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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
- 47
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CHAPTER 47

Don't rush it. She won't hear you if you're careful.

One step, then another. And another.

The woman in the chair was as still as a picture, but her posture spoke of deep anguish: she hung her head low and her shoulders were slumped in an attitude of despair. The dress she was wearing was simple and faded, as blank as the waterfall of hair that fell down her back, long and straight and pale.

That's it. I've forgotten colours, Crysania thought mournfully as she took yet another slow step towards the woman. The colours are gone and I won't ever get them back.

But as the strange figure before her stirred and turned, Crysania saw that she had been wrong.

The eyes looking into hers were softly brown, and there was a red tint to the woman's lips.

For an instant the two stared at one another in wordless surprise. As Crysania started to instinctively back away, the woman raised her hand and said, "Don't be afraid."

It was the first time Crysania had heard the dream woman speak, and now that she did, understanding came to her in a rush of realisation: she could not believe that she had not known sooner.

"Araminta," she mumbled, her voice half choked with emotion.

The woman's worry-ridden face broke into a smile of great relief. "You can see me here. I knew you would."

Crysania glanced about her, curious yet wary. The ground underneath her feet was hard and solid, but whether it was wood or stone or some other substance, she could not tell. Everything was white around them, formless, featureless, as though they were standing in the middle of a fog-enshrouded island. But there was no way of knowing whether they were inside or outside: the air was neither hot nor cold, and no breeze brushed her skin.

"Where is 'here'?" Crysania asked, returning her gaze to Araminta.

"In-between," Araminta only replied, smiling still.

"You look exactly as I imagined you would," Crysania sighed in wonder, too overwhelmed to make any sense of the woman's cryptic response. But then a flicker of shame crossed her face. "Araminta, I'm sorry about the last time we spoke. I was quite out of line."

"Yet you went with him."

Although Araminta's expression remained kind, her voice suddenly had a crisper edge to it.

Flustered, Crysania lowered her gaze. In these two years she had all but forgotten how awkward eye-contact could be.

"I'm safe with him," she muttered faintly, keeping her eyes firmly on her toes.

"You don't even believe that yourself, do you?" asked Araminta gently.

Do I? The question cut Crysania to the core, but the answer seemed unimportant right now. In trance-like fascination, she let her gaze wander over her body: her eyes took in her small feet and narrow hips, her slender arms and fingers, her chest rising and falling with each breath. Thrilled, she lifted the hem of her dress and wiggled her toes, as if she could not believe they were really there. She grabbed her plait and brought it close up to her face to inspect the long black strands. So fine, so silky, almost transparent - and yet she could see them. Yes: she could actually consciously see herself. Yes: this dream was different from any other dream she had ever experienced. She went on exploring, ferociously, not wanting to miss a detail. Turning her palms up, she observed with delight that her skin was translucent, so pale that her veins showed blue on her wrists, still, as they always had. But there was scarlet too: the thorn cuts on her fingers, fresh, stinging. Suddenly remembering, Crysania yanked up her right sleeve and was startled to see the scar on the inside of her arm: it was longer and deeper than her fingertips had made her believe, and more darkly red than she had ever imagined.

Upset, she drew the sleeve back down, and as she glanced up she saw that Araminta, now standing beside the chair, was looking at her arm as well. She quickly hid her hands behind her back and said coolly in answer to Araminta's question, "I'm fine. I can take care of myself."

To that Araminta made no reply, but said instead with a wistful smile, "The one thing that gives me comfort is knowing that Paladine walks with you and watches over you, wherever the road may take you. You can't come back, Crysania. Not yet."

"Is it that bad?" Crysania asked, her voice growing weak with dread.

Araminta shook her head in dismay. "It is very bad, dear, I'm afraid. The rebels have taken the city. They've won over the City Guard and ousted the vestry. Their leader - a Revered Son Farag - will soon declare himself head of the church, while his clerics are viciously campaigning against you, persuading more and more people to their thinking every day. Sentries have been posted at every gate to arrest you."

