Chapter Six

Crysania sat on her favorite bench in the garden of the temple, the long one of rose-veined gray marble, tucked away on the west side, near the apple grove and the small stand of pear trees. In springtimes past, those trees had frothed with blossoms, the scents so sweet they perfumed the temple for a week and more. Not this year. The flower buds had died of heat on the branch. The trees had leafed, but come autumn, they would not bear fruit. Like the crops in the fields, they would wither and die.

How will we eat come winter? she wondered. Who will provide if crops are dying and the beasts in the forests perish of thirst and hunger?

Paladine's will, said her heart. Trust in the god. He will provide.

She drew a long breath, reaching out with her soul. He was there, but "there" seemed so very far away when all she could gain was the sense of him, not the touch of him upon her heart. In the deep pocket of her robe, the Dragon Stones lay, one still and silent, the other calling to her.

Lightly she touched it, the warmth of goodness spreading like an ache through her, rising to her heart. She looked for reassurance; she looked for her god. She did not hear his voice, though she felt him each time she touched the stone.

Where are you, O Paladine? My dearest lord, where are you?

No voice came to answer.

Crysania sat still, her hands in her lap, her heart unquiet. It had always been that she could find peace in the temple gardens, surrounded by the soft sounds of breezes through the trees, by gardeners at work with hoe and clippers. She had even learned to distinguish the soft flutter of a butterfly from that of a sparrow, the gentle song of a hummingbird at the roses from the insistent buzz of bees in the lavender. All these things, sound and scent and tender touch, had always worked to calm her soul and soothe her heart when trouble came. And all these things, these soft garden sensations, were denied her now. The hot wind carried barely a whiff of green, and the grass underfoot crackled, brittle and dry.

That crackling now tracked the retreat of a young woman as she departed across the burnt lawn. She had brought a message from Lord Amothus saying that a large shipment of wheat that had been expected had not arrived. It had been grown with great care, using great amounts of scarce water, but it had fallen victim to an ambush on the plains. A shipment by water was similarly late, and there were unconfirmed rumors that a large body of Ariakan's troops had moved out of Kalaman, heading back toward the sea.

"But why?" Crysania had asked. "Why would Ariakan give up the city he'd just conquered?"

The messenger had drawn a long breath and let it go slowly. "Lady, my lord doesn't know."

Crysania twined her fingers together, then untwined them, willing herself to find calm so that she could think. Were Ariakan's ships bound for Palanthas? Would the morning watch soon spot red sails on the horizon?

She had sent word of this latest development to Sir Thomas but did not expect to hear from him yet. And she had sent an urgent message to Dalamar, though she knew she shouldn't expect to hear from him at all. From long experience, Crysania knew the dark elf absorbed all the news he could get but radiated little back.

The sun moved behind the temple, casting cooling shadows. Crysania bent to the basket at her feet, plucking up a strip of clean white cotton. The basket was full of such, and she sat now rolling the strips into tight bundles, rolling bandages for the Solamnic Knights. This task employed everyone in the temple at one time or another during the day, for she had decreed that no hand, not even hers, must remain idle. In every spare moment, bandages must be rolled, for if the Dark Knights did fall upon the city, many of the clerics would go to the tower to help with the wounded there. The least wounded would be bandaged by laymen and healed after those whose lives were more seriously threatened.

Crysania's hands stilled, then busied themselves again. Lagan Innis's cry of grief echoed in her memory: "Lady! I could not heal Nisse! I prayed, I reached out, I sought the god—and he was not there!"

This morning one cleric and then another came to her, whispering of similar failures to touch the god in their prayers. They were ashamed, as though they had committed some sin that caused Paladine to turn his face from them.

"No, my dear one," she had said to each, "never think so. His love is great, and our sins are small. He is with us, he is. Only he is silent now for reasons of his own."

"What reasons?" they'd asked, each in their turn.

She had to admit that she did not know; she had to bid them trust in the god as she did.

A warm breeze rattled the drying leaves in the apple trees. Nearby, the acolyte who served as Crysania's assistant today crouched beside one of the gardeners, the two of them poking in the dry earth, discussing in hushed tones how best to care for the vegetable plots and the herb gardens without wasting water. Their voices sounded faint and far-off.

Crysania put aside a roll of bandages and reached for a new strip when she heard the crunch of footsteps on the gravel path. She raised her face, tilted her head slightly to one side, and then smiled. Sometimes she had to wait for a voice to know who was approaching her. Not in this case. This one's steps, heavy and measured, she knew very well.

"Valin. Come join me here in the shade."

"Lady." He bowed to her. "How do you always know it's me even before I speak?"

