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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
- 43
- 44
- 45
CHAPTER 43

How much time had passed already?

The village was only about a half-hour ride to the west. He'd said he'd be gone an hour and a half, maybe two, acquire some supplies and see if there was any news from Palanthas.

She should have demanded to go with him. Instead, she had feigned confidence through the door, struggling to keep from her voice the panic that was rising in her chest.

That was an hour ago. At least.

What if he had left her again? She'd have to stay in the house; she could not get anywhere on her own. Eventually hunger would drive her out and she would wander off into the forest, hoping for someone to help her, but instead walking straight into the arms of the rebels looking for her. Or maybe she would freeze to death in the rain slowly turning to snow.

With fear threatening to engulf her, Crysania clasped her hands again and concentrated her thoughts on the Silver Triangle. "Platinum Father," she whispered. "I thank you for the hardships that beset me, because I know you sent them to train and improve me. Forgive my weaknesses and failures, and strengthen me to do your will."

Weaknesses and failures, indeed. Thinking about last night made her cringe. Her plan had been to eat a little and return upstairs at once, but somehow the planned quarter of an hour had changed into two hours, and the quick snack into a glass of wine. She couldn't even count how many times she had thought to herself that she should be going. But every time she had found herself staying a little longer, and before she realised, another hour had gone by.

It must have been the wine. She had gone too far in her thoughts and words. No more slips.

Her knees were starting to hurt. She got up from the floor, and as she sat on her old bed she suddenly remembered something. Slipping her hand behind the headboard, she fumbled around until her fingers happened on the corner of a small object propped between the wall and the bedframe. Her heart leaping, Crysania pulled the object out and, placing it across her knees, spent some moments exploring with her fingertips its familiar curves and ridges. Then, to distract her mind from the anxious wait, she opened the lid of that oaken box and began to examine her childhood treasures, one by one lifting them out of the box onto the bed. It was lovely to be reunited with her secrets: every time she identified an item by touch, she felt like a child all over again, filled with excitement and anticipation. There was the tiny white porcelain mouse with round black eyes as small as pinheads, found in the yard one day after the guests had left; there was the corner of an ancient map with the smell of parchment, found between the pages of a book in the library; there was also the playing card representing the Queen of Cups, found under one of the sofas in the games room. She could still remember the proud expression on the Queen's face: she had wanted to grow up to be like her, and frequently she had pictured herself turning down a marriage proposal looking like that, head slightly turned away, hands regally clasped before her. She had been so thrilled to have that card. It had a touch of the forbidden, an irrestistible dash of mystery: games of cards and dice were strictly male territory, and rare were the occasions when she had been allowed into her father's rooms.

The box was almost empty; there was one final item, the pink seashell that had fallen out of one of her father's taxidermy display cases during the spring cleaning. Crysania picked it up and held it to her ear, and as she listened to the ocean murmuring to her, she suddenly realised that her guilt, once as deep as the seas themselves, had mellowed and changed.

For years she had imagined those scenes and conversations in tears: her parents calling off the wedding, choking with shame and sorrow, trying to avoid questions about their daughter's sudden departure. Mother drinking a cup of wine after another, refusing to believe there wouldn't ever be a wedding; father staring at the family tree in the library, eyes swimming with hurt. Both taking ill with the plague and crawling into bed to die - for what was there to live and fight for when you knew your bloodline would fade out?

Yes, she had defied them, snarling and clawing, hating everything they represented. Yes, she had turned her back on them, on everything they ever knew and held dear.

But she had done it to see herself in the mirror, to be able to live her own death.

Reaching a finger inside the shell, Crysania pried out a tiny scroll and unrolled it. She could not remember exactly what the scroll said, but it was a bad luck spell of sorts, purchased at a market in Palanthas at the time when she had been at her most difficult. She was embarrassed to remember how grown-up and independent buying that silly item had made her feel, and although she did not have the heart to write her parents' names in the blank spaces between the lines, just knowing that she had the curse in her secret box behind the bed was enough to give her a feeling of power.

