Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

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
- 1
- 2
- 3
Part I: Palanthas

My love, leave yourself behind
Beat inside me, leave you blind
My love, look what you can do
I am mending, I'll be with you
Now I am strong, you gave me all
You gave all you had
And now I am home

- Sia

CHAPTER 1

Together, we will change the ending... you and I...

Her smile fades. The voices come.

"This is madness, I'm telling you - utter madness!"

"Silence! The Bearer of Light has spoken. And it is much too late now, anyhow - we can no longer reverse it!"

The arguing voices come and go; they boom in his ears like a doomsday storm as he slips in and out of consciousness, fighting the waves of nausea that rise and fall inside him. He is naked, covered in cold sweat; at every move he makes, the coarse ropes bite into the flesh of his wrists and ankles like vicious scavengers, like dragons' teeth. His blood seems on fire; a flashing white pain rakes and echoes through his body.

Yes, madness it is. How did it ever come to this? Why in the Abyss did it have to come to this? But asking these questions serves nothing. With contempt, he discards the whys and whens, those fruitless phantoms of pathetic souls. He is used to high stakes and rough play. It was so simple, and yet most people never got it: if you wanted to rise, you never looked back. And yet, a part of him is surprised at the quickness of his choice. Would he not rather spend an eternity with his life's blood, with his precious Art asleep in his veins, than live in the world as an empty husk? In the mortal world with its trite squabbles and petty needs. Days following days, year after year the same. An unremarkable, unchanging existence: work, eat, sleep, wane, die. A nobody. An anxiety greater than any Abyss.

"I beseech you all to stop this! It will never work, why can't you see that? Is Paladine's silence not enough for you? It won't even let go, see!"

You're wrong, Kiri-Jolith, he thinks wearily, it will let go, and I'm not even resisting. In fact, I'm asking it to leave. The magic - his mistress, his only friend, his everything that ever was - is desperately clinging on to the core of his soul, scratching and fighting the irresistible pull of the cold humming light. Go, why don't you, my child. I'm giving you up. Leave already, you miserable bastard. His own thoughts amaze him - somewhere out there pigs must be growing wings and heading to the skies.

"No good will come of this, and don't say I didn't warn you!"

He opens his eyes a creak. The pantheon of gods is staring down at him in a ring of contempt from the tiers of the great tower. Through the blinding pain, he shoots them a smile just as contemptuous. Go ahead. Look and disapprove all you want, but it will never go away. A mortal man cannot choose to become god, you say? I would have taken down each and every one of you, one by one by one. You, Gilean, and you, Kiri-Jolith. Majere begging for his life - oh, the sweet irony! And Lunitari - Lunitari would never have even known what hit her. They were immortal gods, and yet he had clearly sensed their fear: the memory of it is simply intoxicating. You never won. I only stopped because of the dead-end. You feared me. You still do.

But then all of his thoughts explode in a flurry of pain as the magic finally breaks inside him. It is like a glass ball shattering in his gut: the jagged little pieces shoot to every corner of his body, inflicting scraping pain on the way.

End it! I have failed. The gods... are laughing. I can't... bear...

His head and teeth are ringing, his eyes are on fire. He screams; the magic, like a thick black serpent, escapes him, coiling eternally out of his gaping mouth towards the unending starless skies...

His eyes shot open, and a smothered cry tore out of his throat. The only thing he was aware of was the pain and the voice of blood thudding away in his ears. He struggled to move and breathe but could not do it, frozen in the death grip of sleep. After what felt like an eternity, his mind joined his body: his breath returned, his muscles relaxed and he collapsed back on the damp bed. The pain was not there. The bruised vortex above him faded out of sight, leaving in its place beams of plain wood that ran across the ceiling. The inn. He had made it there, against all odds.

Raistlin lay still for a while, blocking with his hand the ray of sunlight that pierced into the gloominess of the room through a thin crack between the heavy curtains, whose dark green colour seemed to enhance the muffled and dusty atmosphere. The room was seethingly hot, but a shiver of cold passed through him; the sheets as well as his chest and neck were dabbed with the cold sweat of fever and nightmares. The sensation was uncomfortable, and since he was feeling relatively alright, he heaved himself up, flinging his legs over the side of the bed with a movement that was slow and deliberate. He sat there for a while with his eyes closed, taking in slow and deep breaths, bracing himself for a wave of dizziness and nausea.

It never came. He only felt majorly disoriented and completely unable to form a single clear thought. He reached down, slowly, picked up from the floor next to the bed a wrinkled pair of leather trousers, pulled them on and clambered to his feet. In desperate need of fresh air, he headed for the window and, drawing aside the dusty curtains, was nearly blinded by the bright flood that rushed into the little room. The morning sun was pouring its liquid fire in full glory over the city of Palanthas.

Squinting his eyes in the sudden brightness, Raistlin cranked the window open and leaned out to get an idea of his whereabouts. About two floors below him spread a busy market alley: people were running back and forth, drawn this way and that by the alluring shouts of salesmen mixed with the screaming of children and the yapping of dogs. The scenery was bathing in heat. The smell of cooking fires and freshly baked bread was drifting from the market wagons, and in the air hung the sweet heavy smell of syringa flowers. In other words, there was no fresh air to speak of. Disgusted, Raistlin closed the window, shutting away the noisy world.

