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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 38

Raistlin stood motionless in the cold and eerily quiet hall: a lone figure among the dead, surveying the carnage with unfeeling eyes.

The battle had been fierce. The mob had pushed its way through the gates and into Paladine's house, out of control, raging and pillaging, taking down any cleric who came their way. Only six years ago, there had been no temple in Palanthas. The people had done just fine without the old gods and organized religion, but then suddenly after the war Elistan and his faithful ones had appeared out of nowhere, telling the citizens how to live their lives and how to worship. The feeling of suspicion and resistance had simmered for years and finally flared up at the slightest provocation: for if the leader of the church could not be trusted, then how could they trust any of the lower rank clerics?

Chaos: people were naturally drawn to it. It was just a matter of time, and he had only speeded up the inevitable.

The marble floor was splashed with blood. The bodies lay in twisted positions. A guard lying on his side without his helmet, a fence post spike driven into his skull. A female cleric face down, and on top of her a male colleague covering her body in a desperate attempt at protection: the white of their robes soaked with red. A commoner in ragged clothes sitting up against the wall, still holding on to the bow rake he had been using as a weapon, his toothless mouth pulled back in a death's grimace above the stab wound in his throat.

Thirty-two bodies in the great hall alone - how many in the other parts of the temple?

The thunder rolled and cracked like a whiplash, lighting up the hall and, for an instant, the face of the man lying on his back to the left of the entrance. Raistlin frowned. Was that...? He moved closer to make sure and saw that he had been right. Revered Son Zoltan. The other half of his head smashed in, but still recognizable. Raistlin squatted down beside the body and carefully lifted the lapel of Zoltan's robe: there, stuffed in the breast pocket, was the letter Raistlin had written. He fished it out and placed it in his own pocket.

He stood up, flicked his knife into his hand and started to walk along the pillared gallery towards Crysania's private chambers. Let her be there, he thought again, let her be safe and sound. To distract the rebels, he - or Beldinas, to be exact - had told them that Crysania had been removed to a secret place as soon as the riots started. With Adik gone, Farag would probably be the one to lead the search, and they'd probably start at the Tower. In fact, they were probably heading there right now. Argent would have his hands full. Distantly amused by the thought, Raistlin walked on, his steps echoing loudly in the utter silence that had fallen like a blanket over the temple.

He arrived at Crysania's door and to his relief saw that it looked intact. He tried the knob: locked. Good. Very good. Withdrawing Cloade's ring of keys from his pocket, Raistlin unlocked the door and pushed it quietly open. The door bumped against something, opening just a little way, and when Raistlin peeked around it, he saw that someone - presumably Crysania herself - had dragged a table across the doorway to block it. Raistlin moved the table aside and stepped into the dark room. With the knife at the ready and listening to the slightest sound, he ventured forward in slow steps, looking from side to side, seeing nobody.

"Crysania," he called out softly. "It's me."

No answer. Where could she be? She was not under the bed and she was not behind the wardrobe. Not in the alcove around the corner either. As Raistlin approached the door to the cloakroom, he felt something akin to panic starting to form. Crysania was bound to be in there, but if she wasn't...

He turned the handle and nearly rammed into her. Crying out, Crysania raised the lamp in her hand, poised to strike, but Raistlin quickly backed off with an incoherent cry of his own, guarding himself from the blow he expected to receive. At the sound of his voice, Crysania stopped at once; she stood dishevelled and wide-eyed, breathing hard, trying to locate him.

"Put the lamp away, dear," Raistlin said, his heart still going like a hammer on an anvil. "You're all right. You're safe now."

Crysania stared for a moment longer, not letting go of the lamp in her grip. Her hair hung loose down her back, and the collar of her long-sleeved temple dress had shifted slightly, revealing the silky skin of her neck that was glazed with fine perspiration. Slowly the tension eased from her body, and her hand holding the lamp dropped to her side.

"Is it over?" she asked, in a voice that was slightly quivery, but imbued with an undertone of relief.

"I'm afraid not," Raistlin replied. "The mob's still out there. They've freed the inmates of the Vault, from what I hear, and the rebels are looking for us. We must move quickly."

Her expression was suspicious. "What do you mean?"

"I mean we're going to have to leave. Now."

Her face grew even more suspicious. "Leave where?"

"Somewhere they won't find us."

Crysania's look of suspicion changed into one of pure bafflement. She didn't say anything for a while, so Raistlin reached out and took the lamp from her limp grasp; she gave a start and pulled away, folding her arms tightly across her chest.

"You can't stay here, Crysania," Raistlin said, laying the lamp on the cabinet. "The rebels could be here any minute now, and they're not exactly interested in a fair trial. Tell me, what is Paladine's punishment for, how should I put it, having it away with the enemy? Beheading? Burning? I don't know about you, but I certainly don't intend to find out."