With the scroll in her hand, Crysania got up onto her feet, walked over to the window, opened it, ripped the curse to shreds and scattered the pieces to the autumn winds. She stood breathing in the brisk air carrying a hint of smoke from some faraway fire and the scent of the winter to come, relishing the sense of dawn in the dark corner of her soul long battered by heavy rain. Despite everything, it was good to be here, to walk these corridors again, to lay in her old bed. If only she'd come earlier, under different circumstances, and forced herself to face the ghost of her childhood head-on, she could have said her goodbyes a lot sooner.

But deep down Crysania was aware that it was not the house who knew her for what she was, any more than it was the wine that had made her hot and dizzy. For even without the wine, she could feel that all-consuming connection that had stirred to life between them as Raistlin had drawn from her soul the words that would liberate and purge her: it was as if they were each other's mirrors, different and yet the same, alone in a world that fitted just the two of them, and in that world everything was perfectly in place and permeated by that perverse sense of serenity that last night had enveloped her like a mantle of oblivion. With Raistlin she didn't have to pretend. After all, he was the only one who knew exactly what had happened.

She could just say the word, and stay.

Too tempting, too dreadful, all at the same time. Lost and helpless, she felt her desire to escape and to be bound; to put a stop and to go on.

Only a few weeks, she reminded herself, and then this insane dream would come to an end. She would stay strong and not give in to a disaster.

Soon she would return to Palanthas, and the City Guard would help her. The rebels were only a few in number - what were they against hundreds of clerics loyal to Elistan? There would be a trial, and many would testify on her behalf; she would convince the judges that she had physically never violated the tenets of her faith and explain to the world that her love was the reflection of Paladine's goodness, righteousness and truth. She would make sure they understood that, and she would demand that Raistlin's crime go unpunished, for Paladine Himself had first granted him peace and then allowed his return.

And then what? She would be inaugurated, finally, and they would go their separate ways and move forward with their lives on their own; she in the temple, he at the Tower? Would he give up on her? As soon as the thought came, it terrified Crysania.

But there was no use thinking that way. Even if there was a trial where she could vindicate herself, she would never be head of the church, not anymore. But would they strip her of her title as well and defrock her? And then what? What would she do and where would she go? Back here? Buy a house in Palanthas? Or, she could just say the word. Knock on Raistlin's door and never leave again. Enter that world where she did not need to struggle, where Raistlin would take care of her.

Of course, there was also the third option: as Raistlin had said, it was entirely possible that the rebels had gained possession of the city, guarding all the gates and keeping constant surveillance, and sending out search parties to hunt them down and slay them.

Crysania's hands were turning cold, and the raw wind made her shiver, even as a fine mist of perspiration broke out on her brow. She stepped back from the window and seated herself by the fire, wincing at the sudden flash of pain: even after two years, her right hip still hurt in cold weather, like there was a splinter of ice lodged in her flesh. She waited, and when the ache had settled, she merely sat still in a state of bewilderment, plucking nervously at the pillow in her lap and tracing with a finger the letter "C" embroidered on it. Please come back, she kept whispering in her mind. Please please come back.

As the quiet minutes passed, Crysania suddenly remembered the strange woman in her dream in the early hours of the morning when she'd finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep. Tall, blonde, older than she, just sitting in a chair in the middle of the white and looking at her without saying a word. Her hair was dishevelled and she appeared sad, but not at all hostile. Crysania had never seen the woman before, which was most peculiar, as she had not seen new faces in her dreams in a long time, only faces she had known in the days when she still had her sight.

A faint sound outside the door broke Crysania's train of thought. Her finger on the pillow stopped; she listened hard, and as she realised it was the sound of steps coming up the stairs, her whole body tensed up. Could be one of the rebels. Could be anybody. They would have seen the smoke from the chimneys and forced the lock on the gate.

Just as she was about to grab the fire iron, a knock sounded on the door and Raistlin's voice said, "It's me, dear. Open up."

So weak from relief that she could barely walk, Crysania rushed to the door and opened it a crack. As soon as she came into view, Raistlin asked urgently, "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," Crysania replied with great dignity, although she was still shaking inside and furthermore overwhelmed by Raistlin's show of concern. "You found the village, I assume."

