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 26
It was a sin. A blasphemy.
Zoltan let his hand holding the letter drop to his side and gazed out of the window across the gardens, speechless. The morning sun was rising in the eastern sky, but he felt cold inside his clerical robe. His fingers were like icicles and sweat had dampened his forehead. He felt a little dizzy.
The words he had just read burned in his brain: they were more than he could ever have hoped for and yet he wished he had never read them.
The tears standing in his eyes, threatening to overflow, did not shame him: any cleric would have wept for Paladine in the face of this ghastly news. What shamed him was the force of his emotion, the other emotion long buried, now climbing its way back to the surface. He blinked, but not fast enough; a tear slipped over his lid and ran down his cheek. He wiped it away, even as he hoped to wipe away the dark mass of hatred and resentment twisting his soul.
He kept his eyes closed, breathing heavily through his nostrils; his hand crumpled the letter as the full horror of the situation began to sink in.
So she was a loose woman. Just not with Elistan. Not with Elistan.
He needed to read the letter again, in all its depravity; he scanned it quickly, feeling sicker by the minute. Could it be a forgery? With shaking hands Zoltan inspected the paper, feeling its fine quality between his fingers: no doubt it was as genuine as genuine could be, pearly white and topped off with Paladine's embossed silver triangle. Someone from the Revered Daughter's inner circle must have sent the message. A learned person who did a lot of writing: the letters were strong and very sharp, almost impossibly regular.
"Revered Son Zoltan."
Zoltan spun around at hearing Acolyte Farag's subdued voice behind him. As Farag saw the look on his mentor's face, his smile dropped. His eyes shot to the piece of paper in Zoltan's hands. "What is it?"
"Not here." Zoltan took the grey-robed acolyte by the elbow and walked him into one of the side rooms where the meeting was to be held. He closed the door and shot Farag an agitated look. "Know Raistlin Majere? The so-called war hero who switched sides."
"Yes?"
"She had an affair with him."
Farag's eyes went wide. It took a moment before he could force out a choked, "What?"
"I got a letter." Holding the paper by one corner, as if it were riddled with plague, Zoltan handed it to Farag. "Read," he said grimly.
Farag took the letter, his long face wary and alert, and began to read, while Zoltan stood and watched with his arms folded across his chest, impatient for the acolyte to finish, annoyed at the way he read with his lips moving, like it was a terribly difficult struggle to get to the end.
Done with the reading, Farag stared at the letter with his mouth ajar and then slowly lifted his horrified gaze to Zoltan.
The Revered Son shrugged and gave a bitter smile. "I guess now we know why there's no record of her Test in the archives. Not because she did not have it..."
"But because they wanted to sweep the hideous truth under the carpet," Farag concluded and then added with an indignant shake of the head, "This is... I don't know what to say, Zoltan."
Without a word, Zoltan poured the acolyte a bracing glass of wine and while handing it to him took back the letter. He read through it yet again, every trace of anger vanishing from his face as he drew near the end. The rage that had engulfed him was turning into cold certainty in the blinding light of the letter's revelations, and that beam of light was so white, so merciless that for the first time in a very long time he was able to clearly see his divine purpose. In his mind, he gave thanks to Paladine for showing him the way he had thought was lost, and he blessed the one who had written the letter, whoever it was; a man, or perhaps a woman, exhausted from carrying the secret for so long out of obligation, now breaking the silence for the greater good.
The door opened and the rest of the group entered. Revered Son Emeric, followed by Acolytes Galeren and Wimarc, then Acolyte Gefroy who had been so proud of his successful if misguided findings in the archives. A line of good men, loyal faces, their numbers ever increasing as Adik and Farag rallied more and more people to their cause. Just two weeks ago he had thirty-three men. Now he had forty-six, and Zoltan was sure that once the contents of the letter were made known to the vestry and the other clerics, he would gain the support of hundreds. He glanced at the three new men Farag had brought with him a week ago, and it warmed his heart to see them. They were young acolytes, pious and respectful; their faces were mostly hidden in their deep grey hoods, they kept their heads lowered in reverence and rarely spoke a word, but nonetheless Zoltan could sense their zeal was fervent and unaffected. He only wished that Adik wouldn't fill their heads with his frightening ideas. He could still remember the strange cold light in the acolyte's brown eyes when he had assured him that they were doing everything in their power to displace Revered Daughter Crysania, and Adik had calmly suggested that there was in fact much more that could be done. Adik hadn't spoken of it since, but Zoltan could not avoid the unpleasant feeling that something was afoot.
