Evermore: The Gathering | By : RosaTenebrum Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 9663 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1 |
Disclaimer: I do not own the Dragonlance series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
CHAPTER 9
Crysania's face, pale to begin with, turned deadly white, and she drew a great shuddering gasp of terror as her eyes - unseeing, terribly anxious - flicked in the direction of the voice which had called out to her. She stood unmoving, without uttering a word, frozen in an attitude of terror.
"Lady, I am truly sorry for approaching you like this," Raistlin hastened to say, trying his best to soften the sudden blow, "but they did not give me any other option." But even as he spoke he could see his words had no effect: Crysania might just as well not have heard them. If anything, her eyes grew even wilder and more distraught, and her lips remained parted in a scream that would not come out. If not for her chest rising and falling with the rhythm of her breathing which had suddenly grown quick and shallow, the woman would have seemed completely lifeless.
"Revered Daughter," Raistlin began again, putting on the low, soothing voice that had always managed to convince her, "you have nothing to be afraid of. I'm not going to... I just..." But he did not know how to finish: his mouth tried to form words, but there were no words. He did not even know where to start: what was it that she wanted to hear? That he wanted to hear? "I only want a word with you. To explain, to let you know that..." Suddenly he saw himself from the outside - saw himself standing there like a fool, stammering and pleading in a dusty acolyte's robe - and his pulse spiked. He had single-handedly destroyed the pantheon of gods, and now, face to face with Crysania, he was struck speechless? Offering to explain his actions as if he owed it to her, to the woman who had come willingly with him? She had come out of her own choice, so how dare she stand there now rigid with fear and unresponsive to his voice? An arrow of anger flashed through Raistlin, an arrow so sharp and hot that for a moment he could see himself crossing the floor in quick strides to briskly shake her out of her daze.
But the urge vanished as the cleric suddenly moved, her hand rising slowly up to her pendant, her fingers closing around it in a tight grip: it was a gesture almost childlike in its utter helplessness, and it plunged Raistlin right back into the desire to console her and guard her from the evils of the world. "I really need to speak with you," he repeated as gently as gentle could be. "It's very important. In fact, my life depends on it. One moment of your time - that's all I'm asking. One moment, and then I'll be gone. Alright?" The words, made up as he went along, came out pretty calm and convincing, but Crysania did not seem to register what he was saying. Still clutching the pendant, still not speaking, she slowly lifted her free hand to her temple and held it there, as if hearing voices or perhaps questioning her sanity.
Raistlin surveyed the woman uncertainly, trying to figure out his next move, and suddenly the rage he had succesfully tempered just a moment ago was there again, brooding under the genuine fear of not being able to get through to her. After all the trouble, after everything he had done to get to her, this was what he got? If she starts to cry, I swear I'll. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, and when he opened them again he was calm.
The late afternoon sun, emerging from behind the clouds, filled the little room and enfolded them in its gold-green light. The shadows of the birds flitted across the pale walls, brushing noiselessly against Crysania's ivory face. "You know who it is, right?" Raistlin said softly to the woman and, not expecting a reply, continued: "It's me. It's Raistlin. Now I know this must -"
"Stay. Away. From me."
Raistlin recoiled, surprised. The cleric's voice was shaking, but the tone was low and vehement, and its simple resolve threw him off balance a bit, it was so unexpected. "I can see you're surprised," he said quickly, his mind already working to formulate a new approach, a new way to convince her, and soon falling upon a perfect one. "He didn't tell you about me, did he? Cloade. Your secretary." He snorted out a derisive little laugh. "Of course not. He told me you were too weak, that you wouldn't be able to handle such news."
Crysania was still breathing rapidly, still clutching her holy pendant as though it was the only thing keeping her from drowning, but now, at the mention of Cloade's name, the first sign of something else than fear appeared in her sheet-pale face: a little frown, unbelieving and displeased. A satisfied smile touched Raistlin's lips at seeing it: as always, her unpriestly pride was the place to strike at. "I didn't believe him, of course. It didn't sound like you, see."
She stared in his direction, her blank gaze fixed somewhere past his shoulder.
Thinking that her unreasonable panic was slowly starting to subside, even vaguely hoping that by disclosing Master Cloade's patronizing doubts to her he had managed to bring Crysania back to his side already, Raistlin started to take a step towards the woman. A mistake: Crysania sensed his movement and franctically blundered backwards, away from him, simultaneously knocking the vase of flowers off the altar with her elbow. She gasped at the crashing sound which rang like a thunderclap and when she turned her face up again her eyes moved anxiously up and down the room as she was trying to decide which way the danger - the mage - lay. Her whole body was shaking. She was clutching herself with both arms.
"Crysania. Sweetheart. Don't be afraid."