"I did. Look," Raistlin said, "could you at least let me in? It's cold out here in the hallway."

She moved aside from the door and made way for him.

"No good news, I'm afraid," Raistlin said as he entered the room, and Crysania's heart sank. "I had a word with a couple of bread sellers. They'd been turned back at the gates in the morning by a line of what they claimed were heavily armed clerics - no, let me finish - and apparently the fires are still not under control, for they'd seen columns of smoke all around. Now, on their way back, the merchants had shared the road with people fleeing the city, who reported that there were at least two hundred dead, maybe more, and they also said that looters were all over the shops and buildings, barking and baying like a pack of wild dogs. Add to that the escaped prisoners, and you'll have a pretty good idea of the situation."

"Two hundred?" A great wave of weakness came over Crysania, and she had to sit down.

"Yes. It is just as I feared. We can't possibly return, not until the City Guard regain control."

"And when will that be?"

"Two weeks, a month, half a year - who can tell? From the looks of it, they've got their hands full."

"Half a year? But that's impossible," Crysania gasped. "What if those men you talked to were mistaken, and they weren't clerics at the gates but soldiers?" As soon as she'd said it, she felt alarmed. What if Raistlin was lying? Was it possible that he had never talked to any bread merchants at all and was making it all up just to... to what? She could not come up with anything conclusive, not here, not in any other situation. The Abyss had shattered all certainties, and it was terribly frightening, never knowing what Raistlin might do or when he might do it.

"Those men were bread sellers," Raistlin replied in a tone that brook no argument. "They travel daily to the city to trade their products. Surely they can tell the difference between a priest and a military person, don't you think?"

Crysania did not know what to think. Dismayed, she propped an elbow on the armrest and pressed her fingers to her forehead, trying to make sense of the insensible. The smell of blood, the noise of destruction: that was no lie. What Raistlin was saying was entirely plausible. The rebels were seeking a full reformation of worship, and what better way to start than by taking over Paladine's capital?

Vehemently shaking her head, she said, "This is not Paladine's work. It can't be." She hated the note of hysterics creeping into her voice. But she was too distraught to control it.

"Hey." She heard a rustle of movement, and a moment later Raistlin's voice was much closer, and he seemed to be squatting down beside her chair. "I told you I wouldn't let anything bad happen to you, and I won't. Everything will be fine, I promise. You're going to be all right. And Paladine is on your side, I know He is."

Crysania held her breath, her hands convulsively gripping the arms of the chair, and she had an awful feeling that if Raistlin stood up right now and took her in his arms, she might do something really stupid. Like burst into tears. Or kiss him. Both.

"So what happens now?" she asked hoarsely.

"We're not going to sit around and wait for them, that's for sure," Raistlin answered resolutely. "We're leaving. Tomorrow, or the day after. We'll head south for Solamnia."

Crysania's heart lurched. "Solamnia?" She hadn't thought to go so far.

"I know it wasn't the original plan, but it's our best choice right now. Our only choice. Think about it," he said encouragingly. "We'll check into an inn, a very comfortable inn, and find someone to help us, someone who'll ride to Palanthas to deliver a message to the City Guard. And once we get word that it's safe to return, we return. Or they send someone to get us. All right? Sound good?"

He made it sound so easy, so simple, almost exciting. Just like he'd made it sound two years ago.

"It's a long ride to Solamnia," Crysania remarked bleakly, as if the fact could be changed by pointing it out.

"I know. But we're gonna make it."

"If you say so," she heard herself say, even as a cold tendril of fear slithered into her chest. "Tomorrow?"

"The sooner the better. But there's nothing you need to worry about, you hear? I've taken care of everything. We've got food and supplies for the road ahead, and looks like the weather should hold for a few more days."

"Did you arrange the weather too?" Crysania asked, the flat sarcasm in her voice masking her anxiety.

Raistlin blew a soft laugh through his nose. "If that's what it takes."

He gazed at her for another moment before standing up from his squatting position and moving away. There was a short silence, after which he said, intrigued, "What are all these items on the bed?"

Crysania had forgotten she had never put them back into the chest. Embarrassed, she rose from her chair and walked slowly across the carpet to the bed. "Just something I kept as a child. Stupid, really."

