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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
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CHAPTER 18

Crysania was not thirsty in the least, but in order to give herself something to do she reached for the goblet of water Gaspar had set on the table beside her chair. There was no strength in her grip; she put the goblet back without drinking and closed her fingers around her pendant instead, only to find it cold and unresponsive: still nothing from Paladine. Holding the pendant soothed her, however, and made the tension coiling in her body a little easier to bear. She had hardly slept all night. She felt strangely feverish, burning under her skin yet shivering with cold, and the air was hard to breathe. There was a touch of nausea, too, and she thought, terrified, that one of those strange fits would come again - her heart pounding out of her chest, the sensation of choking, the certainty that she was going to die.

Concentrating her mind on Paladine's meditative Triangle, Crysania closed her eyes and held her breath, then let it out in a slow sigh. This is the Great Temple of the Platinum Father, she said calmly to herself. This is not the Abyss. Everything will be fine, and it will soon be over. You are not alone. Gaspar is waiting right outside the door. She nodded her head for further assurance. She was not weak; she would never call the meeting off, she would go through it as planned. The right words were waiting inside her, ready to be spilled out. The starbirds' bright chattering voices could be heard through the windows, and the silver chain entwined in her fingers was solid and real. Not the Abyss.

She repositioned herself in her chair, so as to better face the warmth of the sun. She had never been to this southern part of the temple, had never seen the room she was in; according to Gaspar, it was a storage for chairs and tables, and conveniently located away from the public view. He had taken her there by the back route; his touch on her elbow had been shy and nervous. Revered Daughter, all you need to do is scream, and I'll come running, he'd said. Just what did he think was going to happen?

Although she had been sitting there for a good while now, toying with her back-and-forth thoughts, the knock on the door came all too soon. Her heart spiked up, and she was struck with an all-consuming panic that shattered Paladine's protective image in her mind: with a sick lurch of her stomach, she realized there was nowhere to hide as the door behind her opened and then shut with a dull clunk.

A deep silence fell.

Crysania's breathing caught in her throat and her fingers tightened over her pendant; the only thing violently alive in her was her alien heart, its fear and anguish ringing loud and clear through her body. He meant for you to die, from the beginning. Her throat felt dry, her voice would not carry; all she could do was to sit and hold herself absolutely rigid, knowing that if she didn't make every effort to keep her composure she might simply collapse like a puppet on strings, into a lifeless heap. Paladine, be my strength, do not let me fail.

After what seemed like a very long time, but probably wasn't, footsteps began to advance towards her, clicking on the marble floor. They were deliberately cautious and slow: Raistlin was approaching her as one would a wounded animal.

Paladine, be my strength, do not let me fail.

When he had almost closed the distance between them, he paused for a short moment, then took the few remaining steps; he was standing somewhere in front of her now, not very far, but not too close either. A faint scent of roses invaded Crysania's nostrils, and her heart missed a beat as her body remembered the sweetness of his embrace, even as her mind recoiled in terror at the unwanted memory. She could feel the mage's scrutinizing eyes on her, and it was a peculiar sensation: usually she could tell in what mood the other person was, but this time she sensed nothing - only that she was being intensely watched - and it scared her.

"A good afternoon to you, Revered Daughter."

Crysania's insides skipped. She knew her voice would fail should she try to speak, so she only nodded in answer, almost imperceptibly, and with a movement of her hand indicated to Raistlin to be seated too, in the chair Gaspar had placed diagonally from hers. Or at least she thought she did; she was feeling so utterly numb and out of her body that she could not say for sure.

She heard him sit down, and silence descended on them again.

At first Crysania felt nothing, but then an unexpected flurry of emotions hit her all of a sudden, carrying with it words she did not even know she had, terrible words of anger and heartbreak; badly shaken by their force, she suppressed the storm before it could get out of hand and engulf her. For what would those words change? There were other words to be said: new words, impressive words.

She prepared her voice carefully before she spoke, stripping it of all personal attachment. "The Platinum Father, in His great wisdom, advises us to look kindly upon those who have trespassed against Him. He tells me to listen. That is why I have granted you this private audience." Pleased at herself, Crysania raised her chin and straightened her shoulders, although she could her heart rate had made her voice thin and uneven.

"I thank you for receiving me."

"Thank me not," she quickly retorted. "Thank Paladine, whose mercy and compassion are infinite beyond measure."

Her words were received with another long silence. "Or do you not agree?" she demanded, with a hint of irritation. "Did Paladine not grant you peace, even though it was the last thing you deserved?"

