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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
- 4
- 5
- 6
CHAPTER 4

"Welcome back, my lady."

The humble greeting was followed by a courteous bow that Gaspar Cloade never failed to give to Revered Daughter Crysania, despite the fact that some of the youngest acolytes grinned at it behind his back, thinking he was either a bit daft or a veritable hypocrite. He was neither - he simply believed in politeness and being civil to other people, regardless the circumstances. Also he was fairly certain the lady could sense it, which was perhaps why she always stopped to exchange a few words with him and ask him about his day.

Gaspar was profoundly touched by this gesture of kindness. It seemed to assert an equality of sorts between them, even though he was a mere secretary and she, in every sense, was quite fabulous a woman: an aristocrat by birth, highly educated, soon to be head of the church of Paladine. Feats like that were enough to make anyone feel a little bit intimidated, but after eight months in the lady's service Gaspar no longer felt so nervous in her company. As of late, he had even found himself beginning to trust Revered Father Elistan's judgement. He could see why some people might be skeptical about it, but he was pretty convinced, and hoped that eventually everyone else would be, that Elistan would not have chosen as his successor a haughty slip of a girl prone to womanly caprices. Besides, weren't such matters as age, sex or ancestry completely irrelevant in Paladine's eyes? Was it not the most important thing that the lady's faith was undoubtedly great? Some people said she was downright fanatical, which Gaspar supposed was only a good feature in a cleric, and he did not doubt their words, for he could clearly see a glimpse of her inner fire every time she returned from her usual round at the marketplace.

Today was no different: the lady's exquisite face, framed by silky black hair, was alight with joy, and her unseeing eyes were shining with pleasure. Looking at her now, Gaspar was reminded of the time when he had been first introduced to her, and he had thought, childishly enough, that she did not look like a cleric. On the contrary, he had thought she resembled a fragile porcelain figure imprisoned in a glass globe: ethereally beautiful, and cold to the touch, and removed from the world. What would such a person know of pain and suffering? Why would poor people with missing limbs and rags for clothes ever want to approach someone like her? But it turned out he was wrong: folk thronged to see her, week after week, some out of faith, others out of curiosity that beauty always seemed to inspire in people. The reasons did not matter. She drew people to the church like a bright, shiny star, and that was precisely what the church needed to grow in strength. Perhaps Elistan in his wisdom had seen it.

And of course there was that thing with her eyes - she did know about pain and suffering. In a way, Gaspar reasoned, her blindness redeemed her to those less fortunate, made her more real and tangible; otherwise she would have been too garish a reminder of everything they themselves were not. The official story was that she had lost her eyesight fighting for a better world. It was not quite true, of course, but not entirely false either. Either way, Gaspar felt a little uncomfortable about it.

"Any letters for me today?"

Gaspar returned to himself with a start. The Revered Daughter was gazing in his direction with a friendly smile on her lips, her cloak folded over her arms, her gray eyes fixed just a little below his face. Clearing his throat in embarrassment, Gaspar collected a stack of letters that had arrived earlier in the morning and placed it in the lady's outstretched hand. The letters she got confounded and amused him still. People sent her just about anything one could imagine: official invitations to all sorts of events, teary appeals for intercession, rambling explanations with no grammar whatsoever about divine revelations received in water closets, even deluded marriage proposals. He did not think all of it reached her ears; probably the worst ones were discreetly disposed of by Araminta. At least he hoped so.

Bending over, Gaspar ran a finger along the open tome resting on his desk. "Two requests for a minor audience have been made," he informed the Revered Daughter. "Also you were approached to discuss the blessing of the monument of remembrance for the children who died in the Blue Lady's War."

"Yes. Splendid. Would you please mark them on my schedule. We shall talk of them more tomorrow."

"Certainly, my lady."

"And tomorrow?"

"In the afternoon, there's the wedding ceremony here at the main temple, and in the morning, an audience with a Miss Meena Trapsinger..." He stopped and looked up at the lady with a smile. "Heavens! Are they all Trapspringers? Half the world's called Trapspringer, it seems."

