Adult-FanFiction.org : Books

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
- 3
- 4
- 5
CHAPTER 3

The sweet, smoky scent of incense hung heavily over the Palanthas marketplace, blending with the ungodly stench of the throng of bodies gathered to be blessed and healed. Only a handful had been quick or strong enough to jostle their way to the front row formed by a thick cord attached to stone posts that encircled the clearing; the rest had to settle for reaching up on tiptoes to see over the sea of heads. At regular intervals, grave-looking giants of men in gleaming armour adorned with the Palanthine coat of arms stood in watch with halberds in their hands, ready to stifle any attempts to break through the barrier. Small children clinging to their parents' hands peered up at the soldiers with fear and awe; they were mostly human children, but, quite unexpectedly, there were some elves to be seen in the crowd as well, even a couple of dwarves. Despite their different origins, one thing was common to all these people: illness and poverty stuck to them like a shadow. Everywhere around hollow eyes looked out of thin, emaciated faces. The lame were leaning on make-do crutches. Several people with disfigurements of the face and body were praying on their knees with closed eyes and upturned palms, tears streaming down their cheeks. It was a scene of full-blown misery, and yet one could sense in the air a sense of occasion, an excited anticipation for what lay ahead.

Looking at the grey, heaving crowd, Raistlin decided it was no use elbowing his way through; he could see perfectly well from a little further away. After looking around for a while, he positioned himself near the gates, among people who did not appear ill in the least. In fact, some of them were boredly munching on bread and cheese, and passing around a jug while waiting for the performance to start. Raistlin regarded them with disdain: he knew the type. Those people were nothing but nosy vultures profoundly interested in human misery - and sure enough, there was a young boy there who was entertaining his dullard friends with humorous impressions of the sick and lame.

It brought back the terrible memory of his mother. Almost twenty years had passed, and he could still see the secret smiles and the pointing fingers. They would search for her for hours, him and Caramon, going from door to door, not knowing whether they would find her dead in a riverbed or sitting in a stranger's kitchen, wearing her clothes inside out and explaining happily to the confused listener about her invisible house guests. And they would walk her back home through the town, and people would stop whatever they were doing and turn to stare.

Coldly, Raistlin drowned the memory and cut its head off - only the weak dwelled pointlessly on the past which could not be changed. Without success he scanned the row of faces for Smiling Clegg. Despite the beating heat the place was full to the brim; apparently Crysania had seriously charmed the people of Palanthas. It was unexpected: she must have changed. The last Raistlin remembered, she had been a touch on the haughty side: even though she had tried hard to conceal it, he could tell she had a slight attitude towards everything. It had amused him greatly. She had endeavoured to be modest and approachable and very cleric-like, but her aristocratic origins had shone through like a lighthouse, at the latest when she opened her pretty mouth, and out came the ahn-velopes and bah-stahds. Not that he had ever heard her call anyone a bastard. Perhaps I will, he thought gloomily, eyeing the crowd, perhaps I will once I get to meet her. Perhaps he was wrong to be so confident. Her prayers for him could have been a dream. What if everything had changed? What if she would start hurling accusations at him, full of Paladine's justice?

He glanced to his left, and his eyes fell upon a short, dark-haired man in a clerical outfit. This man did not share in the excitement: he looked as gloomy as a winter afternoon. On his thin face, there was a sulky expression of displeasure, and he was holding the back of his hand up to his nose, so as to shield off the smell of disease. He was alone and seemingly absorbed in his thoughts; he did not speak to anyone, but his dark eyes roamed the crowd restlessly. Accidentally his gaze met with Raistlin's; realising that he was being watched, the cleric quickly removed his hand from the front of his face, reddening in embarrassment.

Right then the massive gates started to open slowly with a heavy creak, and an excited silence fell among the crowd. Soon a short and puffy church officer stepped into view in white and silver ceremonial clothing. "Good people of Palanthas," he began somewhat nervously, lifting his right hand up in an oratorical gesture of silence. "I remind you to keep yourselves strictly behind the wire." He indicated the cord needlessly with his hand. "Absolutely no touching the lady!" His eyes swept through the crowd with slow solemnity. "Any one of you make a suspicious move, and they shall be removed - instantly. Unfortunately the Revered Daughter cannot tend to each and everyone - if today is not your day, you will try your luck again next week, without setting up a racket." Finished with the introduction, the man sneaked back into safety with an air of relief.

Nine more large men with halberds emerged from behind the gate. Turning their backs on the people, they stayed still for exceedingly long moments, nodding their helmeted heads, talking to a person that could not be seen behind them. The crowd was moving restlessly; there was a lot of whispering and neck-craning as folk tried to see what was the reason for the delay.

Another moment passed, and yet another. The sun emerged from a cloud, mercilessly hammering with its rays the spot where Raistlin was standing in his black hood. He turned to move into the shadow, and when he looked up at the gate again, she was suddenly there.

The sight simply stunned him. For one beautiful moment, the entire world stopped moving and stood still with him. She was just like she had been in his dreams, just as staggeringly perfect as he remembered. A heated wave rushed through him, a tidal wave of crystal-clear realisation that returned life to him, filling the emptiness of the past two days: she belonged to him - it was the only thing he knew for certain right now, and the only thing that mattered. It almost hurt the eyes to look at her as she stood there in the sun in her bright ceremonial dress, as pure as fresh-fallen snow, or a single ray of hope amidst the world's miseries. Her lovely oval face was pale, her skin flawless; her large eyes were fixed in front of her, empty of emotion. On her head was a gossamer veil of white beads to protect her from the relentless sun. Under the veil her raven black hair hung down her back in soft, silky waves - a dark waterfall forming a striking contrast with the long sleeves and the high neck of her bleak dress. Paladine's triangle embroidered in silver thread sparkled like ice on her narrow waist.

With a graceful smile on her rosy lips she started to proceed slowly along the line of people, carefully flanked by two guards, stopping every little while to lay on hands or give out coins from a small purse. Five acolytes in grey robes followed closely at their heels, ringing bells and swinging censers. The hush of respect her arrival had occasioned was broken: excited murmuring was spreading like wildfire through the crowd, and ragged voices sobbed out to the Revered Daughter and Paladine alike. Some spectators tried their luck, and against orders reached out to touch the lady's shining dress, but the sharp-eyed soldiers halted them with a warning finger.

