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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
- 41
- 42
- 43
CHAPTER 41

After a hot bath and her midnight prayers, Crysania felt a bit more like herself again.

Everything had happened so fast, too fast for her to be quite sure what was going on. Raistlin's return, Gaspar and the rebels, the ride through the night to Winter Pines Hall... It all seemed like a dream in someone else's head - a dream from which she was constantly beginning to wake, even as she fell deeper and deeper into its alluring depths.

During the journey from Palanthas, she had opted for the first self-preservation strategy that came to mind: not paying too much attention to what Raistlin was saying, not saying too much herself. Because if she did, she knew he would somehow twist things so that she'd end up not being able to think straight. So: no conversation.

She had locked the door for the same reasons. Obviously she could not stay in this room forever, but after the two-hour ride she had badly needed a moment to sort out her thoughts, to make sure her thoughts were her own. She felt exhausted, drained of all energy: it was so terribly hard being on guard all the time, shielding yourself from the possibility of old wounds reopening and of making the same mistakes all over again. And the forest in Dergoth was always there, painful and raw, hovering at the edge of her memory - something she did or said might provoke Raistlin somehow, and there would be a replay: only this time he would pin her against the wall instead of the ground, slip his hands under her dress, pressing hard into her...

With a sharp inhale, Crysania raised her hands to her flushed cheeks, shaking her head to rid the image. But she failed to hide from the flurry of her thoughts and was forced to acknowledge once and for all their disturbing import.

What she really was afraid of was that she would enjoy it. That she wanted him to.

She did not trust herself any more than she did Raistlin, and that was the truth: she had locked the door as much to keep herself in as to keep Raistlin out.

What was also true was that so much had happened so fast simply because she had allowed it, and now that she thought about it, she knew there would have been another way. For instance, she could have demanded the City Guard to arrange for her to be removed to a secure location straight away after the burglary; she could have at once contacted the vestry for help, placed herself in Paladine's hands and trusted that everything would turn out fine in the end.

Yet here she was. Alone with Raistlin in the middle of nowhere. Because that was where she had chosen to be, where she wanted to be; beyond help, beyond ability to return.

Strange, so strange to be back here after all these years, in the house that was both familiar and new. The scent was the same - the dark rich smell of wood and leather mixed with the lingering whiff of imprisoned essences - but the structure different: until now Crysania had never fully realised the enormity of the manor's dimensions, the dizzying number of its doors and hallways. But the scope did not particularly worry her: to know that she had once lived here provided her with a sense of control and security that no random inn somewhere along the road could have offered, and she was glad that in two years she had mastered the art of negotiating her immediate surroundings reasonably well on her own, only rarely misjudging distances and blundering against furniture. She had Araminta to thank for it, and when Crysania remembered the woman, the worry for her safety resurfaced, as did the guilt of knowing how rudely she had dismissed her at the end of their last meeting. If Araminta was alive - Platinum Father, let her be - she was probably just as worried right now, searching everywhere in the temple grounds with the City Guard. What would they think when they found her missing? Crysania had no idea how to contact them, to let them know she was safe. Was she? Blink just once and everything changes: the Abyss had taught her that much. But if Raistlin cared nothing for her safety, why bother to take her with him? Why not quit the city and leave her to her own devices? He had come for her. He had been there for her and made sure no one could harm her.

But still the idea of opening the door unnerved her.

Drawing a resolute breath, Crysania got up from the bed: the longer she stayed in the room, the harder it would be to exit. Besides, she was getting hungry.

Determinedly, she made her way to the dressing table and picked up her old silver brush from where it still lay at exactly the same spot where she had left it five years ago, knocked it against the wood to get rid of the dust and began running the bristles through her damp hair. What would Raistlin say or do when he saw her? He hadn't shouted, he hadn't even rattled the knob, but somehow the silence was worse. In any case, he was probably thinking that slamming doors and refusing to speak was her way of repaying what he did to her in an embarrassingly immature manner, and even if there was some tiny truth to that, she needed to go out there and prove him wrong.

Crysania put the brush back and reached out for the bottles of perfume she supposed were still standing in the left-hand corner of the table. Searching, finding, she chose one of the bottles - violet and lily-of-the-valley - and without thinking, without stopping to wonder why she did it, put some perfume on her finger and dabbed it on her wrists and neck. After that, she crossed over to the door, turned the lock and, with another breath for courage, stepped out into the corridor.

"Hello, darling."

Raistlin's voice came from her right at once, startling her. What was in it? Anger, relief, delight? Nothing? Crysania couldn't tell. Had he been waiting there the whole time for her to appear?

"Wine?" Raistlin asked jovially before Crysania could say anything, not indicating in any way that having the door locked in his face might have angered him.

"I'd rather have something to eat," Crysania replied detachedly, hoping that her tone conveyed exactly how she felt about the idea of the two of them sharing a glass of wine.

"Of course," said Raistlin. "There's some bread and cake I brought from Palanthas downstairs, still fresh enough."

They descended the stairs in silence, and downstairs Crysania once more relucantly agreed to be led through the season parlours into the yellow drawing room, where a fire already blazed in the hearth. Raistlin directed her to the table in the back, and as Crysania was seating herself, she heard him uncork a decanter of wine and pour two glasses. She told him she'd prefer water, thank you; he said he'd get some from the kitchen.

