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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 List
- 10
- 11
- 12
CHAPTER 10

Raistlin rode towards the city centre at a slow pace, satisfied that none of the Bredells had been around when he went to fetch his horse, satisfied that the pain in his head was gone for the moment. The one thing that worried him though was that the only way to the Tower of High Sorcery was straight through the cursed Shoikan Grove, and he had no idea how the undead guardians roaming the place would react to his presence - chances were they would deem him an intruder and suck the life energy from him faster than he could blink, making him join their gloomy lines. The positive side was that he was at least wearing his black-hooded coat. The spirits were not the sharpest tools in the shed, and so it was entirely possible that they would mistake the coat for a mage's robe and let him pass.

However that did not mean he would not worry, and the closer he got to the haunted grove the more nervous he was feeling. But what happened when Digby finally stepped through the gate was so incredible that Raistlin had scarcely dared to wish for it.

"Master, master..."

The whispers and hisses embraced him, swaying around him like a dark stormy ocean. For a moment he could only sit still, holding the reins in one hand as the realization gradually and wonderfully dawned on him. Of course. He should have known. The guards recognized and welcomed the true Master of the Tower back home. That was him. Not Dalamar, not anyone else who might lay claim to the title. Only him. Smiling almost rapturously, Raistlin nudged Digby forward and guided it through the tall oak trees, the waves of adoring sighs caressing his mind as he rode along the winding path towards the imposing tower at the heart of the grove.

Still smiling and incredibly high from the warm welcome, Raistlin brought Digby to a halt, dismounted nimbly and for a moment observed in silence the dark marble tower that rose to dizzying heights before him, its minarets topped with blood-red spires. He sighed a little.

He tied Digby to the black iron fence and walked over to the rune-carved wooden door. He hesitated briefly, but the door opened with ease as he gave it a little push and let Raistlin into the familiar entrance hall, with the stair spiraling around its edge, broken by occasional narrow landings and doors to rooms.

As Raistlin stood gazing at the stairs, a door creaked open behind him, followed by soft, almost soundless footsteps. He did not have to look to know who it was.

"And so we meet again, after three years." The voice was placid and cool. If the dark elf was surprised, he hid it well.

"Three years too soon." Without wasting a look at his former apprentice, Raistlin made his way towards the winding spiral staircase.

He climbed the narrow stone stairs with haste, counting them as he went; he just couldn't help himself. Other steps were coming up behind him: Argent was following, of course, like a sniffing hound at his heels. Some people never learned, not even with five bleeding holes in their chests.

It was a long and hard ascend. Halfway through, Raistlin's heart was pounding in his throat and the edges of his vision rippled red, but he did not stop to draw breath until he had reached the landing on the tenth floor. Panting wretchedly, he grabbed the runed handle and yanked open the door to his old private chambers, fully intending to slam it in Dalamar's face, but what he saw inside made him freeze.

Staring into the hazy glow of the room, catching his breath, Raistlin realized three things at once. The first of them was that the space where he had once studied the intricate mysteries of life and death was now clearly a woman's room - there were fresh flowers in vases in garish orange and yellow hues, a red silk chemise thrown carelessly over the back of a chair, a pair of pearl embroidered slippers kicked off partway under a flamboyant daybed, and above it all just a hint of perfume lingered in the air. The second thing he realized was that, had it been his old room still, he would not have found what he was looking for there. Preparing his journey to Istar, he had moved most of his materials into the laboratory at the top of the tower, which he now remembered and which led to the third unpleasant realization: he would have to go up, all the way up, twenty-three more floors, to be exact. He had no means to do that. Not in a million years could he walk six hundred steps.

Raistlin sensed Dalamar hovering behind him and, annoyed, he turned to finally look at the dark elf. "I see you've moved into my room," he said derisively.

Dalamar was wearing a plain black robe. His long black hair hung loose down his back, with two little side plaits framing his long, narrow face which only a slight sheen of sweat covered. Infuriatingly composed in spite of the long rise, wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he gave a humourless laugh and said, "Perhaps you'd like the laboratory instead?" There was a strange sort of eagerness in his otherwise flat voice, and without waiting for a confirmation he flicked his hand, creating a shimmering portal out of thin air, so smoothly and so effortlessly that Raistlin wanted to scream. If he had hated that man before, he now hated him even more.