He cast an appraising look at the room. His eyes swept over the wooden floor, the worn out carpets and the simple furnishings: it was not a fancy inn, to be sure. Besides the fairly decent bed, there was a rickety looking oak table with two common chairs on either side, a nondescript wardrobe, an empty hearth and, behind a wooden dressing screen, which was not an example of craftsmanship either, a copper bathtub and a rusty bucket. With a weary sigh, Raistlin staggered to it. A deep irritation rose inside him at the situation: he was hungry and naked, his every muscle hurt, and he was pissing in a bucket full of old urine. It sure was a long time ago that he had last felt so brittle, so dejectedly mortal.

On the table lay an untouched food tray holding some cheese and badly dried loaves of bread; there was also a clay jug resting on its side in a pool of water. Raistlin had a vague recollection of knocking it over himself; the cup that he had tried to fill had slipped from his shaking hands and rolled straight under the bed. He did not have the energy to stoop down and look for it. Luckily the jug was large and curvy enough to still hold some of the water. He grabbed it and drank the lukewarm remains in one go, relishing its touch over his parched lips.

Somewhat invigorated by the water, Raistlin stood there with his chest heaving, attempting to arrange his thoughts. He remembered his arrival - two days ago? three? - only as as swirl of obscure images: dragging himself up the stairs behind a talking man, dropping into bed like a rock, then sweating and trembling in the clutches of hallucinations: there were angry voices behind the walls, people walking and talking in the room and staring down at him as he slept. He had probably answered them, too, like he did as a child, scaring his brother witless with his fever talks with the invisible people. Their mother conversed with ghosts on a daily basis, but according to Caramon it was not the same: she never said anything half as sick as his brother did.

Having a mind to rid himself for good of the past few days, Raistlin walked over to the bathtub and turned the tap. There was a rusty cry followed by a pitiful spurt of brownish water. Excellent, he thought sourly - wasn't the Palanthas drainage system supposed to be one of the marvels of the modern world? As a graceful substitute, there existed a bowl of water on the stool next to the tub. The water was cold, of course, but he cupped some of it in his palms and splashed it over his face, washing away the traces of sleep.

He did not much care for drying his face on a sweaty sheet or a dusty curtain, so he took a seat and, leaning his elbows on his knees, let the water drip and dry on its own. He stared down at his hands, at the two clotted wounds that the ropes had burned through his wrists. He must have fought back like hell in the end, although he could not remember any of it. Concentrating, he tried to bring back what he had seen in his dream that had woken him up so crudely, but it was already beginning to fade.

Figuring out what to do next, Raistlin leaned back on the chair - and was immediately met with a sharp pain that penetrated his right shoulder blade. He craned his neck to look and saw yet another wound, or more like a large yellowish bruise with a nasty cut in the middle. Oh, yes - this one was not from the gods but from the damned horse in front of which he had materialized out of thin air in the rain and fog. Airy in the head and completely disoriented, he had been about to start walking when the horse was suddenly there, its steaming muzzle colliding with his shoulder in full trot. Grunting with pain, he had fallen down onto the muddy field, only just avoiding the beating hooves, hearing the rider call him a lousy drunkard. Biting his teeth, he had got up and begun to limp down the narrow path in the direction where the horse had gone: he could just about make out the Palanthas city gates shrouded in white mist in the distance...

He pressed on against the whipping wind, but the gates only seemed to get farther away. The rain beat against his face, dripping from his eyelashes, even if he was trying to hold the hood of his knee-length black coat - he had no idea where it had come from - over his face for protection. He could hardly see where he was going; he was soaked to the bone, the mud sucked at his boots, and in his exhaustion he kept tripping over his own mechanically marching feet. His shoulder hurt like a bitch, but it was nothing at all compared to the hollow, rippling pain that was tearing at his insides at every step. By the time he reached the gates, he was gasping for breath and coughing badly, almost as badly as some decade ago when that old bastard of a lich, Fistandantilus, had been stealing his lifeforce.

Thus he returned to the Jewel of Solamnia, after two years, in anything but a glorious manner. It was hard to believe the city still existed. He gazed about him, trying to even his breathing, feeling strangely removed from time and space. Mishakal had told him that he had been asleep for two years, but right now that two years felt like twenty. He resumed his steps, heading, or so he hoped, towards the city centre where there was bound to be someone who knew the way to his promised destination. The weather had driven people indoors, but he kept to the side alleys all the same. He could not risk being recognized, for he had no idea what to expect: did everyone know what had happened two years ago, what he had tried to do, or did they dwell in blissful ignorance?

He pushed forward, dragging his dirty boots through pools of muddy water. He could feel his strained heartbeat where it was not supposed to be, hammering away between his shoulder blades, in his stomach and nose. The pain inside his body gave him no respite, and he wondered, distractedly, whether this was how it was going to be from now on; soon enough it got so bad that he had to stop to throw up. He was feeling utterly spent, but he forced himself on the move again with sheer willpower and did not stop until he arrived at an empty square. The only person there was a young boy hollering news - why on earth, there was no one to hear - and he walked to him, panting and sweating, asking for the Inn of Ghost and Rose. A voice within him insisted that there was no such inn, that the gods had played a trick on him just to punish him some more. But the boy informed him that it was only two blocks from there, and from that point onwards his memory began to fade...

The bruise left by the horse had not yet begun to heal from the middle, which meant he had been out of the game for less than a week. He took a few tentative breaths and was happy to find his lungs clear; he had feared for pneumonia. The rippling pain was gone as well, but now his head hurt. The ache was mild yet terribly bothersome, different from a typical headache. It seemed to extend its tentacles deeper than usual, emanating from an empty, howling spot where the magic used to be. He shook his head in disbelief. The magic was gone.