"Brethren," Zoltan began in his typical manner when everyone was seated. "This day is a day of good news. It is also a dark day and a day of disgrace for Revered Daughter Crysania. I have here, in my hand," he went on, holding up the letter for all to see, "the indisputable evidence which not only confirms our suspicions about her character, but also makes it clear beyond any doubt that she must be dismissed from the church."
In the astonished silence that followed, Zoltan passed the letter to Acolyte Wimarc who was sitting closest to him and placed a reassuring hand on the youth's shoulder. "Acolyte Wimarc," he said quietly, "would you be so kind as to read this letter to us?"
Pleased to be asked by the older colleague he admired, Wimarc took the letter, squinted a little and cleared his throat. Then, holding the letter in both hands, he started to read in an insecure voice which grew more confident and anxious as the words unfolded in their desecrated horror.
Dear Sirs,
For long I have held my peace, but now, as the inauguration of Revered Daughter Crysania as head of the church draws nigh, I feel it is my duty to step forward and disclose to you certain relevant matters relating to the lady. It puts me in no small agony to speak of these things, but I place myself in Paladine's hands in the firm belief that justice and truth will prevail. I swear to you that the information I am about to provide is the honest truth, guarded closely by a select few, myself included, from the year 357 to this very day. Before I start, I must add that it has caused me great grief to know that such wantonness should exist in someone who ought to be the best among the good. Ay, it has been a considerable burden to bear, and I trust that the Platinum Father will look kindly upon my desire to relieve my heavy heart by finally speaking the truth.
Three years ago, good gentlemen, in Mishamont 356, Revered Daughter Crysania embarked on a journey that Paladine had assigned to her as her Test of Faith. In short, the lady's holy task was to convert a black-robed mage and bring him to salvation. And not just any blackrobe, but Raistlin Majere, the mage from Solace in Abanasinia, who fought the Dark Queen in the War of the Lance, only to side with the enemy in the end, taking control of the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas. I know this will be difficult to believe or even comprehend, but this man's intention was to use his foul magic to bring down the Dark Queen and take Her place as head of the Dark Pantheon. The Revered Daughter was not aware of this mad plan, but what I do know for certain is that she was utterly besotted with the mage; that is to say, she, a holy cleric of Paladine, fell in love with a servant of Nuitari, and because of that mindless infatuation the world very nearly saw its end. I cannot provide greater details, but it will be enough to know that something went wrong and the fate of the entire world hung in the balance. The fate of your families, the future of your loved ones - all about to perish, because of the folly of a single man and the woman who helped him! True, she helped him out of ignorance, but that ignorance is a sin in itself, is it not? The lady was under the impression, see, that the two of them were going to rid the world of evil by stripping the dark gods of their power. I trust you are as amazed as I am, reading these words. "How could anyone be so gullible and easily influenced?" you must be asking yourselves with dread. "How could a Revered Daughter of Paladine fall for a follower of the Dark Queen?" These are questions I have been asking myself over and over, and I can only offer you my humble answer: Revered Daughter Crysania is a weak-willed and impressionable woman with no sense of duty and a severe disregard for the church and its teachings. How it pains my heart to think that someone like her should be granted the highest position in Paladine's Holy Church!
Now you must be thinking: how close was she with the mage? The lady herself is of course taciturn about the matter, but I ask you to consider, as I have done, the fact that they spent nearly a year together. In the name of decency, suffice it to say that I do not think the Revered Daughter is as pure as she would have us believe. Alas, Revered Father Elistan did not live to learn the truth. He knew about the Revered Daughter's journey, of course, but he did not know the true nature of her relationship with the mage and thus unfortunately wrote his testament under false assumptions. I'm afraid, then, dear sirs, that Elistan's legacy will soon be horribly tainted with this wicked woman's inauguration.