Crysania waited, quite unable to catch hold of any of the thoughts spinning wildly through her mind. She stood up anxiously and walked straight on until her hand bumped against the side of the clavichord. Right. It was still there, that ugly piece of wood and bone. She pressed one key absent-mindedly, releasing a dusty out-of-tune note that quickly died away.

From the clavichord she moved on to the low table in front of the sofa and picked up a random book. She felt the spine with her fingers: might be the poetry book that had sat there on that table for years, or the one equally neglected about different colours and how to make the best of them in one's dress.

"I'll read those poems to you if you like," said Raistlin's voice from behind her all of a sudden. She hadn't heard him return.

"No, thank you." Crysania put the book down and picked her way back to the other table.

She took a seat and let Raistlin fill her plate with slices of bread and dry cake. It was terribly intimate and far too personal, being assisted by him like that, but she was tired of struggling, and what choice did she have? Without a word she took the fork which Raistlin passed to her, but her hand hesitated over the plate.

"Don't worry," Raistlin said with mock reassurance, taking a seat across from her. "It's not poisoned."

Crysania turned her face up, as astonished as she was hurt. How could he say something like that? As if the whole thing had been a joke. How very amusing to abandon her to die alone after planning it for months, like she was nothing but a two-bit toy easily forgotten and overlooked.

Quickly blinking away the tears forming in her eyes, Crysania lowered her gaze and started to eat. She was chagrined to find that the cake was rather good. But she didn't want to make it obvious, so she only took small bites, washing them down with sips of water and keeping her face devoid of any expression, as if she was compelled to consume the cake by force of circumstances and not by choice. It was extremely quiet apart from the fire and the rain, and she could feel Raistlin scrutinising her every move, blatantly enjoying the situation. If he thought that this was somehow them being together now... No, she'd have to tell him. At first opportunity. Now.

She put down her fork, sat still for a moment and picked the fork up again.

The fire continued to blaze. The rain lashed against the windows.

"So. What did you have in mind for this place?"

Crysania looked up from her plate, grateful that Raistlin had broken the silence. "An orphanage, maybe, or a school," she replied in an equally civil tone. "I don't know yet. I'll think about it when I step into office."

Raistlin did not answer right away. Crysania heard the sound of wine being poured and the decanter set back down on the table, and then he said, "That might take a while."

Now it was Crysania's turn to remain quiet. A while - how long was a while? If she only had the chance to speak to the rebels and somehow convince them that there had been a misunderstanding, that she had always remained true to her vow of chastity and never offended Paladine, then everything would be fine again, wouldn't it? But she was too late. Too many people had already lost their lives. Heaving a little involuntary sigh, Crysania broke off another piece of the cake before her.

"Look," she heard Raistlin say softly as she listlessly forked some of the cake into her mouth. "It wasn't your fault."

Hearing the sudden empathy in his words, Crysania put her fork down again and said passionately, not even trying to hide the pain in her voice, "I just don't understand. How could they stir up so much hatred in such a short time?"

"I don't think it happened in a short time," Raistlin returned matter-of-factly. "Those clerics wanting to bring back the old faith? They'd probably been preparing the coup for months, if not years, and there's just so much anger and disappointment among the poor that it must have been ridiculously easy to rally them. So many lost their homes and were left destitute by the war. They were promised compensation, but nothing happened."

Crysania tried to interrupt, but Raistlin cut her off. "You should see the poor town. It's a hellhole of misery. When you take a stroll through the alleys and backstreets, you begin to understand why there is a certain amount of hostility there towards the authorities, including the church. All they needed was an excuse - the rebels and the poor - and when they finally got one, well, here we are."

"Rebuilding takes time," Crysania protested feebly, "it does not happen in a day."

"Nor two years, apparently," said Raistlin caustically, and added in an affected tone of nonchalance, "But I suppose time is an unjust master. The richer areas are all fine, see. Why, I wouldn't be surprised if all those shiny new buildings, running water and other comfortable facilities made them doubt if there had even been a war."

Crysania could feel her cheeks growing warm with embarrassment. Hoping that Raistlin was not looking at her yet knowing that he was, she reached out and lifted the goblet of water next to her plate, taking a small swallow, and as she did she remembered the rather one-sided conversation she and Raistlin had had about Elistan and the poverty problem when she had visited him at the Tower for the first and final time. "Benign neglect" - that's what Raistlin had jeeringly called it back then, and at the memory Crysania's face grew even more flushed from shame and guilt. She should have done more sooner, shown some initiative to drive forward the rebuilding project; but she had kept putting it off on the pretense that she had no authority to act until her inauguration, and now she was paying for that decision.

"Did you see it? The letter, I mean," she blurted out, anxious to steer the conversation in another direction.

"No. But I saw the sender enough times to know there would be trouble."

"Why? Did he say something?"

"Let's just say he wasn't very accommodating. I was quite surprised, in fact, at the chilly reception I got from him when I requested an audience with you, and later as well. Not what you'd expect from someone working for the church."

