touching the young man’s black robes with the tips
of five fingers.
The pain was excruciating. Dalamar’s face turned white, his
eyes widened, he gasped in agony. But the dark elf could not
withdraw from that terrible touch. Held fast by Raistlin’s gaze,
Dalamar could not even scream.
“Relate to them accurately both what I have told you,” Raist-
lin whispered, “and what you may have guessed. And give the
great Par-Salian my regards… apprentice!”