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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.

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CHAPTER 22

349 AC - Winter Pines Hall, Palanthas

It was spring, and all the world was green.

The outdoor meal had lasted a staggering six and a half hours, followed by tedious group singing ("You too, Miss Crysania!"), playing of musical instruments and telling of edifying stories. The long day was now coming to an end, with the final number being games for the gentlemen and flower-gathering for the ladies.

Her cousins stood up, giggling and excited, brushing cake crumbs from their flowing skirts, before hurrying off to wander the meadows; Crysania, on the other hand, remained seated under her lace parasol, happily ignoring the reproachful look she received from her mother. Amelia Tarinius was powerless, she had given up, she knew whatever she said made no difference: Crysania would not sing, she would not converse with her cousins, she would not do anything a proper lady should. Things being as they were, Amelia's only remaining weapon was the glare of disapproval to which she would sometimes treat her daughter.

Secretly smiling to herself, Crysania tightened the pink satin ribbon at the end of her plait; it was a simple plait, like a peasant's, because her hair was not yet long enough to be twisted up into an elaborate updo. It was hard to believe it was almost a year ago that she had emerged from her room into the morning parlour and had her mother screaming for smelling salts. Her father had spoken in an angry voice, but Crysania still had the impression that Eldon Tarinius had been holding back a smile in spite of himself as he said to his wife, "Amelia dear, it is only hair. It will grow back." Later that day Crysania had eavesdropped on their conversation, nearly bursting with joy upon hearing her mother pronounce her sentence: she was unpresentable, she could not be seen in public with that hair. "Good heavens, Eldon, she looks like a boy!" Amelia cried and began to look for suitable excuses for her daughter's absence; telling people that Crysania had become bed-ridden from an illness was right out of the question, something like that would cause everyone to think that she was unfit to bear children and there would be even less marriage proposals. Eventually the Lord and Lady Tarinius decided that their daughter had been sent off to spend a year in the city with her erudite second cousins who rarely visited Palanthas.

That was the official story. In reality she was sitting in her room, for the first month behind a locked door, with Oliva always hovering near her and not a single pair of scissors in sight. In the second month she was no longer being watched all day, which gave her the opportunity to read the books she had managed to smuggle out of the library, hidden under mattresses, between wall and furniture. These were her moments of glory, of pure heart-felt inspiration that she would not have traded for the world.

But that bliss was coming to an end: her hair was growing back. Already it reached to her shoulders, and as she played with it distractedly, twisting the end of her plait around her fingers, she thought, what now, what next? Her gaze shifted from her cousins to the oak trees and rock formations across the valley, now glowing softly in the rays of the evening sun. There, on the side of the rock and almost hidden by moss and shrubbery, her darting eyes spotted an entrance that seemed to cut straight into the rock, a tunnel barred by a grey weather-beaten door.

"Mama, what is that place?" Crysania asked, grateful to find her interest unexpectedly piqued.

Lady Amelia looked up to where her rebellious daughter was pointing and quickly back down again. "Never you mind, dear." Without another word, she continued to arrange the leftover lemon tarts. The light filtered through the lace parasol above her head, casting web-like shadows across her carefully painted face.

Crysania started to get up. "I'll just go and have a look, then. Is not exploring ruins an honourable pastime?" She did not even try to hide the scorn in her voice.

Amelia Tarinius gave a troubled sigh. "Fine," she said, locking her gaze with her daughter's. "It is an old place of worship, if you must know."

Crysania sat back, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. "Worship as in religion?"

They were awkwardly silent for a moment; the mother and daughter both remembered that the cause of the hair incident had been a book about religious matters, although they had never mentioned it again.

"You would do well to remember that the Tarinii do not cultivate such idle fancies," Amelia finally said, her voice still quivering with the shock and shame of her daughter's impudence. "Especially young ladies such as yourself. These are matters for old infirm men with wobbly beards and brains, who, for want of nothing better to do, enjoy the dusk and dust in their isolated chambers. The gods departed a long time ago. They do not communicate with men, and that's the end of it."

