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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 19

Gaspar Cloade did not return the smile he gave him, only gestured curtly to the path leading to the gate: back the way you came, right away. To be on the safe side, he followed Raistlin the whole way to the exit, through the twists and turns of the pink mosaic path, under leafy canopies and past bubbling fountains, with the great deep peal of the bells ringing in their ears; clearly the secretary had gone to great lengths to keep Raistlin's visit a secret, clearly he was just as determined to make sure he would leave the premises.

When they had reached their destination, Raistlin turned to the man and said, smiling still, "See you soon."

Cloade did not answer. His face was a stony mask, if also a little red from the heat. He held the gate open, with an impatient air, and when Raistlin was on the other side, he locked the gate carefully, then spun on his heels and strolled away.

Raistlin watched the man go, and slowly the smile on his lips faded. He looked around and sat down on a little bench by the rose bushes across the path, feeling too overwhelmed to function. Too many thoughts, too many images, all coming at once. The way her plait was adorned with tiny pearls and coming loose in places. The way her unpainted lips, rich in natural colour, curled just a little on the right side when she was about to cry. The way she smelled of jasmine and vanilla with a hint of citrus.

Her shoulders. Her breasts. Her pendant. Her purity.

There was a scar on her right wrist. Her eyes were frosty grey.

Good god, how he wanted that woman.

For an instant he closed his eyes, captured by the rawness of his need. The bees buzzed in the midday silence, the sun lulled him into a lazy stupor where she was the only thing real and everything else drifted out of existence. The short time he had spent with her, in that bleak spare room lined with stacked chairs and tables, it cannot have been more than thirty, fourty minutes. She had tried so hard to appear detached and at ease with herself, yet he'd seen the turmoil in her heart. Did she honestly believe that he'd only needed a bit of convincing? That he had not understood the meaning of her provocative dresses or seen the light in her eyes when she looked at him? That outspoken words would have changed everything? It did not matter. What mattered was that the meeting had gone much better than he could have hoped for.

Except not completely. She was pliable and lost, that much he knew; but he also knew she was vehemently opposed to the inevitable, not letting him come near her and jumping at every little movement he made. That he had not expected.

Fine, he thought. Give or take a few weeks, and she would beg him to touch her.

But the image lingered and bothered him: the frantic look on her face, her hands in the air keeping him at a distance.

Raistlin opened his eyes and looked at the gate before him. He knew it was useless, he had seen Cloade lock the gate at a deliberate pace, but he got up anyway, walked over and tried the handle, rather more violently than he realized. The fucking thing did not budge, of course it didn't. Crossing his arms, Raistlin stared through the iron bars for a long stretch of time, much longer than he imagined and unaware of the looks he was receiving from passersby, stared through the lush trees and the emerald lawns behind, hoping for a miracle and knowing the awful truth: she was slipping through his fingers, out of his reach, towards her damned inauguration. No way, he thought - no way in hell would he let that happen. He put his hand in his pocket, closing his fingers around the tiny object that was always there, waiting, reassuring: his good luck charm, a token of fate. Other people might have said that it was an insane idea, completely impossible even, that it was too late. But he was not like other people, and neither was Crysania. He had made the decision and he'd be damned to let anyone stop him; not Cloade, not his pet cow, definitely not Elistan and his dry old testaments. Try standing in my way and see where that gets you.

He had to go. He had to leave the next step to her, give her a sense of control over the situation. It was just for a day, anyway, because she had suggested that she would meet him tomorrow in the Gardens at noon, had she not? She wanted him to find her at the altar. Simply, she wanted him to find her.

Still, he was reluctant to leave and he lingered beside the gate for a quarter of an hour more, until a certain important matter he needed to take care of finally made him move on.

He headed across the Central Plaza, no longer trying to avoid the crowds. Wearing a mage's robe, and a black one at that, made a world of difference: people lowered their heads, or looked away, or even crossed to the other side of the street when they saw him coming. Greatly pleased at this, Raistlin picked up speed and hurrying towards the library felt a touch of anticipation that for once had nothing to do with Crysania. He was still unable to completely shed the vague uneasy feeling of being deceived, but he knew that if there was even the slightest chance that he could have back the magic, any kind of magic, even if it were just a shadow of the real thing, he would seize the opportunity without hesitation.

Paladine was everywhere in His city, ever watching, ever vigilant. There was a statue at least on every second street corner, and in the middle of a circular clearing behind the library sat a large tall monument depicting Paladine vanquishing the five-headed dragon and driving a divine ray of light into Her heart. By this statue Raistlin stopped for a few seconds to catch his breath and adjust his boot, and as he did he absent-mindedly wondered about Paladine's logic. All-seeing and omniscient, the God of Light had seen the future yet did nothing to prevent it, letting His cleric wander off to her doom in the Abyss - and still He had the cheek to moralize him and oppose his release? A sad old hypocrite, that's what Paladine was.

Raistlin started to walk again and in the library he went straight to the floor where the card catalog was located. There he opened the drawer with the letter R embossed on the brass pull, and flipped through the cards until he found the word "Redwald". Under the title was a listing for a book containing information on the city. Just one book, unnamed, located two floors underground where the oldest and rarest tomes were kept.

Raistlin memorized the tome number and shut the drawer. He was about to go find the book, but on second thought he pulled open another drawer. Since he was here, he might as well take a look; no harm in looking, was there? He flipped through another set of cards until he came to the entry which said "Majere, Raistlin". Under his name, he saw a list of books about the War of the Lance. He glared at the card with a displeased frown: that was all he was known for, just one of the people who fought in the war, when he could have had the entire world at his feet. He extracted the card and immediately wished he hadn't: in the lower right corner, it said "See also: Majere, Caramon." Raistlin's frown deepened into a scowl. Couldn't he even have his own damn card? Inexpressibly annoyed, he tore the card in half, so that only his name remained, before putting the card back and closing the drawer.

He descended the two floors to the basement below. The damp cold went straight to the bones: shivering in his robe, pulling the sleeves down over his hands, Raistlin walked along the narrow corridor between the shelves until he emerged in the centre of a densely packed room lined with dark wood lecterns to which the tomes were chained, protecting them from theft.

He scanned the lecterns for tome number 2504. How come such a large number, when evidently there were only about thirty tomes in all? Beside the point. He spotted the right one near the back and quickly headed for it, not wanting to spend any longer than necessary in the library's damp bowels.

The tome was dusty and grimy but not very large, obviously put together hundreds of years ago. Raistlin opened the cover and started to read. His eyes flew over the lines of words inscribed in red ink, effortlessly deciphering the ornate, out-of-date handwriting; at the same time, with no trouble at all, his mind flashed through the notes he had found in the Venegas house, making connections and arriving at conclusions at a staggering speed, having sorted out the information, cleanly and neatly, when most others would still be at the starting line.

After less than half an hour, he looked up from the book, positively stunned and unable to believe his luck.

Weaving magic without magic: an enticing secret, buried somewhere in the ruined city of Redwald, which lay to the east, across the Plains of Dust, and existed, so the ancient tome claimed, beyond the invisible.

Raistlin did not know what that meant, but he intended to find out.

Coolly, he tore out the pages holding information about the city's presumed whereabouts and a carefully drawn map. He turned the map over in his hands and couldn't help smiling. The emptiness he had felt, the sense of uselessness and the boredom of aimless days was gone. He now had a plan, a destination; he would leave, soon.

Towards east. Towards Redwald.

With Crysania.
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Evermore: The Gathering