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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
- 37
- 38
- 39
CHAPTER 37

353 - 355 AC, Palanthas

The Platinum Father has called me to His holy service. Please do not come after me.

After staring at the words for several moments, quietly pondering, Crysania picked up the quill again and added,

My life. My decision.

She underlined the first words of the two short sentences and immediately regretted the sharp tone. But that's how it was, and they would have to deal with it. Her decision. No one else's.

She placed the note on her nightstand and went to the window. One look at the chilly autumn mist licking the glass and another one at her warm bed, and her resolve almost started to unravel. Ignoring any doubts that she might have, Crysania washed her face in the basin, dried it carefully and forced down a few spoonfuls of the cold soup she had smuggled earlier that evening from the kitchens. She opened the creaky doors of her armoire very quietly, took out a casual white dress, a travelling cloak and a pair of shoes, and put them on by the light of the setting Solinari, whose silver rays streamed in through the curtains. Then she wrapped up some biscuits in a paper and put the bundle in her bag together with the large kitchen knife she had also managed to smuggle, just to be on the safe side. After all, she would have to go through the forest where the field people lived and where terrible things had happened to Miss Jessamine Lisle.

Crysania blew out the candle on the nighstand, left the room and went down the stairs. She closed the front door behind her and retrieved the lantern that she had stashed in some bushes earlier. Her steps crunched on the fine gravel, and she walked as quickly as she could, her whole body thrumming with dread, certain that any minute now someone would hear her and give chase. Only when she was well out of sight of the house, did she lit the lantern. It was a magical item: all you had to do was to turn the small key three times, and a bright dancing flame ensued in the middle of the glass globe. She looked at the flame, delighted. She had never seen magic being used and she had never seen a mage. Maybe in Palanthas she would.

The autumn night was raw and chill; Crysania's hands shook and her teeth clattered as she raised the lantern and started to make her way into the dark roads ahead. She pushed forward for half an hour, trying to keep her mind occupied by counting her steps. But when she reached the edge of the forest, her courage momentarily failed her and she had to stop. She stood there in the dark for a quarter of an hour, debating with herself what she should do next. She tried not to think of the fate of Miss Jessamine, but the images just kept coming back. Miss Jessamine had had company, but she was all alone and unprotected. Crysania stared into the shadows beyond the light of her lantern and felt a grim surge of satisfaction at the thought of how those looking for her would find her a few days later, lying in an unnatural position on the cold ground with her throat slit, or maybe with nasty bite marks all over her body. They would return to Winter Pines Hall heavy-hearted and break the news to her parents: better not see her, it's not a pretty sight.

Oh god, these thoughts. Always they would start in her head, going round and round with no end in sight. Maybe Aunt Cora was right. Maybe she was morbid and unnatural.

Taking a deep breath, Crysania stepped into the path strewn with needles and conifer cones, and continued on deeper into the forest, occasionally stopping to make sure she was still on the path and not heading straight into some deep swampy mire. She had never known how dark the night could be, how full of noises. Somewhere in the trees, an owl hooted repeatedly, broken off by a harsh cawing call, so loud and sudden that it nearly made Crysania jump out of her skin. But there was no sign of trouble anywhere: no thugs, no wild animals, no field people spying from the branches and seeking to trap her with a net. Just darkness, pierced by her small bobbing lantern.

She reckoned she was halfway through the forest when the rain started. Trying hard not to lose faith, yet shivering with cold and growing discomfort, Crysania trudged along with her head bowed down against the wind, holding the lantern with one hand, the edge of her hood with the other. Her feet were starting to ache in her dancing shoes; a blister was swelling on her right heel which forced her to walk on the edge of her shoe. Ever so often she slipped and almost fell, but managed to caught herself every time. She felt desperate and discouraged, but she would never give up and turn back. She went ahead grimly, starting the count again. One, two, three, four... Her feet were killing her, but she did not care. The journey would not go on forever. Eventually she would run out of steps and see Palanthas glittering in the morning sun.