Crysania released another sigh, this time of pure irritation. Hiring Gaspar as her secretary had been one huge mistake. How could she ever have thought that a man of such rigid principles and no learning could be expected to understand that sometimes right and wrong were not absolutely clear, and that forgiveness did not mean denying the wrongness of an action? The grace of Paladine's love confirmed itself in second chances and new beginnings, which was something Gaspar had never understood. He had probably made up his mind the very moment that she had knocked on his door and asked for his aid in contacting Raistlin.

"I should have talked to him," Crysania said regretfully. "I should have explained to him that -"

"I said it wasn't your fault," Raistlin repeated. His voice had taken on a sharp edge.

Crysania shrank back in her chair and went on to finish her plate, not daring to say another word. The crackling of the fire made the silence even more pronounced, which in turn made her very aware of every little sound that she made - the scraping of her fork against the china, the rise and fall of her breath - and how all those sounds together seemed to draw attention to her like a beacon burning in the night. Nervously, as discreetly as she could, she reached to her left for her goblet, but as she lifted the cup to her lips she realised she had mistakenly taken the one with the wine in it. She almost put the goblet back, but the wine was warm and sweet, and so she took another sip. It burned as it went down, invigorating her senses and relaxing her mind.

"Anyway we're safe here," Raistlin said when the silence had stretched on for another moment. His voice was neutral, not at all irritable. "For now."

"For now?" Crysania asked faintly, still holding the goblet.

Raistlin went on to explain. "Don't get me wrong, dear. It was an excellent idea to come here, it really was, but the safety won't last very long, I'm afraid. They'll search the temple and the Tower, and when they find us both gone, they'll start sniffing for clues on our whereabouts. Where do you think they're going to look first?"

"So what are you saying?" Crysania asked, scared to hear the rest.

"I'm saying we might have to move on before they figure us out."

"But," Crysania started, wanting to protest, not knowing if it was wise to do so. She swallowed nervously as she heard Raistlin shift position in his chair, watching her, waiting for her to say more.

She was quiet for some time and then said, after carefully choosing her words, "We can't keep running forever. I mean, what if we went back and faced them? The City Guard will protect us both until a trial takes place. Because that's what we're looking at, aren't we? A trial."

"A gallows, more like. If the rebels have taken control, we're in deep trouble. You know that."

"If they have taken control. The vestry is -"

"Probably executed by now to the last man. Correct me if I'm wrong, but weren't they the ones in charge of your inauguration process?"

"Chosen and appointed by Elistan," Crysania managed to say with a numb nod, shaken to the core by the thought of those loyal old men being brutally put to death by Gaspar's accomplices.

"They wouldn't happen to have any copies of Elistan's testament stashed away in some old cupboard, would they?"

She shook her head in defeat. "He only made one. And it's gone."

Raistlin sighed. "That's not good. Not good at all."

Crysania took another sip of the wine, realising the hopelessness of her situation more clearly with each passing moment, while still refusing to acknowledge it. "I know things are looking rather bleak," she said with feigned calmness, "but there are still those who would vouch for me, I'm sure, people that remain loyal to Elistan's legacy. They must be wondering where I am, whether I'm dead or alive. I must send word that I'm all right."

"In time," Raistlin said curtly. "Too dangerous right now."

Crysania was about to speak again, but realised that nothing she said would make any difference at the moment. Raistlin was right. The situation was explosive. She was lucky to have escaped unharmed, and Raistlin had practically risked his life to help her.

Still, it took three gulps of wine before she could bring herself to say it.

"Thank you. For getting me out of there."

There was a clinking sound as Raistlin placed his fork on the side of his plate, and then he simply looked at her. Crysania could sense his gaze fixed on her face, intense and unblinking, and she could not turn away from him, couldn't move, couldn't escape even if she'd wanted to. She was the centre of his attention, and everything else faded as only the rapturous connection remained, and then he said, "That's the least I could do."

His voice was even and warm, and as he continued to look at her, Crysania knew with a strange sort of premonition - or was it hope - that Raistlin would take her hand resting on the table into his, and she quickly pulled it down into her lap before he could do that.

Not knowing what to do with herself, she took the goblet and stood up. The wise thing to do would have been to leave the room and go straight upstairs, but instead she found herself walking towards the sofa beside the fire. She didn't even know how to walk: her legs felt as weak and wobbly as her head. She had felt so confident in the city that she could handle Raistlin, but now that she was well and truly alone with him, it was obvious that her control was starting to slip.

Wearily she dropped down onto the sofa and suddenly hoped that she would never again have to rise from its soft cushion-covered lap. The game had gone on far too long: all these years she had played being strong for other people, pretending to be in charge when really she was small and weak and on the brink of collapse. She could stay here at Winter Pines Hall forever, far away from the pressure and the machinations of the church, forget about Gaspar and everyone else, and as she sat there, warmed by the wine and the fire, a frightening thought crossed her mind: what if everything had gone just the way it was supposed to go? Raistlin had claimed that Paladine had allowed his return because something was left unfinished. Was she a fool for refusing to believe it, for stubbornly waiting for a confirmation from his god, who seemed to have stopped talking to her altogether?

And again that same enticing song started in her head.

Stop running. Stop swimming.

Fall.

Sink.

Pretend there is no past.

Easy.

It will be different this time.