Dusk and dust in isolated chambers? Crysania liked the sound of that. "But," she protested, about to take a bite of the broken biscuit she had picked up, "aren't you the one always underlining the importance of tradition and cultural heritage?"

"Eat, Crysania. Don't just hold the biscuit like that in front of your mouth. It's vulgar. You do not expect it to reply to you, do you?"

Grimly, Crysania took a bite, letting her gaze slide to Oliva collecting the leftovers into hampers. "Can't we just leave the food here?" she asked her mother. "Someone hungry will find it."

Her mother made no answer.

"The children from the villages, they must be hungry," Crysania insisted, her voice growing more and more agitated as she realized what must be going on. "Father said the crops were bad this year. I heard it. Perhaps the villagers have got nothing left, because they gave it all to us. It's their food. We are eating their food while their children starve. I do not think -"

"You can't carry the whole world upon your shoulders."

"Yes, I can!"

What an idiotic, childish thing to say. But she was too livid to care: watch me, she thought defiantly, not at all knowing what she meant and how it would happen, just watch me.

Amelia patted her coif with her slender white hand, as if to make sure it was properly in place for what she was about to say. Then she directed a stern look at her daughter and said, choosing her words very deliberately, "There are better people and there are inferior people. That's the way of the world and to think otherwise is to bury your head in the sand."

Literally speechless from indignation and hideously embarrassed for her mother, Crysania cast a look at Oliva, a look of silent compassion, of apology, but the servant was careful not to lift her eyes from her task. Meek and quiet, Oliva did everything she was told to do: scrub, clean, polish, day after day after day, like her mother before her, and her mother's mother before that. All for the good of the Tarinius family and not her own. The way of the world, was it? That the farmers of the surrounding villages had to sell their crops to their lords, presumably at a laughable price? Crysania watched her relatives frolicking like puppies on the lawn, carefree and self-absorbed, without sparing a single thought for the poor and needy, and a deep dark contempt crept into her soul. Three of her male cousins were showing off their skills at some stupid ball game, encouraged by the admiring oohs and aahs of the onlookers, while cousin Eudora, elated over finding a yellow flower, was struggling to attach it to her golden hair. Oh, what fun.

Feeling incurably lonely and completely out of place, unapproached and unapproachable, Crysania sat in solitude for the rest of the excursion, but she found her eyes constantly drawn to the mysterious entrance in the rock.

That night, when she felt sure that everyone must be fast asleep, she slipped out of her bed and opened her armoire. She took out her lavender cloak and slippers and dressed herself slowly, wary of making any noise. When she was dressed, she opened the door to the dark hall and stood listening for long moments, gathering courage. No sounds anywhere. She crept down the staircase, the wood creaking lightly beneath her feet, and proceeded to the door. With her heart racing, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

The night air was fresh and cold. She started in the direction of the rocks, letting the skirt of her nightgown trail along the dewy path. Where earlier in the day she had been morose and miserable, trudging along the same path, she now felt wildly, euphorically free and deliciously out of control. She looked up to explore the sky, feeling joy for simply being there, alone, unguarded. It was light; the rosy globe of the spring moon hung low over the tops of the trees, and to the left of it, the second one blazed in silver hues. There was a third moon, she knew, a moon of dark sorcery which could only be seen by black-robed mages.

After almost half an hour, Crysania reached the clearing and looked around. At first she did not see the entrance and was irrationally worried that the cave had disappeared, knowing that she was coming to find it. But then she spotted it, just beneath the curve of the stone, and she hurried towards it in a half-run.

The ancient lock did not require much work. Crysania pulled and lifted, ignoring the grime and rust that rubbed off on her fingers. Soon the lock gave way, and the door opened with an ominous creak.

A dark silence welcomed her: darkness thick with musty, earthy smells, and silence so complete it was almost terrifying.