She smiled. Her busy fingers came to the end of another roll of cloth and smoothed it down. She pushed the finished bandages into the bottom of the basket and took up another strip.

"Your footsteps aren't like any other's. I always imagine that your feet are not quite happy on our solid ground, that they are wishing for soft sand."

Valin sat beside her on the bench and stretched out his long legs before him. He took the basket from the ground and held it on his knee. "My lady," he said in his rich, deep voice, "I've been called a large oaf with heavy footsteps by many, but never so charmingly."

She laughed aloud, surprised to feel sudden delight, and he found the end of a strip of cloth, tugged it free, and put it in her fingers.

For a long moment he kept silent, still and unmoving. Then he said, "Please tell me, lady, that you're not considering Dalamar's proposition."

Crysania sighed silently. The old question with him, spoken sometimes, haunting always. There were times when she was pleased with the way the mage seemed to almost divine her secret thoughts. This was not one of them. She already knew Valin's opinion of Dalamar, the Dragon Stones, the dark elf's machinations, and Black-robed Wizards in general. He had made himself clear about all of it since their visit to the tower two days ago.

"I would be foolish not to consider it."

She straightened her shoulders, assumed a calm demeanor that she did not really feel. "Yes," she said, hearing him draw breath to object. "Yes, I know it better than most: Dalamar plays at games within games, and I don't yet understand what he's playing at now. Do I even believe him when he says that the stones, once found, will give me the power to speak to Takhisis? I don't know. I do know this, though. One of the stones he's given me touches my heart like the hand of Paladine himself. How can I doubt the goodness in it? How can I believe that goodness will become so corrupt once the stone is joined to its kin that nothing but evil will prevail?" She put aside her bandages. "Valin, I can never believe that goodness will become corrupted. I am not able to believe so."

Instead of the protest she'd expected, he said simply, "Lady, you are so good. Perhaps you are—"

He stopped so abruptly that she had no doubt what his next words would have been.

"Perhaps," she said lightly, "I am blinded by goodness?"

Uncomfortable silence sat between them until at last he said, "Forgive me."

"No, don't ask for that. There is no need. Must the word go out of the language simply because I live it? Of course not. Valin, I appreciate your concern."

Again his silence, a gap filled by the soft voices of the gardener and the acolyte as they conferred. Then, his voice rough and low, Valin said, "It is not simple concern, my lady. It is—" He closed his fingers over hers, long, supple fingers, rough and warm. "Do you know—you must know how—I feel about you."

"I know that you care," she said, her heart thumping hard in her breast. She knew that, and she suspected more. "And I am grateful for that, and for your loyalty."

In the courtyard between the temple and the garden, a voice lifted in laughter. It was Lagan Innis who had done nothing but mourn these two days past. What had teased the laughter from him? Crysania wondered with one part of her mind, wishing she could go to see. Wishing, oh, wishing she did not sit here with Valin's declaration of love about to spill out and fall upon—upon what? Barren ground? No, not that. Her heart was not barren, never that. Yet she must turn from what he would say. She must.

"Valin," she said as gently as though he'd come to her with some wound in need of healing. "My friend, you must not—"

"Crysania, I love you."

He said it simply. Quietly he laid his heart and his soul in her hands.

And, oh, she wished, selfishly she wished she could take his love and cherish him. She thought of all that she must face, of the threatening war, of the strange silence of gods, of all the loss ahead, and she did not want to lose Valin too. How would it be to love him, the great tall mage from desert lands? How would it be to have him beside her always, in her days, in her nights, the warm, reassurance of his love hers forever?

It would be wonderful. And she would be so very wrong to reach for that.

"Valin," she whispered as she gently withdrew from his touch. Her hands felt cold now, and her heart ached with another loss impending. "Valin, I thank you for the honor you do me, but—"

She could not see him, but she could hear him. His breath hitched as if in pain.

"But you are the Revered Daughter of Paladine, and I am only a desert chieftain's son."

Crysania winced as though from an unkind blow. "I thought you knew me, friend mage. I thought you did. If you knew me, you'd know your birth—no matter if you were the son of the lowest man of your tribe!—would never make you unworthy in my eyes. Your heart is everything, and none is nobler than yours."

Bitterness wrung his voice. "Then what keeps you from me, lady?"

"Don't you know?"

He did. His silence said so.

"There is no place in my life for love such as you offer.

Oh, gods, if only there were! But, Valin, you know who I am; you know how much responsibility I bear. The kind," she said hastily, "that I can share with no one. Yes, I am a Revered Daughter of Paladine, as you say, and that title comes at great cost. One of the things I pay in fee is to forgo the life of love even the poorest woman of the city may hope for."