Disgusted with herself, Crysania drank from her cup again, dismissing the thoughts as quickly as they arose. All of a sudden the old house groaned as a violent gust of wind blew across the yard, rattling the windowpanes. She closed her eyes and listened: the world was awash with sounds you could easily mistake for footsteps creeping on the veranda or hooves approaching from the distance. She kept on listening, trying to keep her nervousness in check. There was no reason to panic, no reason at all: if the rebels found them, Raistlin could protect her with his magic. But on the other hand, she did not think she would be able to cope with that very well. Just the thought of Raistlin casting magic distressed her. The cryptic words of his spells, the tone and rhythm of his incantations... Those were the sounds of the Abyss, as was the wind that made the sands of the desert sing. Whispers, screams and howls: that's what the end had sounded like.

Through the noise of the rain came the soft pad of Raistlin's footsteps, then two thuds as he placed the decanter and his goblet on the table. Crysania stiffened, but thankfully Raistlin settled himself on another chair across from her.

"Impressive, the tapestry up there," he observed in a good-natured conversational tone, referring to the wall hanging above the fireplace depicting the legend of Huma. "Clerics? Interesting," he added after a short pause, having explored the work of art more closely.

Crysania shrugged. "Religion is fine, I suppose, as long as it's limited to art."

"Or death. Amazingly common, deathbed conversions, even among the nobility. I saw it countless of times when I worked as a wound-dresser."

"You worked as wound-dresser? When?" Crysania asked, surprised, and realising too late that she was showing interest. She promised herself that after Raistlin's reply she would put a stop to the conversation and leave, but not before telling him - about time - that she wasn't his dear or darling.

"Long ago, in Haven," Raistlin said musingly, "when my brother and I served as mercenaries in the army of a great lord. Baron Ivor of Langtree, that was his name. Don't tell me you're related to him," he added playfully.

"I'm not," Crysania said, amazed to hear the name after so many years. "But I met him several times, at the Mayor's Ball."

"Oh, the Mayor's Ball," Raistlin echoed. "The stuffy affair thronged with lords and ladies from all over the world that you absolutely hated?" Seeing her surprise, he continued, "Remember that night in Dergoth when the wind was so strong it nearly blew the tent in? That's when I first heard about the Monster's Ball, and may I say you described the horror of it so well that it could have been me in that dress waltzing and curtseying every which way." He rounded it off with a little laugh.

Not feeling like laughing, Crysania turned her face away from Raistlin so that he would not see the cutting pain the memory inflicted. That night in Dergoth, of course she remembered that stormy night, and it hurt so bad to think back on the situation and herself in that wind-beaten tent: she had been so in love and so desperately lost in his maze of lies and empty promises. And yet, awful as it was, the memory held an unending fascination: those first weeks and months when she could still believe everything Raistlin said had been the happiest in her life, and she knew that if a door into that past would suddenly open up before her, she would not think twice about stepping through. Even with the end being what it was.

Afterwards, when she had recovered consciousness in Palanthas, her first thought had been that they had succeeded. For a second she had believed that Raistlin was there, sitting by her bedside, waiting for her to wake up so that he could take her in his arms and hold her.

That was the worst moment. Remembering, little by little. Realising that they had not. That he was not.

But he was here now: the door into that past had opened, and she did not think she was strong enough to pull it shut.

All she could do was sit and listen, as Raistlin went on punching holes in the wall she had taken two years to build.

"I remember myself thinking, and I still do," he was saying with a smile in his voice, "that it was truly admirable of you to leave all that behind. Most girls would never have abandoned a life like this. I think that's when I knew."

Crysania stared vacantly into the darkness behind him. "Knew what?"

"That you were special. That I had never met anyone like you."

Her face remained blank despite the wound that opened up in her heart. Every word Raistlin spoke seemed to cut her like a knife, and to deafen the pain she said quickly, "It was not my decision to make. Paladine spoke to me and called me to His service."

A pause. Then: "Is that so?"

"Yes."

"So you would have chosen the Mayor's Ball?"

"No," Crysania cried, upset to be reminded of that old insecurity, and even though she knew she did not owe Raistlin an explanation, she went on to explain anyway. "The Platinum Father sees into our hearts and knows our souls. He saw my plight and showed me the way. He gave me a miracle and led me into a new life from the life that didn't have the answers I needed. And so I followed His call, leaving behind my family and my betrothed, knowing that -"

"Your betrothed."

Raistlin's voice had changed. Unsure of what to expect, Crysania looked up and said insecurely, "Yes."

"You never told me you were engaged."

Still that same voice, flat and toneless. She was so stunned by the sudden change that she did not know what to say. "It was... unimportant," she muttered after a moment, feeling that some sort of explanation was expected from her. "A duty. You know how it is with arranged marriages."

"So your parents chose you a husband?"

"Yes. After they got tired of waiting. I didn't want a husband. Didn't I tell you?" Crysania asked, getting more nervous by the second. How did the conversation come around to this?

"You told me your parents wanted you to marry, but you didn't mention the engagement."

Crysania kept staring in Raistlin's direction, wondering what would happen next. Was she supposed to say she was sorry? For that ridiculous arrangement? "I didn't think it was important," she said again in a voice that came out barely above a whisper.

"How long did it last?"

"A couple of years."

"How many?"

"Five."

"That's a long time."