"I can't let that stop me," Crysania insisted vehemently, trying to wrap her head around everything she had just heard. "I'm coming back. At first opportunity. I'm not afraid of them."

"No. No. Listen to me," Araminta objected hastily, appalled at the prospect. "They're going to kill you. In a public act of penance."

Crysania could only stare at the woman, her words barely sinking in. "And Raistlin?" she eventually asked, with a slight tremble in her voice. She could hardly get the question out.

Araminta surveyed her for a moment with marked concern and then said, not even bothering to hide the complete indifference in her voice, "Him too."

"No," said Crysania fiercely, finding her resolve again. "That's not going to happen. See, we're riding to Solanthus, we're going today, or maybe tomorrow, and -"

"Solanthus is out of the question," Araminta interrupted in a stern tone. "There's an arrest warrant for you both in all the large cities."

"Oh, my God," Crysania murmured, as the brutal reality began to dawn on her. Distraught, she raised her hand to her forehead, as if to keep it from bursting, and cried, "And the people just believe him? This man Farag - they accept him as their leader?"

"They only know what they've been told, Crysania. Tell a lie long and loud enough, and people will eventually start to believe it. And they're afraid of the divine judgment, too. There are clerics at every street corner, reciting the Blood Sea Scrolls. You can't escape it."

"But the Scrolls aren't authentic," Crysania gasped with a frantic gesture, grasping her head now with both hands. "They're not Paladine's Word! Why are they doing this, why? All of Elistan's hard work..."

Her voice drifted off in despair and then returned sharp and frightened:

"How many have they killed?"

"Two hundred and seventy-six," Araminta replied at once, her face betraying no emotion.

At Araminta's words, Crysania felt a horror slowly seize her, as thick and heavy as the fog around her.

"Two hundred and seventy-six," she echoed shakily. "Murdered in the name of Paladine."

Araminta nodded gravely. Her brown eyes held an expression of sadness, but there was also warmth in them as she steadily returned Crysania's terrified gaze. She had an honest face: a nose that was straight and strong, lips that were wide and full, and a firm jaw. Her hands, knobby with arthritis, were folded in front of her; so many times those tired hands had brushed Crysania's hair and helped her to dress, poured her drinks and written countless of letters on her behalf. Never complaining, always kind and understanding, always there when needed - the one who had stood by her from day one and made her believe that she could thrive instead of just survive, the first person who had caused her honest laughter after That Day. Looking at Araminta now, Crysania realised, as if for the first time, just how fond she was of the woman. She was so much wiser than she could ever be. She had so much more sense. It was something she had never even considered before - that between the two of them, the less well-read and the less erudite Araminta could in fact be the one with sound judgment and discernment.

And then another thought hit Crysania, a thoroughly devastating one.

"You're dead, aren't you?" she said, and her voice broke. "You're dead, and it's my fault."

"I'm with the Platinum Father," Araminta responded calmly. "There is nothing for me to fear anymore."

Smiling through her tears, Crysania took Araminta's hand and held it firmly in hers. Araminta retuned her smile, and for a short while the two women looked at each other in deep trust and gratitude.

But then, slowly, Crysania sensed a resistance forming and breaking through to the surface. Was there not something wrong with Araminta? Were not her eyes a little too dark and staring, her skin sickly transparent, almost pale green in hue?

Startled, Crysania let go of the woman's hand and stepped back.

"You're lying," she half whispered, her voice ringing with fear and revulsion. "Only the wicked dead have voices. You're not Araminta. You're an image created by the Dark Queen."

No sooner had she said this than Araminta's face cracked and the ground beneath Crysania's feet began to give way. She heard herself screaming; she was falling into whiteness, faster and faster, spinning out of control.

And then she blinked, and the first thought that came to her was: Don't fall asleep.