Raistlin caught his reflection in the swing mirror sitting on the table. Reaching out, he tilted the mirror to a convenient angle, inspecting his image. He looked like he had not seen the sun in years - which, of course, was true. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his face was as pale as a sheet - the protective armour that in the past had given his skin a golden hue had collapsed along with the magic. His hair was disheveled and knotted, but, curiously enough, it was still the same length as before. He had stopped living for two years; only some days ago had life begun to beat anew in him. Perhaps, he thought hopefully, the throbbing in his head was just a side-effect and would go away once his body got used to life again.

Raistlin stared at himself in the mirror without a smile, challenging the curse. The pattern was always the same. First, slowly, came the wrinkles, then the skin lost its healthy glow and started to sag. His eyes sank in their sockets and his lips became drawn and cracked, revealing the teeth underneath. He scoffed boredly at the gruesome illusion and blinked a couple of times to dissolve it. Par-Salian had thought himself so clever, performing such a childish trick. A mistake. A big fucking mistake. But the quack had lived to regret it. He thought back with satisfaction on how the old man had groveled and sobbed at his feet, begging him to spare his life, and how his words of command had slowly turned his body into stone. It was not cruelty - it was simply justice. It was Par-Salian's time to watch the end of the world for a change.

Regardless, he had to admit he in fact liked the eyes - the way they looked, the effect they had on people. He tried combing through his hair with his fingers but got stuck in the knots. He checked the drawer under the mirror and found, daintily placed on top of a folded towel, a pair of scissors, a comb, a bar of soap and a razor knife. The scissors were slightly rusty, but Raistlin did not mind: gathering his hair in one hand - it had been getting too long anyway - he began to cut away the tangled ends with the other, listening half-heartedly to the muffled voices from the room next to his: a man and a woman were engaged in a heated argument. He could not make out what they were saying, but it was impossible to mistake the angry tone. Lovely, he thought to himself. Save your marriage with a city getaway.

When his hair came just a little over his shoulders, Raistlin put away the scissors and leaned back in his chair, somewhat perplexed. Now what? He did not like feeling disoriented and adrift like that. He had always been in control of everything, and now, suddenly, he was looking at an empty tablet, starting a life from scratch at the age of - what? Thirty. Or one and thirty? It was one or the other, depending on what was left of summer. Absentmindedly, he pinched a white lock of hair from the table and released it to take a dive onto the floor. "Pfeatherfall," he whispered, watching it go down. Nothing. Nothing woke up inside him like it once did at the simplest of spells. Not anymore. His insides were as cold as a grave. He might have felt devastated over the loss, but he reminded himself that it had been his own choice, and he never made the wrong one. Besides, there was something else to do now, something that would keep his brain busy and occupied. The prospect excited him, he was feeling downright impatient about it, but he tried to keep his thoughts in check: so much could have happened in two years. Was she still there, in Palanthas? What if she had lost her faith and left the city? Or, more importantly, what if he had lost her? He found that hard to believe: she was different from other people, she understood that some things simply had to be done out of necessity. She did not cry for empty words of forgiveness.

He refused to accept things might have changed between them. A snap of his fingers, and she would have been his - impossible back then, but now everything was different. Besides, hadn't he heard her pray for him in his long sleep, or was it just a part of his dream? He had dreamt of her so often, and he needed to tell her that. But what would be the best approach? A letter, perhaps? He could write her a letter to soften the surprise. But he was getting ahead of himself again. He would first need to study the situation before making any moves. The gods, of course, had not told him anything: apparently their sense of justice required for him to be thrown into a strange world like a newborn child without a mother.

He shifted his gaze. The clothes he had been given were lying in a black heap on the floor - small wonder they had not sent him stark naked to the Central Plaza. He went over and picked them up, giving them a good shake. Fuck. He could have at least stopped to hung them to dry over the chairs. Now, as it happened, they were dried out and wrinkly and had a rainy smell to them. The rain had washed away most of the mud from his fall, but still the coat and parts of the shirt were grey with dirt. Ignoring the fact, Raistlin put them on, and then collected the black riding boots he had kicked haphazardly into a corner. To his surprise, the boots were actually his own, the very same ones with metal heels and spurs he had been wearing when entering the Abyss. He was pleased to be reunited with them, seeing as he had once paid himself sick for the boots and his rune-embroidered velvet robe; the robe, alas, was gone, it had been torn out of repair in his battle with the Dark Queen's minions. The boots were muddy, too; without scruples, he wiped them on the cheap rug poorly imitating the colourful, expensive carpets of the plainsmen. A little bit of mud made no difference among the dark stains of spilt ale.

Finished with the dressing, Raistlin took another look in the mirror, studying his reflection with a frown of distaste. He did not look like himself, in fact he looked a lot more like his brother after a night of carousing: apart from the stubble and the filthy hair, he only lacked a hangover. But of course at the moment it was only beneficial to look like an unimportant tramp; it would not have been wise to wear a mage's robe, magic or no magic, not when he could not be certain as to how much people knew. The less he looked like himself, the better - for now. At least everything was black.

Now all that was left to do was get rid of the barbaric stubble. He gathered the bowl of water, the piece of soap and the razor, eyeing it with a shiver of disgust; in normal circumstances he would have put it through fire to purify it, but right now he really did not have a choice. He set to work; sitting still like that, the gnawing headache seemed to worsen. He thought again that it was not normal - it made him feel fidgety and restless. He decided he would need to find an apothecary.

