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Evermore: The Gathering	By : RosaTenebrum Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 9663 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the Dragonlance series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
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CHAPTER 48

In the quiet of the night, a lonely figure holding a lantern made his way through the maze of corridors in the Great Temple.

Two days from now he would be crowned. And then a new life would begin. Paladine's True Light, dimmed too long by Elistan and his harlot, would shine on everybody, and the world would never be the same again.

But Farag needed to make sure first.

He wanted to see with his own eyes the two documents that would confirm everything the letter had said. The letter that was now gone. It had existed. They had all held it in their hands. They had handsomely rewarded the man who had penned it. Gaspar Cloade, the former Revered Daughter's former secretary. Good man. Modest man. Claimed he hadn't written any bloody letters. Nor stolen the testament, nor the speech, nor the jewels. No matter how much they had praised him for it, he had stood his ground: from the first interview in the Vault to the day they had handed him the sack of money. Cloade had stared at his reward as if he had seen a ghost; his face had distorted, his eyes had filled with tears and for a while it had looked like he would not accept it. "But I didn't," he'd muttered, still silently weeping when he eventually had walked away with the sack, which was so large he was hardly able to carry it, "but I didn't."

Yes, he did. Someone did. The letter had existed.

Farag knew it was silly, but in these stressful conditions he had began to doubt himself.

That's why he needed to make sure.

The timing could not have been more perfect. Earlier today, Acolyte Randull had come to Farag with wonderful news: former Acolyte Gefroy - now Revered Son Gefroy by courtesy of Farag - had finally located the record of the harlot's Test of Faith. The one that had been missing from the Archives. Not because she'd never had her vision, as they had first thought, but because her little band of bootlickers had done everything in their power to hide any evidence of her disastrous proceedings. For the good of the church, of course. What Elistan would have wanted. Farag cracked a cold smile as he walked. Would those fawning fools have been so eager to carry out the late Revered Father's will if they had known what he really was? Because it just so happened that while digging through every nook and cranny Gefroy had come across some other documents as well. Such as records of financial transactions between the church and the local poor houses and infirmaries. They weren't a pretty sight. The calculations didn't match. But the records of Elistan's personal transactions were even less pretty, and even though Farag had learned about it days ago, the thought still made him sick. The man had been ordering women's clothing. For himself. A cross-dressing pervert and a black magic whore. Now there's a pair to lead Paladine's Holy Church.

Simmering with disgust, Farag stepped into his chambers and putting on the elven lights immediately saw the testimony where Gefroy, good Gefroy, had left it on the table, neatly tucked under a crystal triangle paperweight.

There was no doubt: the Platinum Father had wanted it to be found. That was confirmation enough, but Farag still wanted to see.

He walked straight over to the table, took a seat and, holding the fine sheet of parchment in one hand, began to read.

Her handwriting was impeccable, as one would expect from nobility, and very easy to read. Lines of ornate loops describing her vision of the end of the world: it was flame and smoke and fury. But she was the rose in the dark, and the Platinum Father's voice had spoken to her amid the storm. He will destroy the world. He will call back the Dark Goddess, and everyone will suffer. You will stop him, my daughter. You will bring him back to light. Alone.

The further Farag got, the faster the contemptuous smile on his face began to fade, until only an empty look of disbelief remained. No point in denying: it was by far the most impressive Test of Faith Farag had ever read or heard about. And not only that - the writing too was inspired and inspiring; it flowed smoothly forward, was structurally coherent and linguistically superior. Nothing like Farag's own chicken-scratch writing. For him every word he had to put on paper was a struggle. He read and reread the document, but there was not a single spelling mistake, not a single grammatical error. Everything was almost inhumanely neat and controlled.

Sitting there with the parchment in his hand, staring at the words that seemed to mock his entire existence, Farag felt his hatred for the bitch spreading further inside him, engulfing the one final tiny spot of light that had perhaps been there. How perfect her life must have always been. How lucky to be born with a silver spoon in your mouth, never needing to lift a finger, having everything handed to you on a plate.

Superior. Everything about her was superior.

The thought tried to form, but Farag wouldn't let it.

In his head there was only the bitter knowledge that he hadn't even had his own vision yet. By his own authority he had dubbed himself - and a load of acolytes - Revered Son. But certainly that was justified.

Angrily Farag flung the parchment onto the floor, resisting the desire to trample on it. What did he care about some vision? The Platinum Father favoured his cause - anyone could see that from the recent events.

Besides, she had utterly failed her grandiose mission. Praise the Platinum Father for teaching the arrogant bitch a lesson.

But Farag's smile did not return. He could no longer extinguish the terrible thought that again came close to the surface, finally pushed through and made him break in cold sweat.

She is the chosen one. Not just by Elistan. She was chosen by Paladine.

At this thought, Farag's anger mingled with fear and deep sadness. For if it was true, if she really was the chosen one, then that was not his God. His God would never enthrone a woman. A deficient half-being with a weak will and a soft body.

Impossible. Completely ridiculous.

Farag laughed stiffly at his own thoughts. He was so stressed out that he couldn't even think straight anymore. The Platinum Father had shown him the way, and now was not the time to be consumed by self-doubt.

The Great Library. That's where he'd get the final proof. There was something there the slapper's whitewashing team could never have got their hands on: Astinus's chronicles. Only a handful of people were allowed to read the volumes. Lucky for him, the head of Paladine's Holy Church - himself! the thought still filled Farag with incredulous pride - was one of those people.