Behind the crowd, Raistlin had begun to walk beside Crysania, keeping an eye on her every move, stopping when she stopped and starting again when she started. Again he felt the irresistible pull of the invisible rope, even stronger now than two days before at the temple grounds: for a moment he thought he would simply give in to it and forget the world - just push through the crowd and take her in his arms. See if the soldiers could prevent him from touching her, see if he cared.

He was brought back to reality, when the dark-haired, red-faced man appeared again in his line of vision. The man had moved a little closer, and was holding up his hand to his nose again; above his hand, nailed to Crysania, his eyes were flaming with pure hatred. Raistlin looked at this fine specimen of a cleric with amused contempt: not only was the man having trouble coping with the harsh reality of the impoverished, but he also seemed to harbour a petty jealousy towards his better-off colleagues. For some time the dark cleric followed the procession, but soon turned and marched away with an eyeroll, positively seething with spite.

Forgetting about the bitter spoilsport, Raistlin turned his attention back to Crysania. Someone had given her a poorly clad baby to hold; now she was kissing its bald little head. A vague recollection rose up in his mind, unbidden and spontaneous - where had he seen her like that before? In his dream in the Abyss? As he was lost in his thoughts, the curse crept up from behind, catching him unawares. Already it was changing her, already it was stealing her away from him in the chariot of time. Frustrated, Raistlin closed his eyes to reset the sands of the hourglass, then opened them again with resolve. Nothing, nothing would take her away from him this time, of that he would make sure, even if it was the last thing he did.

As if reading his mind, Crysania suddenly lifted her head, startled, and stopped to stare with wide, unseeing eyes through the crowd, straight at where Raistlin was standing. Her face was alert, as if she was listening to a voice only she could hear. The smile had died from her lips. Her hand was frozen in mid-movement inside the purse of coins.

Without the slightest intention to do so, Raistlin softly spoke her name.

She tilted her head; her eyes blinked slowly - once, twice - the grey eyes that had once looked at him so adoringly, now frozen into white mist.

He said her name again. Crysania. Beloved of the gods. The most beautiful name he could have imagined.

That she heard him was make-believe; the sound of his voice was hopelessly lost in the crowd, and the moment passed. Gently exhorted on by the soldiers, Crysania resumed her smile and steps with a fleeting frown.

Raistlin followed her around the clearing in the grip of a compulsion, losing track of time and place. The sun was overhead, and the heat was devastating; she was like a rippling mirage of cool water in the desert, a promise of salvation. He could make his way to the front and purposely set himself in her way, give her his hand - would she recognize him by touch? He remembered holding hands with her, and it set off a tantalizing flux of memories: her body against his, his hand on her hair, her head on his shoulder. Look but don't touch, he had told himself in the beginning, but she had made him slip all the time: he simply could not keep his hands off her. If he touched her now, would she bless him still?

All too soon the procession came to an end. She had walked the full circle, and the gates were opened. Crysania turned, in a sweep of white, and was gone, leaving behind her the world of dirt and disease. Raistlin pushed hurriedly through the spectators who were babbling and sobbing in religious ecstasy; those lucky ones that the Revered Daughter had touched were now being touched in turn by the rest, in hopes that some of her holiness had rubbed off onto them. Raistlin headed straight to the temple grounds, estimating which route they would take and where she would go in. But it was a lost cause: the streets were empty, and so was the temple yard.
Disappointed, Raistlin slumped down on a nearby bench and sat there for a while, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands on his forehead. His mind was racing. He felt like he was running a fever. He had too many thoughts, and vague ideas he never would have thought he'd find himself thinking were dancing around in his head. He stood up, thinking he had reached a conclusion, but on second guess sat down again. Sneaking around would not get him anywhere. He would have to approach her openly and formally, ask for an audience, just like Smiling Clegg had suggested.

Having made up his mind, Raistlin took a turn back towards the city centre. For starters, he decided to go find himself a horse; he had places to go, and he was not interested in walking to them. After circling around for nearly an hour, he came across a wooden sign carved in the shape of a horseshoe, which hung above an arched entrance to a paved side street. After a short walk he arrived at a small stable-yard with a row of horse stalls. There was no one to be seen, so he took a look at the horses on his own. Wandering aimlessly from stall to stall, he feigned interest in reading their names and breeding, but found his mind was still completely occupied by Crysania's image. He told himself to get a grip.

"Looking to buy a horse, sir?"

Startled by the sudden question, Raistlin wheeled around and came face to face with a sturdy man in a leather skullcap carrying two heavy-looking buckets of water. When their eyes met, the salesman smile on the man's lips faded into an open look of astonishment.

Warily Raistlin replied that he was indeed looking for a horse, not quite knowing what to make of this weird and sudden shift in the man's expression. "Looks like I've come to the right place," he added, when the horse merchant continued to stare at him without speaking.

"Ah, but certainly, sir!" He was slowly recovering from the surprise into which seeing Raistlin had thrown him. He lowered the buckets onto the ground and said amiably, "Walk this way, please."

He began to showcase the horses one by one, explaining long-windedly about their breed and nature with an eagerness that seemed a little over the top to Raistlin. By now it was starting to look like the chap had recognized him - and why not? He seemed just the sort of fellow who would be spending his free time in a tavern, singing bard songs and listening to war stories till his ears bled. Briefly Raistlin wondered if he should just make himself scarce, but then decided to stop being so damn paranoid: clearly the merchant would not be putting so much kind-hearted effort into finding him a suitable horse, if he happened to think he was a traitor who did not deserve to live.

Striving to make himself as pleasing as possible, Raistlin asked to have a closer look at the large, brown horse in the final stall. With a lot of groveling, the man did as he was told, and led the large gelding out into the stable-yard. He hitched it to a rail, and then stood watching intently as Raistlin lifted and felt its legs and examined its teeth.

"What's his name?" Raistlin asked, feigning ignorance of the man's staring.

"He's called Digby, sir."

"He does look like a strong one. He might have to carry two, you see," he added on a whim.

The man smiled widely at him over Digby's back. "He'll certainly manage that, sir."