After an hour Crysania had reached the end of the forest. A wide road stretched before her in both directions, and straight ahead a rusty signpost stood between two large boulders - to the east lay Garnet and Thelgaard Keep, to the west, Palanthas. Crysania took the left-hand turn and for a good long while marched on without thinking, without feeling, until all of a sudden she became aware of a smell in the air, a sickening, putrid stench that was the complete opposite of the fresh, clean scent that had filled her nostrils in the forest. She stopped and sniffed the wind. No, she wasn't imagining it. She resumed her steps, looking warily about her. After a few minutes of walking the smell got worse, and she saw something ahead and slowed down. It was hard to tell in the dark, but it looked like some kind of platform with stairs and a high wooden frame, and on it stood three human figures, ominously still and quiet.

She panicked and started to turn, but right away realised her mistake.

The figures were not standing; they were hanging. It was not a platform, but a gallows.

Mesmerized, Crysania started to slowly approach the structure. In her twenty-two years of life, she had never seen a corpse. Holding her hand to her nose to block the smell, she crept closer and closer, and although her heart was hammering with a kind of fear, she was unable to stop. She wanted to see. Death did not exist at Winter Pines Hall. Once an old servant had died: the other servants had quickly dragged the body into a shed and that same day some gloomy-looking men had arrived from the city with a wooden coffin. The body had been removed without ado and everything the man had touched as of late was burnt by his remaining colleagues. Crysania suspected that something similar must have happened to her Aunt Leda from her father's side. A few years ago Aunt Leda had arrived at a social event looking very gaunt and fragile, and soon afterwards everyone just stopped talking about her and acted as if she had never existed. You could not ruin the perfect picture with illness, pain and death, gods forbid. That's why they forgot Aunt Leda and that's why Baxter had turned right at the junction two days ago when he had driven Crysania to the city - he had taken a detour in order to protect her from the sight of the gallows.

But now she was looking straight at it and did not think she was likely to forget what she saw any time soon. She paused a little way from the wooden structure and stood there for a long time, her eyes fixed on the three rotting corpses suspended from the crossbeam. The smell made her gag, and the had to fight the urge to scream that was welling up inside her throat, but she would not avert her gaze. It was clear that the bodies had been there for some time: their faces were black and swollen, and grey tongues protruded from their open mouths. Two of them had had their eyes plucked out by some ravenous birds, but the third one was staring right back at Crysania with white unseeing eyes. She shivered, imagining the horror of their final moment. Who were these dead men? Prisoners of war? Traitors of some sort? Just three of them here, on this road leading to Palanthas. How many others were there? How many millions of victims had the war required?

It was absolutely quiet; only the nooses creaked in the wind as the bodies swung slowly back and forth.

A shudder of disgust ran down Crysania's spine. What was she doing, staring at mangled corpses in the dead of the night?

In a sudden rush of fear, she turned and continued her walk down the road, quickening her pace, trying not to panic. But the thought of those three dead men behind her was not exactly comfortable - what if their ghosts haunted the road? - and soon enough she was half-running to escape her imagination, the light of the lantern bouncing on the ground ahead of her, while clouds rolled across the silver moon, creating eerie shadows.

Crysania pressed on in a state of frenzy, certain that behind every dark tree and bush lurked an evil spirit or a crazed lunatic, seeing in her mind how it would play out: how the thing would attack and how she would pull the kitchen knife from her satchel and drive it deep into its heart, gasping, twisting and fighting for her life, and the warm black blood would splatter all over her dress and face. Only little by little did she start to gain hold of herself again. The pain in her heel was excruciating. She slowed her steps, taking long deep breaths, and finally stopped altogether.

She was exhausted. She sat down on a large rock beside the road. She huddled there, wet and desolate in the cold drizzle, and suddenly realised she was swallowing tears. The mindless fear was gone: now she just felt sad, and she let herself cry. She cried for all the souls lost in the war, the homeless, the sick and the disabled; she cried for Aunt Leda, and for the three dead men, and she cried over the conspiracy that had been going on right under her nose all her life, aimed at blocking out the reality that was too ugly and unsightly to behold. She recalled the scene in Elistan's house - faces devoid of hope and expectations, sobs ringing in the air. She wanted to save them all, so that the forces of darkness could never harm them again. All, each and every one of them. Including the forces of darkness, for weren't they just misguided souls slipped from the path in an hour of weakness and fear? Just waiting for the strong hand that would prevent them from drowning?