Farag stood up decisively, picked up his lantern and headed out of the temple between his two personal guards, Berny and Tilbert, who stood posted at his door day and night. Big, armoured men of the City Guard, at least twice his size. As they walked on, an irrational dread suddenly grabbed Farag by his throat. Had they been thinking the same thing - that she was the chosen one? They could have changed their mind overnight and were now just waiting for the right moment. He couldn't read their faces behind their visors. He was used to looking over his shoulder while walking the streets, but in the end it could just as well be his own men that put a sword through his side.

A thick, wet fog hung over the city as Farag and his soldiers pushed on through the wind and the rain. He was pleased to see that people observed the curfew he had ordered. The streets were empty and many of the windows were dark. About time someone put an end to the whoring and gambling that went on in those filthy ale houses. His men had already closed down eight inns, and the rest were under inspection. In no time Palanthas the Beautiful would be spiritually and morally reformed.

Farag told the guards to accompany him inside. He didn't dare let them out of his sight. Who was to say how many men might be waiting in the shadows for the sign, ready to murder him on the library steps when he returned? Granted, there was no way Berny and Tilbert would have known that he was coming here tonight. But better safe than sorry.

In the central hall, nestled among the towering bookshelves, Farag found Astinus Lorekeeper.

"Revered Son Farag. I've been expecting you."

The chronicler's voice was as dry as the parchment before him. He was watching Farag with bright eyes that held neither warmth nor anger. That was his life: passionless, detahced, impartial. Letting history go by and never disturbing its natural flow. Farag didn't like it. It was cowardly not to choose sides and fight for the things you loved. Some people claimed that Astinus was an aspect of Gilean or a son of his. Farag didn't believe it. In fact, he thought it quite possible that the historian had started the story himself in order to justify his spineless attitude.

"You must know why I'm here then," said Farag, slightly annoyed by the man's overbearing words of welcome.

"You want to see the records from three hundred and fifty-six. Please. Walk this way."

The Ageless One put down his quill and beckoned Farag to follow.

They walked quietly past several shelves of books, all the way to the back of the hall, where Astinus ordered one of his Aesthetics to climb the ladder. The young monk went up quickly and came back down just as quickly with a large leather-bound volume, which was handed to Farag without further ceremony.

When Farag opened the book, Astinus cleared his throat. "Before you proceed, Your Reverence, allow me to point out that it is a record of events. Sometimes there's much more to events than meets the eye."

Farag glanced at the man, impatient to get started. "Is that an opinion I hear, Master Lorekeeper?"

"An opinion, an observation, a dictum - you may call it what you like, my friend."

With these words and a bow Astinus the Undying left him.

Farag placed the book on a pedestal and looked up the month of Mishamont, scanning the pages until he came to what he was searching for.

This day, as above Afterwatch rising 28, Crysania of Tarinius arrived for her appointment with Raistlin Majere.

Farag stared at the page, his face quivering with indignation. Just seeing their names galled him. He wanted to tear the page out of the book and crumple it into a ball.

With his teeth clamped he started to read the account and as he read on, a huge sense of relief began to bubble inside him.

It was all true. It had all happened just the way the letter had said.

Convert him. Bring him to Paladine. And the best part: Help him rid the world of evil.

Farag didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She truly was blind in more ways than one. But what else would you expect, really, from someone who had been wrapped up in cotton wool all her life? The most astonishing thing was that Majere had completely duped her, but now she was back together with him. What kind of an idiot... It was pretty obvious that she was off her rocker. Farag wondered if she was still missing the point. Maybe, he thought spitefully, someone ought to recite to her the other narrative that ran parallel to hers in Astinus's chronicle, the narrative that in dispassionate tones described the wizard's madness from the beginning to the unambiguous end: and he left her to die of her injuries.

That was cold. Truly cold.

But no pity stirred in Farag's heart for her.

Those two deserved each other. You reaped what you sowed.

Closing the book, Farag scoffed at his earlier anxiety. There was absolutely no chance that she was the Platinum Father's choice as the leader of the church. She was precisely what the letter had called her: a weak-willed and impressionable woman. That's all she was. It made him shiver to think of how close the church had come to being utterly destroyed.

He would never let that happen. Right now his men were spreading south through Solamnia, searching the villages and fortresses. All the central cities had been alerted. The two would be arrested immediately if they tried to enter Solanthus, Caergoth or Hargoth. They had a couple of days' lead, but the City Guard were on the right track, following fast on their trail. It was clear the couple had stopped at the Tarinius Manor, said the team Farag had sent there; footprints, hoofprints everywhere. Sooner or later fate would catch up with those blasphemers.

They would bring them back to Palanthas and make them repent before death. And once they found them, Farag thought with pleasure, he would make sure she was told everything: how her lover boy had helped to depose her, how he'd held a little girl hostage, how he'd murdered a church official. Maybe then, finally, she would get the point.

With a self-satisfied smile, Farag started to walk back towards the central hall.

He marched on energetically, smiling, swinging his arms, this way making sure he could not hear the tenacious little thought that again tried to take shape:

What you did was not God's victory. It was a coup. A cheap coup.

Farag's smile grew wider, his stride ever faster.

Two days from now, as his first task as the church leader, he would officially excommunicate the bitch and make sure the news reached every corner of the world.
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Evermore: The Gathering