"How much is it?"

"That horse? Well, he's a good horse. Normally I'd ask for ten silver." He lowered his voice, looking knowingly at Raistlin. "But for you, sir, I'm ready to part ways with him for half the price."

"What do you mean?"

The man was silent a while, gathering courage. "Correct me, sir, if I'm mistaken," he said uncertainly then, "but aren't you the famous hero of the War of the Lance, Raistlin Majere from Solace?" He was gazing at his customer with inquiring wonder, expecting an answer.

Raistlin was already thinking of rebuffing the man, but then a sudden, strange fit of goodwill made him chance his mind, and he found himself saying, "Yes, that's correct. Very observative of you."

"Blessed Paladine!" the man exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. "That a living legend should walk into my humble abode!"

Before Raistlin could say anything, the merchant had leaped over to him, and was shaking his hand with almost painful force. "What a great honour this is! You, sir," he shouted with burning conviction, "had a hand in bringing down the enemy, the blasted Dark Queen, and for that we are eternally grateful."

Raistlin pulled away his hand. "Well, it's certainly nice to have a warm welcome for a change. Most Palanthines consider me a nuisance, I'm afraid. Or any mage, for that matter."

"Bah, stuck in a rut, that's what they are! Once they get it in their tiny little heads that magic-users are plain evil, there's no changing their mind. But there are still some of us who have trust in mages, oh yes!" He fell silent abruptly, as if he had suddenly remembered something. Then he added, a little uneasily, "Despite what colour they wear."

"An admirably open-minded attitude," said Raistlin, reaching in the pocket of his newly-washed coat. He withdrew his purse. "In any case, I'm only happy to pay the full price."

"Oh, come now," the man objected with a grin, "giving a discount for a great war hero is the least I can do. In fact it's me who should be paying you for visiting my modest shop." He chuckled heartily at his own joke. "Lemme show you his gear, right?" Beaming, he disappeared into the stable, before Raistlin was able to say the words he had been about to say. If there was one thing he hated, it was being given a discount - he did not want to feel like he owed anyone anything, he wanted no strings attached and no questions asked. But, he thought in dismay, if half the price meant that the whole transaction was done and over with sooner, he supposed he would have to swallow his principles. He glanced at the door impatiently: where was the seller dawdling? He better not be choosing special gear for him, the great war hero. He scoffed at the thought. It occurred to him that the headache that had been bothering him had crept back unnoticed: it was sitting tightly behind his eyes, sending its spite towards his neck. He closed his eyes, irritated, and ran his hands back through his hair.

When he opened his eyes again, there was a little blonde girl in a blue dress in the doorway to the unpainted house that adjoined the stable. She was thin and pale, and she was looking at Raistlin timidly without a smile, holding her arm up against her chest in an awkward angle.

"Is there something the matter with your arm, little one?" Raistlin asked gently, lowering his hands from his head and replacing his peeved expression with one of kindness.

The girl started at the question and looked down quickly, peering at the stranger from under her long eyelashes.

"Ah, I see you've met my little girl." The horse merchant emerged from the stable. "She fell badly yesterday," he explained, while laying the saddle across the rail and lowering the bridle on a hay bale. He dusted his hands of the sawdust and studied his daughter with a worried expression. "The arm's been hurting ever since, but the physician's a busy lad."

"Really? Perhaps I could take a look at it? I've some experience with mild injuries."

The merchant gazed at Raistlin, utterly amazed. "Sir, would you really?"

"Sure." He nodded in Digby's direction. "Makes us even, right?"

Casting a grateful look at Raistlin, the horse seller held out his hand to the girl and said, "Come here, missy. The kind sir here will look at your arm."

She stepped forward shyly, still not looking at Raistlin as he squatted down in front of her. He took hold of her arm, carefully feeling the fragile bones underneath the skin. He glanced up at her serious little face: she was on the verge of tears, but held them back bravely. "Aren't you the pretty one," he said. "May I ask the fine lady's name?"

The girl shot a glance at her father for moral support. "Laura," she replied very quietly then, after receiving an encouraging nod.

"We named her," her father explained with pride in his voice, "after the Golden General."

"I see. It's a wondrously beautiful name." Raistlin looked at the girl closely. "I knew the Golden General once. Did you know that, Laura?"

Her mouth dropped open. "Was she pretty?" she asked with round eyes, her fear forgotten.

"Yes. Very pretty." He smiled at the girl. "Almost as pretty as you."

Laura smiled too, pleased. "Are you a phy... phy-sician?" she asked then in a curious tone.

"No. I'm a wizard."

"You don't look like a wizard."

"That's because I left my staff and pointy hat at home." Oh, and magic, he added to himself dryly.

The longer he studied the girl's arm, the more difficult it became to tell the real injuries from the illusion. The little limb in his grasp was no longer that of a living child: its plumpness had disappeared, and the bones were showing through the white, flaccid skin. He did not have to look up to know that by now her tiny face was a wrinkled death mask with sagging lips and drooping eyebrows. The long plaits hanging over her thin shoulders had lost their colour: they were grey and lifeless, and brittle as spiderwebs.

Raistlin blinked away the illusion and asked nonchalantly, "How old are you, Laura?"

"Five."

"Do you go to school yet?"

"No. Your eyes are weird."

"Laura!" interposed her father in a horrified tone.

"No, it's alright," said Raistlin. "They are weird, aren't they?"

Laura was looking at him with a tilted head, absolutely fascinated. "Why are they like that?"

"It's a secret. A wizard thing." Raistlin let go of her arm and looked up at Laura. "I'm afraid I have to tell you, Laura, that your arm is, alas, broken. But don't worry," he hastened to say as he saw her lips turn down, "I can fix it, if you'll let me. And I promise you, Laura, that wizards fix broken arms even better than physicians do." He stood up from his squatting position and turned to address the father. "What do you say? If you could find me some wood and cloth, I could make her a splint. See, I worked as a wound-dresser during my mercenary years."

"Sir... Sir, if you'd do that..." The horse merchant was lost for words. Then an idea lighted up his honest face. "My wife is preparing dinner. Please, dine with us. We would be deeply honoured."