"There was the war," Crysania stammered, so tense by now that she had started to fiddle with her pendant without even realising she was doing so. "The wedding had to be postponed, and nothing could have made me happier."

"And how about your husband-to-be? Was he happy too?"

"He was a little disappointed, I suppose."

"Oh, I'm sure he was," Raistlin said dryly. "What did he say when you left him for Paladine?"

"I don't know. I never saw him again. I never thought about it again." There. Would he stop asking questions now?

"What was he like?"

Crysania blinked, bemused. "He was just a boy. I can hardly remember his face," she said pleadingly, and when Raistlin didn't respond, she went on to add, "I met him about five times in all, always under the supervision of our parents."

"What did you do together?"

"We played."

"What did you play?" His voice was deceptively placid.

"Parlour games."

"What kind of parlour games?"

"Memory games. The tray game."

"What did you talk about?"

Not sure which was the correct answer, Crysania remained quiet and then said, "Nothing."

"So you played in silence? That's funny."

"No. Yes. I mean, we weren't alone. My mother was there, his mother, all the servants. It was just meaningless chit-chat." Her voice had started to tremble. Her hand was clutching the pendant tightly, like a lifeline.

Raistlin stared at Crysania for a long, tense moment, and then she heard him shift in his chair and felt his attention leave her face. Relieved, she took a deep swig of her drink, feeling vaguely guilty and hating that stupid engagement even more now than before.

When Raistlin spoke again, all the tension in his voice had evaporated. "It must have been hard for your parents to let you go."

Angry at herself for getting so nervous over a silly little conversation, Crysania cleared her throat and said collectedly, although her voice still carried a hint of disquiet, "I was their only hope. The direct line will die out with me one day."

"You did what you had to do," Raistlin replied without a pause. "Life that didn't have the answers you needed, right? You were lucky to see that, Crysania. Most people never do, or they face the truth only when death comes knocking. They look into his eyes, into those hollow black pits, and realise that all their life has been a play, that throughout their wretched existence they've spoken someone else's lines and followed someone else's directions, and all the while the curtain is coming down, and it's too late to go back and cancel the lie."

Crysania listened, barely breathing and mesmerised by Raistlin's voice, by his piercing gaze she could feel searing into her as he spoke. Like always, he seemed to be reading her mind: it was as if every word was drawn from her own soul, although she hadn't known those words existed, and she could have gone on listening to him for hours. It had always been so easy to talk to him. His mind was always a step ahead, and he would catch her meaning from half a word so that there was no need to explain herself twice. She had never experienced a connection like that with anyone: she had known it back then and she knew it still, no matter how she tried to deny it.

"To live one's life without knowing oneself - that's not life," Raistlin said. "Looking into the mirror and instead of yourself seeing your mother or your father; their hopes, their dreams, their fears. Knowing that you have been just an extension, as if you owed your parents a debt for bringing you into existence in this rotten dungeon. Living someone else's life, that's bad. Living someone else's death - even worse."

"I know," Crysania breathed out. There was nothing else to say, no other words that would have conveyed a more precise meaning: she knew that Raistlin knew and Raistlin knew that she knew everything there was to know about everything that mattered.

For the first time in a long time, Crysania felt life rushing through her, hot and wild, washing away the numbness and flooding her body with fire. She was frightened, yes, but she was also feeling curiously light-hearted as the pleasure of feeling real and alive thrummed in her veins, demanding more, and she never wanted it to stop. She lifted the goblet from the table and tasted the wine again, then in the heat of the moment said to Raistlin, "You once promised you'd tell me about your mother one day."

She regretted her impulsive words as soon as she uttered them. She couldn't read the silence that followed, and her nervousness returned. Then just as she was about to apologise, Raistlin spoke.

"My mother."

There was another long pause before he went on.

"She was... very ill. I took care of her. Fed her, bathed her, combed her hair, kept her company. Sometimes she would go for weeks without speaking, just staring at the ceiling. And sometimes she just wouldn't stop screaming."

Screaming? Crysania could feel the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand up at Raistlin's words. His voice was quiet and controlled, but something brittle had appeared in it, something that she had never heard before. Not daring to interrupt, she let him speak.

"My father and sister drove us out of her room, said we were too young. But I knew they weren't doing it right. Talking made her anxious. She needed silence, total silence, or songs. My father and sister didn't know that. They kept talking to her, trying to calm her down by endless chatter, and so we had to listen to her screaming all night."

Sitting absolutely still, both terrified and intrigued, Crysania listened as Raistlin recounted the story of his childhood, his words mingling with the soft crackle of the fire.

"She had good days, but they couldn't be counted on to last. Sometimes she would put her clothes on inside out or backwards, and go out visiting the neighbours. We would look for her everywhere, not knowing whether we'd find her face down in the river or sitting in a stranger's kitchen, blathering on about faces in the walls."

"But... what caused it?" Crysania just about managed to form the words. Her throat was as dry as dust.

"I did," Raistlin said, the bitter smirk audible in his voice.

"You?" Crysania exhaled, confused.