Her eyes shot to his voice. A terrible sadness flashed quickly across her face, then just as quickly the anguished look returned.
"Please believe me," said Raistlin quietly, taking care to make it obvious that he was standing far away from her, "I never meant to sneak up on you like this. But I just need you to listen to what I have to say. Just for a short while. You see, I..."
But he was interrupted by a series of furious whispers. "No. Oh no, no, no." She was shaking her head vigorously from side to side, repeating the same word again and again. No. No, no, no.
"Yes. Yes." Raistlin's voice was sharp and demanding, it drowned out Crysania's protesting. "You will listen. You have to. Because..." He swallowed hard and closed his eyes. This was it then: the one final trump card. "Because I have a message for you, Crysania. A message from your god."
She stopped, disbelief mingling with horrified interest in her beautiful face. For a moment it looked for all the world like she was going to give in and listen, maybe even talk to him, but soon enough she turned her head away again and, pressing the heels of her hands to her ears, just stood shaking in place.
Right then there was a hasty knock on the door, and a concerned woman's voice inquired from behind, "Revered Daughter? Is everything alright in there?"
Whoever the woman was, she did not bother to wait for an answer: the lock started to rattle, and something akin to panic washed over Raistlin. His first reflex was to seal the door with a spell, but as soon as the thought formed he remembered - the notion always had the power to stun him - and within seconds he was back at the balcony door. He opened the door and turned to look at the cleric before rushing out into the sun. "I only needed a moment to speak to you, Revered Daughter. I'm sorry it was too much."
There was no time to prepare for another jump to the opposite narrow ledge: as things stood, the only way to escape was to go straight down - and fast. Briskly, Raistlin leaped over the balcony rail and had only just started to look for a good place to descend on the slippery ivy-covered wall when his body made the decision for him: his foot slipped, the world turned over and went past his eyes in a flurry of white and green; his hands scraped along the rough wall, there was a sharp pain, and in a moment he found himself on his back on the grass floor.
Gasping and coughing, Raistlin quickly scrambled to his feet and hid behind a nearby tree where he checked himself for injuries. There was a nasty cut on his right palm extending to the index finger, torn by some hidden edge, from which bright red blood was now running. Apart from that, he seemed to be in one piece. Safely out of sight in the cool shadow of the tree, he tore out a piece of the already tattered acolyte's robe with his clumsy left hand and tied the cut which was beginning to ache rather badly. He was also aware that the fall had twisted his right ankle. Twisted, but not broken though. Thank Paladine for small mercies, he thought caustically as he headed towards the exit with a limp. He did not care to look back. For all he knew, the entire temple could be staring down from the balcony with the minotaur in the lead, seeking to catch a glimpse of the mysterious intruder.
He was already a few limping steps out of the temple grounds, when he suddenly remembered the acolyte in the shed. He took a full turn, swearing long and hard in his mind. He was pissed off and bleeding - the last thing he needed right now was a whimpering idiot.
The scene was as he had left it about two hours earlier. Slumped in the dusty corner, the acolyte did not react to the sound of the opening door. Might he have lost consciousness? His head was drooping on his sweaty chest, and his gagged mouth hung open; a silvery stream of saliva was running down from one corner.
Silently Raistlin changed back into his coat, his eyes never leaving the motionless young man. An uncomfortable thought came to him. What if the acolyte was dead? What if he had a heart condition and had died out of fright? A dead cleric in his hands was something he could definitely do without. Don't be stupid, he told himself and marched over to the man, kicking him on the shin. "Rise and shine."
The acolyte was decidedly not dead: his head popped up like a cork from a bottle and he started to whimper, picking up where he had left off. Releasing his hands, but leaving the gag and the blindfold in place, Raistlin ordered the man to stand up and get dressed.
The process was painfully slow; the acolyte struggled with the bloodied piece of clothing as if it was a straitjacket, working his way down the sleeves in slow, erratic movements.
"Oh, get a move on," Raistlin urged, releasing his knife into his hand. "Never thought I'd see a man who can't dress without eyesight."
The acolyte gained speed immediately, and when he was finally finished, Raistlin put the knife to his throat - his hurt finger cried out in pain as it curled around the hilt - and walked the man to the door, pushing it open with his elbow.
"Alright. I'm removing the blindfold now, and the gag, too. You be a good boy and go on about your holy business. You won't look back, not even once, and you'll forget everything that happened today. Do that, and I won't have to search you out later." He lowered his voice and leaned closer to the acolyte's ear. "Because I won't be as nice the next time, I promise."
The man nodded nervously, as well as he could, at any rate, with the steel pressing against his throat. As soon as the restraints came off, he took off like a lightning bolt, disappearing off into the distance towards the temple. Raistlin watched him go, shaking his head incredulously. Borrowing the robe, the very part of his plan that he had expected to be the most difficult, was the only part that had actually gone well.