"Indeed." She gave a little smile, too. "Thank you again, Gaspar. I bid you a good afternoon."

"Thank you, ma'am." Gaspar bent his head reverently. "You, too, ma'am."

He watched her walk away down the corridor towards her private chambers. Her steps were slow but determinate as she crossed the alternating pools of light and dark between the massive marble pillars. Once, in the beginning, Gaspar had made the mistake of offering to guide her along the way. She had declined - very politely, but nevertheless he had witnessed a sort of diminishing of warmth in her features. Afterwards a condescending acolyte had explained to him that everyone knew the lady did not want to be walked around by the arm like a half-witted fool. No wonder: she could handle her surroundings with almost frightening ease. She never seemed uncertain as to where to stop and turn. She did not even fumble with the key.

After she had disappeared from sight, Gaspar sat down again with a sigh, returning to his various duties. He took his quill and started to write, but was soon lost to his thoughts. The lady was such a mystery to him. Most of the time she appeared so supremely serene and wise that it was amazingly difficult to believe she had done what she had done two years ago. The truth behind her blindness: it was a secret Gaspar had been let in on - and consequently sworn to secrecy - on his first workday as her personal secretary. Her inner circle had convinced him that it did not affect Elistan's choice: on his deathbed Elistan was perfectly aware, and had been for a long time, that his ward and favourite had fallen head over heels with a black-robed mage. The Revered Father had not lived to know that she lost her eyesight, but surely that would not have changed anything - otherwise he would have sent them a sign later. Seeing Gaspar's horrified face, they - the handful of people who knew - had kept on insisting that the Revered Daughter's intentions had been noble to begin with, that she truly believed the mage needed her help to drive the evil from the world. The rest only came later. But did that make it alright? Gaspar had been downright baffled then and very much remained so: why would anyone believe that a practicer of Nuitari's magic wanted to rid the world of evil? Was it not extremely naive and gullible to think so? He guessed people were right in saying love was blind. Too bad the lady had had to learn it the literal way.

Obviously people said a lot of things that were all very fine and nice in bards' stories, but Gaspar doubted folk proverbs would save the day if the truth came out. He could easily imagine the outrage: a servant of light simply did not do such things, especially if she happened to be the future head of the church. But Gaspar was slowly overcoming his own scruples. He could clearly see the Revered Daughter was absolutely brilliant in executing her professional duties. It was not just commoners who were impressed by her - being an aristocrat, she handled guests of high rank, ambassadors and lords and the like, with the same deadly elegance she did regular citizens. Gaspar had never seen her struck speechless, and to his knowledge she could hold up a conversation in at least four different languages, whereas most women could not manage an intelligent conversation even in their own tongue. It was very curious, the way her inside did not seem to match with her outside: one would never have guessed the depths of her learning by just looking at her. She was so petite and pretty that you expected a gust of wind might knock her down, but then she would come over to you and knock you off of your feet instead. She did not hold out her hand timidly to be kissed nor offer it like a limp fish. Her firm handshake left no room for doubt: this woman knew what she was doing.

Except not always.

Gaspar leaned back in his leather chair, tapping his lower lip with one finger in consternation. So she never noticed anything, never suspected the bastard of a mage might be leading her on? How tightly wrapped around another one's finger could a person be? What if - and this thought gave Gaspar an unpleasant chill in the pit of his stomach - what if she slipped again, one way or the other, with the whole weight of the church resting on her small shoulders? Certainly on a few occasions he had caught her sitting alone in her thoughts, staring into nothingness with an empty expression on her face that had left him with an uneasy feeling. Perhaps she was not as strong as everyone, including Elistan, seemed to think she was.

Be that as it may, it was not his place to ask too many questions. As long as he could feed Esther and their seven children, he had every reason to be pleased.

Gaspar looked back down at his present work and let out a curse under his breath. He had been so absorbed in his thoughts that he had forgotten he was in fact holding a quill from which ink was now dripping onto the empty sheet of parchment before him. He quickly snatched a piece of blotting paper and pressed it meticulously over the dark stain.