You must be terrified by my words so far, and I apologize most deeply for having to share one final piece of information, which I fear is even more appalling than the rest of what I have had to say. Gentlemen, I regret to inform you that Raistlin Majere has lately come back to Palanthas, and Revered Daughter Crysania is perfectly aware of his return, as Paladine is my witness. However, she has not ordered the mage's arrest but instead arranged to meet him at least twice. What these meetings are about, that I cannot say, but I have my suspicions. You will all, I am sure, concur with me when I say that the lady is putting the public at risk by allowing a dangerous criminal to go free and also that the company she has kept and still seems to be keeping is not the most suitable for the leader of the church who should be the model of all excellence.
In conclusion, I would like to point out that, apart from the obvious, there are numerous other reasons as to why the Revered Daughter's leadership is a worrisome prospect. For one, the lady cannot cope without daily assistance, as she lost her eyesight as the result of the aforementioned events. She also has some weaknesses of character typical of the aristocratic lot, and I dare say that, should she be crowned head of the church, she will sooner rather than later endanger the reputation of the venerable institution.
Gentlemen, I leave you now in the sincere hope that what I have just told you will be a great asset to you and your admirable cause. Due to my precarious position, I do not wish to reveal my identity, but rest assured that I will do all I can to aid the situation in ways beneficial to the true believers.
Glory to Paladine!
A friend.
Wimarc's hand was shaking. His thin cheeks were burning. He did not look up at the empty white faces around him.
After a moment of silence, someone said in a voice that made one think the speaker was about to be sick, "He wanted to become god."
A horrific idea, sure, but what about what she had done? Zoltan looked firmly at the Revered Son who had spoken. "And she was in love with him. With a man who wanted to become god. A blackrobe. Can you imagine an act more treacherous and disrespectful? It goes against everything the church stands for. Pass the letter around, will you, Wimarc? I want you all to see for yourselves that it is not a forgery."
"Let me get this straight," said Revered Son Harland slowly, as the letter started to circulate around the table, "this mage, this Raistlin Majere, is in Palanthas right now, as we speak?"
"I'm afraid so," said the acolyte holding the letter. "'I regret to inform you," he repeated, 'that Raistlin Majere has lately come back to Palanthas, and Revered Daughter Crysania is perfectly aware of his return, as Paladine is my witness. However, she has not ordered the mage's arrest but instead arranged to meet him at least twice.'"
"So the man's walking free after nearly bringing about the end of the world? And she would just let him?" That was Revered Son Rodfelm.
Again the clerics sat in awkward silence until Acolyte Randull stated in a reluctant voice what everyone was thinking: "She must still be in love with him."
The fourty-seven Revered Sons and acolytes exchanged quick, embarrassed glances across the table. The thought was so blasphemous, so unbearable, that they could hardly look each other in the face.
It was one of the experienced elder clerics who broke the silence, because he felt it was up to him to save the situation and to protect his younger colleagues from any impure thoughts. "Forgive me," he said, after clearing his throat noisily, "but I was under the impression that Raistlin Majere was dead."
"Apparently not," said Zoltan Wargo, casting the older man a grateful look. "I think whoever wrote that letter is a trustworthy source. Or do you not agree that it's not a forgery?"
Not a forgery, everyone readily complied, but official church stationery.
"So what else do we know about this man, apart from that he sought to become the new dark god?" Having uttered these words, Acolyte Jankyn quickly made a triangle with his fingers and then brought the triangle to his forehead three times to ward off evil.
"I've heard some songs about the Great War," said the scrawny acolyte next to Jankyn, visibly shaken. "I've read some chronicles."
"I don't care about his biography," said Zoltan from the head of the table. "All the blackrobes are the same. Murdering, thieving bastards, whether they come from Solace or Sanction."
"But he's an extremely powerful wizard, I imagine," said one of the three new men, Acolyte Beldinas, in his quiet, respectful voice. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but experience has taught me that powerful wizards are not men to be trifled with. We must be careful, if we are to go public with these accusations and..."
"Powerful, maybe so, but clearly insane." Zoltan's mouth compressed into a thin, hard line.