But she had fallen asleep: it was now morning and she was lying in the same position as when she had lain down some hours ago - on her left side, her left arm under her body, her right arm across her breast. She must have slipped into a slumber after Raistlin left the room. Had he come back later? Her senses acutely sharpened by the thought, Crysania listened and was instantly aware of the man's presence behind her. Not too close, though: she was more than grateful to sense that there was a wide space between them, that she was still safely positioned on the far edge of the bed. But what about during the night? She hoped she hadn't rolled over and touched Raistlin in her sleep. Or - heaven forbid - inadvertently snuggled closer to him. She found it hard to believe she had actually let her guard down and slept. An uncomfortable thought: could it be that Raistlin had put her to sleep by magic? Probably not. She hoped not. She couldn't say for sure. But at least her sleep had been exceptionally deep, so deep that she had missed her night prayers, which never happened, and she had a vague recollection of a consoling dream.

Crysania was about to stir, but then something held her back: a realisation that for the first time in days she was not feeling upset or tense. She was entirely calm and pleasantly drowsy; she could tell Raistlin was awake, lying silently beside her, and she did not want the moment to stop. Because as soon as Raistlin knew she too was awake, she would have to get up and rebuild the wall. For she could not let him think for a moment that she wanted to be here, in this bed, next to him.

Crysania closed her eyes, keeping her breathing sleep-steady. There was birdsong outside the window. The rain was gone. She supposed the sun was shining; she could feel its warmth on her skin.

If time stopped now, she thought drowsily, the melancholy of the moment filling her, I could be happy. There would be no past and no future. Only the present would exist for us. In that frozen space I could trust him again. I could turn around and touch his hand, his hair, his face.

She knew it was pathetic, more than pathetic, but she felt comforted by her make-believe. She pressed her cheek deeper into the pillow and took long deep breaths, the minutes passing like hours in a blurry haze, her suspicion slowly growing into a certainty that Raistlin knew her sleep was feigned.

And indeed she soon heard his voice from behind her, soft and breezy as the summer wind:

"Good morning, darling."

"Morning," replied Crysania reluctantly.

"Did you sleep well?"

The wall: with precision and control she put it back up. "Not really."

"Bad dreams?"

"Oh, no. A good dream, I guess."

"Was I in it?"

"No," she said bluntly, brushing off his playful tone.

She kept her eyes closed and lay absolutely still, not wanting to go back to the real world. Not yet. She did not want to be nervous and on edge all the time, expecting everything to fall apart any minute. She wanted to stay here, suspended in a timeless time. No more talking, please. No more questions.

But Raistlin said, "Would you like some tea?"

And Crysania, taken aback by the sheer mundaneness of the inquiry, found herself replying, "Yes, please."

"I'll go find some downstairs," said Raistlin, getting out of the bed. "Just wait until I put my pants on."

Crysania pressed her lips together and did not give him the pleasure of a shocked response.

She remained in place after Raistlin was gone, allowing herself to hold on to the childish illusion a while longer. She thought: I could get used to this. I want him to ask me every morning if I slept well. I want him to bring me a cup of tea. I want it to not be impossible.

But it was just a dream, and suddenly, somewhere from the unknown, the other dream returned. Crysania sat up sucking in a breath as Araminta's face formed in her mind's eye, as clear and vivid as if she had seen the woman in the flesh, living and breathing. Now she remembered their conversation and her initial delight turning into dismay. It couldn't have been Araminta. It couldn't have been. Could it?

Perplexed, Crysania left the bed, and after she had put on her shoes and tied her shawl around her shoulders, she knelt and asked for Paladine's forgiveness - she would have to make up for the missed prayers the next night. In another inn, in another town. The thought of getting back on the road was far from tempting. In fact, the thought was appalling and made her want to crawl right back to bed.

With a sigh, Crysania took a seat in one of the chairs beside the table, and, while waiting, checked her hair to make sure her plait had not come undone. As her fingers felt the strands, she was suddenly ashamed of the spectacle she had put on the night before. Gods. She had been displaying herself to his gaze like a... She didn't know what. A toy? A thing?

Deeply bothered by the sensations that came with that thought, Crysania closed her eyes and flexed her neck from left to right, trying to ease the stifness in her muscles that ached from the awkward position she had slept in, trying to assure herself that everything would be all right, that it was just a couple of hours' ride to the next inn.