"Please." Dalamar gestured at the portal, still smiling that strange, eager smile. Raistlin studied the barely concealed expression of glee on the dark elf's face. What was the catch? There had to be one, but he decided to leave that be for the time being, because clearly the portal was the easiest and quickest way for him to get up to the top. Casting a scornful glance at the dark elf's creation, yet inwardly seething with rage, Raistlin stepped in.

In a blink they emerged at the top of the tower. Without a word, Raistlin advanced directly towards the laboratory door, but he did not get far as his way was suddenly blocked by two white, disembodied eyes that materialized in the air. Framed by the massive doorway, they stared at him with cold glow.

So that was the catch. Slowly, Raistlin took a step back, observing the unworldly phenomenon before him. The penetrating eyes stared back at him relentlessly, but as he watched he saw no real threat in them; they were the eyes of a dull-minded thrall bound to follow the order given to it, which obviously for this particular wraith was to guard the laboratory door. The effect was spooky enough to keep amateurs at bay, to be sure, but the magic behind the spectacle was so elementary that he would have wiped the floor with it - in the old days, that was.

"Someone's been playing with magic, I see," said Raistlin jeeringly, darting a look at the dark elf.

Smiling conceitedly, Dalamar nodded towards the guard. "My friend here has the key. And he won't take nicely to anyone trying to get in."

"Oh. That's good. Because I won't take nicely to anyone trying to keep me out." Raistlin turned his attention back to the disembodied wraith, his mind feverishly working on how to obtain entrance past it.

"So," said Dalamar from behind him conversationally, after a moment of silence, "it must be true what they say about criminals returning to the scene of the crime. You're running a little late, though. As you can see, I sealed the laboratory after what happened."

"Afraid I was going to get out and catch you?" Ignoring Dalamar, Raistlin bent down to explore the ornate silver lock the dark elf had created. That too was playschool magic, a thing to be dispelled with a simple turn of the wrist. Sighing inaudibly, Raistlin closed his eyes against the rising, sickening sense of frustration. He could feel the dark elf's eyes on him, prying, seeking an explanation. "Are you going to just stand there and gawk?" he asked, his voice almost betraying his irritation.

"I don't see why not," Dalamar replied in a bored sort of tone. "I've watched you fail once, I can do it again."

"Your loyalty never ceases to amaze me." Raistlin put out a finger and touched the lock: it was burning cold, as he'd expected, and he quickly retracted his hand. "Whatever happened to 'shalafi'? The Guardians seemed to remember their place just fine." He tried to inject a note of amusement into his voice, not managing it. His good mood was slipping. In fact, it was gone.

"If memory serves, it was you who called off the deal."

"If memory serves, you had it coming." Raistlin abandoned the lock and, turning to the dark elf, directed a significant look at the man's chest. "How are the wounds, by the way? Would you like me to make some more?"

Dalamar started slightly, and a look of anxiety appeared in his eyes as he crossed his arms over his chest in a reflexive gesture of defense. Smiling, Raistlin turned back to the door.

The dark elf was quiet for a good while, and when his voice came back, it was soft but defiant. "I could turn you in, you know, to the authorities, tell them everything you've done, and very soon you'd find yourself locked in with the other blackrobes who lost it. Cozy places, lunatic asylums."

Raistlin kept on studying the door with an air of indifference, yet hating to admit that some part of him had become alert to the dark elf's words.

"Or maybe they'd just chop your head clean off. I bet both the living and the dead would line up to testify against you. Not just random people you wiped out of your way, but old friends too. Let's see... Tanis Half-Elven? Now there's a man to admire. Honest, reliable. Sturm Brightblade, perhaps, who sacrificed himself in the Great War, doing everyone proud?"

Raistlin was looking into the cold eyes of the wraith, but the wraith was not what he was seeing. Everything had gone out of his sight, the lock, the door, the grey stones beneath his feet, and there was only Dalamar's voice, softly treading on thin ice.

"Who else? Your excellent brother, of course." A tentative pause. "Revered Daughter Crysania."

One word. He could speak one small word to slam the dark elf down the stairs headfirst, screaming in agony. But there were no words, not anymore - there was only the dull ache in his skull, always returning, always finding its way back. Dalamar's voice lingered at the back of his mind like a malevolent ghost. How many times had he seen it in a dream? The rows of people come to witness his execution. The smile on Caramon's lips as he watched him stumble on the steps leading up to the gallows. He remembered the look on Crysania's face earlier that day, her voice filled with resolve, and a cold blade touched his insides. Stay. Away. From me.