"Your god," he said, still bitter, still hurt. "He comes before all."

"Yes," she said gently. "He does. He must. I have my faith. And my commitment to that faith. I have duties to uphold. I serve the temple and those who worship in it, as well as those who do not.

"Valin, I would not hurt you for all the riches of the world. You are so very dear to me. But I will not give you false hope. I—I'm sorry"

In the courtyard, Lagan Innis called to someone, saying he wondered where his friend, the mage, had gone. The answer came, muffled by distance. It must have sufficed, for Lagan's voice was not heard again. And Valin stood, straight and tall to hide his pain. She knew it. She felt it.

"I beg, lady, that you will forgive me. I was wrong to speak this way to you. I was wrong to burden you with my foolish fancies. Now tell me, please, how I can help you in these hard days to come."

Crysania felt loss sliding over her heart like a cold, deep shadow.

She rose to stand beside him, suddenly deciding. "I need someone to go to Kalaman," she declared. "To assess the situation and report back to me. I ask you to go on my behalf—immediately."

He groaned, a man wounded. "No, please, lady. Don't send me from you. I swear it, I won't speak of my feelings again. There's no need to send me away. I want to be here with you in case there is an attack, or if you decide to go to—"

His voice trailed away. He was loath to speak the name of the evil city in such godly surroundings. She presented her reasoning before he could draw further breath to protest.

"Valin, I must have reliable information. The silence of the gods, Ariakan's gathering armies, the dreadful heat—all these things are connected somehow. I know it. I feel it in my heart. But what my instinct tells me is only warning. I need facts, information. I need to know where my best efforts will be spent. I need you to do this because I trust you. And you know that area much better than any of the clerics here. You're much better equipped to handle yourself if the conditions are as bad as I fear."

What could he say? She had presented her case so well, so strongly, that he could do nothing but agree.

"But I beg you, Crysania, give me your word that you won't leave for Neraka until I return. You will need me even more on that trip than you will on this one."

"I cannot promise that," she said, her voice low and sad.

They stood in silence for a long moment, Crysania thinking that, just as he had said, she did need him. Thinking how selfish that need was. Weighing the selfishness of her need against the needs of the temple and the awkwardness and discomfort of keeping him close by. She almost hesitated. She felt she owed him, at least, some explanation. She breathed deeply, drew upon her selfcontrol, and drew him back down onto the bench.

"Even before Lagan returned with news of Ariakan and his army, I was distressed by these developments and considering you for this mission."

"Distressed? Here is news." He smiled. She heard it in his voice, and the smile was without humor. She heard that, too. "I've never seen anything distress you."

"If I could be what you think I am, my friend, we'd all be better off. But I am who I am, and so I'm often distressed, Valin, and often I go to my prayers."

She paused, touching the medallion at her breast. She began again, and this time as she spoke her voice grew stronger. The words flowed faster. "There are times when Paladine seems to surround me, so close it seems he is part of the room I am in, the air I breathe. Sometimes his presence is less immediate." She gripped the medallion so hard she felt the imprint of the dragon itself on her palm." But now it has been a long time since I felt his presence very strongly. It has been a long time since I felt him as I used to feel him… with me."

She paused, swallowing. "This morning as I prayed, it was as if I could barely detect him. No, I can't put it into words. It was as if he were there but not listening."

"Lagan has said the same thing to me."

"He and others are feeling it. It's hard, Valin, to look for the god who for so long sustained me and find only silence."

Valin reached out for her, touched her hand soothingly, offering wordless comfort.

Shuddering slightly, Crysania continued. "Something is wrong. Very wrong. I know it in my heart." She took up the cotton strips again, her fingers moving automatically. "That is why I tell you this. So you will understand how vital it is that I have accurate information from someone I can trust."

"Lady, if you go to Neraka, you must take me with you! Who will protect you?"

Crysania grew solemn. "Anyone who goes with me will protect me, as I will protect him."

"Then you have decided."

She hesitated only a moment. "I believe my course is set no matter how I decide. Events seem bent on guiding me." And she didn't like that, she who was used to guiding her own course.

Agitated, Valin stood. He caught her arm. "Please, lady, walk with me."

Reluctantly she put aside the strip of cloth on which she was working.

The acolyte, seeing Crysania stand, also started to rise, but Valin waved her away. He led Crysania deeper into the garden, away from the temple, away from those who had ventured outside.

"Lady, you know I don't trust Lord Dalamar. He has his own reasons for what he does. He didn't even tell you about the gray wizards and the conclave! And even if Dalamar persuades you somehow, think of Neraka! You can't be serious about going there." His voice dropped low. "You can't be serious about communicating with Takhisis!"

