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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 34

By the time he returned to the Ghost and Rose, the afternoon was already turning into evening. The weather had changed overnight: there was a chill in the air, and his cloak was damp with the first drops of what promised to be a steady, drenching rain. Autumn had finally found its way to Palanthas the Beautiful.

Throwing back his wet hood, Raistlin pelted up the stairs and across the hallway into his room, not even pausing to close the door after him. There was no time to lose, no time for hesitation: collecting the books and the maps in a hurry, he swept them off the table into his two satchels and moved straight on on to pick up his clothes, his notes and the medicine powder, shoving them all into the large rucksack he'd bought off a croockbacked hawker that morning. After that he darted to the rickety desk beneath the window; he didn't remember using the drawer but he opened it anyway, just to make sure, and while doing it he suddenly heard a voice behind him.

"Leaving us already, Master Flint?"

Raistlin paused, closed the drawer, arranged his face into an expression of forced courtesy and turned.

Bessie: standing in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him with her head tilted to one side.

He smiled at the girl with an effort. "Yes, yes I am. You can tell Jarek I'm off, and I won't be coming back."

Bessie's eyes narrowed. "Are you in some kind of trouble?" she asked with a note of genuine worry.

Raistlin looked at the girl, suddenly wary. "How do you mean?"

She shrugged with a smile. "It's just that you seem in a bit of a hurry."

"I'm fine," Raistlin said curtly, closing the satchel with the books in it. Then he looked up at Bessie again, smiling sweetly still. "And it's none of your business anyway."

Bessie smiled too, raising her hands in the air. "Just curious," she said apologetically, stepping inside.

Adjusting the bag's strap over his shoulder, not intending to stay for a cosy little parting chat, Raistlin opened his mouth to say goodbye, but was overridden by the barmaid.

"Ooh," the girl exhaled, staring into the bathtub with a wrinkled nose and squinted eyes. "Jarek won't like that." Turning to look at Raistlin she said, "You can't burn stuff inside our rooms, mister. That's forbidden."

"Oh yes, sorry about that," Raistlin said absently, starting past Bessie towards the door. But he had only gone a few steps when a loud explosion cut through the air: the room flashed bright red, the floor shook under his feet and Bessie, letting out a piercing scream, was propelled forward against him by the force of the blast; he had no choice but to catch her and steady her.

It lasted a moment only and sounded much worse than it really was: just a second and everything was quiet again, the red glare gone and the floor still.

"Just a flashbomb," Raistlin said to Bessie and started to step back, but Bessie held onto his arms with a tight panicked grip.

"Master Flint, what's going on out there?" she said in a quivery voice. "It's been weird for days. I haven't been out, but Jarek says it's got something to do with the church." Her wide staring eyes were looking directly into Raistlin's, begging for answers.

Oh, what the hell, Raistlin thought. She had no idea who he really was; she thought he was Master Flint from fucking Banfaire. "Apparently," he said, firmly loosening himself from the girl's grasp, "there's a conspiracy to overthrow Revered Daughter Crysania. You know, the cleric who's..."

"I know who she is," Bessie interrupted, her eyes growing even wider. "A conspiracy! But why?" she exhaled.

"I hear she, uh, had some sort of affair with a blackrobe. It was hushed up. Only a handful of people knew, until someone blew the whistle on her."

Bessie's round face fell in shock. "You're kidding, right?"

"I wish I was. Look, Bessie..."

"But she's a cleric. The church leader, like. How could she lead the church if she... if she..." But Bessie could not find words for the ultimate sacrilege. She merely stared at Raistlin with her mouth ajar, as if expecting him to explain it to her.

"That's why they're rioting," Raistlin said, flicking his head in the direction of the window. "They don't want her to take office. And really, can you blame them?" he added with a smile.

"Wait till Jarek hears about this," Bessie said, turning her head slowly from side to side with a growing smile of her own. "He's always banging on about how Revered Daughter Crysania is so kind and so holy. Like, how would he know? He only saw her once from a distance."

"Did he now? Listen, will you thank Jarek for me?" Raistlin said, starting again towards the door. "For everything. I had a lovely stay." Yeah. About as lovely as a kick in the nuts.

"I will," Bessie replied blankly, not really hearing him, still mesmerized by the juicy gossip.

In the doorway Raistlin stopped, hesitated, and turned again. "Hey, listen."

"Huh?" Distracted, Bessie turned to look at him.

"You might want to keep your doors and windows locked tonight. Tell Jarek I said that."

The girl gave a nod, her face serious.

With that Raistlin took his leave, down the stairs and out of the front door into the rain, carrying the rucksack on his back and the satchels on his shoulders.

His steps were determined and fast.

There was one more thing he had to do.

*

The muffled thumps and shouts were getting louder, and she couldn't figure out where the noise was coming from: it seemed to be everywhere around her, first on the right and then on the left, and then on the right again, and above and below.

Every part of her body stiff with fright and panting from exhaustion, Crysania made one final effort to drag the table across the doorway. Was that the right place? She felt for the frame with her hands, frantically patting them over the wall. Not much of an obstacle, but it would have to do. The table wouldn't stop anyone from entering, but it would at least slow them down - or so she hoped.