"But I can't just leave," Crysania protested, shaking her head in confusion. "My inauguration..."

"Not going to happen. Not in these circumstances. What's happening out there is not just a nice little scuffle that'll blow over in a day or two, do you understand? It's the beginning of a holy war. The rebels have taken the vestry hostage, and they're parading the streets, forcing folk to recant, to embrace the original doctrine. As far as I know, they're spreading copies of the letter to every inn and tavern and alehouse as we speak. I can't stay, you can't stay. Is that clear?"

"The City Guard will take care of it," Crysania said stubbornly, still shaking her head. "They'll arrest the rebels."

Raistlin gave a scoffing laugh. "The City Guard won't be of any help for a long time, with half its members trying to put down the riots across the city and the other half lying dead in the hall outside your door."

Crysania drew a breath, looking nauseated. Well? Raistlin kept watching her in expectation, feeling just a tiny drop of irritation seeping into his core. Since when had she become so difficult? How many more times would he have to repeat the same damn phrases and words in a slightly different form to make her realise? What was she waiting for? That he would tell her again that he had dreamt of her and make a fool of himself once more, like in the Temple Gardens?

"Listen," he said in a tone of finality, placing a hand on his hip. "I'm telling you one more time. There's a horse waiting outside, and I'm going to ride it away from here. With or without you. Lay low for a while. Just until things settle down."

One more minute, Raistlin thought, and I'm going to turn around and walk away. But deep down he felt a terrible certainty that he couldn't do it, that whatever happened, he would never let her go. And when Crysania finally spoke, he felt such relief and triumph that he nearly shouted aloud.

"But where would we go?" she said, and he knew those words were as good as a "yes". She would come with him. She would always come with him, to the ends of the world. Suddenly a powerful sensation whizzed through him: the shadow of the emotion Takhisis had flooded into him when She had visited him at the inn: Crysania. Her love for you. It was only a faint memory, but the awareness had been overwhelming and he could hear it reflected now in the words she spoke.

"We'll ride on," Raistlin said gently, "until we're far enough from here. We'll find an inn to stay at, rooms for both of us."

"And you'll bring me back once things have calmed down?"

"Of course."

Crysania was quiet for a moment more, and Raistlin could almost feel the tension of the futile inner debate she was having with herself. "Fine," she said then in a tiny voice; she was not smiling at all, she was looking rather sad, to be perfectly honest. "I'll come."

"Good," Raistlin said, careful to keep his tone neutral. Good? Oh, please. The word did not even begin to describe how it was. Now he only needed to get her quickly out of the temple and the city, to keep things moving all the time; for he felt that if there was a pause, the whole brittle castle would collapse, and he knew he would only be able to take a breather when she was sitting behind him in the saddle. Only then would he be able to believe that he had succeeded.

"Take what you need, quickly," he said to Crysania. "I'll go check if the coast is clear. Wear something warm and fit for horseback. It's getting really cold outside."

Crysania nodded, her face very serious, very innocent. Looking at her, Raistlin decided that once they were out of this room and out of this temple, he would never again do anything to risk this. They would leave behind Palanthas and the Abyss, and they would start again. In the east. In Redwald. Away from everything and everyone. He would take back the magic and he would take back her. He would take back what was his, and there was nothing the gods could do about it.

He returned to the main room, Crysania following him. Suddenly he felt her stop and turned to look, not daring to say anything, fearing that she would start hesitating all over again.

"You were right," she only said, staring past Raistlin into the dark. "It was Gaspar." Her tone was unmistakably sad.

Raistlin was quiet for an instant. "Don't trouble yourself over it. He's gone. You don't have to worry about him anymore."

*

What did she need? Crysania walked up and down the room, choosing items randomly as she went along, finding it extremely hard to concentrate her thoughts. She couldn't even remember in which cabinet and which drawer some of her things were kept; she only knew the whereabouts of her everyday necessities, the ones she had to be able to find on her own, without Araminta. She picked up the three prayer books from the shelf and stacked them on the corner of the table, after which she picked up a comb and placed it on top of the books. After that she ran out of ideas. Pathetic. Was she going to manage on the road with just three prayer books and a comb? Clothes, of course, she needed some clothes! Warm, fit for horseback?

She opened the armoire hurriedly and fumbled through the pieces of clothing that hung inside until she happened upon the fur-trimmed cloak that she wore over her temple dresses during autumn and winter months. When she took out the cloak, it slipped off the coat hanger and fell onto the ground, and only when Crysania bent down to pick it up, the reality of what was happening suddenly struck her. Slowly, holding the cloak to her chest, Crysania sat down on the bed, her soul in a knot of tension and disbelief. What was she doing? Had she just agreed to leave the city with Raistlin? The thought turned her stomach, and she felt as if she was watching herself from the outside: an ignorant, reckless woman who never learnt, heading straight into the quicksand, once more doing what Raistlin said just because he said she must do it.