The rest of it had gone to hell. To be more precise, all of it had gone to hell, and he knew, with awful certainty, that without magic, everything in his life would continue to go to hell and never stop.
Suddenly livid with rage, Raistlin turned and kicked the door frame, remembering his hurt ankle too late, only when his foot made contact with the wood. His mind lit up in a blaze of white pain and he screamed out loud, startling the birds in the trees into terrified flight.
*
He tried to sneak past Jarek to the stairs, but the innkeeper spotted him right away, straightening up and staring at Raistlin with his mouth agape. "What the hell happened to you?" His red and puffy face was marked with candid astonishment.
"Precisely that." Giving no other explanation, Raistlin marched past his nosy host and upstairs banged the door open. He threw the key on the table and fell straight down onto the bed, covering his face with his arms.
He remained in this position for long moments, his head filled with a jumble of fragmented thoughts. Damn himself for a fool, approaching her like a crook. A day or two more, what difference would it have made? He should have waited. He should have waited and given that imbecile Cloade some time to rethink his stand and talk to her. And then he should have waited patiently for her to send him word, an invitation to meet her. Because that's what she would have done, surely? But there was a cold feeling in his gut he could not ignore. She had seemed so distant, so far away. Could it be that he had overestimated her ability to forgive and forget? Gods, she just drove him so mad sometimes.
He had told her that he wanted to explain: the memory of those words bothered him, the way they had slipped out of his mouth unintended. Was that what she expected? That he would crawl to her on his hands and knees, sobbing an apology to her and the world alike? Ridiculous. He needed to explain nothing. Take him back to the start, and he would do it all over again, every twist and turn of that sordid affair, from selling his brother to the dwarves to the murdering of that intruding bastard of a gnome, from destroying the fortress of Zhaman to... leaving her in the desert. Because it was all worth it, worth that one final moment of triumph that he would never forget. But no one knows, the mocking voice inside him cackled with laughter. No one knows what you achieved! He found himself hoping that Tasslehoff would have sung it loud and clear to the whole world, but then he remembered the two idiots in the magic shop. Those who do know seem to doubt it, and think it was some kind of joke. What did they know? No one would ever understand how he had felt in the end. Again, curiously, that feeling blended with the image of Crysania standing before him in her ascetic room. She had made him lost for words. He had put his life on the line to get a moment with her. How low had he fallen? It is not worth it, the voice taunted him. Nothing is worth it anymore.
Raistlin groaned as a new spike of pain flailed from left to right through his skull, teamed with the remarkable pain in his wounded hand. He pushed himself up on his elbow, reaching for the powder on the table. His hands were shaking so badly that he almost dropped the medicine. It seemed to be helping, so he had fetched some more from the apothecary. But he dreaded the day when it would lose its effect. For some reason he was certain it would.
He lay still for a while, waiting for the medicine to pry loose the rusty fingers of pain, calming his thoughts and engaging the rational part of his brain. Easy, now. He had been jumping into conclusions, and that wasn't like him at all. What he was feeling now, in fact, was deep relief. Crysania had been terrified. And being terrified was not the same as being angry. She was different from other women, she would never demean herself crying for an apology for something she had brought upon herself. She understood. She always had.
Raistlin smiled a little, reassured. Nothing was lost. Maybe the strings were a little bit displaced, but that was all. He had only to rearrange them with care and skill, just like he had done back then. The prospect of it excited him; it wouldn't have been half as interesting if she had just run straight back into his arms. But from now on everything would have to come from her - no more abrupt moves or premature actions. He knew she would regret and be embarrassed about her behaviour today. If there was any of the old Crysania left in her, she would contact him soon, burning with shame over the weakness she had shown. Professional duty would be her excuse to herself for meeting him. She would rationalize it with Paladine and His second chances.
A message from Paladine? His life depending on it? Fuck it, he had lost count of the number of lies he had already told her. What kind of message? Raistlin had no idea. The only message he had received from Paladine, very clearly and very precisely, was that he should not have been released in the first place. Well, he would come up with something.
Putting Crysania out of his mind for now, Raistlin studied the grey makeshift bandage on his hand. He would tie the wound more carefully later that night, with the materials he would get from where he was about to go. And then, after dealing with the wound, he would try to make the woman - the girl - with the hand over her throat to appear. Her, or the other presence he had felt lurking in the dark two nights ago - the mean one. He was not worried. Let him - it - come and meet its equal.
He recalled the sound he had heard that night. The sound of magic. It sent his heart racing.
Calmed down and in much less pain now, Raistlin stood up and prepared to leave. There was no point in delaying the inevitable, although the idea of showing himself to Dalamar bleeding Argent without a decent mage's robe really truly ticked him off.
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