After a moment Raistlin returned from downstairs. He sat across from her without a word, pushing a cup of tea to her along the table.

Crysania picked up the cup and cradled it between her hands. It was sweetly warm, and the faint scent of lemon most pleasant.

For a while they sat sipping in silence, until Raistlin said, "I could get used to this, you know."

Why did his thoughts always seem to mirror hers? Disturbed and forever bewildered by that puzzling, uncomfortable connection, Crysania said rather aggressively, "Get used to what? Being on the run, fearing for your life?"

"I admit, the situation is not exactly ideal," said Raistlin, noting yet ignoring the attitude in her tone. "But hey - at least we're together."

Crysania just gazed blankly in his direction, blown away by his arrogance, despite the fact that she should have been well used to it by now.

"I don't even know how to respond to that," she finally said, shaking her head and taking another lemony sip.

"Good. I inspire uncertainty. And I think you like that, Revered Daughter. Just a little."

Too true. Too terribly true. Shuddering, Crysania kept drinking her tea. It was so quiet one could have heard a needle drop. It never ceased to amaze her how absolutely still Raistlin was all the time. Other people stirred and turned, made all sorts of little sounds. Not Raistlin. He was a presence. An intense, commanding presence on which her entire awareness was focused.

She wondered if she should ask him about her strange dream. She decided to let it go. But then she decided it bothered her too much to do so.

When she knew how to begin, she placed her cup on the table and folded her hands on her lap, looking straight ahead to engage the mage's full attention.

"Raistlin," she said candidly.

"Yes?" he returned at once with a note of hope that tugged at Crysania's heart in spite of herself.

"I was just thinking. Is it possible for your kind to" - she searched for an expression - "alter dreams?"

"My kind?" said Raistlin after a brief silence, his voice rippling with amusement. "You mean criminals, gangsters and other forms of lowlife?"

Crysania turned away, hurt. What was the use? For a while there she had thought they could have a civil conversation. But he just couldn't ever take her seriously.

But then Raistlin said in a gentle conciliatory tone, "Nuitari mages can't do it. She's known of doing it, though. The Queen. As I'm sure you're aware of."

"Yes. Yes, of course." She became silent and fell into thought.

"What is it?" Raistlin encouraged gently after the silence had stretched on for a minute. "Did you see something in your sleep?"

"I saw something I wasn't prepared to see," Crysania replied slowly, carefully choosing her words, wary of letting Raistlin into her mind.

"Tell me about it," Raistlin demanded.

She shrugged, troubled. "I saw a friend. At least I think I did."

"What did this friend say?"

Crysania frowned deeply at the recollection. "She spoke of Palanthas. Said it was not safe to return."

But then she shook her head briskly, as if to convince herself. "Doesn't matter. It couldn't have been her. Not really. It was just a lie the Dark Queen made up to stop Paladine's will from happening. She must have shown you some dreams, has She not?"

"Yes," said Raistlin after a short pause with some slight reluctance in his voice. "She has."

"What are they like?" Crysania asked, surprised by his tone and unable to completely veil the keen interest in her own voice. This was something new to her: she had no knowledge of how Nuitari mages communed with their deity, and although the whole concept was disagreeable to her in principle, the scholar in her could not help but feel excited.

She waited, afraid that Raistlin might not answer. But he did.

"Detailed. Incredibly vivid. They're more like visions than dreams," he said, still somewhat warily. "Sometimes it's hard to tell the difference between sleep and awake."

She swallowed. "Is it pleasant, or are they nightmares?"

"I guess you could call them nightmares. Most of the time. But sometimes they're good dreams." He reflected a few moments, then added quietly, "Really good dreams."

"Like?" Crysania insisted, extremely fascinated, wanting to hear more.

"Like your every nerve and all your senses are completely alive," Raistlin finally replied, and Crysania thought that she had rarely heard him sound like that: hesitant and evasive. "Everything's twice as intense, at least. And it's like... All you ever wanted is there."