Raistlin was about to refuse - first, he was not hungry, and second, he hated public dining: people smacking their food and wolfing it down with open mouths made him sick - but Laura had already grabbed his hand and was pulling him determinedly towards the house, telling him that he must meet Zenyta, so he decided to take it as a chance to ask some more questions about Crysania and things in general. Besides, after two days, he had had it up to here with Jarek the Barrell's culinary delights.

Once they were in, Laura ran off without a word in search of Zenyta, who or whatever it was. The horse merchant on the other hand continued straight to the back of the house, wherefrom drifted a cosy scent of roast and rosemary and sage. "Molly!" he hollered over his stomping steps, "Molly my dear, there is someone I'd like you to meet."

"Not now, Seamus, for heavens' sakes," replied a peevish woman's voice from the kitchen, "can't you see I'm busy?"

"Not too busy for this, you aren't. Trust me, Molly, you'll want to meet this man."

She came out of the kitchen behind her husband, muttering to herself and wiping her hands on her apron. When she saw Raistlin standing in the entry, she stopped cold in her tracks and turned to look at her husband with suspicion. "What is this?"

"Sir, may I introduce to you my wife Molly. Molly, meet Raistlin Majere, the world-famous mage. And me, my name's Seamus Bredell. A pleasure doing business with you."

Molly's hand rose slowly to her mouth. Without a word she stared at her husband and then turned to stare at Raistlin, who helpfully extended his hand to her. She crept up to him and took his hand coyly, making a deep curtsey. "Sir, this is... This is such an honour.... Such a great honour." Her voice crumbled into a mumble. "There are... ah... different takes on the matter, but me and -"

At this point Seamus cleared his throat loudly and cast his wife a furious look. "Thank you, Molly. Now run off back to the kitchen like a good girl and finish the cooking, why don't you? Master Majere has kindly promised to mend Laura's arm and also to honour us with his presence over the dinner."

With a lot of groveling, Molly Bredell hurried off towards the kitchen. "Now then," said Seamus after she was gone, "what is it that you need for the splint?" Raistlin explained what he needed, and Seamus went for a search.

Raistlin took a look about the house while waiting. It was not a grand home, but not especially poor either; apparently the father made a fairly decent living selling horses. The main room was large enough to have been divided into separate living and dining areas: on the other side, there was a long, oaken table set with eclectic tableware, and on the opposite wall, a sooty inglenook fireplace with chairs gathered around. There were no carpets on the rugged stone floors, but some of the chairs had little cushions on them, and one of the leaded windows was even adorned with yellow curtains. In the far corner, there was a self-made altar for Paladine, with candles and clay figures and primitive drawings. On the wall above it hung Paladine's triangular symbol - a trinket, likely, unblessed and bought at a fair. He was about to go for a closer look, when he heard a growl from behind him: a dark brown dog was staring up at him, ears laid back and teeth bared in a threatening snarl. He gave it a glare, and it backed out of the room with its tail between its legs.

"Will these do?" Seamus had returned, disheveled and puffy, with two short planks of wood and a bundle of fabric.

"Perfectly. Are you ready for this now, Laura?" Raistlin asked from the girl who had been following at her father's heels, dangling in her healthy hand a dressed-up toy doll with a painted face and wool for hair. She nodded, and Seamus led them into the bedroom, where Raistlin asked Laura to take a seat on the edge of the bed. He sat down too, looking at the doll with interest. "I don't think we have been introduced." He grabbed the doll's hand, introducing himself gravely.

Laura giggled. "She's a trifle shy," she explained in an important tone. "I'll have to say her name. It's Zenyta. Look, you silly!" she said to the doll. "He's a wizard, and he'll fix my arm! Soon we can dance again, I promise." She turned back to Raistlin. "She always wants to dance. Every day. I promised to teach her a new tune very soon."

"Really? That sounds like a lot of fun." Raistlin looked from the doll to the little girl. "I need you to be brave now, Laura," he said. "This may hurt a little, but it won't take long." Laura nodded without a word. She was putting up a brave front, but she was squeezing Zenyta's hand very hard.

"It'll be alright, love," said Seamus, kissing the top of her fair head.

Setting to work, Raistlin adjusted the thin little arm out into its natural position, hushing gently when Laura let out a tiny cry of distress, and carefully placed the two planks Seamus had brought on either side of the arm to keep it stable. Then he took the cloth - a piece of an old sheet, Seamus explained - and ripped it into a rectangle, which he wrapped around the arm and the planks. Fitting two fingers under the wrapping, he asked Laura whether it was too tight. It wasn't, she said, so he went on.

It was curious how quickly it all came back to him, all the moves and the little tricks to make it quick and easy, although he had not done it for almost ten years now, not since he left the Mad Baron's army. Splinting fractures had been the most pleasant chore back then; it was tidy, and it did not take much effort and strength, unlike, say, sawing off a poisoned limb. He had not especially enjoyed the wound-dresser's work, but for some reason everyone had agreed that he was exceptionally skilled at it, up to the point that wounded soldiers in need of having their festering bandages changed would specifically demand for the red wizard to perform the action, even though they otherwise looked at him sideways with suspicion. They would also demand his presence when their time was approaching - they wanted someone who would not fuss, someone who would not claim their chances were good - and so he would sit by their bedside through the dark hours of the night until the last breath at dawn. Most often they would wish to make a final confession, to get off their chests something they had been carrying as a burden for years. He would listen and tell them he was sure Paladine would understand and be lenient, although he could not really see why someone would lose a night's sleep over a secretly read letter or something said in a fit of anger a long time ago.

Once Raistlin had maneuvered Laura's arm in place, he took the rest of the cloth to make a sling. He folded it in half and cautiously placed the arm in the middle, pulling both sides up around the girl's neck, until the arm was resting in a horizontal position. "Is this alright?" he asked. "Does it hurt?"

Laura shook her head in answer, biting her lip.

"You sure?" She shook her head again, so Raistlin tied the ends of the sling behind her neck. "There. You're done. You're one brave little girl, Laura. Braver than the big soldiers I used to fix."