Dry leaves crunched underfoot as they walked. Crysania reached up a hand and trailed it through the branches of the hedge that lined the path. The few leaves that still clung tentatively to the branches were as lifeless as those that marked their passing. She stopped.

"Valin." She said his name softly, caught his large hand between hers. "It would be best if you go. Now." She looked up to where she knew his eyes to be. "You have lived here with us and borne our scrutiny with charm and grace. And while there are still those who mutter about mages, there are many in the temple who have come to accept you as one of us, without questioning your motives or your beliefs. I cannot but think that they will carry this forward in their dealings with other mages. I have wanted this discourse, this openness between mages and clerics, for many years. You've brought me so much closer to it, and I will always honor you for that. And if you cannot go where I send you now, then I understand. But all the same, then you must go from here."

He sighed once deeply, and she turned to leave him, her step slow and her heart heavy.

His hand fell lightly on her shoulder. She stopped. He turned her around.

She lifted her face, ready to ask a question, and in that moment felt his lips on hers. A gentle kiss, offered in hope of never dying. She gasped a little as her heart roused and warmed to him. He put his hands round her waist.

"No," she whispered, against his kiss. No, she said to him, and to the sad reality that demanded she not accept what again he offered.

He let her go, took his hand from her, turned his face and let the kiss die.

"I will go on this mission because you ask it," he said huskily, "and I hope you know that you may trust me in all things, no matter what has passed between us here."

No matter, said his unspoken words, what has not passed.

Then he walked away, leaving her alone there on the path, acutely aware of the sound of his footsteps as he walked back up the path.

Her assistant came trotting up as she turned back toward her bench. "Lady, is there anything you need?"

Crysania put her hand to her hair, smoothing it absently, wondering if the flush she felt was visible. "Yes, please. Would you carry my workbasket inside? I think I will retire early."

The young woman bowed and offered to accompany her, but Crysania waved her away. She did not want company now, not even unobtrusive company.

Valin sat a long moment at the small desk, the only other furniture in his chamber beside his bed and nightstand and the small chest he'd brought with him from his home. Ink dried swiftly on the parchment before him, thanks to the heat of the afternoon. The words there were few, a spare message written in haste. A message, perhaps, to draw him into danger. A message, perhaps, to help him learn things he must know. Crysania would never permit this message had she known about it. Valin would take the greatest care to be certain she did not. What he did now was his business. Only his.

He read the spare message again, then penned his name and rolled the parchment, tied it with a white ribbon, and marked it with his own seal. He was, after all, the son of a desert chieftain, one whose sigil, though perhaps not particularly well known in Palanthas, was the sign of an honorable man and thus proudly made.

That done, he went out into the temple, found Lagan Innis, and said to his friend, "Please take this to The Three Moons. And I beg you, my friend, speak to no one of it."

Lagan frowned, his expression clearly bespeaking a cleric's reluctance to venture into the mageware shop.

Valin winked. "Never worry. I haven't heard that Mistress Jenna is in the habit of turning dwarves into toads. But just in case she is, you needn't wait for a reply."

Lagan snorted and snatched the parchment from Valin's hand. "Good as done."

And Valin knew it was so.

He returned to his room, closed the door behind him, and murmured a spell. There were no locks on temple doors, but this spell would guard as well as a lock. Any who approached with the intent of seeking him would suddenly remember that they'd seen him elsewhere only a moment ago and so leave.

The spell set, Valin unrolled a white, closely woven rug no larger than a cleric's prayer mat. He stretched it out upon the floor. His hands trembling with pleasure, with anticipation, he smoothed the rug and took out a small pouch from the chest at the foot of his bed. His heart sang, his blood tingled. It had been a long time since he'd cast more than a simple spell. Now he would weave one of the most complex.

Stepping carefully, his feet bare and clean, Valin sat in the exact center of the rug. From the pouch came spell components. First he took out four stones—tourmaline, rose marble, granite, and turquoise. These he placed at each corner of the rug, for they were ward stones, bespelled to keep him safe while he worked his magic.

Next he took out two smaller pouches, one of gold velvet, the other of blue silk. Each contained the dried leaves of certain sweet-smelling herbs. He poured the contents of the gold pouch into his hand, from that hand, he let the powdered herb trickle to make a green circle on the white rug. As he did, he whispered words of enchantment, deep words known only to those versed in magecraft. He did the same with the blue pouch of herbs, shaping a circle within the circle, so that he was surrounded and safe.

Drawing a deep breath, Valin summoned his strength and firmed his will. He closed his eyes, feeling magic humming in him, coursing through his blood, skittering along the length of his bones, singing in his heart.