"Oh. I see." Crysania's voice was neutral. But she could feel the warmth rising in her face as she suddenly knew for certain: I've been in those dreams. The Queen has shown me to him.

"It makes sense, actually," she went on quickly to temper the obscure firestorm of need that was once more threatening to rise within her, "what you said about senses being enhanced. Because in my dream I could see. Not landscapes or buildings or any of those usual dream things, no. What I saw was myself. I could actually look at myself, at my hands and my feet, and that's never happened before."

"But that's not what made you think the dream was unnatural," Raistlin remarked.

"No. It was what she said to me," Crysania explained, feeling herself getting carried away by the sense of intimacy the conversation had suddenly sparked up between them. "Araminta. My assistant at the temple. She claimed she was dead. That's when I knew."

She was expecting an immediate response, but when she did not get one she felt her confidence slip. She fell back in her chair and said apologetically, already regretting the whole thing and fearing what was to come next, "It's no big deal. I just thought I'd ask you."

But Raistlin refused to let go of what she had so energetically started. "So let me get this straight," he said. "Your assistant told you she was dead, and you immediately jumped to the conclusion that the Dark Queen had cooked the dream up. Why, Crysania?"

"Because the dead don't talk," Crysania responded quickly in the haughty tone of a precocious child who is being questioned by an uninformed adult. She continued in the same vein, finding strength in the tenets of her faith: "The spirits of good people go to a place of rest - they can't talk to us, and we can't talk to them. Only the evil spirits have voices, given to them by the Queen. But they're not real voices. They're just echoes to lead astray those who are already damned."

Raistlin listened to her quietly; when she had finally finished, he said, "Who told you that? Elistan?"

A note of amused disdain was audible in his voice.

"It says so in the Scrolls of Omaris," Crysania responded cautiously, trying to force down the uneasiness that his tone had woken in her, that always overcame her when her conversation with Raistlin veered into religion. Or Elistan.

"Remind me," said Raistlin. "Go on, remind me."

She was going to refuse, but then she raised her head and recited the lines in a voice that, if possible, was even haughtier than before:

"'Speak up, for the tongue has the power to heal and transform; the voices of the dead -"

"- sound in the divine abode,'" Raistlin boredly finished off for her. There was an evaluative pause, and then he said, "Elistan was very good at taking things out of their proper context, was he?"

The disdain in his voice had now been replaced by pity mixed with disgust.

"Excuse me," said Crysania testily, anger eclipsing her hurt and discomfort, "but I think I know the Scrolls far better than you do."

"You think I haven't read your sacred writings? I've read them. I've touched them with my own hands. And guess what?" - Raistlin gave a mock gasp - "No lightning struck me where I stood. Now what does that tell you? Yes, that's right - maybe not everything that's said in the Scrolls is true."

"Of course I don't think it's all literally true," Crysania protested a little heatedly, hating the fact that she was starting to get upset, that she was, as always, reacting to Raistlin's provocation. "There are parables and symbols in each and every codex, but I can assure you this particular passage is not one of them."

"My mother talked to the dead all the time."

Crysania's automatic rebuttal died on her lips as Raistlin's words sank in. After a small pause she asked sullenly, "And did they talk back to her?"

"From what I gathered, yes. Go on, just say it," Raistlin urged when Crysania grew silent again, and when she didn't speak, he went on himself, mimicking her voice: 'But your mother was insane. A stark raving lunatic. She'd have talked to a pile of bricks, if given the chance.'"

"That's not what I was thinking," Crysania said, attempting to sound dignified and in control - anything but the way he'd just made her sound.

"Yes you were," said Raistlin, and the polite calmness of his voice masking the restrained aggression was terribly unnerving. "And I don't mind, really. That's good thinking. Perfectly logical."

"That's not what I was thinking," Crysania persisted, refusing to acknowledge that the thought had indeed briefly crossed her mind.

"Really? So you think she could actually hear them? That she was - how did you just put it? - one of the damned and is now suffering everlasting torment, according to your doctrine?"