"Now what do you say?" her father urged, his eyes glinting with gratitude.
"Thank you," Laura whispered, scrutinizing her new splint with a mixture of interest and horror.
"You're welcome. Remember to check the knot every now and then," Raistlin said to Seamus, rising from the bed. "You don't want it to come undone on its own. It could cause further injury."
Seamus sighed. "How can we ever repay you?"
"It's nothing, seriously." Raistlin smiled. "The dinner will be more than enough, I'm sure. And Digby."

"Come then," said Seamus warmly. "The dinner must be ready by now."

They went together to the dining area, where they found the table already laid with food - a steaming platter of roast pork in the middle, bowls of vegetables and potatoes, white bread in a basket. Molly appeared from the kitchen with a jug of wine - for special occasions, she said, flustered. The jug was made of green finely blown glass; the light from the window made it a sparkling enticement to a little girl. "No, Laura," Molly scolded, gently guiding her daughter away from it, "you can't pour today, love, not with one hand. It'll be a mess." Laura's bottom lip fell into a pout, but she took her place at the table obediently, sitting Zenyta down beside her on top of a pile of books. Molly looked around her in wonder. "Nibbles!" she called out. Then she looked at Raistlin and asked incredulously, "You didn't see a dog round here just now?" He shrugged with a smile.

When everyone had taken their seats, Seamus cleared his throat solemnly. "Let us say the grace." All three family members closed their eyes, and then Seamus thanked Paladine for the day's blessings, including the miracle which had brought this great man, this great war hero to his house to aid his daughter. Raistlin took a sip of the wine - it was unexpectedly good - and studied the Bredells while they prayed. They had invited him in like an old friend; in their eyes he was everything the songs made him out to be. And what was that exactly? He did not know, he had not heard. A red wizard who defeated Cyan Bloodbane? Who brought down the temple at Neraka? Anything but the black-hearted, murdering bastard his so-called friends had taken him for, that's for sure. Be that as it may, these people, these Bredells, were undoubtedly the sort of lot who were willing to believe anything without a moment's hesitation, the sort of lot who always ended up being used and had no one to blame but theirselves for it. Seamus reminded him of Caramon, actually: he had the same wide open, good-willed looks. His eyes moved to Seamus's wife. She was a very homely looking woman, short and chubby, with dull eyes and pale lips, and a head of silver-blonde hair with broken ends. Seamus's hair was chestnut-coloured; he did not resemble in the least the small darling sitting next to him. Oh Molly, what have you done? Raistlin thought to himself with a smirk.

As he was reaching for another gulp of the delicious red wine, the head pain suddenly lashed him between the eyes: it was like a vicious bee sting, and it nearly blackened his vision. He raised the goblet to his lips with a shaking hand, hoping he still had some of the medicine left at the inn. He could not remember. He had broken out in a cold sweat - what the hell was the matter with him? He touched his forehead where the pain was lurking, waiting to swallow him up. He closed his eyes, listening to Seamus's earnest voice: he was praying still, praying with fervor, not knowing that the guest sitting at his table had come this close to beating the living lights out of his old and feeble god. The final spell in Zhaman: again the moment came back to him, or a pale shadow of it - the blinding, sucking pulse in the darkness inside him.

He must have made a noise, a strangled moan, because Seamus stopped and opened his eyes, and looked at him slightly worried. Raistlin answered his gaze with a winning smile, saying, "I see you have a lovely altar there. Do you often visit the temple?" He was half amused by his own voice; he actually sounded as if he was interested.

"Oh yes, often as possible," said Molly with red spots of excitement on her round cheeks. "We want our Laura to get to know the Platinum Father as early as possible." Smiling radiantly, she handed Raistlin the the serving fork.

He was still not hungry, and looking at the greasy roast turned his guts, but reminding himself of the thin soup that would be waiting for him at the Ghost and Rose, he conceded to fish out a very thin slice from the platter. "These must be busy times for the church," he said, not to anyone especially, in order to keep the topic going, "with all the renovations, and the business with the new leader."

"Indeed," Molly agreed, piling an outrageous amount of food on her own saucer, then moving on to select Laura's portion. "Oh, we can hardly wait for the celebrations! Everyone's so excited."

"Well, perhaps not everyone, Molly, my dear," Seamus put in. "I mean, there's been some talk on the street lately that a woman should not lead the church."

Molly was stunned. "What? Who told you that?"

Seamus shrugged. "No one."

"Well, someone must have."

"It's just something I heard in a tavern, Molls." Seamus was spreading butter on his bread, slowly and meticulously as if his life depended on it.

"In a tavern? And when were you in a tavern, Seamus Bredell?" A dangerous edge had crept into Molly's voice.

"So the next leader will be a woman, you say?" Raistlin asked quickly, trying to hide his annoyment. He certainly wasn't going to sit through a petty marital fight - he had enough of that from his noisy neighbours at the inn. One more day of that unearthly racket, he thought, and I'll make a complaint.

Molly relented immediately. "Why, yes. Revered Daughter Crysania. A young woman. We've been told it was Revered Father Elistan himself who named her his successor."

"I see." Raistlin stared down at his plate. Elistan, the old pain in the ass. He should have known. He swallowed his ire and looked smiling up at the family. "You think she's any good? At what she does?"

"Oh, she's a right miracle, she is. Said the parting prayer over my little nephew. Excuse me." Molly's voice crumbled; she was suddenly dissolving into tears. She pulled out a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her moist eyes.

Seamus patted his wife's hand reassuringly. "Our Laura fell ill too," he said quietly to Raistlin. "It was the grim fever. Her life was... hanging by a thread."

Laura was looking at her parents with frightened eyes, sensing more than understanding the seriousness of the past event. "Mommy, don't cry!" she said in a plaintive voice. "Why are you crying? Look!" She took her milk cup and put it on Zenyta's inanimate lips, gently careening it so as to help the doll drink.

Caressing Laura's hair, Molly smiled at her through her tears. "My little jewel," she said lovingly before continuing the story with Seamus's supportive sighs and groans in the background. "As I was saying, Revered Daughter Crysania was present at my nephew's burial, leading the rite. We were so surprised that she came, never thought she'd have time for a poor burial, thought they'd send an acolyte at most." She stopped, smiling and shaking her head in wordless gratitude. "She was such a comfort to us. If only there were more people like her." She looked back at her daughter. "Remember Revered Daughter Crysania? From the church?"