Raistlin did not say anything, but Crysania could tell he was looking at the objects with interest.

"Where did this map come from?" he suddenly asked, surprise and astonishment mingling in his voice.

"Oh, the map. I found it between the pages of a book in the library," Crysania said, resting her hand on the bedpost. "Why?"

Raistlin ignored her question in his increasing excitement. "You mean this library? Downstairs?"

"Yes."

"Which book?" Raistlin demanded.

Crysania's mind went blank at the question. Her grip tightened on the bedpost involuntarily, and for a moment her memory put her back in the Tower where Raistlin had transported them by magic in the hope of finding the Portal to the Abyss. But the Portal was not there, and Astinus had told her that information about its location would come with a cost and that Raistlin knew what the cost was. That was all Astinus had told her, and that's what she had tried to tell Raistlin. But Raistlin...

"The book, um, it was white with blank covers and lots of empty pages," she stammered, suddenly glad that it had not been an ordinary book, but one strange enough to remember. "There was no writing in it, just a couple of pictures and the torn map. I suppose the printing mistakes made it valuable, so father kept it."

But Raistlin had caught hold of her wrist and held it very tightly, demanding over and over what Astinus meant, what did he say and what was the cost, as she in vain tried to free herself from his death grip, repeating over and over that she didn't know.

The bruises had stayed for weeks.

She could never forget the look of pity in Caramon's eyes as she met his gaze, upset and ashamed, holding her aching wrist. That was the first time she remembered herself thinking, what have I got myself into?

"The title?" Raistlin asked.

"No title." Did she detect a note of impatience in his voice?

"Was it a large book? Was it old?"

"It was rather heavy, I think. And old-looking, yes."

"Which part of the library did you find it in?"

"I can't remember. I'm sorry." Instinctively, Crysania took a step back from Raistlin.

But he only said gently, "It's all right. It doesn't matter." The parchment rustled in his hands. "This is one strange map. Have you ever heard of Osthill, Mallowfort, Coldcourt? There are no places like these in that part of the world."

Relieved that the interrogation was over, Crysania shrugged and made a non-committal sound, wondering why Raistlin should be so interested in the dusty old map.

He fixed his attention on her again. "It must have been exciting, growing up in a house like this. Thousands of books and scrolls within your reach all the time. How I would have loved that," he added somewhat wistfully.

"Well, I wasn't supposed to read any of them," Crysania answered. "It was basically forbidden for women to enter the library."

"But you did."

"I did."

Raistlin gave a pleased little chuckle. "Of course you did. Because that's what you are. Strong and able and brave."

The way he said it was sincere; there was no implied insult in his words. Crysania's head spun a little at hearing them, and for a moment she forgot - but it was only for a moment, and how could that ever be enough?

She turned away and said silently, almost to herself, "What was the use? I'll never read again."

The silence that followed was as indecipherable as all the silences with Raistlin. She was aware of him looking at her, but whether there was even a flicker of regret in his eyes, she would never find out.

Hopeless, so hopeless to be entangled in an impossible love, dreadfully trapped between "go away" and "please come back to me." Would there ever be a way out; somewhere, anywhere?

She thought of the letter knife in the drawer of her desk at the temple. How good the cut had felt.

She thought of the wine and of the sense of relief the inebriation had brought to her soul.

But none of these thoughts showed in her face as she walked over to the window, leaned an elbow on the sill and her chin on her fist. Feeling ill at ease and having no idea what to say next, she stood waiting as if frozen in that attitude.

"I wish I'd known you as a child," came Raistlin's voice from behind her. He was still standing by the bed; he hadn't followed her across the room.

"Nothing much to know about me," Crysania muttered, not turning from the window and carefully hiding the fact that his words and actions had once again managed to surprise her.

"About a girl who stored maps and playing cards in a secret box in her room, sneaked off into the library to read and purposely spilled wine all over herself in the carriage in order to skip the wedding of a cousin? I'd say there's plenty to know about a girl like that."

Crysania's expression softened, and a fleeting smile rippled across her lips. Raistlin seemed to recall every small thing she'd ever mentioned, which was utterly startling and absolutely enchanting.