Dalama'r voice slithered into his brain again, taunting and thick with contempt. "That poor lady. She was such a lovely woman, don't you think? For your information, she came out of it alive but terribly wounded, and you did manage to blind her for good." He paused to allow the information he thought was new to sink in. "Tell me, does it give you pleasure to think of how badly your hurt her?"

Raistlin breathed in deep. He would not let it happen. He would not give Dalamar the joy of seeing him affected by his childish word plays.

The dark elf pressed on. "And what about your brother, then, the great war hero? Has he opened the bottle again, I wonder. Alone, in the dark of the long night, does he -"

"Why don't you take a look in the mirror, Argent, before you start preaching morals to others."

Dalamar spoke no more, but there was an infuriating sense of triumph in his silence. Moreover, it seemed to underline the fact that there was no opening the silver lock without magic. He would have to find the answer elsewhere, perhaps visit the abominable magic shop again. Raistlin cringed to himself: he would rather be sealed in a dark well with a pack of kenders gone wild than resort to using a puny spell scroll in front of his former apprentice.

As if reading his mind the dark elf asked in a mock-amiable voice, "What's the hold up... shalafi?"

"You wouldn't understand."

"Oh, good. For a while there I thought it wasn't children's magic after all."

"It is," Raistlin returned boredly. "Fit for apprentices. I don't think I would waste my energy on something like this." He started to leave, but on a sudden impulse turned back to look up at the guardian and said, "Speak your order, wraith."

The eyes began to glow brighter, and soon Dalamar's voice came out of the creature's invisible mouth, echoing off the stone walls: "Nobody is to enter. Let death be swift for those who try."

Raistlin stared at the wraith, hardly able to believe he had heard right. Then, slowly, a crooked smile formed on his lips. Just like that, he had found the solution, and the solution was so ridiculous it could have passed for a joke. He took a step forward and said in a low and commanding voice, "Now listen to me, wraith, and listen good. First, I am not 'nobody' - I am the Master of Past and Present, and the true lord of this tower. Second, I've already died."

He waited tensely, sensing the creature's confusion as it tried to wrap its hollow mind around the words he had spoken. Steadily he held its bleak gaze, challenging it, knowing he would come out on top. The wait was a bit too long for comfort, but eventually the eyes blinked and then slowly faded out of sight as if they had never existed. There was a light clinking sound as the silver lock opened on its own.

Dalamar's eyes were wide, and his face wore a stunned expression. "Rule number one, khillaid," Raistlin said to him softly with a smirk, using the old elven word for an apprentice, "be specific with lesser creatures."

He pushed the door open and stepped casually into the darkness beyond, reaching behind him to lock himself in. The laboratory stood before him shrouded in shadows; he could only discern shapes in the dark - his old worktable piled high with books and scrolls, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in the back, the outlines of the fireplace that had been cold and empty for three years at least. Seeing it all, a deep feeling of peace descended on Raistlin, a rare sense of serenity he had not felt for as long as he could remember: he was home.

Raistlin drew in a deep breath; the air was still and musty, with a touch of spice. Under his shirt, his arms had broken out in gooseflesh; it was cool, blissfully cool in the room. The thick velvet curtains kept out the blazing sun, and an icy chill flowed from the night-blue spellbooks sitting on the shelves. His eyes swept past the rows of books, once an enticing riddle, later as about exciting as cookbooks, nothing but feeble-minded scribblings of an old fool who had cocked up his final spell, the intricate and complicated spell that Raistlin himself had cast succesfully, and the memory of which still made his head swim. The magic had practically exploded out of him, and he remembered thinking, If it is this good now, how about when I'm immortal?

He let out a deep, shuddering sigh and walked through the silent room, as mortal as ever, the sound of his boots muffled by the soft Qualinesti rugs as well as the layer of dust that lay on the cold stone floors. He drew the curtains, and sunlight poured in through the leaded windows, revealing to Raistlin the utter destruction that had descended upon the place. Two of the bookshelves had collapsed, sending the books and scrolls and instruments flying in tangled heaps. Over-toppled chairs were lying all around. Shards of broken glass and various debris crowded the floors, and it the middle of it all ran a solitary dark trail of dried blood, his sister's blood. Kitiara, fatally wounded by Lord Soth, had dragged her dying body through the laboratory, knowing the game was over. The look on her face must have been a mixture of rage and fear: she simply couldn't imagine losing a battle against death. Not her, not the woman who had smacked death right in the face at the age of eight, reviving the newborn baby brother whom the midwife had already given up for dead. "If it wasn't for me, Raistlin," Kitiara would always say, "you'd rot in your grave now. It was this close I wasn't even at home that day, but lucky for you the weather kept me in. Had it been a sunny day, they would have stuffed you in a sack and thrown you headlong into a smelly mass grave." She would go over it again and again with a detailed thrill, like it was the best fucking story anyone could ever imagine hearing. And, of course, it was her way of telling Raistlin that he was in her debt. Looking at the blood, Raistlin half expected her to pop out from behind the table and say groggily, with blood trickling from the side of her mouth, Oh hello, brother, you owe me. Once a bitch, always a bitch.