"She never recovered from giving birth to my brother and I," Raistlin said. "Caramon was fine, he was easy and fast, but I came out feet first and took too long. Mother was never the same again. She'd had some problems before, she'd been prescient all her life, but our birth changed everything for the worse, and father never stopped reminding me. Not in so many words, but I could see it in his eyes, in everything he did. Caramon was his boy, the son he had been praying for, someone who could help him cut trees and roll logs. I was the incident that nearly killed his wife, sickly and quite unfit for hard work. I was dragged along by way of formality, to be sure, but every time father looked at me, I could almost hear him thinking that they should have done as the midwife said and left me to die."

"You can't mean that," Crysania said warily, when Raistlin remained silent for several moments. "If he loved your brother, I'm sure he loved you, too. I'm sure he was proud to have two growing boys."

Raistlin scoffed. "Was he? One more mouth to feed, how can that be any good for a man trying to scratch a living from woodcutting? Caramon was put to work as soon as we were old enough to do any, but I was a liability, reading useless books, studying useless subjects. Father never understood magic, thought it was a waste of time and not a patch on hard honest work. He didn't think I was doing my part in bringing food to our table, see, and if I'd been a normal healthy boy like his beloved Caramon, then perhaps we wouldn't have had to starve. Yes, starve," Raistlin repeated, seeing the expression on Crysania's face. "Sometimes we'd go without properly eating for weeks. Caramon and I were often left alone for days when father's work took him away. Kitiara was always on the run, looking for her own father around the world, and mother, well, you understand she wasn't up for any cooking. So we'd eat what we could find, and luckily Caramon was well-liked by our neighbours. I'd give my share to mother, though. She would always eat a little if it was me doing the feeding. Now, if it was father or Caramon..." Raistlin shook his head. "My brother couldn't handle it. You needed to be quiet and calm with mother, as if you knew what you were doing. You needed to show her that the world around her wasn't falling apart."

He was silent again. Crysania sipped her wine, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. But all she could see was two little boys, desperately hungry and alone with an unbalanced mother in a dark miserable hovel of a house, and to know that one of those boys had been Raistlin only made the lump grow bigger. If she'd known all this...

Raistlin's voice interrupted her thoughts. "But while I was away in school, father and Caramon had to take care of her. She didn't want me to go. She was convinced that magic was evil and tried to talk me out of it when she was lucid enough to manage a conversation. She wanted me to stay and nurse her for the rest of my life. So, as you can see, you're not the only one to have turned your back on what was expected of you. If I hadn't made that choice, I would have lost myself. I would have looked in the mirror and seen the reflection of my mother. A weak, pathetic wreck."

Raistlin spat out the final words in a vicious tone that made Crysania feel cold all over. The love she had detected in his voice - that she thought she had detected - was suddenly gone, turned into icy contempt.

"Anyway," Raistlin said steadily after a pause, "my father was killed in a work accident when I was sixteen, and soon after that mother died too. She would no longer eat, not even a bite, no matter what I did. I sat by her side through those last days, barely sleeping, never letting go of her hand."

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then, quietly, he said, "But that was no good, and in the end she just slipped away."

Crysania was lost for words and blinking tears. How she wanted to take that hurt from Raistlin and carry it, to stop that wound from bleeding. "I... I'm sorry," she managed, hearing the crack in her voice.

"Thank you," Raistlin said, and from the way he said it, Crysania knew he meant it.

"What was her name?" she asked gently.

"Rosamun." Then he said with a smile in a lighter voice, "Do you know that she told me about you? She said that one day a woman in white would save me."

Crysania lowered her head in confusion. "And see what happened," she mumbled, raising an upturned hand to indicate their surroundings, the situation, the past - everything.

"That was then, this is now."

Again that phrase - so enticing in its simplicity. Suddenly Crysania felt a powerful urge to reach out a hand and see: she wanted to run a finger along Raistlin's jawline, across his lips and down his nose, to brush his cheeks with the backs of her hands. How long was his hair? As long as back then? Was he wearing a robe? She imagined the feel of the velvet against her hands, the line of frog-and-knot closures, the golden runes, the black boots with iron spurs. She imagined him sitting there across from her, the most striking-looking man she had ever seen, intently watching her, wanting her, and all of a sudden Crysania knew as clearly as if Raistlin had told her that he enjoyed having her exposed to his gaze like that, vulnerable and powerless, and she also knew that the thought both terrified and thrilled her at once.

Trying not to show it, she put on her professional face and resorted to deliberately misunderstanding the insinuation in Raistlin's words. "Well. I did what I could. I'm glad you followed my advice and went to the shrine, so that Paladine could -"

"Paladine did not come. You did."

Crysania fell silent. Saying goodbye, wanting to make sure Raistlin had kept his promise - excuses, all of them. But she'd be damned if she'd let him know it. "The Platinum Father was there. He is all around us, guiding and protecting us at all times."

"Could be," Raistlin said indifferently. "But He and I had already spoken. I only went to the shrine, because" - he dropped his voice to a challenging half-whisper - "I knew you would."

For a moment Crysania was so outraged that she couldn't utter a word. But she quickly collected herself and said imperiously, "For your information, I came because -"

"Because Paladine sent you, and you wanted to do your duty as a cleric." Raistlin inhaled deeply, and when he exhaled, he did it with a slow and drawn-out "Yeah."