The silence continued, and Crysania's newly-found resolve started to crumble. But she kept her eyes fixedly in front of her, not looking up questioningly, not giving Raistlin the pleasure of seeing that he had already managed to make her insecure by simply remaining quiet.

"Is that what you think, that I did not deserve peace?" he at last asked her quietly. "But I did hear your prayers for me, Revered Daughter."

The implication of his words sent a hot flush to Crysania's cheeks, but she kept her voice light and cool as she replied, "I pray for all benighted souls, equally."

"I see."

Did she hear a hint of amusement in his reply? She could have sworn a smile had just crossed Raistlin's lips. Once, not so long ago, she could have lost herself in his smile. To be sure, there was something in his smile that she couldn't quite figure out, something that made her restless in some far away corner of her mind, but she didn't care, because every time he would smile at her had felt like a reward.

With a shiver of shame, Crysania put a halt to the memories flooding into her head. Only a short while into the meeting, and already she was beginning to lose her grip, already she was thinking about things that did not bear thinking about. She reminded herself that she would lead the conversation, not Raistlin. She would decide what they discussed and when.

They both made as if to speak at the same time, and paused. She let him continue.

"It is precisely your prayers, Revered Daughter," Raistlin began anew, "that have brought me here today. I needed to see you to say thank you."

For helping you? Crysania thought but did not say. She simply sat and stared.

"Surely you know," Raistlin continued in a soft, even tone, when she did not reply, "surely Paladine has told you of how the Dark Queen wanted to claim the soul of... one very bad man, but instead he was saved because of the prayers of a beautiful cleric of light?"

An incredulous half-smile touched Crysania's lips, cracking the lifeless mask frozen on her face. It is not a story. I bled. I hurt.

"And do you know what happened?" His voice was persuasive, tender.

I'm not listening. She continued to gaze into the distance without blinking, her fingers still curled around her pendant. Never again.

"Despite his transgressions, the man was not condemned to eternal torture. He was granted sleep by the gods of light. A sweet sleep without pain and darkness." He paused, then added softly, "Even though it was the last thing he deserved."

She knew all that. She had known he was not dead, just sleeping in light; Paladine had shown that to her, and she had never understood why: why sleep, why not death? When she felt she could speak, she said, "In that case you should tell the man to thank the Platinum Father for His incredible mercy and pay a visit to His shrine at the first opportunity, as a sign of gratitude and obedience."

Raistlin's robe shuffled as he leant forward in his chair; Crysania froze, clutching her pendant even more tightly.

"Perhaps I will," Raistlin said thoughtfully. "But don't you think he'd like to express his gratitude to the beautiful cleric as well? She was held in such high regard by Paladine that He lent an ear to her words, and the Platinum Father could not but think that there must have been at least some good in the man, because she considered him worthy of her precious prayers."

Crysania remained silent, arranging her face into something that she hoped looked like a blank wall.

He gazed at her for a moment more, then continued in a voice as warm as embers, "You saved me, Crysania. I owe everything to you."

The words were slow and clear, pronounced with complete confidence and control, making Crysania hot and cold at the same time: she had heard that voice so many times before and it never failed to make her feel special and singularly important. She did not know what to say. She could feel Raistlin's eyes on her, calmly taking in every part of her body, every twitch and tremor of her helpless discomfort. Utterly exposed to his gaze like an object on display, she began to feel increasingly self-conscious and distressed, and it suddenly occured to her that she had not seen herself in two years: how did she appear to him?

"Well," she said tautly, terrified that she should care about how she looked to him, "You have thanked me. Was there anything else you'd like to discuss?"

"Shouldn't I be putting that question to you?" Raistlin said, and now she could hear he was definitely smiling. "I know you must be wondering, in some corner of your soul, about what happened. Why I did not die. Why I'm here now."

His tone had changed into an almost playful one, and Crysania did not know which cut her the most, this or the one he had used before. "I haven't got time for more stories," she returned wearily, knowing that those were precisely the questions to which she absolutely needed to hear the answer. Paladine will explain everything to me, I know He will.

"Oh, but it is only a short story, and it goes like this: it was the Platinum Father's wish that I should return to the world. Revered Daughter, your god granted me a chance to start anew, and now is the time. Two years of imprisonment was enough."

Two years was enough? Two years. Crysania let her gaze fall to her lap. Just how much more could that man hurt her?

"So you're saying Paladine has spoken to you, but not to me?" she said contemptuously. "Somehow I find that very hard to believe."

"I see," Raistlin replied with no less disdain. "Your god doesn't speak to the lost and stray, then?"