"I'm sorry," Crysania said, her voice as cold and hard as she could make it. "I won't discuss theology with you."

"Then who will you discuss it with? Other clerics?" Raistlin gave a derisive laugh. "Gods. Can you imagine a conversation more boring than one where everyone agrees?"

"Maybe not. But I can, even now, imagine a conversation based on respect and appreciation of conflicting points of view."

"And lo, the world shall be saved."

The utter contempt in Raistlin's voice went to Crysania's heart like a burning brand, but, trying to hold on to her pride and her control, she said stiffly, "Not trying is worse than to sit back and do nothing at all."

"That one of Elistan's, as well?"

Although Crysania felt - and thoroughly despised herself for it - like she was ready to give up and break down crying, she managed to lace her answer with spite. "No, actually," she said, he voice shaking almost imperceptibly. "It's something I had to learn the hard way some two years ago."

"Right. And now, let me guess, you're grateful for the Platinum Father for putting you through the trials and tribulations that made you more holy and humble?"

These words hurt her so bad she wanted to curl up and die. But she held her head high and said solidly, "I don't question His will. No matter what I have to face, I accept His plan for my life. As should you."

"Depends on the plan. But I think it's become clear that He likes you and me together. At least one thing He and I can agree on."

Raistlin sounded affable again and his tone was light, but Crysania did not dare say anything for fear of some final insult. A deep, devastating heartache was welling up inside her. How many times, in the short time they had spent together then and now, how many times had they been here, in this same situation? Raistlin punching holes in her arguments, making everything she said sound ridiculous and disjointed, making her feel exhausted, defeated and close to tears with his cutting razor-edge remarks. How did she always manage to provoke him so? What did she say wrong in each and every conversation?

There was only one explanation: she was useless and she could never do the right thing.

No wonder he had walked away.

"Anyway, this dream of yours," Raistlin went on somewhat boredly, dismissing the earlier topic with finality. "Did your friend behave the way she normally would, or was she out of character?"

"She was herself, I think," Crysania muttered tensely, finding it difficult to jump from one mood to the next with the snap of one's fingers.

"Well, if you have that dream again," said Raistlin, "just watch out for anything out of the ordinary, alright? Little things that don't make sense, a choice of words, a single gesture that rubs you the wrong way. The Queen will fool you at first, but if you know what to look for, you'll start seeing through the illusion. Oh, and notify me at once. I'll tell Her to leave you alone."

Crysania nodded, not sure if the last part was meant as a joke or not.

There was a steady rustling sound: a cup being pushed along the table. Then a clink as it was placed on top of a saucer, then the chair scraping across the floor as Raistlin stood up. Crysania listened to these sounds blankly, asking herself the same old question: What am I doing here? So strange that the question should always arise, even though she knew the terrible answer.

"I'd still like to know what she said though. Apart from it not being safe to go back."

Raistlin's voice was coming from her left now; she figured he was sitting on the end of the bed, perhaps leaning his elbows on his knees, keeping his eyes fastened on her profile.

It doesn't matter what she said, Crysania thought tiredly. It was a lie. An unclean spirit. But she found herself answering anyway.

"She said that lots of people have died. That I'm being dragged through the mud, while another cleric is declaring himself head of the church."

"Who?"

"I don't know. She said his name, but I can't remember."

"What else?"

"There are sentries at the gates," she replied in a listless monotone. "They're going to kill us."

"So that's our first plan of action out of the window," Raistlin reflected. "If the City Guard are in on it as well, we can't very well contact them for help. And there's every reason to expect they're in pursuit, which means we must leave for Solanthus as soon as possible. What is it?" he asked, alarmed, as he took in the expression on Crysania's face. He added sharply: "If there's anything else you have to tell me, now would be the time."

Crysania hesitated a long time and then said, "She warned me against Solanthus. She claimed they've issued arrest warrants. But that's -"

"Arrest warrants? There goes our second plan."

"What do you mean?" asked Crysania fearfully, already knowing the answer.

"You do understand that if there's a price on our heads, we can't send a random person to inquire. Too risky."