The way he said it aggravated Crysania even more. She took yet another sip and said in a tone of conscious importance, "You're right. I came because Paladine commanded me to do so. That is the truth and if you refuse to believe it, then frankly I don't know what I could do to change your mind. I go where Paladine leads me and I do not question His will."

There was a rustle as Raistlin leaned forward in his chair and looking at her said in a low voice, "Good girl."

Stunned beyond words, Crysania sat still with her mouth open, her eyes wide with indignation. The way he'd said that. Mocking, enjoying her helpless rage, tingling with something that made her feel hot and dazed, and irrationally enough she wanted Raistlin to say those words to her again. The wine burned in her veins and stung her cheeks, and - Paladine forgive her - she now realised to her dismay that what she was feeling was a crushing sense of arousal. She was thoroughly damp between her legs - had been for quite some time - and as soon as she became aware of it, something dangerously close to pleasure threatened to awake.

She rubbed her arms, embarrassed, and said stiffly, just to say something, "The fire's down."

Raistlin looked at her in silence before saying with amusement, "Is it? I can keep it up if you want."

Hearing the equivocal smirk in Raistlin's voice, Crysania flushed deep red. She was certain he could see the way her body was responding to him as well as the image that was pressing its way through to her consciousness: Raistlin slipping his hand between her thighs, hard and firm, whispering "good girl" in her ear.

No more wine, Crysania decided, placing the goblet on the table. She had already drunk too much. And said too much. She would go upstairs and ask Paladine's forgiveness for her thoughts and her acts and the whole awful night. Soon. Right now she couldn't find the strength to even lift a hand, and so when she heard Raistlin stand up she just sat still in her corner, rigid with fear that he was coming to her. He wasn't; he went over to the hearth to stir the fire back to life.

Poking the embers and throwing more wood into the fireplace, Raistlin kept taking glances at Crysania while he worked. His concentration was focused not on his task but her; everything else seemed secondary to the fact that Crysania was sitting there on the sofa with her ankles daintily crossed, her hair gathered over one shoulder; a little bit intoxicated, a little bit upset. Just the way he wanted her.

When he walked back to the seating area, she looked up and said, "That was fast."

"Yes, well, I can be pretty fast when I want to, you know," Raistlin replied, again in such a meaningful fashion that Crysania blushed all over again with a small disapproving frown.

Smiling, Raistlin took a seat - no longer on a separate chair, but on the opposite end of the couch from Crysania. He wanted - needed - to be closer to her body and breathe in the faint scent of violets coming from her hair and skin, and he was pleased to see she did not retreat from him this time. She had started the evening quiet and reserved, holding her arms tightly crossed over her chest - the hands-off posture she always assumed in his presence - but now her attitude was receptive, even attentive. She'd forgotten herself when he'd told her about mother, her sweet face warm with compassion, tears standing in her milky eyes. Raistlin was surprised at how much he had told her and even more surprised at how much lighter he had felt after the telling. For a moment the shame had vanished, taking with it every hurt he had ever felt, every scornful word and every punch, the whole pain of never fitting in replaced with the thrill of being wanted. Just looking at Crysania made him forget, and he knew that only her love would soothe him, bring him peace of mind he had never known. No longer would he have to wake up sweaty and shaken from the recurring dream he'd had even before his long sleep in the Abyss, the nightmare in which he couldn't find her and couldn't get to her to tell her that he adored her, the knowledge that she was gone creeping up behind him like a huge dark wave of despair.

The wind howled past the house, tearing through the chestnut trees in the yard. A branch rapped against the window sheeted with rain, startling Crysania. She knew it was just a branch, not someone trying to get in, but she kept on listening to the noises outside with a raised head and said, "Do you really think we're safe here?"

"Yes. For the time being," Raistlin replied, studying the curve of her neck.

"But what if we have to leave? What then?"

He shifted his gaze down to her breasts. "I'll figure something out."

"But I'm still thinking, what if we went back and -"

"We're not going back," Raistlin said sternly, but seeing Crysania's face, he added quickly, "Not now, I mean."

He took more wine, irritated at the stubbornness she was again showing. What delusion? How hard could it be to understand that they were not going to return? That her career in Palanthas was over, finished, done with? She was clearly going to say something further, so he waited, looking at the woman over the rim of his cup as he sipped.

After a short silence Crysania muttered, "It's just that, escaping the city, vanishing... Doesn't that strike you as a sort of" - she searched for the word - "admission of guilt?" She had started to play with the ends of her hair, twirling a strand around her finger.

"I don't know. You tell me," said Raistlin casually as he slowly and quietly poured more wine into Crysania's goblet on the table for the second time without her realising it. "What are you feeling guilty about? Holding hands, sharing a couple of caresses? Or this?"

"We're just talking," she said tautly.

"But they don't know that, do they? They're thinking that we're -"

"I know what they're thinking," Crysania snapped and reached for her drink to hide her embarrassment. With the abrupt movement her sleeve slipped off her shoulder; not noticing, she brought the cup to her lips and drank, her face aglow in the light of the fire.

Her bare shoulder was very white and smooth, almost begging to be grasped and burned. She was still twirling her hair, her gaze locked on a random spot on the floor. Raistlin's eyes wandered to her soft mouth, wet with wine, and down to the centre of her crotch: two tight holes with a firm fit, untouched by any other man. Completely his, so pure and chaste, bendable into any position like a good little doll.