The thought warmed her a little, although at this very moment she didn't feel all that able and mighty. She was hungry, thirsty and tired. She groped in her bag for the biscuits and started to nibble them miserably. The journey was far too long: nearly two hours on horseback, so much more on foot, in the dark, in the rain. She could be in her bed right now, cosy and warm. She was exasperated with herself, and not for the first time, for being such a stubborn fool, always going over the top with everything. Why couldn't she be normal? Everything would be so much easier. It was just like her, so just like her to pull such stupid stunts. Some people were blamed for the destructive habit of acting first and thinking later. She felt that her habit was in fact much worse: thinking first and acting anyway. Blood and bones! That was the worst curse Crysania knew and she spat it out with vehemence, immediately regretting her manners, even if there was no one but the rain to hear her. Her gaze went to her shoes; placing her elbows on her thighs and her face in her hands, and leaning her upper body forward, she studied the footwear that had sucked up mud and turned from white to brown. Inside the shoes, her feet were soaking wet and the blister on her right heel sat painfully against the hard counter. Shoes designed for dancing, for standing and smiling with a glass in hand, for fading out of existence. That's what she had been born to do, and maybe that was all she was good for. She hadn't got far on the road; she could turn now and go back through the forest, destroy the silly note before someone would find, creep back into bed and pretend that this nocturnal trek never happened.

Shaking from the cold in her wet clothes, Crysania covered her face with her hands, battling the tears of disappointment and failure that were pushing into her eyes. How could she ever have thought that she could somehow make a difference? She was too small and the world too cruel. The return journey terrified her. It had been a mistake to sit down: the thought of gathering her strength to stand up again on aching feet made her so tired that she broke into sobs and kept on sobbing, until all of a sudden a warm hand landed on her shoulder and the same peace that she had felt in Elistan's house descended on her from above, only brighter and heavier. Her tears dried up as the light enveloped her, burning away the misery and speaking words of consolation that she sensed rather than heard. The hand lifted her up and gently pushed her forward in the direction of the city; her feet felt light, her heart lighter, as she started to walk on the wings of Paladine's love. She was no longer afraid and indecisive; she knew where she wanted to be and nothing would sway her from her course. The invisible presence carried her, brighter than the lantern in her hand, taking her towards the light of lights, and in deep gratitude she offered a prayer of thanks to the Platinum Father for showing her the way and helping her. She was surprised how easily the words came to her: unexpectedly, all self-consciousness left her and she felt no shame at speaking the prayer out loud.

After a moment of walking, Crysania paused and listened, not entirely sure if she had only imagined it. Gradually a smile rose to her lips. She had been right: a distant roll of wheels, the trot of a horse. She turned and waited, and soon enough she saw the coach with its lit lamps approaching through the gloom, drawn by four horses. She lifted her own lantern so that the driver would see her standing by the roadside. The coach came closer and the driver looked at Crysania from his high seat, surprise playing over his features; he pulled the horses to a stop and asked her what she was doing out there by herself. She told the man that she needed to get to Palanthas as soon as possible, that she wasn't carrying any luggage and wouldn't cause any trouble. The driver didn't ask any further questions. He only took a good look at her wet clothes and, deciding she was small enough, told her to get in at once in a strict but kind voice. There was just enough room for her inside; he was not going to Palanthas, but he could drop her off nearby.

Crysania thanked the man, hung her lantern up on the coach wall, pulled open the door and, gathering her skirts, climbed inside. There were four passengers - she was relieved to see they were all women, she had been worried that she might have to sit thigh by thigh with a strange man - and they all peered at Crysania curiously as she eased herself down next to a middle-aged woman travelling alone. Across from them, on the opposite seat, sat a mother and two daughters. Crysania told them hello, but they turned out to be foreigners who did not know her language. But there was no animosity or tension between the five of them. For the first time in her life Crysania felt that she did not stand out among the commoners and attract attention to her face and clothes and hair. She looked a fright: she was drenched, her hair hung loose and wet around her shoulders, and her eyes were red from tears and lack of sleep. But she felt good. Paladine had sent her this coach and these friendly fellow passengers so that the rest of her journey would be dry and comfortable. She thanked the god - her god - once again in her mind and flashed the women a radiant smile which they all returned.