Laura nodded eagerly. "She's pretty." She turned to Raistlin. "She's blind. She can't see."

"That's true," said Molly softly, proud of Laura's perceptive skills. "You asked her about it, didn't you, dear? Remember what she said?" Laura shook her head so hard that her plaits whipped back and forth. Molly helped her. "She said it was a gift from Paladine. To help her see with her heart."

Raistlin stared at the woman, not sure if he had heard right. A gift? He himself had thought of it as a punishment, shame on him. Did he not know that the great, magnanimous Paladine and his herd weren't ones for paltry revenge? Amused, he sipped the wine again. A murdering bah-stahd like him would have a lot to learn from those clerics. The glass was never half empty - it was half full, and behind every cloud there was a sun waiting to show. A gift. Sweet. Missus Bredell was absolutely right: if only there were more people like her. But there was only one, and she was his. The past would be forgotten: they would kiss and make up. The thought filled him with cheer and tingling expectation, although that might have been the wine creeping up on him. He told himself to put a stop to it already, although it did take the worst edge off from the pain, which had slithered towards the front now. "I suppose if one wanted to meet the Revered Daughter," he said out of the blue, "it would be quite impossible. She must be a very busy woman." He sounded breathy and flustered. No more wine, he thought again, but was not sure he could carry out the promise in such stunning company.

"Well," said Seamus ponderingly, chewing his food with an open mouth like there was no tomorrow, "she's not been inaugurated yet. I say you might well succeed in having an audience, if you want."

"And when is her inauguration due?" With his luck, he was half expecting them to say it was tomorrow, and that she would leave to the other side of the continent right after. It wouldn't have made any difference, though - he would track her down to the core of the earth, if need be. There was no need: the Bredells told him she was to be inaugurated in the second week of Hiddumont. Raistlin counted swiftly in his head, and cursed inwardly - it was only a little over a month away. He would have to be so much faster than he had thought. But faster in what? He felt like a puny little boat tossing and turning on tumultuous waves. The maelstrom was approaching at a rapid pace, and it seemed he would just have to make it up as he went along.

"Father. Father, what's an... an au-di-ence?"

"Her personal secretary schedules her days for her, or so I hear," Seamus explained helpfully, not hearing his daughter's question. "You'd need to have a word with him." He looked up at the roof, squinting his eyes in an attempt to remember. "Cloade," he exclaimed victoriously then, sticking half a potato in his mouth. "Yes. Gaspar Cloade, his name is."

"Father, what's an au... audience?" Brats were like that. They never gave up.

"It's when you meet a cleric privately, dear, and talk to him about your worries, and he'll help you," said Molly patiently.

"Why do you want to talk to her? Are you worried?" Laura asked in her bright voice, resting her inquisitive eyes on Raistlin.

"Laura my dear, that's hardly any of our business!" Molly scolded her.

"I'm not worried," Raistlin said to Laura. "I'd just like to see her, because... because there's something I need to ask."

"What?" She was so interested now that she had stopped eating.

Raistlin was struck dumb for a second: what possible answer was there? He could not believe he was discussing the matter with a five-year-old. What a lovely bedtime story to tell. He gave an indifferent shrug. "Just boring adult business. Such as what does she make of mages. I'm in -"

"Doesn't she like mages?" Laura persisted.

"I don't know," said Raistlin neutrally. "I'd like to ask her."

"I like mages." She threw him a disarming smile and giggled.

"Good. That's all that matters." Raistlin turned to Laura's parents. "I'm about to move back to the city, so I'd like to know the church's official stand, and if it's changed at all." Right. There was hardly anything that interested him less. He sawed off a piece of meat on his plate, and looked back up just in time to see his hosts exchange a short, dubious glance.

Seamus looked embarrassed at having been caught. "Oh, erm," he started to elaborate without being asked, "I was just thinking: is it the tower you're moving in? The one in the grove?"

"Yes," said Raistlin slowly, with a sudden ominous feeling.

"Yes, erm, of course. Quite right." Seamus scratched his head, glancing at his wife.

Raistlin looked from Seamus to Molly and back to Seamus again. "Is there a problem?" He sounded menacing without intending to; he tried to soften it with a smile.

"Oh, no," Seamus pronounced hurriedly, "surely not! It's just that, it was in the paper some time ago that the Tower of High Sorcery was taken over by the leader of the black-robed mages, that dark elf person, that... what's his name again..." He snapped his fingers searchingly; he gave up. "No matter. It was in the paper. Apparently he'd opened the tower for apprentice wizards." He shrugged discouragedly. "Must've been a fib."

So the double-crossing son of a bitch had managed to wiggle his way into the leader's chair. So he was using the tower as a magic school. His tower. His home. How delightful. Raistlin was squeezing the fork so hard that it was a wonder it did not break. Given the occasion, he would have gladly plunged it into Argent's chest right now, to accompany the other wounds he had already given him.

Molly's voice brought him back to himself. "It needn't have been a fib, Seamus," she was saying. "Perhaps he thought master Majere wouldn't be coming back."

Raistlin raised his eyes from his plate with a plastered smile. "Why would he think that?"

"Well." Molly looked at him, and then quickly down at her hands. "There have been some... We've heard some rumours from your home town. Silly, really."

"What rumours?"

"Rumours saying that you were, um... in fact, dead," said Seamus. "Someone claimed to have heard such a thing straight from your brother, Caramon Majere. Or at least from someone who knew your brother. Apparently."

Made sense. He shrugged it off with the same dredged-up smile. "As you can clearly see, they were just rumours."

"Yes, yes of course! Quite. We're glad to learn otherwise. Tremendously glad. Aren't we, Molly?"

"Indeed we are!" Molly clapped her hands together, giving Raistlin a look as if she could not believe her good fortune. "I still can't understand you're sitting in my house, good sir. I mean, I teach the Great War to the local school children, and now you're here. It's absurd." She looked from Raistlin to Seamus, eager to direct the conversation into lighter waters. "How did it happen? How did you two meet?"

"I wanted to buy a horse, and found your husband."

Molly threw back her head in an exaggerated laugh. "Golly! He sure is easy to mistake for one, ain't he?"

Raistlin did not even bother to answer. He poured himself another wine, and Molly, too. "What do you tell the children about the war, Missus Bredell?"