"I had a similar collection as a child," Raistlin went on, and added jokingly, "although I can assure you it wasn't half as charming as yours."

"Oh. What was in your collection?" Crysania asked dispassionately, pretending to be occupied in adjusting the curtain that undulated against her arm in the gently stirring air.

"Nothing special. Just boy stuff."

"Boy stuff?" Crysania echoed with a raised eyebrow, wanting to remain detached, but unwillingly amused by the way Raistlin had said it, as if all he'd ever been was average and unexceptional.

"Yes," Raistlin confirmed in the same light-hearted tone. "I never showed it to anyone. But I would have shown it to you."

"You would have shown it to a girl?"

"Not a girl. The girl."

The words were left hanging in the air: again he was offering her an opportunity to grab the rope he was constantly throwing at her. But she remained silent, fighting the impulse.

"I mean it, Crysania," Raistlin said. His voice was no longer light and playful. It was serious and earnest. "Having someone like you would have meant the world to me."

She stayed by the window, digesting his words. It would have meant the world - what does that mean? she thought. Enough to stop you from taking the Black Robes, from attempting to become god, from breaking my life?

She too wished that she could have known that little boy. And she wished that she would have been there for him later. But her pride, her weakness, her fear had prevented her from looking him in the eye and saying Here I am, and her chest clenched with self-reproach as she once more realised that she had no one to blame but herself for how things had turned out.

Feeling the cold breeze on her face, Crysania closed the window and sat on the vanity chair where she had sat, long ago, chopping her hair short with garden scissors to make herself less appealing to suitors. She couldn't remember if she'd told Raistlin about that. Probably, since she'd told him about the wedding and the wine.

"So, can I get you anything?" Raistlin asked cheerily, as if the previous conversation had never occurred. "Some water? Tea? Wine? Sausage?"

Crysania almost barked a laugh. "Sausage?"

"There's one in the kitchen, if you want it."

"No, thank you," she retorted dismissively, not wanting to encourage any more jokes.

"What, you don't like five-year-old sausage?"

"Don't tease me." But her tone rang with reluctant pleasure, and her lips were still threatening to twitch into a grin, which was completely unacceptable. No more slips, she reminded herself.

"Well," Raistlin said. "Why don't you wait here while I go fix something un-sausagey in the kitchen. You don't mind if I take a look in the library first?"

"No, go ahead," Crysania shrugged, still too stunned and puzzled by everything to say much else. "Raistlin," she called out softly after him, and when he stopped, she said quietly, "Could you please not close the door?"

A creaking sound accompanied by a thud. And then Raistlin said warmly, "It's open, my lady. Wide open."

In the corridor Raistlin turned and skipped down the stairs, unable to stifle the triumphant smile playing at the edge of his lips. She was coming around, he could feel it. It was the first time since his return that Crysania had spoken his name, and he liked the way it sounded on her lips. Light. Soft. Almost as pure as herself.

And the map - his pulse quickened as he opened the library door. If he could find the book where the piece of map had come from, and if the rest of the map was still attached to it, then perhaps he would find out the location of Redwald as well, among the other cities that were not shown on any other maps.

Raistlin strolled along the shelves, impatiently picking up and discarding one white book after another. After half an hour the dust forced him to stop: he bent over to cough, one hand grasping the shelf and the other hand flat on his chest, as the old pain flared up in his left side where that bastard of an elf had stabbed him with his poisoned dagger ten years ago. He coughed and coughed until he was nearly crying, and when the fit finally subsided he sagged against the shelf, covered in sweat and unimaginably relieved that he could breathe again, that there were no blood spatters on the floor. Every time he expected to see blood; every time he was grateful that he didn't. It was just a coughing fit brought on by dust - not an old fucking lich tapping his life force.

Breathing raggedly, Raistlin glanced up and around. It was very much a needle-in-a-haystack situation. It would take him all night and then some to sort through the thousands of books, and he would have to use the ladder to reach the upper shelves. With magic it would be so simple, he thought with a pang, just a brief command and he would levitate up to the ceiling, graceful and weightless like a flake of snow.