Satisfied with the result, Raistlin grabbed the room key from the table and shoved it in the coat pocket. Doing so, his fingers unexpectedly met with a cool, smooth object, and a folded piece of paper. Pulling out his hand, he saw that he was holding his old wrist knife. Pleased to see it again, he set it on the table and opened the paper. The armoire, it read in glowing silver letters. As soon as he had read the single word, the note evaporated into a glittering cloud of dust.

He did as told and took a peek in the moldy-smelling armoire. It was empty save for a little leather purse sitting on one of the shelves; he grasped it and found it to be full of silver coins. He smirked to himself. Amazing - apparently Mishakal's grace knew no limits. Without his new patron goddess, he was certain he would have found himself in a gutter instead of an inn with a purse of coins in his hands.

Raistlin returned to his knife and deftly attached the bracer to its old place around his right forearm. He tested the mechanism with a jerk of his wrist - a flash, and there it was in his hand, ready to pass a cold kiss to any unwanted snoopers. It was quite blunt, really, to resort to such messy methods, but gods knew the little knife was his new best friend now that his magic was gone. It occurred to him that he might in fact be in danger. What if the Dark Queen was listening to his thoughts, seeking for a chance for vengeance? He was not exactly her favourite boy at the moment. The room was starting to feel disgustingly hot. It was dark and oppressing like a prison, and he had the sudden urge to quit it with all haste.

He locked the door and stole softly down the staircase. He was happy to find the inn's tavern empty of customers, although the general disarray of the lounge, the uncollected mugs and the dirty dishes bespoke a vivacious night life, which he had been lucky enough not to hear in his fever-induced sleep. As he was standing there, scrutinizing his surroundings, someone called out a surprised greeting from behind him. "A very splendid morning to you, sir!" Warily, Raistlin turned to look and saw that behind the cash register had appeared a corpulent balding man in glasses and a dirty apron. It was the same man who had shown him to his room. As if reading his mind, the man smiled chummily at him.

Returning the innkeeper's greeting a little less enthusiastically, Raistlin drew up a chair with his foot and asked, after checking the blackboard, for the day's soup. The man disappeared through the swinging doors with haste and returned almost immediately with a steaming plate in his hands. "And what would you have for a drink, master? If I may recommend, the -"

"Just water."

Raistlin watched from under his lashes as a water jug and an empty goblet were placed before him on the desk with an enthustiastic "here you go, sir!". Ignoring the man, he began to spoon down the hot soup. It was not half as bad as he had feared - bad, sure, but not that bad, and he was hungry enough to get it down without much struggle.

He risked an upward glance from the plate, and sure enough the innkeeper was looking straight at him with a wide smile on his lips. "Feeling better already?" he asked, not in the least discouraged by the curtness his customer had shown.

Raistlin felt terribly annoyed at the man's familiar tone. But he drew back the poisonous reply - after all, he needed to keep a low profile and find out which way the wind was blowing. He shrugged jovially. "I suppose."

"Glad to hear!" the man cried out. "To be honest, we thought you died on us." He jerked his head towards the kitchen. "Said to Bess we should check on you in case you didn't show up by tomorrow. Damn contagion, I says to her, I don't give a fig for contagion, because corpses are bad for business, right?" He began to laugh, but the laughter died on his lips as he saw the look on Raistlin's face. Muttering to himself, he turned his attention back to some papers resting on the desk.

Raistlin continued to eat in silence; the innkeeper kept stealing glances at him, thinking he did not notice. Apart from the general question mark over the man's head, Raistlin could tell he did not recognize him, which was one thing less to worry about.

The swinging doors flew open. A young girl appeared from the kitchen and leaned over to fetch something from under the counter, shooting Raistlin a sideways look. Her eyebrows gave a slight twitch of surprise; he was half expecting a familiar hello from her as well, but she remained silent, going about her business. Looking at the pair, Raistlin was strongly reminded of Solace and the Inn of Last Home, as well as all the other inns in which he had stayed for one reason or the other in his life. Why was it that all over the world the bartender was a fat elderly man, always merry and prone to cracking vulgar jokes, while the barmaid was a buxom young slapper, an eyecandy for a row of winos? No doubt about it, back in the day his brother, never big on self-respect, would have spend the night with this one.

Raistlin cleared his throat to catch the man's attention. He came to collect the plate, peering at him over his glasses. "Now, is there anything else I can do for you today, master...?"

"Uh, Flint."

"Master Flint. Welcome to our humble abode! A pleasure to serve. I'm Jarek, known to my friends as Jarek the Barrel." He pointed his thumbs towards his chest with pride, as if there was a chance he might be referring to somebody else.

Raistlin was not in the mood for exchanging pleasantries. "Yes. Jarek. As you know, I was slightly... disoriented on my arrival here. Refresh my memory. I came here how many days ago, exactly?"

"Three, my good sir. Well, four, if you count today. And you were terribly ill, if you don't mind me saying so. Looked real bad. Seeing the state you were in, we left some water and bread in your room. But like I said," he hastened to add, "we were gonna come and see tomorrow."

"Right. How long can I keep the room?"

"As long as you like, sir. She said you might stay for a while, so we didn't put a date on you, despite all the reservations for the harvest festivities coming in and out the windows." He gave a barking laugh, throwing a rag over his shoulder.