Heading towards the door at the back, Raistlin crossed the blood-crusted floor, absent-mindedly wondering about Kitiara's fate: was she trapped in torment now where she belonged or bedding everything that moved in Paladine's heavenly meadows? He was grimly amused: from Blue to Red Lady in one short moment. She must have peed her pants when she saw death coming, sorely regretting that she had refused the mutually beneficial arrangement he had offered her.

The door to his old bedchamber opened with a lazy creak. Inside, time had stopped. The four-poster bed with deep green draping and black silk sheets was undone, giving the eerie impression of having been slept in not years ago but only the night before. A layer of dust had settled on the floor, on the bedside table and the windowsills, and Raistlin noticed there were cobwebs building in the corners. A little further away, beside the high window, was a large dark armoire with ornate details of dragons and vines. He approached it slowly, leaving behind a trail of footsteps in the dust.

Opening the armoire, he discovered three black robes hanging neatly side by side - very plain, a far cry from the velvet one with silver runes he had liked to wear, but certainly better than nothing; he took them out and saw they were in good condition: no moth holes, no tears. The girl at the inn could wash them.

Closing the door, Raistlin caught his reflection in the embedded mirror, and was taken aback by what he saw: bright red blood was seeping from his nose in a thin trickle. There was no explanation, save for the one he had been toying with for some time now: what if, after two decades of magic coursing through his veins, his body simply could not handle the sudden separation from it? That would explain the infernal headaches, and the blood too, maybe. He stared at his image with growing certainty, wiping the blood away with the side of his finger, tasting its iron taste at the back of his throat. So be it. It was not his body he was worried about.

Raistlin left the deserted bedchamber and finally, after placing the robes on the arm of the sofa he and Crysania had been sitting on together so long ago, turned to look at what he had been more or less consciously avoiding since entering the laboratory.

It loomed in the eastern corner, majestic and proud in its isolation. The flowing curtain of heavy, purple velvet beckoned at him to draw it aside.

He had to see. Raistlin crossed the floor, almost running, and pulled on the golden, silken chord that hung from the ceiling: his breath hitched in his throat as the curtain glided noiselessly to his right, revealing the massive oval structure with five heads of the dragon, their ferocious mouths opened in an unending scream.

She had held the portal open. He had embraced her and spoken the ancient words. From darkness to darkness, my voice echoes in the emptiness.

Raistlin stepped closer, slowly, as if in a dream. His hair stood on end, his breathing had become rapid. Reaching out, he felt the cold, unfeeling marble with his fingertips. The dragon heads framing the entrance were gazing down at him with blank stony eyes, their teeth glittering like long, sharp icicles. It looked as if you could have stepped right through to the other side, if not for the invisible force field that hummed to life when you brought your hand near. Raistlin glanced to his left. Leaning up against the portal stood the artefact that had sealed the way: the Staff of Magius. The crystal on the top, clutched in a dragon's claw, was cold and dark.

Raistlin stared into the black void, lost in the past. Through this portal, from the opposite side, he had seen the last glimpses of the sane world. He had seen his brother carry Crysania away to safety, and at that sight he had felt such rage as trumped even the rage he was feeling over his failure. For truly it was the same scene that had played before his eyes throughout his whole miserable life: once again his brother was the hero, always in the right place at the right time. And Tanis - he had seen Tanis standing in the safety of the laboratory, his whole posture disapproving of him, telling him clearly that in the half-elf's mind he had finally moved from the realm of immorality to that of complete bastardry.

No, Caramon had not lied. He had watched his brother walk away, the whiplash wind of the Abyss crying in his ears; the shadows had lengthened, and he had known it was the end. He would take down the whole world (not just random people you wiped out of your way, but old friends too), and there would be nothing left to rule, because - as Astinus the Chronicler, the great philosopher that he was, had put it - he did not know how to create. He only knew how to destroy.