She understood that. And she understood this: everything was falling apart. For an instant Crysania experienced a strangling sense of utter chaos and disorder. Not wanting to give up on what she knew was gone, she turned to Raistlin and whispered, half accusatorily, half hoping that he could somehow bring it back, "You said you'd send someone."

"And risk being turned in? No. Just no. Besides, we now have the information we needed."

Crysania scoffed, stubbornly hanging on to her conviction that the dream had been a lie.

"The massacre at the temple," said Raistlin pointedly in answer to her reaction. "The fires in the streets. Loads and loads of dead civilians - hundreds, according to the men I talked to in the village. Honestly, Crysania - what will it take for you to appreciate the seriousness of the situation?"

"I do appreciate the seriousness of the situation. But I also think we have the right to a fair trial."

"Orchestrated by who?" Raistlin sounded exasperated by now. "If they're watching the gates for us, it can only mean one thing: that the rebels have taken control of the administrative institutions. I mean, come on. Don't you think we should at least consider the option that it really was your friend and not the Queen? 'Cause it all seems pretty plausible to me."

Crysania chose not to answer.

"Fine," said Raistlin with pronounced deliberation. "Let's just imagine for a second that what you say is true. We go back, the City Guard welcome us with open arms, the vestry have managed to escape with their lives, we get a trial, everything's coming up roses. They'll hear you out, consider your case; you'll keep your title and all the honours and official privileges and powers of your position. Who knows, if you'll plead your case well enough, you might get lucky and become the head of the church after all. But what will happen to me?" He took a pause and said, "Gallows. That's what."

The thought was too terrifying to even imagine, and Crysania hastened to say, "I told you I wouldn't testify against you. I won't."

"Yes, well, not everyone is as kind and gentle as you, sweetheart. You see, lots of people would gladly take the stand against me. Take Dalamar Argent, for example. He's not all that fond of me."

"That's no reason to testify against someone," said Crysania.

"No," said Raistlin. "But he wasn't all that fond of what I was going to do, either."

Outwardly, Crysania did not react. But she had to speak very carefully to keep her voice even against the fresh jagged-edged knife that Raistlin had just pressed into her.

"He knew?" she said, and for a second she sensed a confusion in Raistlin, uncharacteristic and uncomfortable, that filled the silence between them.

But he recovered swiftly.

"He was my apprentice," he simply said. "It couldn't be avoided."

A brief, bitter smile crossed Crysania's face at the answer. Who else had known? Everyone? The entire world except her? If so, why didn't anyone stop him? She would still be sane, whole, connected. He would have realised the error of his ways. They would... But that was not how it had gone. Everything had gone wrong, and the only thing that was left was death sentence. What else for the man who had sought to remake the world in his own image? And what else but permanent suspension for the lovesick woman who had bent over backwards to help him?

I messed everything up, Crysania thought, not knowing whether she meant the past few years or perhaps her entire life, and at this thought a flare of emotion, a look of bleak pain that she did not manage to hide settled over her face.

"One last time," said Raistlin quietly, once again reading her mind like an open book. "I want you to stop beating yourself up about all of this. Cloade's the only one to blame."

But Crysania shook her head wearily. "Gaspar wasn't the one who kept massive secrets from the congregation."

"So you think spilling it all out would have made a difference?" A curious pause. "What would you have told them?"

Crysania took her time answering. "The truth," she said at length, never lifting her empty gaze from her hands resting on her lap, with only a hint of emotion in her carefully controlled response. "That I thought I was doing the right thing. For the right reasons."

Raistlin was silent, but she knew he was weighing her words.

"So did I," he finally said reservedly. He added, "I know it's not much of an excuse."

The words were quick and slippery, but it was precisely that fragile quality that rendered them so meaningful.

She thought he was going to say something else - she waited, breathless - but he appeared to change his mind and got up.

Stunned, Crysania remained sitting.

Thinking that it was probably the closest thing to an apology she was ever going to get.

Thinking that she would probably settle for that.
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Evermore: The Gathering