Then he sat still, watching the white paper suck in the blackness.

*

Clean, white silence.

"Thank you, Platinum Father," Crysania whispered, bringing the tips of her fingers together, touching her forehead three times in a row. Making sure she was standing in approximately the right position, she knelt down in front of the altar and, after kissing the holy pendant around her neck, said a short prayer with closed eyes.

Finished with the daily ritual, she rose and, running her hand lightly along the furniture edges, made her way to the basin of water strewn with rose petals. Although she knew it was only a perfectly wise thing to do, she still felt a little guilty for hurrying to wash herself after the marketplace. She had come a long way, though, from what she had once been: as shameful as it was to admit, there had been a time when she had been genuinely appalled at the thought of having to touch disfigured bodies and scarred faces with her own hands. As an acolyte she had used silk gloves to protect herself - many clerics did - but when her understanding had grown, she had discarded the gloves with disgust - how would she herself have felt if someone only agreed to touch her covered like that? It was not anybody's fault that they were sick and poor - it was the world that gave them no choice. Like that little boy who had snatched the coin purse and disappeared with it into the crowd two weeks ago: suddenly she had felt the weight lift from her hand, and the guards had started to shout theft. As soon as she had gathered from the commotion around her that the accused thief was only a scrawny little boy, she had ordered the guards to let him go and temper their anger that was out of proportion. Clearly the boy did not do it out of evil. Clearly he was just hungry.

After washing her hands and face, Crysania sank down on the hard, high-backed chair next to the table - furniture was only moved around in her chamber for cleaning and returned to exactly the same spot afterwards. She brought her fingers to her temples and rubbed them gently. The heavy scent of incense was clinging to her hair and clothes, giving her a creeping headache. Moreover, thunder was approaching; she could feel it in the oppressive air. All in all today had been a weird day - for some reason she had felt on guard all the time and pleased at having protection, even if she was usually one to scoff at her guards who seemed to think they were facing bloodthirsty lions instead of the poor citizens of Palanthas.

Sighing, Crysania asked Paladine for the willpower to not be too short-tempered with her men, for the truth was that they were there for her own good. In potentially risky situations she would be only happy to have them - at least that's what Araminta was constantly telling her, scared to death about the purse theft. If someone robbed you that easily, she said, I dread to think what else might happen. The indication of helplessness angered Crysania, but she knew she needed to swallow her pride and acknowledge the simple cold truth: she was blind. Sometimes she had to actually remind herself of the fact; it was still so hard to believe that it had happened to her. But that's the way it was, and she would do well to admit there were now situations in life she could not manage on her own. Like making sense of the letters people sent or writing her inaugural speech, for example. She put out a hand and fumbled about beside her. Everything was in place: the letters were on the table to her right, and the scroll was on the shelf to her left, housed between two bookstands.

There was a short knock at the door. A key turned in the lock, and then a low and steady woman's voice said, "I'm early. I'm not interrupting you, am I?"

Crysania set the scroll down and turned towards the door to welcome her assistant. "Not at all. Come in."

Araminta's light steps filled the room. They went to the right first, straight towards the altar, where she stopped and explained that she was replacing the wilted flowers with the new ones she had brought. Then she moved over to the window; there was a soft wet sound as she poured some ice water into two goblets. "That's a big pile of letters right there," she said admiringly. "Shall we start with them, or the speech?"

"The speech, I think."

"Incense again?" There was an empathetic smile in Araminta's voice.

Crysania removed her hand from her forehead. "Always."

Araminta gave a little chuckle. "You should put it out of the list when you get to decide."

"Oh, I don't think they're ready for such drastic changes. Then again," Crysania added with a sigh, "maybe that is exactly what they expect from a woman: decorative details rearranged." She leaned forward in her chair, breathing in the breeze that disappeared as fast as it came through the open balcony door. "I can't believe the sky hasn't broken yet," she said over her shoulder. "It's going to be the storm of the century, I can feel it."