As much as Raistlin would have liked to handle the problem on his own, he raised his head and called out hoarsely, "Ildi? Can you still hear me?"

At first nothing happened, but then the air began to ripple as the girl took shape in front of the stained glass window at the end of the aisle.

Magus?

Her face was eager; she was smiling expectantly. The coloured glass blotched her skin in shades of green and brown, emphasising the red of her mangled throat.

"I need you to find me a large white book with no title," Raistlin said slowly. "Start on the right and check the upper shelves as well. I repeat: a large white book."

As magus wants.

The ghost set to work obediently, effortlessly gliding along the aisles and exploring the colours of the spines, while Raistlin continued browsing the shelves on the other side, edging slowly along, time after time coming up with nothing. As he was bending down to withdraw a promising-looking volume from the lowest shelf, he suddenly heard Ildi in his head again.

Why do you love her?

Raistlin straightened himself up and glanced about him, but the girl was nowhere to be seen. "What was it I told you the last time?" he said, raising his voice a little so that she could hear. "You do not ask me any questions. I ask the questions."

Is it because she's pretty?

Greatly irritated, he bent down again, took one glance at the book and put it back.

Does she suck your cock?

He stopped walking for a second, fighting the sudden urge to throttle the foul-mouthed bitch. He turned the corner, and when he lifted his head he saw her hovering right in front of his face. She locked her gaze with his, her eyes burning and her lips still turned up in a brazen smile. The air around her was cold and damp as a grave.

Aren't I pretty? Leave her and take me. I serve magus well. I do everything magus wants.

She slid her hand down over her belly and between her legs, dividing the lips with her fingers.

See? Is it as pretty as hers?

Raistlin observed the ghost coldly and returned his gaze to her face. "Did I give you a permission to stop searching? Go on, get the fuck on with it."

He stared into Ildi's eyes until she lowered her head and floated noiselessly up to the ceiling. Pouting and glaring, she fluttered between the shelves like an enraged butterfly.

I hate her! I go and make her suffer!

"You do that, and I'll ask her to send you screaming into the lowest pit of oblivion to join your daddy. How would you like that?" Raistlin asked in a bored voice, his gaze skimming the titles.

After a shocked silence, another thought formed.

She can't.

Raistlin laughed viciously. "Oh yes, she can. She's a holy cleric. Creatures like you are a piece of cake to her."

Magus wouldn't do that? Send me away?

Her voice was wrought with fear, and when Raistlin glanced up towards the ceiling he saw the girl's serious face looking down at him.

"Give me a reason not to," he said, keeping his unsmiling eyes on her. "You've helped me with little things a few times, sure, but that's starting to get old, sister. The thing is, you know nothing about Redwald. You've never seen it, you don't know how to take me there. You know nothing about your dear daddy's spells either. You know what that sounds like? It sounds like you're growing pretty damn useless pretty damn fast, and flashing your cunt won't make any difference."

Please, magus. Don't put me away.

"Then you'd better start behaving yourself," Raistlin said in a disgusted tone and continued his walk along the shelf.

Only a few moments later he heard Ildi's voice again.

Found it. Big. White. No letters.

He turned, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he saw the girl standing with her hands behind her back by one of the shelves in the geography section. He had checked that particular shelf at least thrice and could have sworn the book was not there.

Raistlin started to slowly approach the ghost. "Well. Where is it?"

It's here. It's always been here.

She kept looking straight into his eyes as he came closer, the blank smile on her lips never wavering, and when Raistlin saw her expression he felt with a creeping certainty that something was amiss. Things weren't adding up.

"Who are you?" he asked, staring the ghost in the face, looking for an answer in that mask of innocence.

The air shimmered and distorted; Ildi began to fade and soon enough all that was left of her was an afterimage that lingered for a short moment before dissolving into the light coming in through the window.

Raistlin called out to her twice, but there was no answer.

Still uneasy, he turned his head and saw it: a remarkably large white book resting on its side at eye level. How was it possible that he hadn't noticed it before?

He picked the book up and opened it at a random page.

What he saw made him gasp.

Sweet thundering fuck.

A printing mistake?

Not even close.
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Evermore: The Gathering