Both bowed before him solemnly, then walked across the glade
to where Crysania lay in her deathlike sleep. Lifting her still
body with ease, they bore her gently back to where Caramon
stood. Coming to the edge of the Forest, they stopped, turning
their hooded heads, looking at him expectantly.
“I think they’re waiting for you to go in first, Caramon,” Tas
said cheerfully. “You go on ahead, I’ll get Bupu.”
The gully dwarf remained standing in the center of the glade,
regarding the Forest with deep suspicion, which Caramon,
looking at the white-robed figures, suddenly shared.
“Who are you?” he asked.
They did not answer. They simply stood, waiting.
“Who cares who they are!” Tas said, impatiently grabbing
hold of Bupu and dragging her along, her sack bumping against
her heels.
Caramon scowled. “You go first.” He gestured at the white-
robed figures. They said nothing, nor did they move.
“Why are you waiting for me to enter that Forest?” Caramon
stepped back a pace. “Go ahead” – he gestured – “take her to
the Tower. You can help her. You don’t need me -”
The figures did not speak, but one raised his hand, pointing.
“C’mon, Caramon,” Tas urged. “Look, it’s like he was invit-
ing us!”
They will not bother us, brother…. We have been invited!
Raistlin’s words, spoken seven years ago.
“Mages invited us. I don’t trust ’em.” Caramon softly
repeated the answer he had made then.
Suddenly, the air was filled with laughter – strange, eerie,
whispering laughter. Bupu threw her arms around Caramon’s
leg, clinging to him in terror. Even Tasslehoff seemed a bit dis-
concerted. And then came a voice, as Caramon had heard it
seven years before.
Does that include me, dear brother?
CHAPTER 11
The hideous appari-
tion 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 dark-
ness, 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 blue-
white. 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