"Mother says we'll wait a few more days."

Crysania looked up sharply. There it was again - the dead mother speaking inside Araminta's head. The woman had shared the secret with her rather reluctantly, because Elistan, Araminta's cousin, had not tolerated such talks inside the temple grounds: it was a well-known fact that only the wicked dead could not rest in silence, and Elistan would not have his aunt's memory disgraced by her own daughter. Elistan was, of course, absolutely right, but Crysania wanted to bring Araminta down gently. Soon enough, at the right moment, she would sit her down and explain to her that not only did the voices come from those in eternal torment, but that Paladine considered the ones listening to them wicked as well.

"Here's your water, dear." Araminta's fingers brushed Crysania's hand as the goblet passed between them; the elder woman's touch was warm, comforting. Her physical features were just as kind and trust-inspiring as her voice - Crysania knew this, for Araminta had allowed her to touch her face, which was something Crysania had not asked of many people. About fifty years of age, Araminta Averell had a round face framed by thin eyebrows. Her nose was straight and small, her smile wide and genuine. Most often her wheat-coloured hair was combed back from her high forehead, and braided into a long plait that hung down her back; sometimes it was plaited round her head like a golden halo. She was a tall woman, almost a head taller than Crysania; her steps were busy and energetic, and she seemed always on the move, performing important chores. As of now, she was arranging the table for the writing: there was a faint creak as she opened the box of quills, and even a fainter one from the inkwell. Her skirts rustled. Chair legs scraped the floor. "I'm all set," came her voice. "Shall we begin?"

Crysania handed her the scroll. "Yes, please."

"Let's see," muttered Araminta, unwinding the scroll and examining the writing on it. "Yes. It seems we finished two paragraphs yesterday."

"Read the final one for me, please."

Araminta cleared her throat and began to read in a solemn voice.

We often see the world as if in the mirror of a fair fun house, and we accept the validity of those distorted images because we want to believe our eyes rather than our hearts. Our worldly eyes are attracted by the way precious stones reflect the light. We look up with wonder at the sky, the stars, the moons and the sun; yes, Creation is indeed very beautiful. But if one wants to follow truth and beauty, if one wants to judge righteously, one cannot afford to put one's trust in the world of images. Only the heart sees through the dark, just as the High God does - the High God Paladine whose eyes are upon you in your darkness, carrying you through each and every hardship of life.

"There," Araminta concluded, looking at the scroll with an appraising eye. "Beautiful. I think you have a way with words."

But Crysania shook her head with a displeased frown. "Mirrors and fun houses - it's not too banal, is it?"

"Oh, no, not at all!" Araminta cried out. "Besides, undying truths can't help but sound a little banal when pressed into mortal words."

"Yes. Perhaps the oldest metaphors are the truest." But the look of displeasure remained on her face.

Setting aside the scroll, Araminta leaned forward, looking at Crysania very intently, hoping that way to catch her complete attention, yet thinking in passing it was just as daft as addressing blind people in a loud voice, as if there was something wrong with their hearing as well. "Look here, Crysania," she said gravely. "You are a precise perfectionist, I know that, and I truly admire your... uncompromising attitude. But believe me when I say that you're going to give them an excellent speech. The only thing that matters is that it comes from your heart. And I know it does." She tried to be comforting and supportive, but was not surprised that Crysania did not embrace it. She was a woman who shut her ears from consolation as a flower closed its petals over its fragile centre: she knew she would give them an excellent speech, she did not need to be convinced by her uneducated assistant. "It had better," she only replied shortly. "Otherwise poor Gaspar will be doing a lot of whispering."

"Oh, come now," said Araminta, knowing her words were lost to the winds, "it'll all go perfectly well. You won't forget a single word, I'm sure." As Araminta spoke she spread the scroll on the table, placing a glass paperweight on top of each corner. Then she grabbed a quill and dipped it in the silver inkwell. "I'm ready, let us continue."