"She said?" Raistlin took a sip of the water. "Who?"

"Why, the blonde woman who showed up some time before you did, bringing some of your stuff and everything. Never saw bluer eyes on anyone." Jarek touched his hair, in illustration, adding, "Could have been your sister or something."

"Oh. Right." Raistlin smiled to himself. Just what would he do without Mishakal?

He got up. "I'm out for a while. Get someone to clean up my room, will you?"

"Certainly, sir." Jarek nodded gravely, then whistled over his shoulder, hollering, "Bess! Bessie!"

Just as Raistlin was about to point out that he was not exactly wild on the idea of a dog doing the cleaning, the girl from before re-appeared. "Master Flint is going out," Jarek informed her, handing her a broom and a bucket with colourful rags hanging over its side. "Off you go!"

Looking rather unenthusiastic, Bessie accepted the cleaning instruments and made her way to the stairs. Halfway through, she came to a shocked halt, turned back to them and asked in a worried voice, "It's no longer infectious, is it?"

Raistlin gave her a look. "It assures you it is not."

She shrugged apologetically. "Can't be too careful these days. See, me brother -"

"Yes, yes, I'm sure," Jarek interrupted, staring at Bessie with a furious expression. "Just get on with it, woman!"

"Oh, and tell her to run a bath for my return," Raistlin said to Jarek. "The taps aren't working."

"Bessie, run a bath for his return."

Flabbergasted, Bessie stared at them from the stairs with her mouth open. "I have ears, you know."

"Have you? Sometimes I wonder. Off you go!"

Jarek watched Bessie out of sight, then turned back to Raistlin. "Yeah, that," he resumed with an apologetic air. "Half the city's still missing running water since the last attack." He gave a dry little laugh. "Don't you think it interesting in the extreme that the wealthier parts of the city got their water back in no time?" He shrugged discouragedly. "Guess we'll wait another year. And another."

"Tough luck."

"I'll say."

Raistlin asked Jarek for the nearest apothecary and discussed the fee for his room. Then he exited the inn into the searing heat. The summer was sweating in its dying throes - soon enough it would have to give way to the autumn, a hint of which one could already sense in the air. Raistlin had always hated spring and summer with passion, all those people laughing and dancing and going half-crazy with joy over something as unimportant as the weather. He had taken but a few steps and already he was feeling suffocatingly hot in his hooded coat. On top of it all, the sunlight hurt his eyes and worsened the hollow ache in his head.

Cursing under his breath, Raistlin headed to the north towards the apothecary, casting an eye about him as he walked. Jarek was right: this part of the city was still hanging partly in ruin after being attacked by the Blue Lady, as they had come to call his trollop of a sister. In one corner, there was a hurdy gurdy man with an ape dancing to his music; children clad in rags were stomping around him, screaming and clapping their hands in ecstasy. Raistlin grimaced at the racket; the sounds they made were like a spike in his brain.

He ducked his head and quickened his steps every time someone passed him. But after a while he began to relax and let go of his hood that he had been holding tightly over his face. Contrary to what he had feared, there were no suspicious looks or pointing fingers; folk did not stop cold in their tracks and begin to prepare torches. It was all very good, but it also irritated him greatly. People knew so little, it was pathetic. Most of them paid not the slightest attention to what was going on around them. Put a living dragon next to them, and they would not even notice. Most people he had known throughout his life were exactly like that.

There was one place he would do well to avoid, though. He stopped at a junction, examining the signpost. He needed to steer clear of the harbour, where, hidden out of sight with the gambling joints and whorehouses, lay the Dark Queen's monument. He took the left turn towards the Central Plaza.

The closer he got, the shinier everything started to look: this was where the rick folk lived, the people that had got their water back in no time. Looking at this part of the city, one could not even tell there had been a war. There was no debris lying on the ground, no gaping holes on the walls of the buildings nor burnt down ruins. Planted tress shaded the pale pink mosaic avenues in strictly symmetrical lines, throwing their cooling shades over the passersby. The shiny white buildings glittered in the sun, statues and monuments had been rebuilt in their former glory.

West of the Central Plaza were the temple grounds. Going there took him off the route to his original destination and was rather risky, considering the circumstances, but a deep, compelling pull inside him drew him there nevertheless, as if by an invisible rope. The area had expanded since he last saw it: new buildings had been constructed and the old ones renovated. The grass in the yard was smooth and trimmed and still green, and the soft murmuring of the stone fountains gave the place an air of peace and meditation. On a scaffolding that had been erected against the south wall of the main temple, two artists were restoring the wall murals depicting Paladine's mercy and victories. The murals had been painted with a skilful hand. He might have saved them, but he would have made sure one more picture was added for the world to see: Paladine kneeling to the hourglass constellation in the sky above him.

The main door opened: a male cleric appeared and vanished through another door. Raistlin felt terribly tempted. He could see himself crossing the yard, entering the temple and demanding to see her. It was entirely possible that no one would recognize him. On the other hand, the idea of defending himself with one little knife against hundreds of enraged goodie-two-shoes did not sound particularly alluring.

He was drawn out of his thoughts by movement on his left. Two women had appeared from inside one of the side buildings, engaged in a lively conversation. Both of their hair was dull blonde and tied up in a braid, and their bodies were veiled in the plain vestments of the acolytes. The one facing him gave him a look out of the corner of her eye and said something to her partner with a slight nod; she too glanced at him over her shoulder with a suspicious look.