Acolyte Beldinas slowly peered up at him from behind his thick gold-rimmed glasses - how the young man could see anything with those perched on his nose was beyond Zoltan - and then nodded approvingly. "Which is why we should be all the more attentive," Beldinas said, and passed the letter on to Jankyn, having studied it for a long time.
"I just can't believe she would let him go free," Jankyn said, taking the letter. "I just can't believe it. Goes completely against my morals."
"Indeed," said Farag, who up until now had been silently mulling the matter over in the recesses of his mind. "Does she care at all for the wellbeing of others?"
"Still in love with him," said Randull again.
Now it was Revered Son Emeric's turn to explore the letter. "Just how could she be that naive?" he said, shaking his head over and over. "Listen, listen: 'The lady was under the impression, see, that the two of them were going to rid the world of evil by stripping the dark gods of their power.'" Emeric looked up with a flabbergasted expression, and the room exploded with laughter.
"Wasn't she supposed to be well-read?" Acolyte Umac enquired, his voice bursting with cheer. "What well-read person thinks that the blackrobes are out to promote peace and love?"
"Naive? Is that what you call it, Emeric? It's beyond the pale!" cried Revered Son Gartai, slapping Emeric companionably on the shoulder.
Emeric made a sound of assent. "How does the old saying go? Oh yes, 'Send a woman to do your errands, go do them yourself afterwards'? Doesn't she just prove the point perfectly? Doesn't she?"
Zoltan listened to the howling bellows of mirth in a state of indecisiveness. His lips were twitching, but again his eyes were threatening to blur with unbidden tears. Was this what he wanted for her? This ridicule and mockery? She had done wrong, she had greatly offended the Platinum Father, but now, standing at the head of the table and hearing the men's condescending jokes, Zoltan for the first time openly asked himself whether the anger he felt stemmed from religious indignation or the fact that he still hadn't got over what she had done - or, rather, failed to do - to him five years ago. He felt red rise to his cheeks at the recollection. Who would believe he could be such a fool?
"You think she knows the truth now or is she still under the impression that they were on a nice little charity trip?" Acolyte Jankyn asked, screaming with laughter and directing his question at Acolyte Beldinas, who shrugged and replied, "Both equally bad."
Zoltan listened on in silence. Was this the future of the church, men cracking jokes at the expense of women? Where was love, compassion, forgiveness - everything that the Platinum Father was about?
The banter went on, and Zoltan was powerless to stop it, until a loud cry suddenly penetrated the noise: "This whole thing makes me sick!"
A fearful hush came over the table. Everyone turned to look at Acolyte Adik, who had slammed the table with his fist while shouting, making the letter and the cups jump. They were all a little afraid of the man, Zoltan had noticed, and he couldn't exactly blame them. Adik had certainly changed: during the past few weeks he had gone from an insecure youth willing to give Crysania the benefit of the doubt to a stern, convinced warrior, and now he was looking at them with his nostrils flaring, his fist on the table. His eyes were like black coals, and just as hard, in the gloomy candlelight.
"We were right the whole time," Adik said between his teeth now that he had their attention. "She's a dirty little whore. A year! I bet the wizard fucked her from here to the moon and back, and she just couldn't get enough."
Everyone continued to look at Adik, stunned by the language used by a man who was supposed to become a Revered Son of Paladine in the course of a few years. The atmosphere had changed in a heartbeat: there was now a sense of menace in the room.
"Just stating the obvious," said Adik in a strained voice in answer to the table's shocked silence. Sweat glittered on his face, gluing his wheat-coloured hair to his temples. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then closed his eyes. Only his lips moved as he uttered an apology to Paladine.
Feeling uncomfortable, Zoltan stood up to divert the men from Adik. "I think we can all agree," he said, "that something like this simply does not happen to the church leader, who should represent unity and strength in all actions. As it is so aptly put by the writer" - he picked the letter up - "the leader of the church should be 'the model of all excellence'. In the face of this information, and even before that, I'm afraid I do not see Revered Daughter Crysania living up to the title of Paladine's Anointed. Picture a scene in your mind, everyone: 'Sir Ambassador, may I present to you the head of Paladine's Holy Church and her lover, who just happens to worship the Dark Queen.' Imagine what it would do to people who have doubts about their faith, about the church! Yes, they would abandon us in their thousands. Moreover, we would be sending the message that Paladine and His clerics are absolutely fine with the worship of darkness, that you can socialize with the infidels and make friends with them."