"Oh, all the important facts we want them to learn by heart." She began to enumerate them on her fingers like she was a schoolgirl herself, preparing for an exam. "Matafleur's sacrifice at Pax Tharkas. The attack on Tarsis. The Golden General's journey to Icewall... The forging of the dragonlances, of course..."

There was a sound of trotting paws as Nibbles returned to the room. The dog jumped up on a chair and stared at them from the distance with its tongue lolling out of its mouth. "Don't you want a treat, boy?" Molly crooned to it, in a much kinder voice than she used with her husband. "Come on, Nibs, you're not usually guest shy, are you? Oh, well, suit yourself." She turned back to Raistlin, approaching him again with the serving fork. Raistlin declined hastily: he had only just managed to do away with the first slice of pork, and now the woman seemed to be thinking he had thoroughly enjoyed it and was coveting for more.

Molly sat back down at her place, looking a little bit offended, but her large mouth never stopped moving as she went through the details of the Great War, starting from Solace and ending at the final battle at Neraka.

"I see," said Raistlin, when she finally fell silent. "And after Neraka?"

Molly's face fell in confusion. "Well. Nothing else, really. The war ends, and that's it." Her voice had suddenly gained a cautious note. She glanced at her husband out of the corner of her eye.

"That's it?" Raistlin asked softly. "The war ends, and everyone's a hero?" He should not have teased the poor woman like that, but he couldn't help himself: he was getting in the mood again. Amazing, Raist - you were actually nice and happy for a whole ten minutes, was what Kitiara used to say. Thinking of her bitchy remarks pronounced with a crooked smile did not much help: by now his head felt like a blacksmith's anvil, and apart from the wine he regretted ever having accepted Seamus's invitation. His social calls tended to end up in a disaster - why should two years in the Abyss have changed that?

"Like I said before," Seamus was saying quietly in support of his wife, "we're not ones to judge a person by the colour of his clothes. That is what Paladine teaches us."

Raistlin downed the dregs of the wine, preparing to leave. Why don't you cut the flattery, he told the couple in his mind. You and me both know, even the dog here knows, that if you had got to choose, you would have rather met Caramon, broken arm or no. The sharp stings were between his eyes now, hot and heavy.

"They do sing good things about you," Seamus continued warily, as if Raistlin might have been worried about his reputation in a sorry roadside alehouse. "They sing about you and your brother and the rest of the heroes all the time."

"Ah," Raistlin commented shortly. He really hoped Seamus would not get it into his thick head to start singing for demonstration. He really hoped he would not want to talk more about Caramon.

Of course he did. "Your brother and you," he said slowly in a curious tone, "are you really twins?"

"Yes." The next question was going to be: what's it like? Count to ten, Raistlin, he told himself. Count to ten and smile. You can do it.

"I've never known any twins," said Molly, "what's it like?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, with rising irritation, "it's nothing special." He glanced at the woman: she was looking at him with her mouth half open, clearly disappointed. What did she want him to say? What should he have said? That it was the single most aggravating thing of his life, a cruel trick of the gods which suffocated you and ripped you apart inside, so that in the end you were ready to go to whatever extremities, just to know that you were your own separate person? Was that what she would have wanted to hear?

"I'd like a twin," said Laura dreamily. "Mother, can I have a twin?"

Molly soothed her daughter's hair with everlasting patience. "You can't have one, dear, like you can a little brother or sister. Twins are born together, on the same day. Like master Majere here and his brother."

Sure you can have one, Raistlin thought sourly, looking at the girl, I'll give you mine.

"Where is your brother?" Laura inquired.

"Oh, far away from here, he's -"

"Why isn't he with you?"

"We're not together all the time. Like you and Zenyta." Raistlin nodded at the doll and stood up. It was not the best farewell line, but he was long past social pleasantries; he could not stay there a minute longer. "Thank you, Molly," he said shortly. "The food was excellent."

There was panic on Seamus's face. "You'll stay for the dessert, surely?" he asked, almost horrified.

"It would be lovely, I'm sure, but I'm afraid I've already taken too much of your precious time, and I have some urgent matters to attend to."

Seamus and Molly looked at each other - was it something we said? - and then rose together with a clatter. "In that case," said Seamus ceremoniously, "I'll say it again: it's been a tremendous honour and privilege to have had you with us today."

"The pleasure was all mine, I'm sure." Without further ado, Raistlin marched out of the house into the still afternoon heat. The family followed him like a shark would a ship; Seamus and Laura came all the way outside, but Molly lingered in the doorway, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. The sun was gone, and the yard was left in shadows - perhaps the rain would finally come and break the heat.

Digby was waiting patiently where they had left him, lazily swishing away flies with his tail. Seamus gave him a pat on the neck. "Better mark the old boy sold. Whenever you need him, just come and get him. You're always welcome in our home. If you need help in anything, let us know. Right, Molls?" He looked over his shoulder at his wife. She gave a little smile, but the smile was strained.

Seamus looked up at the dark sky and tipped the skullcap on his head. "Golly. Looks like it'll rain. Come, Laura."

"Bye, now!" Laura cried out to Raistlin from the door, waving her hand.

Raistlin answered the farewell jovially, but once the family was back inside, he leaned against an empty stall door, utterly exhausted and hoping for rain. It looked like you could never get fresh air in Palanthas when you needed some, and after the Bredells he did not just need it - he craved for it. People like them always brought out the worst in him. Seamus would have been great with Caramon - two incurable optimists together, loyal to the bitter end, always believing the best of others, even complete strangers. People like that would have walked whistling straight into a dragon's den, if the dragon patted them on the back and served a free round of drinks first. Blue eyed fools: they deserved everything they got.
He closed his eyes, thinking about his twin who he had tried to discard all his life, but who always came back to haunt him in his thoughts and dreams. Caramon had the mental refinement of a barrell, but he had always been phenomenally good at twisting things round to his liking. Mother was never insane - she was just a little odd. Father loved both of them. Kitiara's inexplicable money flows came from soldiering - a sixteen year old girl in the front lines made all the difference when the going got tough, surely every rugged old general realized that and took her in. And of course there was the biggest fairytale of all: that the two of them had something, no, everything in common, because they were born on the same day. What a joke. He just did not get it that they were different, as far apart as anything could be. All through his life Caramon had had a pretty explanation at hand to every sordid thing he had done, but in his heart the embellished explanations had failed, and he had turned to the bottle, the weak fool. Raistlin snorted in derision, but could not escape the tiny and merciless voice in the back of his head. You lived in a lie too, it said. For a long time you kept telling yourself you knew it was just an illusion. He went hot and cold with the memory; he had tried to forget, but there it was again, surfacing from the darkest shadows in garish flames.