When the driver dropped her off an hour later, dawn was breaking on the horizon and a fine white mist lay over the field across from Palanthas. The coach rumbled off, leaving silence in its wake. Hardly daring to breathe, Crysania watched the silhouette of the city against the grey morning sky: its domes and steeples, its rooftops and historical monuments, and rising above them all, the old magic tower people said was cursed. The good and the bad, side by side, a mixture of nationalities and ages: her new home, her new life. An overwhelming joy and hope filled Crysania's heart as she realised that this was it. No turning back now. Just a few more steps and she would be there.

But the field was muddy and slippery, packed with pools of rain water, and as soon as she started staggering on through it, the pain in her heel flared up again. Trying to ignore it, she concentrated on the sight of the city before her, drawing strength from the name of Paladine that she kept whispering to herself. Halfway through, the field got very bad; it wasn't long before she missed her step and fell. The fall didn't hurt but it took her by surprise. Her hands and dress were splashed with mud, and as she instinctively swept her hair off her face, some of the mud got into her hair and cheeks as well. She sat on the ground, stupefied, feeling a rage grow; with a cry of frustration, she removed her shoes and flung them as far as her anger could project them. Suddenly, as she watched the shoes land in the mud one after the other with a soft thud, it occurred to her that Oliva would soon be finding the note on her nighstand and taking it to her parents, and the finality of it all lanced through her with an unexpected force. She had no siblings, she would have no children of her own: her father's line would die out because of her. They had placed their trust in her, their only child, and she had let them down. Oh, how she hated that thought. It made her feel like crying again, and to make matters worse, another shower of rain came on.

Through the rain and the tears, Crysania fixed her gaze on the gates of Palanthas. I'm sorry, father. I'm sorry, mother. If I don't go now, I die.

It had been hard enough walking with the shoes on, but without them, it was so much worse. Her naked feet kept slipping, and the mud was cold between her toes. Embarrassed, Crysania picked the shoes up where they had landed and quickly put them back on her feet. She saw that the blister on her heel had broken; blood and fluid were oozing from the lesion, but she kept on going with determination. It would all be over soon.

The city was quiet at this hour; no traffic, only a few pedestrians hurrying along the pavements. Crysania was dripping wet from the rain when she finally arrived at the door of Elistan's house. She raised her hand and knocked and waited, wincing as some drops of rain from her hair trickled down her neck.

The door opened.

Revered Father Elistan looked into her face, then calmly let his gaze travel down her body and up again, taking in the state of her clothes, and said, "My child."

After that, everything happened very quickly. No sooner had Crysania opened her mouth to explain herself than a veiled woman appeared from behind another door, took her by the hand, led her through two long corridors and finally ushered her into a small, ascetic room containing a bed, a desk, an armless chair and an armoire.

"The room is yours now," the woman said. "Acolyte Melita passed three days ago, Paladine bless her soul."

She closed the door and left Crysania to stare after her in bewilderment. Passed? As in a test of some kind, or from this life to the next? She looked at the iron bed covered with a simple linen bedspread, wrinkling her nose in disgust. What if the acolyte had died of some infectious disease? The door opened again and the veiled woman reappeared carrying a basin of hot water; she told Crysania to stick her feet in it, left the room and returned shortly with a tray on which was a jug, a spoon, a drinking chalice, and a plate of steaming soup. "Eat," she said, laying the tray on the table. Then she opened the armoire and extracted a large towel, which she placed on the bed along with the grey robe hanging over her arm. "Dry yourself and change," she said.

"But..."

But the woman was already gone.

Crysania undressed, dried her hair with the towel and put on the robe as suggested; she sniffed the fabric, but there was no smell. If anything, it smelled clean. She poured fresh water from the jug into the chalice, emptied it in one long draught, refilled the cup and drank again. Then she sat down with the tray on his lap and slid her feet into the basin. The warmth of the water and the soup was heavenly; her muscles relaxed and her stiffness eased, and after she had finished eating, she closed her eyes and sat still for a long time, enjoying the feeling of the hot water caressing her cold feet. It was absolutely quiet, with only the sound of the rain tapping the window behind her. She felt sleepy, and her mind drifted away. One thought cut through to the surface: they would have found the note by now. Her mother dropping to her knees, screaming; the hurt and disappointed look on her father's face. Would they come for her right away, this afternoon? Maybe tomorrow? No matter, for she was here now and all she wanted to do was sleep. She would deal with her parents later, and they would let her sleep. Why am I shaking still, she thought absently, I'm no longer cold. And then she blanked out.