The black light swirled inside the portal. All of a sudden Raistlin's face contorted in pain, and tears, unbidden and unexpected, blurred his vision and gushed down his cheeks. A cry of pure rage erupted out of him, and he lurched forward, grasping the Staff of Magius. Snarling with anger, he brought the staff up and smashed it against the portal, drew back and hit again, over and over, until splinters flew out of the shaft and blood was oozing through the bandage on his hand.

Taking in trembling breaths, he gazed at what he had done. He released the staff with a clatter, and dropped down on his knees, and cried.

When the deep, wretched sobs had abated, he picked himself up shakily, wiping his damp cheeks with the back of his hand, and limped over to the sofa. He felt so terribly tired. All he wanted to do was to lie down on those skillfully woven tapestry cushions, just for a short while, to clear up his head. But he was too alert to sleep, and the place too charged with memories. Crysania had sat right here that one time she had visited the tower, sat with one foot crossed daintily over the other; white shoes, white dress, white hands folded on her lap, a rare flower among the darkness. A flower he had torn out with its roots and trampled on.

Unable to resist, Raistlin closed his eyes wearily, allowing the night and the events leading up to it replay across his mind like it was yesterday. At first, he had been at a loss: where to find a cleric to open the portal in Wayreth? He could hardly publish an advertisement in the Palanthas Herald, could he? Wanted: a cleric to open a portal, self-sacrifice included. Naturally, he had considered Elistan, who was gravely ill by then; it would not have been too difficult to threaten the weak old man into helping him. But then, just as he was starting to reconcile himself to using Elistan, an answer to every dream had practically dropped into his arms from the heavens: Crysania Tarinius, warned by Paladine, intent on putting him on the right path. Raistlin had gone to the meeting she had arranged expecting to see a provoking old hag wagging a scolding finger at him and he had come out of it knowing two things. One: he had found the cleric that would help him (good), and two: she was not an old hag, and he was insanely attracted to her (not so good).

He had asked her to visit him, and the night she did had been one of the strangest in his life. He had reminded himself to keep strictly to the matter at hand - slowly easing her into the bogus version of his plan, letting her believe that it was in her power to bring him to Paladine - and yet, as the night proceeded, he found himself slipping into unnecessary manoeuvres: he poured them wine and performed inane little tricks to delight her, he even cracked jokes. A certain amount of charm was definitely needed to dupe her, but clearly he was overdoing it, and despite this awareness he did not stop. Her face, her voice, the way she was dressed - everything she was raised his pulse. They sat and talked on the sofa for hours, and he surprised himself by touching her arm way too often and way too long. She was both nervous and excited, both defiant and vulnerable; she gazed at him with wary eyes but did not protest to his touch. Clinging to his every word, she seemed to be awake to him in a way that made his head spin dangerously. It was pathetic, really. He had a great plan to execute, urgent matters to attend to, and all he could think of was how it would feel like to be inside her.

But that line was not to be crossed, not if he wanted the portal open. Paladine's Revered Daughters, bless them, were one step beyond the regular vow of chastity - they were completely untouched and were to remain so, unless they chose to marry. Look but don't touch, then. An avatar straight out of his fantasies, she invaded his waking thoughts and nightly dreams, becoming the sole mistress of the heated visions of his mind. And always present was the tantalizing thought of turning the dreams into reality, of having her in his power as completely as could be - how would she respond to his taste? He sensed, he hoped, he knew that she would comply, much as she complied to everything he said. Then again, maybe not. He remembered what the old lich Fistandantilus had once said, prying into his thoughts: You're sick, you know that? Hell, you make me look like a choirboy.

Look but don't touch. It was so ironic that when the perfect woman was finally offered to him on a silver tray - something he had never believed would happen - he had to pass. By daylight he held her hand, keeping her virtue intact; at night he tore it to pieces in his mind. It was an arrangement that worked fine for a a relatively long time, and he was not the one to nearly ruin it. She coaxed him out of control with her dresses and batting lashes, she threw herself against him in Dergoth like a cheap slut - as if the portal did not matter, as if none of their plan mattered. Everything would have been over in probably less than two minutes, everything, and knowing that had thrown him into a fit of rage: he had blanked out and snapped out of it only when the fabric of her dress had torn in his grasp, when her hair was tangled in his fingers and her lip was bleeding. Only then he had let go of her, badly startled, and shoved her onto the ground.