A good little doll who had done anything and everything to please him, whom he had wanted for three long years, ever since he had first laid eyes on her in the Great Library.

Three years. That was a bit too much.

With a barely suppressed sigh, he laid a hand between his legs and held it there. No need to try to hide it; she couldn't see how incredibly hard he had become - again. And since she couldn't see it, she might as well feel it: he could very easily reach out, capture her arms and draw her into his lap.

Instead he said to her, "I love the way you do that." He was so aroused that he was certain she could hear it in his voice.

Crysania's fingers stopped. "Do what?"

"That thing with your hair."

Her face froze and she put her hand down at once. Crossing her arms and turning towards the fire, she left him staring at her with his raw need that was slowly starting to overwhelm him.

A bit too much indeed.

He could hold her so tight that she couldn't help it. She wanted it, he knew she did. And not only did she want it, but she wanted it like he wanted it - hadn't he known it from the moment she had sat down on his sofa in the Tower and looked at him with those large vulnerable eyes of hers?

The thought almost made him moan out loud, even as Crysania's behaviour was beginning to really get on his nerves. She certainly hadn't cared for her holy vows in Dergoth. She had made him lose control and now she was doing it again, pretending ignorance with a straight face, yet perfectly aware of what she was doing to him.

All it would take was a series of simple movements: seize, push down, hitch up, thrust.

But no. No, no, no.

Raistlin placed his cup on the table and rubbed his burning eyes. It was a pleasant little fantasy, but there was no way he would screw this up. He would play her slowly and keep playing until she would beg him to take her.

With his hand shaking just a little, he leaned forward towards Crysania and pulled her sleeve back up. She drew back with a small sound of surprise and stood up somewhat nervously.

"It is time for my prayers," she said.

Raistlin got up too. "Of course. I apologise for keeping you so long."

It was raining still, and the branch kept drumming against the pane in the whirling wind. The pendulum inside the tower of the longcase clock had long since stopped swinging, but from the complete darkness at the edges of the room Raistlin judged that it must be about three in the morning.

He followed Crysania into the cold hall, enjoying the view of her slim backside. It was amazing the way she moved: her steps were light and graceful, as determinate and fearless as her hand holding the fork had been. Anyone watching her nimbly make her way up the stairs never would have guessed that she was blind.

At the door she stopped with her hand on the knob, as if hesitating whether or not to enter.

"Good night, Crysania," Raistlin said, wordlessly urging her to invite him in.

She didn't respond. She had already opened the door, when she paused briefly and said without turning, "Good night."

Then the door closed after her, and there was a distinct click as she turned the lock.

At the sound Raistlin's irritation returned, blending into the tangle of frustration and lust throbbing inside him, too strong to contain a moment longer.

With movements that were tense with restrained desire, he turned and stalked into his room. In the glow of the low fire, he stood still and listened, and soon he could discern her voice rising in prayer behind the wall that separated them. Closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against the wall, he unbuttoned his trousers and took himself in hand.

"Most merciful Father, pure brightness of the eternal Light..."

I force her arms behind her and make her kneel

"stay with me, for the night is come and the day is past..."

To whom do you belong?

"guide me on my way so that I will not stray..."

Pray, Revered Daughter

"for the sake of your love grant me forgiveness..."

Harder, my love

"for any transgressions I have made..."

I grab her hair, twist her head to see her eyes

"give me the fortitude to stand strong in the face of opposition..."

To whom do you belong? Say it!

"drive far from me all snares of the enemy; send your Holy Light to fill me..."

She is so hot and tight, slick and sweet

"to protect me from my own weaknesses; send your Holy Light to counsel and defend me..."

Bow to me

"make me the instrument of your grace and the vessel for your love..."

I am god

"for you are the first, the last, and always the same."

Master, she gasps. Hurt me.

He came hard, trying to keep his voice down, at the same time not caring if she heard him. Head spinning and ears ringing, he staggered over to the bed and fell in, not bothering to take off his clothes.

It was still dark when Raistlin woke up some hours later, shivering and covered in sweat. But the dream did not dissolve upon waking: he could still see Molly Bredell's face before him, twisted with anger and pain, her mouth spitting out words dripping with disdain:

I let you into my house. I called you a hero.

And then Laura was there beside her mother, crying, but when he looked again, it was not Laura but Crysania, and when he opened his hands he saw they were red with blood.

Raistlin lay on his back in the early morning dark, his eyes open wide, not hearing the rain still drumming on the windows.

Farag would have stopped. Farag would have turned around, and watching the acolyte go he would have lifted the knife from Laura's throat and told her that it had been necessary and that he never would have harmed her for real.

But in his heart Raistlin knew, had known all along, that Farag was beyond reason. He had seen the light in the acolyte's eyes: Paladine was whispering in Farag's ear - the ancient violent incarnation that had risen from the Blood Sea at the dawn of the world - and he would stop for nothing to make things right according to His word.

They would come, sooner rather than later.

Unable to sleep any longer, Raistlin left the bed and searched in his bag until he found what he was looking for.

He sat down at the table and spread out the piece of paper before him.

Just a short message. He could post it in the village later today.

He picked up the quill and wrote the first line:

Brother.
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Evermore: The Gathering