She had a high fever for three days. She had rarely ever been ill, and she thought she was going to die. She coughed so much that her ribs ached, and every movement she made among the sweat-soaked sheets sent the world spinning into a black tunnel. The woman who had brought her in on the first day - Epicelena was her name - nursed her patiently, placing cold compressions on her forehead, adding blankets over her trembling body and supporting her head when she sipped a herbal mixture through a straw.

After five days Crysania had recovered completely, and Revered Father Elistan paid her a visit. He said he remembered her and had known she would come. She said she wanted to become a cleric and would do anything at all to make it happen. He took her on a tour around the temple buildings and showed her the Peripas Mishakas, the Disks of Mishakal, which laid on a marble pedestal in the temple library. Elistan told Crysania how he had received the Disks from a cleric of Mishakal in Pax Tharkas, and he wanted her to put out her hand and touch them - that way he would know if she was truly ready to start reading them. Crysania touched the Disks reverently, and the fact that nothing happened as she did seemed to please the Revered Father. "Only those of pure spirit may touch the Disks of Mishakal," he said, smiling his quiet smile. And then the tour continued. Crysania listened and nodded at everything the Revered Father said, admiring the man's learnedness and poise, vowing to prove herself worthy of his trust.

The next day the work began. It was hard, so much harder than she'd anticipated. And what had she anticipated - singing a couple of hymns, lighting a few candles? Becoming a cleric was no child's play. The daily schedule was tight and did not allow slacking off. The fixed-hour prayers were recited six times a day - at dawn, in the morning, at midday, in the afternoon, in the evening and at midnight. The acolytes had to read and memorize dozens of scrolls and tomes, learn the choreographies of several ceremonies, explore the theological and ethical concerns of Paladine's Holy Scripture. They also had to minister to the sick and the needy, and during the visits to the poor houses and hospices of Palanthas, Crysania saw sights much worse than the roadside gallows. In a short period of time, she witnessed the entire spectrum of life: the acolytes and clerics were present in the beginning and in the end, praying for women in childbirth and sending the dead on their final journey. Sometimes things got ugly: the dying would not leave the world peacefully and without pain, or babies would come out deformed and ill. Once she assisted in the birth of a set of twins. She had never seen such a mess: everyone was shouting, the mother was screaming, and the sheets were soaked with blood. A day and a half later, Crysania wrapped the babies' tiny bodies in shrouds and placed them under the mother's cold arms, one on each side; after closing the mother's eyes, she whispered the parting prayer at the foot of the bed, unable to stop the tears.

Although she loved the silence in the library and the smell of the ancient scrolls, although the fire of commitment burnt in her soul, her body began to feel the strain. At the end of the day she would fall into bed like rock, knowing that soon she would have to be up again for the midnight prayers, despising the tears that threatened to come. She had moments of doubt and even despair; one moment she was certain that Paladine had chosen her, but the next she was plunged into feelings of uncertainty, confusion and distress.

Elistan told the acolytes that they had three target groups: those who opposed the revival of the old religion, those who believed in nothing at all and, last but not least, the morally depraved, such as prostitutes working in brothels, prison inmates and the blackrobes of Nuitari. The acolytes and the Revered Sons and Daughters were supposed to reach out to these people at every opportunity, demonstrating to them Paladine's love and inviting them to pursue a relationship with the Platinum Father. In addition to these lofty pursuits, the acolytes were responsible for the everyday maintenance of the temple buildings and its grounds. They scrubbed the floors, tended the gardens, repaired anything that needed fixing - in other words, they performed various household tasks that were a complete mystery to Crysania, who had always had servants to care for her. If she was handed a washboard, she did not know what to do with it; she thought knitting needles were used for cooking and placed them in a kitchen jar.