"Of course He does. But -"

"Pardon me, but just a moment ago the lady said her god had commanded this audience. She even said so in the little note she sent me, but now I hear Paladine has not spoken to her after all. What am I to make of that?"

His voice was sharp and unapologetic as he overrode her: now who was the liar, the wrongdoer, the culprit? Crysania could not speak for a moment, so shocked was she at this sudden change: he was challenging her meanly and brazenly, just like he always did, trampling on the brittle remains of her sense of authority. It was all so terrible and so unfair, and he had no right to do so, but had she ever known him to mind?

She could no longer stay there, exposed to his exploring regard. She gathered what strength was left in her, stood up and, following the gentle breeze, walked over to one of the open windows, hoping for the fresh air to blow away the flood of anger and disappointment that had joined the broad river of terror ebbing and flowing in her body. Nothing had changed in two years, nothing: she was still the same stuttering fool unable to stand up to him. She had been brought up to never show unsuitable emotions in public, but Raistlin had always, always managed to draw her out of it and turn her into a hysterical mass of tears and confusion, and she absolutely hated that. Trembling on the inside, Crysania turned her face towards the bird song in the trees, and unexpectedly the old, bitter emotion she had thought she'd managed to tame returned: pure, livid rage at not being able to see the view before her seized her. In her throat despair rose, and tears stung at the corners of her eyes, but neatly, after a short but violent struggle, she one by one folded the crude emotions and buttoned them tightly up in her soul.

"Do not draw a comparison between what you did and a single note," she said quietly, with only just a morsel of her agitation audible in her voice.

"I merely wonder what's the meaning of this," Raistlin said, rising from his seat and approaching her. "For if it wasn't the Platinum Father who wanted this meeting to take place, then it must have been you yourself." He stopped somewhere beside her and added, his tone curious, "Why?"

Why indeed. She had come here filled with determination and purpose, but all that energy was gone; moreover, the nervous tension that had carried her through the first stages of the meeting was starting to wear off, leaving her empty and exhausted. She lifted her shoulders in a discouraged shrug. "I am a cleric. This is what I do. Someone, anyone, asks for an audience, I give them an audience. That's all."

Raistlin spoke only after a moment's silence. "I hear you will become head of the church soon," he said and then went on, musingly, "Really, they could not wish for a better leader. You're so thoroughly devoted in what you do, you always were. I remember you once told me that the greatest strength lies in submitting one's life, through dedication and subservience, to something beyond the self."

"How you must have laughed."

"I didn't laugh. I enjoyed our conversations."

"The final one, too?" Mortified, Crysania turned her back on the mage: she hadn't meant to say that. Why did he have to bring the past up, pushing her across the border and dangerously close to the forbidden edge? I am not going to cry. Come whatever may, I will not cry in front of him.

She shut her eyes, fighting back her emotions and trying to gather her self-control, hoping that Raistlin would not pursue the subject any further. She could hear him move away from her, luckily, and when he spoke again his voice came from a distance.

"Desperate acts of a lonely man," Raistlin said, in a tone that had lost all of its earlier edge and was now only thoughtful.

Crysania clasped her hands together, but it did not stop them from shaking. She could not handle where the conversation was going. She wanted to put an end to it right now, but she could only watch, helpless, as someone inside her took the lead; it couldn't be herself, surely not, because she was strong and she had forgotten. "You were not alone," the stranger said, the words dripping with pained accusation. "You had an army of thousands behind you. You had your brother. You had me."

Raistlin scoffed derisively. "And yet neither of you never stopped to convince me that there might have been another way. My brother had already given up on me. And you, well, I guess you just couldn't give up the opportunity to bask in the brightest glory of your faith."

There it was: the cold truth. Raistlin's words raked through Crysania like steel, hitting her as if she'd been dealt a physical blow. How had he twisted the conversation into this? "This is not about me," she managed in a horrified half-whisper.

"Then what is it about? Tell me." Again his voice was very soft and gentle; again his steps were coming closer.

"As if you don't know." The quiet words were out of her mouth before she could stop them; she hoped the mage had not caught them, standing as she was with her back to him, but from the appraising silence behind her she knew it was a vain hope.

Unexpectedly, she heard him heave a sigh of mixed irritation and impatience. "You didn't tell me then, you won't tell me now," he said. "Fine. I'll tell you."

Crysania held her breath and braced herself for the crash, knowing that whatever it was that Raistlin was going to say next was bound to be painful. It was always like this with him: she felt like a tightrope walker, afraid of the next step which might send her plummeting down into a murky darkness.