Crysania took in a deep breath and held it, searching for the right words in her mind. Then she started to speak, slowly at first, then with a faster cadence as the flow of the words took hold of her. "In all of our lives," she said, "regardless of one's position in the world, there are wont to be ups and downs. Times of mirth change into times of desperation, and it will seem that we love alone, fight alone, believe alone. The Platinum Father says: 'There is a time for everything as certainly as the day follows the night.'" She could hear the quill scratching on the parchment. She paused. "Do you follow?"

"I'm fine. Just keep going." Araminta smiled secretly. Ups and downs - that was good; she had cautiously suggested that she drop the difficult words. If she wanted to truly bond with the people, they needed to speak the same language.

"Therefore we must not let dire circumstances grind us down. If it is in your power to change the situation for the better, do so; if not, accept and learn, for it is Paladine's will that it be so. Paladine wishes us to know that he safely protects us in both sorrow and joy equally, and he loves us as much in sorrow as in joy. He gives joy generously when he so wishes, and sometimes allows us sorrow; and both come from love. So it is the Platinum Father's will that we should hold on to gladness with all our might, for bliss lasts eternally, and pain passes and shall vanish completely."

Her voice was shaking ever so slightly. As Araminta looked up she saw a shadow of sadness move across Crysania's pale, severe face. Araminta put the quill down and, after a moment's hesitation, reached out and touched her hand. She immediately drew it away.

Araminta sighed inwardly. It was a mistake to spot weakness in the Revered Daughter. She simply did not seem to understand that nobody would have held it against her had she expressed pain over what had happened to her - nobody would have thought that she was being pathetic, or that she was rebelling against Paladine's will. It worried Araminta that Crysania never talked about it. She could well understand her distrust of new people, but nonetheless she hoped that one day the young woman would open herself up to her a little more; she had grown to like her a great deal, and would have been pleased to lend an ear to her thoughts. Granted, some of her actions had been rather incomprehensible, and falling in love with a black-robed mage certainly was not something to be sung from the rooftops, but Araminta did not blame her. Everyone made mistakes. But admitting your mistakes must have been like drinking poison to someone like Crysania: she was a naturally proud and dignified woman, and it had pained Araminta to see the effort with which she had accepted help and guidance after her recovery. In the dark of the night, when there was nobody there to witness her first fumbling attempts, Araminta had walked Crysania by the arm along the temple corridors and explained to her the surroundings, again and again, until a routine had formed, and Crysania had began to trust her steps and remaining senses.

During those days, so Araminta believed, she had come to know the Revered Daughter as well as anybody could. She had heard talks about her being cold and uncomfortable to be around with, but personally Araminta had never witnessed such traits. To be sure, Crysania was reserved, and guarded her privacy, but was that necessarily a bad thing in a human being? She was also highly aware of her own intelligence and sophistication - some called it haughtiness, Araminta called it healthy self-respect. She did not laugh at cheap jokes nor make idle small talk on trivial matters, but it did not mean she was without a sense of humour; quite the contrary, she had a blade of cutting wit that Araminta liked. But she could also see that, with just slight alterations, Crysania might have been a rather terrifying person, a typical noblewoman sitting on her high horse, ordering people around and despising them with all the arsenal of her privileged position. Lucky for her subordinates, she demanded perfection only from herself. Gods only knew what twist of nature had caused her to abandon her lineage and choose a different path in life - as far as Araminta knew, the ancient noble families of Palanthas were furiously opposed to the worshipping of the old gods.

Araminta glanced out of the window. Birds were singing to their hearts' content in the great elm beside the balcony, purple luscinias and golden starbirds. Perhaps they were drawn to the Revered Daughter, the same way butterflies had seemed to be attracted to Elistan; it was never silent in the branches when she was near. Araminta had often found her sitting by the window, listening to the bright notes. It was a peaceful scene, but there was a sad undercurrent to it: how small her world had become, and she had not even reached thirty. Although maybe she did not see it like that herself, Araminta thought, maybe there was no room for bitterness in her faith.