None of this did anything to improve her relations with the other acolytes. She was polite to everyone - as good breeding dictated that she should be - but the others shunned her from the beginning. She never revealed her family name to anyone. She tried to get rid of her upper class accent and blend in, but she could sense the others looking at her with knowing eyes: don't kid us, we know what you are, why don't you go back where you came from. She spent long moments studying her face in the mirror, first one side, then the other, looking for traces of pride and haughtiness that she had been implicitly accused of by some of her colleagues who had also been calling her Princess behind her back. But she only saw the same Crysania she had always been, and if the others for some reason mistook her perfect manners and perfect conversation for airs and graces, then what could she do? She was fine with not having any friends; she had never had any true friends, and she was used to it by now.

She was also aware that, for quite obvious reasons, she was Elistan's favourite, and she sensed that the other acolytes were bitterly aware of it as well. The Revered Father took to inviting her to his private chambers twice a week, and they would have amazing long talks about faith and the future of the church. Elistan estimated that the main temple building - the whitest, the tallest, the brightest - would be completely finished in about two years to be hallowed as the Platinum Father's earthly abode. In the meanwhile, they would have to work hard to solve the poverty problem of Palanthas for good: they had already financed the construction of so many new poor houses that the destitute were homeless no longer and no one was living on the street anymore. That was a good place to start. Crysania listened, asked questions, challenged some of the ideas. Elistan seemed to like talking to her, and he often addressed her by name, which was something he only rarely did with the other acolytes; he seemed impressed with her vast reading, her wit, the way she absorbed everything he told her with a dedicated eagerness. He also asked about her a lot, and during one of these meetings, Crysania confessed to the Revered Father her greatest shame and fear: she had left her home, because she did not want to get married, and at first this had been her only motivation. But it changed when Paladine's presence descended on her in Elistan's house, and the wrong reasons had turned into the right ones. Did Elistan believe her, did Paladine believe her? Elistan calmly pointed out that Paladine had allowed her to touch the Disks, which was proof enough for everyone of His favour. If so, why hadn't He sent her the Test of Faith yet? "In time," Elistan simply said.

No one came looking for Crysania until a little over a month had passed since her arrival at the temple. One day, as she was about to start descending the stairs, she suddenly saw three familiar figures in the hall below: Baxter, Oliva and Glover, talking to Elistan. She quickly hid herself behind the thick pillar, hoping they hadn't spotted her. She wasn't surprised, only irritated to know that the three had been sent for her two weeks before her supposed wedding day: did her lady mother still honestly think she would be willing to negotiate? With growing irritation, Crysania took another peek at the two servants and the coach driver, but as she studied Oliva closer, her irritation started to turn into a shock: how thin and tired the woman looked, how much she had changed in just a few weeks. It was as if she was the living, breathing emblem of all the grief Crysania surmised her sudden and unexpected departure must have caused at Winter Pines Hall.

She stole away back into her room. She couldn't sit down; she stood up and started to nervously pace the floor. Soon enough there was a knock on the door, and she froze, but it was only Elistan.

"Sit with me, my child," he said, taking a seat on the bed and handing Crysania an envelope decorated with the Tarinius coat of arms. Hesitating, Crysania accepted it and sat beside Elistan.

The Revered Father looked gravely into her eyes. "You have three visitors. They're asking for you to go home with them today. Permanently."

Home. Crysania swallowed. Suddenly all the memories were there, all the good ones that she now realised had existed, even if she had been concentrating only on the bad ones. She had left to not throw her life away, but what if that was exactly what she was doing in here, waiting in vain for the Test of Faith that might never come, spending the rest of her days as an acolyte scrubbing the floors? Sure, Paladine might appreaciate the effort. Sure, Paladine might love her - just not enough. Ashamed, she returned Elistan's gaze, knowing that the Revered Father could plainly see her distress.

"Now, your visitors tell me that you left your parents a note where you said you would join Paladine's church. Did you do it because you secretly wished they would come and find you, after first giving them a scare?"

Crysania did not have an answer. She blinked, not able to look at Elistan any longer, and opened the envelope. The words inside were written in her mother's hand. Our dearest daughter, the letter said. It is time for you to stop this nonsense and come home. You will be grateful to know that we have not disclosed your whereabouts to the Delameres, so the wedding is still on. If you absolutely must serve the dead gods, you should do it quietly beside your husband in the life to which you were raised.