"What are you doing? Help me!" Caramon looks him in the eye, his sizzling hand reaching out of the red and blue flames. He does not help; rather he speaks the words of magic again, louder, to rekindle the fire that's engulfing his twin. He's burning, burning with rage and magic alike - "All I ever had was my magic. And now you have that, too" - it has never been quite like this before, and he does not care for anything except what it feels like inside him, the rage and the magic, shooting out from his fingertips, devouring anyone in his way.

He had lived in a lie, yes, but then he had been given the Key of Knowledge, which had opened the gates to the cold, dark cellars inside him. There he had faced the truth, and the truth was vile. He had walked the winding corridors with echoing steps, trying the tightly shut doors, finding them locked one after another. Behind the ones that had opened he had seen visions that he no longer cared to remember. Under some doors, the thin crack of light was so dark and lurid that he had passed without stopping; also there were large rooms that were doorless and completely empty. In the final room he had at last met a ruthless man who cared nothing for consequences, as long as he had his fun. A man who could not create, only destroy. That man had no way of knowing that what he had seen in the Test was an illusion; it was a laughable idea, but in that damp dungeon ten years ago he had truly believed his brother was suddenly able to cast a spell. The man prided himself on his great self-control, but when he had looked at him, he could clearly see that his mask was tattered and broken: he was jealous and cruel and self-centered, and for all these reasons he had killed his brother. He had recognized himself in the Dark Queen's mirror, and known that even worse deeds were to come. This is who I am. I can't be bothered to stop. I can't stop.

Perhaps, after Istar, after Dergoth and the Abyss, Caramon's eyes too had finally been opened. He was still alive, he had not thrown himself on his sword in despair - could it be that the great oaf had finally grown himself a backbone? Another thought emerged, slow and unpleasant: what if Caramon had lied to him in the Abyss? And Astinus, too? The Chronicler claimed to be impartial, but who remained stubbornly impartial, when the fate of the whole world was at stake? What if the two had allied against him behind his back, to trump his plan and trap him? An empty world was a good card to play. Caramon, my dear brother, he thought poisonously, you better not have betrayed me like that. The hollow ache was gnawing the ends of his nerves; it was like hunger, but inside his skull.

Raistlin cried out in pain: Digby had nudged him impatiently with his hairy muzzle, straight on his shoulderblade where the other horse had hit him two days ago - of course, where else, it was sheer optimism to think that he might have any respite from pain. The horse looked at him questioningly, and he looked back. "What do you say, Digby?" he said wearily. "A little trip to the tower, just you and me."
Digby made no answer.

Raistlin looked about him and by chance saw a male cleric in the street corner; as he looked closer, he realized it was the same dark-haired man he had seen earlier in the crowd, the one who had been watching Crysania with a far from holy hatred in his eyes. Another man was approaching him rapidly from the right - an acolyte, by the looks of him. The cleric raised his hand in a salute.

As quickly as he could, Raistlin lifted the saddle from the rail - good grief, it was heavy - and laid it on Digby's back. He unhitched the gelding and led him by the halter across the yard, stopping where he could clearly hear the two churchmen. They did not even glance in his direction, but, just to be on the safe side, he pretended to be adjusting the cinch strap while listening to their conversation.

"Well?" the dark man was asking the acolyte impatiently. "Have you found any dirt on her?"

The acolyte looked at him sheepishly. "None whatsoever. What did we expect, really? She's as clean as a baby's bum, that woman is."

"No one is. We'll just have to dig deeper."

The younger man was silent a while. "Maybe we should just give it a rest," he said finally. He jerked his thumb towards the marketplace. "You should've seen her just now, Zoltan. The people adore her. Do we really -"

"I saw her," the man called Zoltan interrupted curtly in a cold, hard voice. "Lady la-di-da handing out a couple of spare coins to the afflicted. I bet they'd be thrilled to see her bank account. They'd be just thrilled."

"Aw, come on, we don't know how much she inherited. In fact, we don't know if she inherited anything at all."

"Of course she did! Didn't I tell you she was the only child?"

"But what if they changed their testament when she left to join the church? Disowned her, like? You said yourself the nobs don't like their kind in the clergy."

Zoltan smiled. "An attitude to encourage and affirm, Adik my friend. Yes. For once I agree with the aristocracy, albeit for different reasons."

Adik shrugged. "I don't get it - why are they so badly against religion, anyway?"

"Because they're all for industry and progression, and investments that amass wealth. Belief in the gods is an utter waste of time for the mentally feeble, they say. It makes no profit, see." He sniffed conceitedly. "The Tarinius family was no exception."

"Blast," said Adik, puzzled. "Makes you wonder what made her choose otherwise."

"Exactly."

Adik shook his head. "I didn't mean it like that, Zoltan. Don't you think you're possibly creating shadows where there aren't any? It might be completely innocent. It might be that she just has true faith."

"Maybe," Zoltan admitted grudgingly, "but it doesn't justify the rest, now does it? The opposite, in fact." A gleam of excitement lit up in his dark eyes. "We are on the right path, Adik; do not lose faith now! Think of our numbers yesterday!" In his elation, he grabbed the young acolyte by the shoulders.

"But is it enough?" Adik was doubtful, but his voice was full of hope.

"A house divided cannot stand," said Zoltan poetically, and the two departed on friendly terms, disappearing into the shadows of the side alley.

Seamus had been right. Not everyone was happy about the situation. They wanted dirt on her, and they had five weeks to get it.

Five weeks. Gone sooner than one could say... golly.

The yard brightened. Raistlin looked up. The clouds passed, and the sky grew clear, blue as ever.

So much for the rain.
- 3
- 4
- 5
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Evermore: The Gathering