Araminta cleaned the quill tip a bit with a cloth, patiently waiting for Crysania to get over the thoughts of her past. She could not tell what the Revered Daughter was feeling. Anger? Shame? Both? Or maybe forgiveness.

Soon enough Crysania lifted her head up again and continued to dictate, as if nothing had happened. "And since everything occurs by divine ordinance, let every faithful soul under every affliction find consolation in the thought that Paladine in his great goodness never permits anything to occur outside his plan and that no matter what wrongdoing is done, he makes it work to the best issue. Obedience leads to unity, unity to constancy and a quiet mind, and these are treasures of inestimable worth." She paused, heaving a deep sigh. "I'm afraid my head hurts quite a bit. I think we'll continue this later."

"That's alright. There's still plenty of time." Araminta hoped she did not sound too relieved. She needed to take it slow: the arthritis in her fingers had flared up again the night before.

Crysania was slowly shaking her head. "It just seems so soon," she said blankly.

It was the closest she could come to admitting she felt insecure. Araminta stood up determinedly and went to her. "Elistan left his legacy in good hands," she said, undoing the two little braids joined in the middle at the back of Crysania's head. "He's been waiting for two years for you to step up and pick up where he left off. I think - no, I believe he saw the future of the church the moment he laid his eyes on you. He looked at you, and he saw your strength and your fire, even before you joined our cause."

Crysania let out an incredulous little laugh. "To think I first went to see him with my mind fixed on proving him wrong."

"Mysterious ways, they say." Araminta tried, but could not comb through Crysania's hair with her fingers; already they ached badly from holding the quill. Dismayed, she reached for the brush.

"But still," Crysania insisted, "I wonder if he considered the consequences well enough. There are so many people violently opposed to highborn clerics, do you think they want to see one as head of the church? Let alone, a woman."

"If there was cause for worry, I'm sure we'd know."

"Oh, yes," Crysania replied, cocking an eyebrow. "Wasn't that what Revered Son Timon said, right before Phlaris Vavassour was arrested?"

Crysania Tarinius was a woman of many talents - including freezing a conversation with an impertinent remark. Araminta did not know how to reply. For a while there was no sound in the room, apart from the smooth brush gliding through Crysania's hair. It was a crude bone brush, a far cry from the exquisite instruments with which her servants must have combed her hair when she was a child. She had given up luxury in her new life: by her own command, everything in her chamber was unpretentious and plain. The chairs were uncushioned. The mattress under the white crisp linen was filled with straw. The colourless walls had no life, save for Paladine's triangle above the bed, and a skillfully woven tapestry depicting early church history - Elistan receiving the Disks of Mishakal from the smiling deity. The Revered Daughter's reflection on the window glass was as expressionless as the room around her. She rarely smiled. Whether she had always been like that, even as a little girl, or only after her later experiences, Araminta could not say.

"Oh," said Crysania suddenly in surprised tones. She put her hand to her ear.

"What is it?" Araminta stopped combing. "Did I pinch you?"

"No. My ear's ringing."

"The left one? Someone's talking about you," said Araminta playfully.

"Superstition." She seemed to immediately regret her cold tone, for she asked, in a much lighter voice, "Have you seen the harvest garlands in the great hall? Everyone says they look tremendously beautiful." A wistful ghost of a smile touched her lips. "They do have an enchanting scent."

"Oh, yes. I hear Gadfrid almost had a little accident, hanging them."

"Oh that poor man", said Crysania ruefully. "It just breaks my heart to think that soon enough someone's going to have to tell him he's getting too old for his tasks."

"I know. But you shouldn't worry about that as well. You have enough on your mind as it is. There," Araminta added. "Finished."

"Thank you." Crysania tilted her face up towards Araminta. "Now, I'm afraid I really need to rest a while before the evensong."

Concerned, Araminta studied her face. "Have you been having enough sleep?"

She blinked. "I have."

Araminta did not quite believe her, but there was no use arguing the matter. She wondered if she should ask - would she just clam up again? - and decided to give it a try. "No nightmares, then?"