Crysania stood for a while by the table, one hand resting on its edge, catching her breath and listening to the voices outside the door. Something shattered. Someone screamed. At the sound her arms broke out in gooseflesh, and she leapt back from the door, her heart pounding with a claustrophobic beat. She thought she could smell smoke. Was there a fire somewhere in the temple? With a rush of sickening horror she pictured herself fighting her way alone through smoke and heat. She tried to recall the exit route: take a right from the door and go straight forward a hundred and twenty steps, in the hall turn right again... No, left. In the hall turn left? Oh god, she would never make it out alive, not without a guide. They would find her charred body among the ashes of the burned-down temple, her tattered robes melted into what was left of her skin, her hair singed and still smoking... She closed her eyes in terror and held her breath; the wave was coming, she could feel it, and then it already crashed onto her.

Crawling. Crawling across the sands of the Abyss. No one there.

With a soft cry, Crysania dropped her head into her hands.

Stop shaking. Stop it. Now. Stop shaking.

She could not, would not, give in to panic. Any minute now Araminta would come and lead her to safety through the secret passage. Somewhere at the back of her mind she knew it was a vain hope, but she needed that thought. She needed it.

Holding onto that thought, Crysania finally lowered her hands from her face and, taking a deep breath, started to examine the situation logically and rationally. About two hours ago the guards, feigning reassurance, had said to her: "You must stay here, my lady. Lock the doors from the inside and be absolutely quiet. Do not come out until we return." All right. She had done as told: the doors were locked, and now that the table was in the right position she was also quiet. But it suddenly occurred to her that they - who? the rebel clerics? the angry mob? both? - could actually see her through the balcony door: the lace curtains didn't offer much in the way of privacy. The cloakroom! She could close the door and sit on the floor in the corner where she could not be surprised from behind. And a weapon, she needed a weapon too! Bewildered, Crysania tried to concentrate. The paper knife? The flower vase? Ridiculous. There were no dangerous objects in her chambers; ironically enough, they had been removed so that she wouldn't accidentally hurt herself. With a grunt of frustration, Crysania reached for the table lamp Araminta used when acting as her scribe. Hardly a weapon, but it felt good in her hand all the same. At least she would have something heavy - well, heavyish - to swing at anyone trying to get close.

With the lamp in her hand Crysania withdrew into the cloakroom, closed the door - shoot, there was no lock! - and seated herself on the floor. She leaned her head against the empty cabinet and listened, sweat trickling down her neck. The noises were there still, subdued now but far from over. Just how many people were involved in the conspiracy, and who were they? Would she know them by name, by face? No one told her anything. The guards kept avoiding her questions, not wanting to upset. They had only mentioned the Blood Sea Scrolls, and the rebels' desire to revive the old practice, which was absolutely ludicrous. The scrolls were nonsense, aggressive misogynistic nonsense, never even proven authentic in the first place.

Again she felt the same terrible rage growing inside her that she felt every time she would think about what Gaspar had done. How he had fawned over her, promising to deliver the message, saying he would never betray her trust... She had placed way too much faith in his judgement, and she should have known from the start that such would be the case: Gaspar was just a simple secretary who saw the world in black and white. She was much more surprised by Araminta's reaction. She too was angry with her. She too blamed her. They did not understand - for how could they - that the most divine love was the love that forgave all failure, love that cleansed and healed, was unconditional and pure. But she flushed with shame when she thought of Araminta, of how rudely and dismissively she had behaved towards the woman the day before and how awkwardly their meeting had ended. In fact, all of their meetings had lately ended on a less than comfortable note.

A sudden booming noise outside made Crysania jump and cry out. She jerked forward and listened tensely, then leaned her shoulders back against the wall when she realised what it was. Thunder, finally, after the long heat wave, and then another sound, growing steadily louder: the patter of rain drumming on the windows, beating a heavy rhythm on the temple roof. In the morning she had stood on the balcony, breathing in the scent of autumn and rain, imagining the scene before her: how the sky must be darkening and hanging heavy in its bowl with a few clouds on the palm of its hand. It was so beautiful: a palette of purples and blues and whites. Since childhood she had always loved watching the sky change colour before a cloudburst.

But she had lost that scene and all the other scenes. Now she only had the white misty silence.

A faint sound drew her attention: she raised her head in alarm, pricking her ears and squeezing the lamp tightly in her right hand. She listened hard, trying to hear the sound again over the rain. There it was - a metallic sound, as if someone was tinkering with the lock of the main door. It went on for some moments, but then there was a loud thud and the noise stopped.

Shaking uncontrollably, Crysania leaned back against the cabinet. Another hour had passed, and she was so desperately alone in the middle of it all. A blind woman with a lamp for a weapon. She didn't know when it would end, but she knew it would end badly. A hurt went through her body - still, after everything: Raistlin had said he'd take care of it, he had said he wouldn't let anything bad happen to her, and for a moment she had actually believed him. But why would he suddenly care? He was probably out of the city by now. Or maybe - a horrible thought - they had caught him and were torturing him into revealing details about him and her. Details - what sort of details were they? she thought mournfully. He, not giving a damn; she, like an idiot holding on to his every word, bending over backwards to please him, to make him care? But heavenly moments, too, moments of complete understanding: two minds meeting and melding, the fire of inspiration, the barely bridled desire.

She quenched that final thought. She didn't need him. She would handle it on her own. As always, she closed her eyes and started to pray.

Paladine. Please protect me.

She paused, hesitating, not able to go on. Then:

Protect Raistlin. Keep him from harm.

Numb with fear, Crysania hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin on them. She sat in the dark, listening to the thumps and shouts and screams and the wash of the rain, waiting for the table across the doorway to fly aside, remolding her anxiety into rage, preparing to hurl the lamp in her grip at anyone or anything that would come in and want to hurt her.
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Evermore: The Gathering