"Wake in me now, silent one. Silent one, awake!"

Deep within himself, he felt a stirring, a rousing. His strength began to wane.

"Rise from me now, silent one. Silent one, arise!"

And the rousing grew stronger, a power gathering. The urge to fall down and sleep lay heavy on him.

"Step forth now, silent one. Silent one, step!"

A breeze sighed at the window; Valin heard it as from a great distance. Upon his skin he felt a touch, as of a familiar hand, but only as a man just falling into sleep feels. By sheer force of will, he opened his eyes and felt the familiar shock of seeing himself standing before him. It was not like looking in a mirror, the act of seeing his fetch. It was more as if he saw himself in a dream, fully dimensional, strong and tall and straight.

"Silent one," he whispered, "you must take my voice and fare forth."

The fetch, a creature born of his own spirit, a being with no will but his, bowed once and made no sound.

Valin drew breath, long and slow, holding on to the waking world with quickly waning strength.

"You must find my brother, wherever he may be, and you must tell him this for me: I need you! Come to Palanthas, to the Temple of Paladine, and seek the Lady Crysania. She will take a long and dangerous journey, and I cannot be with her to ward and guide her. Come and take my place at her side, Brother. On our mother's pure soul, on our father's fiery heart, I swear to the urgency of my need!"

And the fetch, silent, with only those words to speak to only that man, stepped out from the circle, out beyond the ward stones that would keep Valin's body safe while his spirit fared forth.

The white robe sank onto the rug, asleep before he could smell the herbs warding round him. He never felt the fetch leave, nor did he awaken when it returned.

Crysania crossed through her quiet study to her bedchamber. She opened the windows wide, but the early evening air was hot and still, and the room remained stuffy. Standing before the open windows, she closed her fingers upon the medallion of the golden dragon and took a deep breath. She waited quietly, patiently for Paladine's warmth. But no breath of light and goodness came to fill her soul. She tried to push away the worries and concerns of the day tried to forget Valin. Lips moving softly in a litany of prayer, she circled the room.

Over and over she murmured, "Lord of all that is light and good, I have choices to make, and they are hard ones. Grant me thy comfort and wisdom."

Dust scraped beneath her sandals. She kicked her sandals off and listened to the sounds of the temple and the approaching night. Bells chimed softly in the garden, voices twined together, murmuring. The silver song of crickets rose from the grass, one calling to another. A gull cried, high above in the hard blue sky, ever hungry, ever hopeful.

A little at a time, her tension eased, like a burden lifting from her shoulders. Ah, she'd been yoked with that burden of worry and fear for so long!

At last she felt better. Yet still she didn't feel Paladine's touch. She put aside her medallion and let her robe fall off her shoulders and pool on the floor. Her linen shift clung to her, damp and uncomfortable, as she washed in lukewarm water. That done, she stepped out of the linen and dressed in a light nightshirt. Only then did she take up the robe, slip her fingers into the pocket, and retrieve the two Dragon Stones. Their magic warmed her hand, radiated up her arm.

The warmth became a tingling, spreading throughout her body.

And suddenly she could feel Paladine as she had not felt him in weeks. So near!

She fell to her knees, her lashes wet with tears.

"Paladine, bless us. Grant me thy comfort and wisdom. Help—"

Like a bright shard of light, so bright it hurt, she felt his presence. But something was wrong. He felt—

Something was terribly wrong!

She knew it, trembling on her knees, that Paladine—her great god, her wide-winged silver dragon—stood in great danger.

The magic prickling began to burn. The burning became painful, like fire on her skin, like flame in her heart. With a cry, Crysania dropped the stones. She released the medallion.

She staggered to her feet, the dust on the floor burning the soles of her feet as though she walked on glowing embers. She gained her bed, sobbing, not knowing whose pain she felt, hers or her god's.

She lay for a long time, shuddering, tears streaking her face, fear wracking her heart. It seemed to her that darkness came with clawed hand, reaching for her, clutching at her. She cried out once. It seemed she'd screamed. But no sound followed, not the questioning voice of an acolyte or cleric. Who could overhear the cries of her heart? Only the god who could not speak to her, who could not seek her.

A long while later sleep overcame her, and yet still she was denied peace. Exhausted, she dreamed of battle light on shining swords, of dark, looping corridors filled with deadly traps. She dreamed of her god, hooded and shrouded and standing alone in a storm.

She dreamed of touching the bright, shining stone given her by Dalamar, the servant of darkness. She dreamed that she felt—for only the briefest moment!—the embrace of her god, the peace of his love and strength.

Then she dreamed no more.