He resumed his steps quickly, walking along the wall of the nearest building. Windows, so many of them in a row, with coloured-glass diamond panes. What if she were to look out of one of them right now and see him? Perhaps she would run out, throw her arms around him and embrace him under the flaming sun, like in a damn fairytale. She could not have left the city. He had had dreams, so many dreams. They had to mean something.

"Hey you over there! Hey!" Raistlin was just about to turn the corner when a shaky voice called out to him. He froze in his steps, frantically going through the options: turning back might throw him in the arms of a church official, darting off would cause alarm. Out of old habit, his first impulse was to speak the words of a spell, but he soon realized his mistake and prepared to release the knife instead, turning slowly towards the speaker, keeping his eyes carefully lowered to the ground in the depths of the black hood.

Upon glancing up, he relaxed. It was just an old beggar hopping on a wooden leg, one of the lowlives loitering near the temple grounds. Much of the city pretended they did not exist, so they held out their palms for the clergy, shamelessly exploiting their sense of charity and compassion. This one was after copper as well. "Spare a coin, kind sir?" he pleaded, shooting him a friendly grin, which revealed an uneven row of yellow teeth with gaps between.

Raistlin surveyed the shabby man from head to toe and decided he might as well give it a try. After all, these poor devils were always happy to be useful; it added interest to their lives. He said challengingly, "In exchange for some information."

The beggar threw him a curious look, estimating whether he was being duped or not. Seeing Raistlin's grave expression, he gave a shrug. "Shoot."

"The Revered Daughter," Raistlin breathed and then paused, not sure what it was exactly that he wanted to know.

The man stared at him with his brown, watering eyes. "Yes? We got so many of them, you know, those revered sons and daughters," he explained helpfully. "Which one might you be talkin' 'bout?"

"The Revered Daughter... Crysania. Crysania Tarinius." For some reason he found it hard to speak her name. "Do you know her?"

The old fellow's wrinkly face lighted up. "Oh, her! Sure I knows her! Everyone knows her. A fine lady - one o' the greats."

Everyone - that did not sound good. But he put it aside for now, overwhelmed by the surge of excitement that rushed through him. "She's here?" he demanded, almost stumbling over his words in his urge to know more. "She's still here then?"

The beggar looked at him as if he did not play with a full deck. "Yah, 'course she is. Where else would she go?" He shot him an inquisitive look. "Not from around these parts, are ya?"

Raistlin shook his head and forced a smile at the man. "That's why I'm asking, right? You say you know her. Have you seen her lately? What does she do?"

"Oh, more 'n just seen her!" There was pride in his voice. "I've talked to her!"

"Yes, and?"

The beggar cleared his throat in a solem manner. "Well, you see, me sister's boy was terribly sick last spring, came down with the grim fever. No way we could ever afford a physician, so we carries him out here, hoping maybe some acolyte is kind enough to take a look at him. All sick that lil' boy was, tremblin' and sweatin' there in the rain, and me sister cryin' her heart out, thinkin' of losin' him. I consoles her as best I can, sayin' it'll be alright, soon an acolyte will come. But it looks pretty bad, so very, very bad."

Raistlin shifted his weight impatiently; apparently he would have to listen through this.

Tears were glimmering in the man's murky eyes as he continued. "Now, one or two of 'em acolytes pass us by, walkin' around all holy-like on naked feet, lookin' at me sister an' the shakin' boy, sayin' they're busy. Busy! Anyone could tell the boy was deathly sick, you could see it from miles away! So I moves them closer to the main entrance, sayin' no worries, another acolyte will come, but I'm really startin' to fear. An' suddenly, suddenly this crowd of people in white appears as if from the sky, lots of men an' a lady in the middle of 'em - an' I'm tellin' you my heart nearly stops when I sees her, never in my life saw anyone as beautiful. The official-lookin' fellows around her are holdin' up a canopy over her head, to protect her from the rain like, an' they just look as if they're very mad at us for standin' in her way like that. 'Just a little hold up, my lady,' they says to her, but of course she can hear me sister howlin' there on her knees like a wounded animal, cradlin' the lifeless boy in her arms. An' she... she..." The man had to interrupt his story to swallow the lump in his throat.

"Go on," Raistlin exhorted softly.

The beggar gave him a grateful look. "The lady tells her men to take her to us, very firm like, and so the fellows have no choice but to guide her to the boy. 'You are in need of help,' she says very kindly, 'I'm Revered Daughter Crysania. Please tell me what's the matter,' she says - or somethin' like, can't mirror her way of speech. I falls down on my knees when I hears it. A Revered Daughter of Paladine! It was more 'n we ever could've hoped for. Me sister cries out an' grasps the lady's hands, sobbin' and tellin' her 'bout the boy. An' she listens there very grave and calm, don't draw away her fine white hands or anything. Then you know what happens?"

"Do tell," Raistlin replied with feigned casualness, although a weird feeling had started to creep over him. She was led to the boy, things needed to be described for her? An image from the Abyss came to him, a dim, half buried recollection. I can't see. Is that you? Don't leave me alone in the darkness. Blinking, he directed his attention to the talking man again.