Crysania stared at the words, anger rising within her like a stormbird towards the blackened skies.

"Crysania?" Elistan's voice was very gentle and careful. "I know you have been struggling, so I will ask you once and never again. Are you really up to this? If you wish to leave, I will not hold it against you. I never would."

Crysania folded the letter, put it back into the envelope and handed it to Elistan. "This is my home," she said, looking the man in the eye. "You are my family."

Elistan gave a nod and stood up. He lingered at the door, deliberately, but Crysania did not tell him to wait.

She next heard from Winter Pines Hall a year later, when a messenger arrived with the sad news that Lady Amelia Tarinius and Lord Eldon Tarinius had taken ill with the plague and had soon afterwards gone peacefully in their sleep. The news broke Crysania's heart; she fell to the floor, crying and howling like a baby, allowing herself to be cradled in Elistan's arms. She had never cried like that in front of anybody, her nose running with snot, her face swollen with tears. She felt terrible guilt for not being there. What sort of cleric abandoned her family and left her parents alone to die? It was all her fault. One of them - Oliva, Baxter or Glover - must have contracted the plague when they came looking for her in the city and infected her parents with it. She inherited the family fortune and was suddenly one of the richest women in Palanthas, but she did not want any of it: she only wanted her parents alive and well. Elistan consoled her patiently - Paladine gives and takes away; only He knows the number of our days - and when she had calmed down some, he took her hands in both of his and looked her deep in the eye. Then he asked her an awkward question to which her answer was yes - she had never known a man's touch - and upon receiving that confirmation, Elistan made her Revered Daughter of Paladine right there and then. According to the ancient scrolls, it was the highest honour a cleric could receive, bestowed only upon a select few who were pure of body, mind and heart alike. "But I haven't even had the Test yet," Crysania protested, overwhelmed. "I'm not even a proper cleric, I'm just an acolyte." Elistan would not listen. "This is my church," he said sternly. "I decide."

Her new dress was splendidly white, but still the Test of Faith would not come. Crysania waited day after day, week after week, month after month, witnessing how one acolyte after another received their holy vision. Because Crysania felt that, on account of her noble bloodline, she had to work twice as hard to prove herself to the Platinum Father, she asked Him for a Test that was nothing short of spectacular, that would make everyone remember her. She did everything she could. Fasting, praying for days on her knees, denying herself sleep, daily asking for forgiveness of whatever little sins she might have unwittingly committed. But these were not enough, and one day she found herself knocking on the door at an address she had managed to get from an acolyte she was still on talking terms with.

A big bald man answered the door. He sized Crysania up and grinned, asking her inside. After a moment's wait, the man reappeared from another room and handed Crysania a coarse shirt made of horsehair as well as some spiked leather straps. Without a word, Crysania held out the money and looked up at the man when he didn't take it. "Know what, daisy," he said, looking at her intently, "there are other ways to pay as well." She told him it was fine and held out the money again, until the man took it with a look that was exasperated and disgusted at the same time. On her way back to the temple, Crysania still pondered the man's words. What other ways to pay besides money were there? She didn't know.

In her room she tied the spike straps around her arms between shoulder and elbow and put on the horsehair shirt. They could not be seen under her robe, but she could feel the pain and discomfort they caused at every move she made. Bleeding, she sang the hymns and recited the prayers. The pain was electrifying, even ecstatic, almost obscene; it was as if someone was poking her insides with a lit candle, urging her to give up and burn.

She was extremely careful, but one day she caught Elistan staring at her hands, and when she looked down she saw the narrow streaks of blood running down her wrist. Elistan said nothing. He merely took her by the shoulders and sat her on the chair. He rolled up her sleeves and, still saying nothing, removed the straps. His movements were slow and calm as he picked up a towel, moistened its corner in the basin of water, knelt down in front of Crysania and cleaned her wounds.

When he had finished, he held his eyes with hers. "Not this, Crysania," he said with a resolute shake of his head. "Paladine is not like this."

Ashamed, Crysania lowered her gaze, her eyes swimming with tears. "I don't know what He's like," she whispered.

Elistan gently took her face in his hands. "You will, my child. You will."
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Evermore: The Gathering