He shook the unpleasant image from his mind. He had blanked out, yes, but that would never happen again. You're wrong, Astinus, he said to himself, I can create. You'll see.

It did not feel like that right now, though, to be honest. His head was dizzy, his hand ached, his nose bled and he had just broken an incredibly valuable magical object. He held the damaged right hand up to the sunlight and saw the bandage was soaked through with blood. He let his hand drop and stared vacantly at the small flecks of dust swimming slow and dream-like in the sun's beams. The feeling of peace he had experienced on his arrival was starting to wear off; it all seemed so long ago, and what did it matter now? Fool, he derided himself, despising his tears, despising his weakness. He had not come here to weep and pity himself. He got slowly up to his feet - good, the dizziness was gone - and walked over to the shelves.

He opened various boxes and small chests, moving a selection of objects into his bag. Amber felt, rose petals, flash powder - the trusted companions of all the street corner magicians with cantrips for spells. Then, going through dozens of jars of liquid and herbs, he gathered the supplies he needed to treat the wound in his hand. He was just moving aside a pile of books, when something dropped on the floor, making a tinny little sound. Raistlin bent down to pick it up and, realizing what it was, he could only stare at it for a moment, mesmerized. For years the little item's whereabouts had been a mystery, and now, after all that time, fate had brought it out from hiding. The tiny spark of intuition grew closer to a plan: Raistlin closed his fingers around the object and slid it in his pocket, the decision made long before his conscious mind could follow.

He turned away from the shelves and stopped in his tracks. On the desk, forlorn and empty, lay the Dragon Orb stand. Slowly, seized by a new torrent of memories, Raistlin approached the little artefact. Once the orb had sat there with its swirling green mists, pulsing with energy. He had asked Crysania to look into it, and he had shown her the dark underside of her beloved church, just to upset her a little. She thought she knew everything but in fact she was clueless, having spent her life cocooned in luxury and comfort, and so he had pushed her, shoved her into a pool of mud, to stain her pristine robe and see her face distort with tears. Now she knows. Everything and more.

He placed a hand on the stand, tracing the rim with his finger: a mute witness to yet another thing he had destroyed. Gently, he knocked the thing over. A final touch to the devastation and ruin.

He collected his bag and the three robes over his arm, and went out of the room. Certainly Dalamar had been all over the place, making inquiries this way and that to make sense of his former master's sudden return from the Abyss, but now the dark elf was back where Raistlin had left him, this time with a young woman standing beside him.

"Apprentice," Raistlin pointed out to the man in a tut-tut voice, "it's terribly messy in there." Behind him, the glowing eyes of the guardian had reappeared.

Ignoring Raistlin's words, Dalamar gestured at his companion. "May I introduce Mistress Jana of the Red Robes."

"Did you get her to throw me out?"

The woman called Jana looked at Raistlin with distaste. "I suggest a more polite tone when addressing the Head of the Black Robes."

"And how should I address him then? Headmaster Argent?" Raistlin turned to Dalamar. "A school of magic? Really? I expected so much more from you."

"Some of us find joy in pursuing an honest line of work for the good of all."

"I see. Excuse me." Raistlin made his way past the couple and entered the portal still shimmering at the centre of the landing.

He stepped out at the bottom floor, closely followed by the dark elf. Raistlin cocked his head at him. "You must be truly fond of my company."

"Only until we're perfectly clear that you are not wanted here. Just a word from me, and my pupils, the ones you so despise, will raise a barrier around the grove so high that no force from this world or beyond could break in a lifetime."

Raistlin smiled at the man indifferently. "Look. I don't care whether you are the head or the ass of the Black Robes." He stepped closer to Dalamar, holding his gaze with his own. "I have been god," he said in a low voice. "And that is something you will never have. It lasted a moment only, but trust me, you would give your left arm for that one moment. Your very soul."

Dalamar did not avert his gaze. "No. I don't think I would, actually." His voice was calm and secure.
Raistlin lifted a sardonic eyebrow. "No? Well, that was always your problem, wasn't it? You'r dreams were so... small."

But the smile on his lips was gone when he closed the rune-carved door and walked into the burning sunlight. Sullenly, he mounted Digby and rode quietly on, leaving the tower behind him.

He did not think he was ever coming back.
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Evermore: The Gathering