"...says she needs some space an' in spite of the rain orders away the pompous men still tryin' to hold the ridiculous canopy over her head. An', can you imagine, she kneels down in the rain in front of me sister an' the boy, takin' the boy's lil' face in her hands, touchin' his feverish cheek with her own lips. Didn't mind the least that he was sick an' dirty an' had every sort of lice you could think of! An' then, then she takes the pendant around her neck an' puts it against the boy's forehead, speakin' some soothing words. The boy changed in the eyes, I tells you! Stopped shakin' an' looked so calm. She smiles then an' takes a piece of cloth in the shape of a triangle from the satchel on her side. We keeps it on an altar in the day, an' in the night the boy sleeps with it. An' he's not fallen ill since then, not even a cold. Not anyone of us has. Swear on me mom's grave." He fell silent finally and stared at Raistlin expectantly.

"An impressive story," Raistlin conceded. "And this happened last spring?"

The man nodded eagerly. "Some moons ago, yah." Then he squinted his eyes at him. "Say, you're not a crook, is you? Not planning anything shady?"

Raistlin made an attempt at an earnest smile. "Not at all. I'm here on... religious business."

The man did not look perfectly convinced, but he let it pass as he was again overwhelmed by the memory. "The Revered Daughter, she was there like a ray of sunlight when all our hope was lost. She talked to us like we were equals. Wanted to know if we got a place to sleep in an' if we got enough to bite. An' she arranged for us to lodge in a poor house for two weeks, until our Gordon was completely cured." Suddenly the man got agitated. "Oh, how the good ones suffer! What did she do to deserve a fate like hers? Nothin'!"

"A fate like hers?" Now they were talking.

"I mean her eyes. She's blind, see."

"Blind as in... she sees nothing? Nothing at all?"

"Yah."

"And she was not like that from birth?"

The man shrugged. "Not that I know of, no."

"So what happened to her, then?"

"Dunno. Some people say she had a lot of sorrow in the past."

"Come on, now. People don't go blind from being sad."

"That so?" The man gave him a meaningful glance, then turned his gaze towards the sky, indifferently scratching his chin.

Annoyed and slightly amused at the same time, Raistlin fished a coin from his purse; as the man took it, he noticed he had no thumb on his left hand. Looking carefully around to ensure privacy, the beggar took a few steps closer; the poor blighter reeked like a month old cadaver, and Raistlin had to make a conscious effort not to move away.

"Well," the man said in a low voice, "they says she was blinded. Blinded in cold blood by an evil mage." He looked smugly at Raistlin, weighing the effect his words had on him.

"That's what they say, huh?" He kept his voice calm. "How come?"

The light of gossip died from the man's eyes almost as soon as it had lighted up. "It's just rumours, ya know," he shrugged. "Don't nobody know the truth."

"So they're just idle rumours."

"Yah. Idle rumours. Guess so."

"People talk about her a lot, then, do they?"

"Sure. She's famous, ain't she. The next head of the church. Or so I hears."

"Say what?"

The beggar grinned. "Yah. 'Bout time. The old leader's been a stiff for long, Paladine rest his soul."

Raistlin was silent a while, processing the news. "Besides being blind," he asked then, "is she alright otherwise?"

"Huh, what you mean?"

"I mean, is there anything about her that might give a clue as to what happened to her? Any injuries or... burns, or the like?"

"Nome. Nothin' at all, sir. Just the eyes. Like I said, she's so heavenly beautiful that you... that you just..." His voice had turned a little breathy.

"Let's not go there. Do you -"

The man lifted his hands up in defense. "Hey, I didn't say nothing! She's a holy cleric, right?"

"Right. Now, do you know where I could possibly see her?"

"Um, s'pose you go and have a word with someone in charge, in case you wanna meet her alone. She does that, gives audiences or somethin'. Or you could go to the markets the day after tomorrow. She comes there every week, see, handin' out alms and blessins. Ya know, the sort of stuff clerics tend to do."

"Thank you, my friend. You've been very helpful." Raistlin flicked the man one more coin. He grabbed it from the air with his thumbless hand, a wide grin on his cracked lips. "Thanky, master," he said. "You need a job done, just ask for Smiling Clegg."

In a flurry of bewilderment over what he had heard, Raistlin started to walk away from the temple grounds, without a clear idea of where he was going. No use in sending a letter, then. I can't see. Is that you? He had not given it much thought back then, and why should he have? She had played her part, and he had continued towards his goal, forgetting all about her. She had been severely burnt and injured; apparently, judging from Smiling Clegg's answers, they had managed to heal everything else but the eyes. Why? Was it a punishment? A punishment from her oh-so-loving god for falling into the bad man's trap?

Coming back from his thoughts, Raistlin looked up and saw his feet had carried him to the foot of the stairway of the Great Library. Feeling tired all of a sudden, he sat down on one of the marble benches overlooked by ferocious stone lions. Sitting there, he counted the steps in his mind. He knew perfectly well there were thirty-five of them, but still he had to make sure; he had a thing for counting steps. These particular steps led up into a cradle of history: everything that ever was and everything that would ever be was there, written in the scrolls and chronicles copied by the Aesthetics. Also the truth from two years ago was there - the truth that apparently was not common knowledge. He seriously doubted they would be making her head of the church, if everything had got out in the open; people certainly would not take kindly to a cleric fraternizing with the enemy. And yet - blinded by an evil mage? Someone knew something, which was not a surprise: in a large institution like the church there was wont to be a blabbermouth or two. He needed to find out more, and the markets were probably the best place to start. She would be there, and he would see her again. Suddenly two days seemed unbearably long.