Crysania let out an anxious sigh and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. In these two years she had never ventured further than the city, and wherever she went, she was always surrounded and escorted by dozens of trustworthy guards. When she had gone out for the first time after losing her sight, tightly holding on to Araminta's arm, she had been shaking with terror: she had felt so insignificantly small and perpetually lost amidst the noisy swirl of the huge white world.

That world was waiting for her now; not with Araminta, but with Raistlin. The prospect made her go limp with panic, and yet at the same time there was the sickening realisation that, after the hours spent alone and scared on the cloakroom floor, just hearing Raistlin's voice had comforted her and made her feel better. How did it all come to this? Just a week ago she had been preparing for her inauguration as head of the church, so close to the fulfillment of what had once been her greatest dream. But now that it was gone - she thought with a pang - now that it was gone, or at least going, she realised it was her dream still and she let herself hope that things might still turn around and somehow work out. But who was she trying to fool? A holy war. The vestry held hostage. Everything was one big mess, and who was there to pick up the pieces, to defend her when things were falling apart? Raistlin, of all people.

He came for you. He did not leave you this time.

She tried very hard to deny the excited unease that was growing inside her, that had probably started to grow the moment he had first appeared in her room a month or so ago. It was not a pleasant thought, but she could no longer ignore the fact that her whole essence trickled in anticipation - of what, she did not dare to think.

Everything was such a mess, but they were in that mess together.

Sitting on the bed with a doubtful smile dawning on her lips, Crysania summoned a crowd of invsible watchers: Paladine's Revered Sons and Daughters, Araminta, the gap-toothed ancients of the vestry, her mother. No one would approve. She imagined their faces if they saw her with Raistlin, hand in hand, side by side, and had to choke down a hysterical laugh. And the longer she sat there, the cloak across her knees, the more sense it began to make. Side by side, hand in hand: the thought was so compelling and free of doubt that for a moment it felt as if it had already come true.

All the world against him. All but her.

All the world against them.

Terrified, Crysania stood up from the bed, as if she could that way get hold of reality again, and knotted the strings of her cloak with slightly trembling fingers. Then she took the topmost prayer book off the pile, just one, and placed it in the inside pocket of the cloak. Knowing it was there helped. She lifted her chin determinedly and drew herself up to her full height.

She knew just the place. She knew where they could go. And she would find everything she needed there.

Only until things settled down. Two or three weeks, maybe. A month at most. She could handle it.

There was a knock on the door, and then Raistlin's voice said, "Ready?"

She wasn't, not in the slightest, but she nodded anyway and walked after Raistlin into the hallway that was surprisingly cold. The summer heat was gone, and the thunder cracked again, loud and victorious.

"Is it clear ahead?" Crysania asked, trying to sound in control and unafraid.

"No obstacles. Just walk straight on. I'm right behind you."

They walked for some moments in silence. Raistlin's steps behind her were light and graceful, and every step she took made her more and more aware of his presence: the sound of their steps mingling together and becoming one, as if the past did not exist.

At first Crysania thought it was just the echo, but gradually she grew certain that she was hearing a third set of footsteps mixing in with theirs, and just then Raistlin said quietly, "Wait."

Crysania stopped and listened, alarmed. Definitely footsteps: a slow, heavy shuffle coming towards them.

For a while nothing happened, and then she felt Raistlin grab her lightly by the elbow, hurriedly guiding her into what she figured must be one of the window alcoves along the hallway. At least the space was very narrow, for when she raised a hand, it immediately bumped against the solid coolness of a wall; she held it there, not daring to move, her heart beating in her throat as the steps came closer and closer. But something else held her attention: if she shifted backwards, just a little, she would be pressed against Raistlin. The alcove was certainly narrow, as window alcoves tended to be, but was it that narrow? She could sense his chest rising and falling just an inch away from her back, and her skin broke out in gooseflesh at the mere thought of either of them shifting position - her backside brushing his hips, his lips her hair - and her mind spiralled into the abyss of memory: the hurt, the fear, the shame. How could she lean over and let herself be drawn into that darkness again? Her breathing had grown faster, and she squeezed her eyes shut, standing as still as she could, pleasure and distress coiling inside her, hot and tight, a heady combination.

The strange footsteps were very close now - soon someone would shout, an arrow would whistle or a bolt click - but the steps went past and faded in the opposite direction. When everything was silent, Raistlin slipped out of the alcove at once - no accidental touches, not even his clothes brushed against hers - leaving behind him a sense of vacancy, a palpable emptiness where he had stood; as much relieved as she was disappointed, Crysania stepped out too.

