“Can I send for anything else? Is everything to your liking?”
he asked politely.
“Y-yes,” Crysania stammered, setting her wine glass down so
that he would not see her hand shake. “Everything is fine. More
than fine, actually. Your apprentice – Dalamar? He is quite
charming.”
“Isn’t he,” said Raistlin dryly. He placed the tips of the five
fingers of each hand together and rested them upon the table.
“What marvelous hands you have,” Crysania said, without
thinking. “How slender and supple the fingers are, and so deli-
cate.” Suddenly realizing what she had been saying, she flushed
and stammered. “B-but I-I suppose that is requisite to your
Art -”
“Yes,” Raistlin said, smiling, and this time Crysania thought
she saw actual pleasure in his smile. He held his hands to the
light cast by the flames. “When I was just a child, I could amaze
and delight my brother with the tricks these hands could – even
then – perform.” Taking a golden coin from one of the secret
pockets of his robes, Raistlin placed the coin upon the knuckles
of his hand. Effortlessly, he made it dance and spin and whirl
across his hand. It glistened in and out of his fingers. Flipping
into the air, it vanished, only to reappear in his other hand.
Crysania gasped in delight. Raistlin glanced up at her, and she
saw the smile of pleasure twist into one of bitter pain.
“Yes,” he said, “it was my one skill, my one talent. It kept the
other children amused. Sometimes it kept them from hurting
me.”
“Hurting you?” Crysania asked hesitantly, stung by the pain
in his voice.
He did not answer at once, his eyes on the golden coin he still
held in his hand. Then he drew a deep breath. “I can picture
your childhood,” he murmured. “You come from a wealthy
family, so they tell me. You must have been beloved, sheltered,
protected, given anything you wanted. You were admired,
sought after, liked.”
Crysania could not reply. She felt suddenly overwhelmed
with guilt.
“How different was my childhood.” Again, that smile of bit-
ter pain. “My nickname was the Sly One. I was sickly and
weak. And too smart. They were such fools! Their ambitions
so petty – like my brother, who never thought deeper than his
food dish! Or my sister, who saw the only way to attain her
goals was with her sword. Yes, I was weak. Yes, they protected
me. But some day, I vowed I wouldn’t need their protection! I
would rise to greatness on my own, using my gift – my magic!”
His hand clenched, his golden-tinted skin turned pale. Sud-
denly he began to cough, the wrenching, wracking cough that
twisted his frail body. Crysania rose to her feet, her heart ach-
ing with pain. But he motioned her to sit down. Drawing a
cloth from a pocket, he wiped the blood from his lips.
“And this was the price I paid for my magic,” he said when he
could speak again. His voice was little more than a whisper.
“They shattered my body and gave me this accursed vision, so
that all I look upon I see dying before my eyes. But it was worth
it, worth it all! For I have what I sought – power. I don’t need
them – any of them – anymore.”
“But this power is evil!” Crysania said, leaning forward in
her chair and regarding Raistlin earnestly.
“Is it?” asked Raistlin suddenly. His voice was mild. “Is ambi-
tion evil? Is the quest for power, for control over others evil? If
so, then I fear, Lady Crysania, that you may as well exchange
those white robes for black.”
“How dare you?” Crysania cried, shocked. “I don’t -”
“Ah, but you do,” Raistlin said with a shrug. “You would not
have worked so hard to rise to the position you have in the
church without having your share of ambition, of the desire for
power.” Now it was his turn to lean forward. “Haven’t you
always said to yourself – there is something great I am destined
to do? My life will be different from the lives of others. I am not