Crysania's eyebrows rose, and she was silent for a moment. "Not for some time now, no," she said then, rather reluctantly.

"Good. I'm glad." Suddenly Araminta did not quite know how to proceed. These moments happened so often between them: they arrived on the brink of friendship, the door was already ajar, and then Crysania would draw it closed and leave Araminta standing helpless on the other side. But Araminta was not someone who gave up easily. She knew leading the church was a lonely business: Crysania would need a faithful friend in her life, and if she only kept trying, she was sure that one day they would walk through the door together.

But not today. "We shall meet again the day after tomorrow," said Crysania officially. Then, unexpectedly, she gave an exasperated smile. "Tomorrow, I've got an audience with a kender."

Araminta stared at her, surprised. "A kender?" she laughed. "Sounds like a ride." She took advantage of the moment to depart on a relaxed note. "Rest now, Crysania," she said, her voice filled with warmth. "It is four hours until the evensong."

After her assistant was gone, Crysania spent long moments listening to the the twittering of birds, and half-heartedly searching through her mind for some suitable theological book titles that she might recommend to a young kender girl. She would ask that she read the books first, and then, provided the girl still wanted to - provided her attention span was very un-kenderlike - they would perhaps continue to meet, until she had enough knowledge of Paladine's faith. A kender was certainly an unlikely candidate, but Paladine did not turn his back on anyone.

She closed her eyes, savouring her solitude. Once again it occurred to her that in the future these unhurried moments of privacy would become very rare. Just five short weeks, and her life would be all administration and diplomacy - would you sign this, Revered Mother, should we or should we not, Your Holiness. She would represent the church around the continent in every corner of Krynn, lead public services on celebration days. She would hardly ever be alone. She did not want to use the word prison, but she could not avoid the thought. Her former life as an ordinary cleric suddenly seemed very dear to her - tending the sick and visiting their deathbeds, taking part in common people's joys and sorrows - although she had once scorned it as but an unavoidable step on the road to higher glory. Now she was about to reach that glory, the great goal she had set for herself five years ago, probably at the very moment she had knocked on the temple door with her mud-soaked satin shoes in hand, dripping with rain, and blisters on both feet. But where was the pride she had expected to feel? Her parents were dead, she did not know what had become of her cousins - perhaps there was no one left to impress. She flinched; not that old demon again. She was not there to impress anyone: just when was she going to get that through her thick skull?

And there was something else, too. What if, she thought dismayed, what if people who looked up to her knew the truth about her, behind the passive saintly mask she put on daily? That she who preached love had failed. Miserably. She had not known how to love. Again the image was there, hovering in her mind, a blurred vision of what her life would be like right now - if only. Terrified, she put an immediate halt to it, before it was even completely formed, but not fast enough: she knew perfectly well what there was in that image, and every time it tore at her soul.

Or what if people knew there were moments that she just burst out in tears for no reason at all? That she had... fits? For a long time she had been afraid of silence, of parting steps and closing doors. Don't leave me alone in the darkness. The fear was gone, but the fits remained - fits when her heart beat out of her chest, and she could neither breathe nor hear, thinking she was still there.

What if they could see it all by just looking at her, when she stepped on the dais to deliver her speech, crowned with that ridiculous, heavy headgear that imitated the golden rays of the rising sun? What if, instead of the words of her speech, she would blurt it all out to them, some inconvenient truths that no one, including herself, wanted to hear?

If and if and if. Crysania brought her hands up to her face, tracing the smooth skin with her fingertips. She touched the lace of her lashes. She covered her eyes with her hands. The white fog remained - long ago she had stopped pretending she could discern changes in the light. There was nothing.