"Perhaps the cleric that we mentioned earlier," Raistlin began conversationally, "had her own reasons for praying for the wicked mage; and it was not just the kindness of her soul or the fact that she prayed for every benighted soul, equally, but a whole different reason altogether, a reason that she wanted to hide from everybody, most of all her beloved god, because she thought it was so sinful and wrong, the chaste vessel that she was."

She wanted to leave but she was frozen in place, possessed by some awful demon that tied her to the ground. Trembling all over she simply said, very quietly, "Don't."

But Raistlin pressed on, not heeding the interruption. "The cleric was very good at hiding her dark little secret. Sometimes the mage thought that he saw something, just tiny glimpses of something he'd never seen before, and he was terribly intrigued. But used to only darkness and shadows and deceit in his miserable life he did not dare to think that the cleric, in her beauty and grace, could ever really come to someone like him."

Quiet and still, Crysania listened as Raistlin calmly dissected her soul, the waves of grief that had been rising towards her finally threatening to pull her under. You're wrong. I did not hide it. I showed it in every long look, every brief touch. At least I tried.

"You should have told me, Crysania," Raistlin said, his hushed tone making the words even more poignant. "You should have made me believe."

"What difference it would have made?" Knowing the answer, having known it all along, she could hardly speak the words.

"All the difference in the world."

His voice was filled with such sadness. Crysania closed her eyes, her mind rushing back to her dying thoughts, to the moment she had forced the words Raistlin needed to hear out of herself, desperately hoping that he was still close by and knowing that he wasn't. Only the empty desert and the red skies above it had heard her words - her dark little secret - that she had wanted to say to him for so long, but hadn't. What if she had? Oh, why hadn't she?

A light hand fell on her shoulder. Startled, Crysania wheeled round, her hands raised in defence. Never again. Breathing hard, she remained in her position, warding the mage off, until she could hear him step away from her.

The next thing she heard was the sound of water pouring into a cup, then a soft thud as the jug was set back on the table.

"Your secretary tells me you're going to send me to prison now." Raistlin's voice was as even as ever, completely unmindful of her upset reaction just a moment before.

Crysania looked up confused, her heart still thumping in her chest. "What? No. I never said that." Had Gaspar been talking to Raistlin behind her back, putting words in her mouth? Again?

"Oh. You'd let me run loose around the city?" Again there was that sickening humorous note in Raistlin's voice. "I'm going to stay, you know. We're going to be neighbours, you and I."

She took the news calmly. Her body felt as if it was filled with cold ashes: all she wanted to do was to crawl into bed and hide away, to be very small and disappear. Suddenly, against her will, she found herself picturing Raistlin standing there with the cup of water leisurely in his hand, and she remembered how it had been, how they would sit very late in his tent and talk quietly over wine about the new world. The new world which never came.

"But not to worry," she heard him say, as if through a dream. "Do you think for a second the gods would have let me go if I still had... well, ideas? I have had plenty of time to think about things. I have understood things."

What if, Crysania thought fleetingly, what if. But no, Gaspar had said Raistlin wore black still. But was anything ever too late? Finding the strength somewhere within her, Crysania gathered the shreds of her confidence in a final feeble effort to bring the situation back under control. "Good. I meant what I said. If you're going to stay, you must go and thank the Platinum Father. Daily, at noon, for at least a week. There is a public altar of penance in the western part of the Gardens, by the lotus pond." She fell silent, relieved that she had managed to sound so professional despite it all.

"If that is your wish, I'll do it. Tomorrow, at noon. By the lotus pond."

Crysania blinked. Had he just said he would do it? It was not like Raistlin to appear so meek and humble.

Raistlin lowered the goblet onto the table and prepared to leave. "I suppose now that we agree with that, it is time I bid you good day," he said matter-of-factly. "Revered Daughter, I thank you again for receiving me and hearing me out."

It was all so sudden. Crysania's first impulse was to call out to him to wait, although for what, she did not know. He was leaving, finally, but she was not relieved as she had expected to be: instead, a distress took hold of her. Not knowing what to say or do, she only gave a stunned nod, hoping that Raistlin would add something, anything.

He didn't. She could feel him looking at her for a little while longer, and then his steps receded across the room, the door clicked, and he was gone.

Crysania stood unmoving, her arms crossed, staring at the unseen door. Grief and guilt, they both returned in a huge crashing wave. The bells began to peal over the city, but she hardly heard them. Her lips were trembling and tears stood in her eyes, but not one of them escaped down her cheek; her fingers dug into the flesh of her arms, hard and relentless, the familiar sting taking the edge off the inner pain.

All the difference in the world.
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Evermore: The Gathering