Slowly the library stairs dilapidated in Raistlin's cursed eyes - a blink, and they were new again. It was curious how all the crucials paths in his life had led him to the foot of this grand staircase. The spell he had cast aboard the Perechon. The invitation he had received from Crysania. And now, unexpected by everyone, he was there again, at the dawn of his new life. He pictured Astinus carefully forming the words in his great chronicle: Today, the Master of Past and Present returned to the world. As composed as Astinus was, his exquisite quill must have slipped just a little on the fine parchment.

The thought cheered him up.

*

"Hey." The buxom Bessie was just leaving his room with her soaps and rags.

Raistlin eyed the girl with distaste. "What do you want?"

"Paladine's breeches!" she retorted. "It's a greeting, you know. Doesn't mean I want anything."

"The room ready?" he asked coldly.

"U-huh." She placed her hand cockily on her hip and said with mock friendliness, "The next time, at least try and aim for the bucket, alright?"

He gave her a sour smile. "And put you out of work, honey?"

He noticed with irritation that the girl was trying to have a good look at his eyes so that she could later ooh and aah about it with her friends. What else could you expect from a barmaid? They were a vulgar, uncouth bunch. Under normal circumstances he would have directed the girl a particularly mean stare, but knowing it was not such a good idea right now, he looked down and pushed past her. Who knew what lamp would suddenly light up in her head, the lyrics of some idiotic song on the War of the Lance or the like.

"Oh, and Master Flint," he heard her say in a consiliatory tone as he fitted the key in the door, "your bath's ready for you." She was probably thinking she had managed to unsettle him with her caustic gibe about the bucket.

"Good," Raistlin said, opening the door. "Now get in."

Her mouth dropped open. "Uh... Gee..."

"Just do as you're told."

She creeped behind him into the doorway, hesitating. When she saw what he was doing, her eyes widened. "Whoa... Master Flint, I really don't think -"

He drew the shirt over his head, then handed it to the girl along with the coat. "I need these back tomorrow, crisp and clean. Can you manage it?"

The relief in her face was evident. "Oh. Gee. I think so." She collected the two items in her arms.

Raistlin put out one of his feet. "Before you go, help me out with these boots."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Excuse me, but I don't clean men's boots. Not a part of my job."

"Come on now, be a sport. I don't have a rag myself."

She uttered a sharp "ha", grabbed a damp rag from the bucket, squeezed it dry and tossed it down on top of his boots. "Now you do." Without a goodbye, she turned and disappeared down the corridor.

Raistlin slammed the door close and then turned to take a long inspective look at the room. It was surprisingly clean - perhaps the wench was not as lazy as she looked. The sheets were changed - they were white and pristine -, the hair had been brushed from the floor, and there was a fresh smell in the air. He pulled off his trousers, tossed the knife on the table and walked over to the tub, feeling the water with his hand; it was seducingly hot and smelled heavenly.

He stepped in and slid slowly under the water, savouring the heat spreading over his body. The medicine from the apothecary seemed to be kicking in: the headache was on the wane. Resting his head on the side of the tub, Raistlin closed his eyes. Master Flint indeed! He congratulated himself. But on the bright side, it was one of the most common names around; in fact, you could hardly imagine a better name if you wanted to avoid attention.

He inhaled deep the herbal vapours rising from the bath, which caused him to cough a few times. The terrible coughing fits he had once had were gone with Fistandantilus, and good riddance to both, but the poisoned dagger he had received in his lung ten years ago during his Test had injured something irrevocably; sometimes his chest still locked with a sudden cutting pain, especially if he was lying on his back.

Someone let out a ragged cry in the neighbour room. Then a man's voice started yelling incoherently over the other's muffled sobbing. A door banged shut, and angry, stomping feet hurried down the hallway. Greatly annoyed, Raistlin reached up from the water to punch the wall with his fist. He listened for a while, then slid back into the tub, satisfied.

He closed his eyes again and allowed himself the solace of fantasy. If everything had gone according to plan, he would have a temple now in this very city - a far more frightful and majestic than the Dark Queen had ever even dreamt of building for herself. And there would be a whole new world order; he would control the magic, people all over the world would worship him and bow down to him. His mind ran feverishly through the final ecstatic moments. The beautiful spell that opened the portal, wiping out the Plains of Dergoth - hands down the biggest rush he had ever had from spellcasting. Par-Salian drinking down his own bitter medicine: See? Does this not teach you compassion? The Black Goddess breaking under his magic; the intoxicating knowledge that he would succeed. Crysania, giving her all for him: Yes, Raistlin; if that is what you want, Raistlin. His breathing hitched; the hot water caressed him. Crysania. Her hands clasped in prayer, a patient smile on her sweetly bowed lips. Bruised. Blinded. His.

He was snapped back to reality by the sound of something heavy coming down with a loud crash. Startled, he sprang bolt upright, his heart beating wildly in his chest. But everything was quiet now. He heaved an impatient sigh. Apparently his neighbours were not only set on tearing each other's eyes out, but also on making firewood from the furniture. He considered slamming the wall again, but then thought better of it. Some people never learned. Annoyed, he slid completely under the water.

Holding his breath, Raistlin opened his eyes. For a while he did not understand what he saw above him, framed inside the blurred image of the ceiling: a pale woman's face looking down at him through the water. His first thought was the Dark Queen - that she had found him - and his body froze in terror for an excruciatingly long moment; as he looked, unable to move, the head tilted, and the lips parted into a mischievous smile - and then he came up, soaked and spitting water. He looked around him wildly, searching to defend himself with any means available.

The room was deathly silent.
- 1
- 2
- 3
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Evermore: The Gathering