In the beginning the white silence had been a very lonely and scary place, where images from the past seemed to gain shape and become so vivid that she was certain she could still see and touch them. As of late some details had already begun to fade, but mostly the world remained precisely drawn in her mind's eye. To keep it there, she had taken to contemplating colours as meditation: the sky stood for blue, a rose for red, a climbing ivy for green. One day she would lose these images - already she had begun to prepare herself for it - but in the meantime she intended to set an example. Her life had become much more complicated than what it used to be - she could no longer just jump up on a whim and go where the wind would take her, but indeed it was a blessing in disguise, which gave her a whole deal more time to focus on the truly important, on what was inside. If one desired to look on truth and follow Paladine's path with unswerving course, one only needed one's heart. As surely as he is my eyes today, he will be your eyes as well - that was what she had written in her inaugural speech, near the beginning. Paladine committed no errors: the ones he loved the most he also tested the most. What had happened to her was Paladine's will, and she would not have changed it. She whispered it out loud for reassurance: I would not change it.

Once she had asked from Araminta - she frequently surprised herself by saying things to her that she never would have believed she'd say in front of people. She had asked how her eyes looked like. One could clearly see they had been blue, was Araminta's answer, but they looked frosty now, like a pond freezing over in the early winter. Crysania appreciated her words: Araminta was not pushy or nosy, but when asked, she always spoke frankly in her grave, calming voice. It had been like that from their first meeting. Crysania had woken up from the feverish dreams of her blood poisoning and sensed someone sitting next to her bed, shuffling in her chair. A sudden, sharp silence had fallen, and then, by way of an explanation, a woman's voice had simply said, "I'm counting your bruises. Nineteen." Blunt words, perhaps, but honest, and to the point.

The stranger had started to sit daily by her bedside, guarding her sleep, placing cold compresses on her sweaty forehead. After learning who the woman was - Elistan's cousin -, Crysania's first thought had been that she did it out of duty, to respect Elistan's memory. But as time went by, she had begun to think that maybe the woman had nothing to gain, maybe she just wanted to be there with her, which was a curious thought. She had started to read to her. Losing books had been a hard blow, but Araminta made sure to lessen the impact by finding her all the new volumes, tales, poems and ballads, some of them which Crysania now knew by heart, even grammars of languages she still wanted to learn.

It was also Araminta who had helped her to cope with her new, alien surroundings. She had arranged her room, meticulousy eliminating all the dangerous angles, patiently explaining to her the whereabouts of every object, underlining to everyone who had the key - Gaspar and the cleaning maid - that nothing was to be moved from its place. Little by little Crysania had dared to venture out of the room with Araminta, first with her hand on the elder woman's arm, then all by herself. In other words, Araminta had helped her back to life. Crysania was starting to believe that this was what friendship must be like.

She moved on to examine her right arm for the signs of the past people might see. Rolling up her sleeve, she traced with her index finger the long scar that set out from the inside of her wrist and took a turn to the outside in the middle of her arm, running towards the elbow. According to Araminta, this was the only large scar, with some tiny ones on her back and upper arms - of course Araminta would think the little scars were from that day as well, and Crysania had not corrected her.

It was almost impossible that she had mended so completely: she had hurt everywhere, not even knowing where one pain ended and another one began. Whatever had caused that long, coiling wound? She had no recollection, and she did not care to dwell on searching for an explanation, because there was nothing to be accomplished by it. In a way she knew the answer, and it was too painful.

She hugged herself, squeezing her arms hard to make sure that she was there, that she had not dreamt everything. Four of her fingers had been broken; the side of her left ring finger was numb still, and the middle one had no feeling whatsoever. But her body felt the relentless touch, as her fingers dug into her flesh, making her eyes water. There were days when she felt nothing, no matter how hard she tried, and then there were days like this, when she thought she could still evoke the fire licking her skin, and the jagged, broken ribs piercing her lung.

Pain: that is what you got for failing. For one short moment she felt contented - fulfilled.

She let go of her arms, panting. She felt sick and faint.

She took a deep breath to calm herself down.

It was Paladine's will. I would not change it.

Again she put her hands over her eyes.

White silence.

How she missed sunsets, and dark plumes of smoke above rooftops.

* Portions of Crysania's inaugural speech were borrowed from Peter Abelard, Boethius, St Augustine and Julian of Norwich.
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Evermore: The Gathering