She closed the door only part way, to let in Solinari's silver light, and stood still for a moment, riddled with fear and regret. Who or what was waiting for her further along? She could be in bed right now, warm and cosy, instead of sneaking around in dangerous places. The darkness grew less absolute as her eyes accustomed themselves; she could now discern a row of pillars ahead and between them what seemed like lines of dilapidated benches. She took a breath and raised her chin: of course she would go and see. Tugging her cloak tighter around her, she started to walk slowly towards the cold draught coming from the bowels of the cave.

Her footsteps crunched on twigs and pebbles, the only sound in the still, damp air, and it occurred to her that her shoes were made for dancing, not caving: what if the heels would come off and she would have to explain it to her mother?

With this unpleasant thought in her head, she emerged from behind one of the pillars into a dim clearing and saw a sight whose beauty took her breath away even as it gave her a fright; a short, strangled cry of awe came out of her and she stopped in her tracks, leaning her hand on the pillar for support.

At the farthest end, raised on a long platform, stood an array of human-size figures in tattered clothes. The colours were faded, but she could still see the painted eyes and mouths on their carved wooden faces, expressive and artful even in their crudeness, with horse-hair wigs framing the splintered features. The gods and goddesses of Krynn.

Crysania's heart was beating and her legs felt weak. For a short moment she had mistook the statues for real people, and besides that, a superstitious dread stole over her. She shrank back behind the stone pillar, trying to calm herself down. They're nothing but statues. The gods have departed. Said the book which she had not seen again since the day she cut her hair. Said her mother, her father. Said everybody.

She poked her head around the pillar for another look, but she did not dare go nearer. What if the gods had not abandoned the world, but lived on in this cave? What if they knew that people riciduled them and because of that they were angry and vengeful?

Her eyes darted to the figure on the far left. That woman. Takhisis. Just a wooden idol, but nonetheless every bit as terrifying as in the book. Her black painted eyes were nailed to the shadows; her mouth was bloodred and vicious. On top of Her head sat a dark iron crown and in Her hand She held a striking red snake. The black robe which hung around Her shoulders was almost grey from dust, as was the long black hair which descended down Her shoulders.

In the middle, Paladine. The God of Light with His kind eyes and everlasting love. He held a raised staff which even in the dark seemed to glow with warm light, warding off pain and misery. Specks of dark green moss grew on His white robe and sheepskin beard. He was looking straight at Crysania, who was suddenly certain that the ancient god could see her and was wondering who this young girl was that had broken into the sanctuary after a long oblivion. She returned the god's questioning stare, filled with bewildered consternation. How old was this place? Who had worshipped here and when? Hundreds of years ago? Thousands?

There were other gods, nine in total, but Paladine and Takhisis were the ones Crysania's eyes were drawn to, the ones she could recognize. She looked at Paladine once more, vaguely aware that something had been set in motion within her, something deep and pure for which she didn't have a name but which made her feel like crying. It was intense and concentrated, perhaps something that love should feel like: sweetly tumultuous, almost ruthless, yet resonant with the promise of comfort and survival. Love was not what silly girls and yarn spinners said. It was something debilitating, a crippling force which unfastened your soul and left you gasping for more.

And then something else started to form, another insight: I have never been happy. The thought shot through her like an arrow dipped in pain, flashing brightly before fading back into oblivion.

There was a sense of incomprehensible sadness, but she also felt good here, in this ancient cave. She felt safe and protected, and she did not want to leave. But morning would come.

Crysania started to creep towards the entrance, feeling the gods' eyes on her back. Strangely compelled, she stopped for a final glance over her shoulder. Paladine was still gazing at her with a knowing expression, and as Crysania watched, a glint of light from Solinari, as sudden as it was inexplicable, hit the statue's face and cast it in silver, making it startlingly visible in the dusty gloom.

She ran, through the green world.
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Evermore: The Gathering