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Torqueo	By : Skullbearer Category: A through F > Dragonlance Views: 1672 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own the book(s) that this fanfiction is written for, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 4
- 5
Lorean: Thank you, I hope you like this one as much.
arrasailup: Thank you, to be honest, none of the three have much character, although Par-Salian is easy enough to get (ie, he's a Dumbledore-style bastard). Ladonna's going to be a throw away character, but Justarius is definitely going to get more of a look in.
Shadow: Heh, hugs given, metaphysical and otherwise.
WalkingInDarkness737: Margaret Weiss migth have thought of it, but Tracy Hickman's a missionary and is probably hellfire-homophobic. Twat. Thank you otherwise.
shadowvalkyrie: Thank you as always.
wanderingaddict: Thank you very much, it's harder to write omega-level characters like Raistlin, you need someone to play them against. Fistandantilus fills that role beautifully.
Faersul: Thank you!
vanyali: Thank you, I enjoyed writing it.
Torqueo
Epilogue- Nightmare
a choir full of longing
will call our ships to port
the countless lonely voices
like whispers in the dark
Covenant, Call the Ships to Port
Had Dalamar tried to imagine the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, even knowing of the curse and Fistandantilus, he wouldn't have come close to how it really was. Wayreth was strange enough, sometimes almost alive, but here... If Wayreth is alive, Palanthas was undead. Fistandantilus couldn't have chosen a more fitting place to dwell.
The Tower was like a claw, one of Fistandantilus' claws, black bone, like the Tower of the Stars had been white bone. It was darker than the night, dark as Nuitari. The trees around were almost black, like Darken Wood. Fistandantilus, Silvanesti and Darken Wood, bred from nightmares.
He clenched his fists as he looked at it, feeling the ring Par-Salian had given him cut into his finger. A rare ring of healing, in case everything went horribly wrong, to appease the old man’s guilt. They'd given him new robes too, more fitting one for an apprentice of a Tower Master than the ragged, weather torn ones he’d been wearing. They were thick velvet, and seemed to blend into the darkness surrounding him.
He held up the Night Gem Par-Salian had given him, the gem that Fistandantilus had given /him/. The undead creatures scrabbling around the hem of his robes made a strange noise, a screeching sob on the very edge of hearing, and vanished as though the graveyard earth had swallowed them.
The Gem was heavy, his arm ached from the effort of holding it up but he didn't lower it. If he could go on under the aching, endless lead weight of loss in his chest, he could keep holding up the Night Gem.
The Tower was coming closer, and Dalamar looked up. It too had a walkway, the Death Walk, from which the Black Robe had thrown himself. He wondered if he'd throw Fistandantilus off it, he wondered if he'd fall off too, as in the Test. He wondered if he was up there now, looking down. He hoped not, if nothing else, he wanted to see the lich's face when he saw him. He wanted to see that stolen face twist in the same kind of expression of hatred and shock he saw in Neraka, but didn't know enough to enjoy.
The Tower was ahead, the gate barring the way. Like his Test, so much like his Test, but the pillars on either side were tar black, and had no reflection. The spikes had shreds of black cloth clinging to them, the robes of the dead man. He didn't have to touch the gate, the moment he stepped close, it swung open. It was colder still within the gate, and Dalamar thought he saw a flicker of cold, dead eyes watching through the bars. The eyes of the undead in Darken Wood, of Silvanesti. But this one didn't move to attack, it just watched him, Dalamar stared back, then turned away.
Its eyes followed him as he went.
He touched the front door, it looked like black wood, but closer to Dalamar saw it had been charred, as though the curse had burnt it. It was grainy and dusty under his fingers, and swung open before he put any pressure on it.
The interior was like pitch, and even his elven sight couldn't pierce it. The walls gleamed strangely, dark and shining like Nuitari, illuminating the corridor leading on. He followed it; the cold sank into his bones, chilling him to the core. It seemed endless, passing door after door after door and all identical, but eventually it did end, leading into a flight of stairs leading up. He took a deep breath, and started.
The steps were uneven, but somehow he found a rhythm. The Tower was hollow, and it was like walking up the inside of a well. The hole was fathomless.
It was like the corridor, only walking up. Door after door, each one unmarked. Perhaps they had been once, but the curse that had consumed the Tower had charred off any distinguishing marks.
And finally, something changed. The next landing was larger than the others, with torches on either side of the door, a polished black door with a handle shaped like a skull. It was silver, and the eyesockets were empty. Dalamar reached out a hand, and this time it shook. His fingers trembled an inch from the ebony, ready to announce himself, then dropped, closing around the skull instead. He turned it, and pushed the door open.
The room was a study, a fire lit in the grate providing the only light. Books were stacked on the walls, their cold rivaling the warmth of the flames. The blue bound spellbooks of Fistandantilus.
He stood with his back to Dalamar, before a huge stone table which stank of sea water, the smell battling with those of burning pine, rose petals and death.
Fistandantilus turned, a smile ready prepared on his face. Had he planned to turn whoever was sent to him? To pretend he was Raistlin Majere and win them over one way or another? What that the reason for the fire? What other reason was there for a creature who could no longer feel the cold?
The fire glinted off the golden skin, glittered off those golden eyes, but Dalamar could never mistake that face for Raistlin's. Raistlin was dead, and if he had his way, the spirit inhabiting his body would soon follow suit.
The smile vanished like an ember in a snowfield. For the first time since his Test, Dalamar smiled, a small, tight smile. Those dead eyes gleamed, pure hatred, and Dalamar saw his- Raistlin's hand- hand snake towards his spell components.
Dalamar stood his ground, staring him down, and slowly, Fistandantilus lowered his clenched claw. The Conclave's gamble had worked. He wouldn't yet try and cross them.
He sneered at him. Dalamar returned it.
"/Shalafi./" He spat.
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Raistlin felt Fistandantilus' rage, but blind as he was, he couldn't see its target.
A quick study of the lich's emotions -and that's what it had become, a quick study- revealed that it was whatever poor soul the Conclave had sent as the lich's apprentice. The lich needed an apprentice, and Raistlin hadn’t tried to oppose the plan. He didn’t dare risk revealing himself and hopefully, whoever came would serve to turn the lich’s mind further outwards, away from the real danger.
Thinking of the Conclave had him thinking of Dalamar. He hoped the Dark elf was well, wherever he might be now, and hoped to his lover's chosen Nuitari that he wasn’t about to go looking for him again. Hopefully he was in Wayreth; it would be the safest place for him. Fistandantilus wanted him dead but with luck the lich wouldn't dare to break the Conclave's laws yet.
This seemed promising, though. Despite his obvious hatred for whoever had been chosen to be his apprentice, Fistandantilus wasn't about to kill him, he knew it would provide the Conclave with the excuse to attack, and held himself back. Good.
He felt a stab of pity for the fool who had agreed to this assignment, especially now. Still, anything that would distract Fistandantilus from what Raistlin was doing would be a welcome addition.

Skull Bearer.
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Torqueo