"It was just some woman," Raistlin said. His voice was perfectly calm, if a little breathy. "Drunk. A looter, most likely."

Looters, taking advantage of the disorder. They would pillage the temple, carrying away items of value, destroying religious artefacts. Feeling faint, Crysania continued with Raistlin down the hallway, and the closer they got to the great hall, the worse she felt. At the edge of the hall she stopped, clasping her pendant and struggling to breathe as the air turned heavy with the stench of blood. The atmosphere was oppressive, unbearable; she could almost see the rigid limbs, the crimson trails, the gaping jaws. What if - it couldn't be, it just couldn't be - Araminta lay there as well, cold and alone, her soul crying for a release from its dead abode? If she could see, she could go and find her, alive or dead, and at this thought the pain of her blindness felt as fresh as if it had happened only yesterday. What made it worse was the knowledge that she was the cause. If she could still see, if she had seen from the start and managed to love Raistlin into loving her, there would have been no letters to write and none of this would have ever happened. The people in the hall and on the streets had died because of her.

"It's a bit tricky ahead," Raistlin's voice came behind her. Before Crysania could say anything, before she could even begin to wonder how she would make it through the fallen bodies, Raistlin told her to put out her hand, come on, it's all right, and as she reached into space, hesitating, her fingers met the fabric of his robe.

"Feel the belt loop? Hook your finger on it."

She did, careful to keep as far from Raistlin as possible, and let him lead her down the silent path through the dead.

The crisp and clean night air flooded in as Raistlin held the door open for Crysania. She paused in the doorway, dragging the fresh air into her lungs, only too aware of the insanity of the situation of which a part of her mind kept reminding her.

Behind her, on one side of the door, dark red slaughter; on the other, the great big white world.

She stepped forward.

*

Everything was quiet. The rain had put out the fires, and the deep dark of night had covered the dead with its vast wings.

Raistlin led Crysania down the stairs and around the corner where Digby was waiting hidden from sight. Quickly, quickly, no unnecessary hold-ups; straight through the gates and out to the road. Their steps crunched on the gravel, and although the sound was subdued, in the silence it seemed loud enough to be heard across the entire city.

"Am I going too fast?" Raistlin asked, glancing behind.

Crysania shook her head, but he slowed his steps anyway, his gaze lingering on the woman. His sweet Crysania. One finger hooked on his belt loop, calm and collected, as always, but so serious, without a trace of smile on her face. He resolved to himself that he would make her smile at him again, and was surprised how important it suddenly felt to achieve that.

"This is Digby," Raistlin said as the gelding greeted them with a soft whinny. "He's quite tall, but don't worry. I'll hold the stirrup for you, and you pull yourself up by the saddle."

After he had directed Crysania's foot to the stirrup, she mounted lightly and with ease, and once he had made sure she was comfortable, Raistlin grabbed the rein and started to walk Digby through the back streets towards the city gates. Just an hour earlier, when he had ridden through these same streets to get Crysania, the walls had echoed with the stamping feet and the drunken shouts of the vandals as they wandered about knocking down barrels and kicking at doors. Compared to that, the hush that had fallen was almost unreal. Only a dog began to howl somewhere as they made their quiet way past the broken windows of the shops and banks and taverns.

As they were nearing the alleyway that led into the Bredell stableyards, Raistlin slowed his gait, readying his knife in case of a surprise attack. But everything stayed still, and when he turned his head to look into the alley as they passed it, what he saw in there made him tug Digby to a halt. "It's all right," he said to Crysania in a half-whisper as she turned her concerned face towards him. "Everything's fine. I just have to check something out."

Ten bodies were strewn along the alley, cut down in the middle of escape and sunken into various postures of pained collapse: a skull broken, a heart stabbed, a gut torn. Jankyn, too. But no Farag or Seth.

Raistlin was about to turn and go back when something caught his eye near the end of the alley. Just a small lump amidst the shadows.

He knew what it was even before he started to walk towards it. But he couldn't stop himself from going. He crossed the alley in quick strides, as if pulled by a force outside his will, and paused, gazing down at his feet in disbelief that under the circumstances was quite irrational.

On the ground, in the dusty light of the red goddess, lay Laura Bredell. Her dress soaked with rain, her big blue eyes fixed on the black sky, staring at something that was not there, not visibly injured, but as dead as dead could be. She was clutching Zenyta against her chest. The splint on her arm had come loose.

Raistlin could not stop looking at the little round face, the small hands, the two plaits. He stood still and stared at the girl for a long time, then squatted down beside her and tied the ends of the sling with movements that were slow and gentle.

"What was that?" Crysania asked fearfully when he returned.

Raistlin grabbed the rein and returned his gaze forward. "Nothing."
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Evermore: The Gathering