Zoltan stopped speaking and glanced around him nervously. To his relief, everyone had stopped paying attention to Adik and broke into a round of applause. "Well spoken!" they were shouting.
"Zoltan," said Revered Son Emeric who supervised the temple scriptorium, "should I take the letter to the scribes and have them start working on copies?"
"No copies will be made," Zoltan said, astonishing everyone. "It's not helping matters for us to stir up the public. We shall show the letter to the vestry and let them decide. We'll do this nice and quiet. There's no need to add to the Revered Daughter's humiliation."
"Nice and quiet?" Adik's scornful tone, once more piercing through the hush in the room.
Zoltan flushed deep red. Again he found himself lost for words: it happened every time he was unexpectedly confronted, and gods, he hated that. But still he could not think of anything to say; he could only watch as Adik stood up to level up with him.
"Zoltan, friend," Adik said calmly, but with an undertone of threat. "I'm sick and tired of us doing nothing. Just words, lots of words, in shady rooms and basements, but no action. We're past oratory. Need I remind you that time is running out?"
No, Adik did not need to remind Zoltan. In two weeks and three days Paladine's Holy Church would go down the gutter, but Zoltan was certain he could call for a meeting with the vestry in time: they would explore the evidence, they would be as appalled as everyone else, and they would cancel the inauguration - all on the same day, if need be. But how to convince Adik of that? The fierce young acolyte was on his own mission, kindling the fire of divine justice in the hearts of the gathered.
"Think of Paladine's names!" Adik was yelling. "Valiant Warrior, Thak the Hammer, Skyblade! I cite the Blood Sea scrolls: 'The Platinum Father is a Great Lord of War, and when He shall deliver the offenders before thee, thou shalt smite them, and utterly destroy them; thou shalt make no covenant with them, nor show mercy unto them."
On hearing these words, Zoltan had to grab the side of the table for support. "So you're saying..." he croaked as Adik's eyes locked with his, smouldering with anticipation and zeal.
"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying." Adik's voice carried no heat. He was simply stating the fact that all the faithful, in his opinion, would insist upon as the only possible solution.
Zoltan's heart hammered in his throat. Not this far. He had never meant to take it this far. As he pleaded with Paladine to keep Adik in check, he cast a slow look round the room, noticing that four acolytes - Jankyn, Beldinas, Farag and Seth - had also got up and were standing next to Adik. Choosing sides now, was that it? Beldinas - what a name for a cleric, Zoltan thought wearily. The Kingpriest's name. A bad omen if ever there was one.
"Violence is never the answer," Zoltan protested weakly, hearing his own voice as if from very far away, from a different time and place. "I command you to keep order. No bodily harm will be done." As he spoke the word "command" he saw a nasty little smile touch Adik's lips. Or thought he did. "I'll summon the vestry, and we'll show them the letter. We'll take things from there, peacefully." He was grasping the table with both hands now, painfully aware of how weak and incompetent he must appear next to Adik's fanaticism.
But there were many who were loyal to Zoltan. They agreed that no harm would be done, cutting Adik short in harsh tones.
"Fine," said Adik, lifting his hands in the air under public pressure.
"Promise?" Zoltan demanded, knowing all too well that his question sounded as naive as anything they were accusing the Revered Daughter of, and yet again his face flushed.
"Promise." But Adik's eyes were still gleaming with a crazed frenzy, and Zoltan fancied he'd again seen a glimpse of that frightening smile on the acolyte's face.
Only after the meeting was over and the clerics gone, did Zoltan allow himself to rejoice in his victory. His eyes rested on the letter on the table, and despite all the fear and doubt and sense of foreboding he caught himself smiling. He saw himself loved, honoured and celebrated, bathing in Paladine's light; he could hear the crowds cheering as the Crown of the Rising Sun, once worn by Revered Father Elistan, was solemnly placed on his head. The Defender of the Church, they would call him. The Custodian of the True Faith.
And the ghost of his father could no longer chase him in his dreams with a pitchfork in his callous farmer's hand.
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