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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 50

The autumn day was warm and clear.

She stood on the wooden pier with her face to the sea, weary and sore from five days of riding, imagining the soft and glowy afternoon light filtering through the clouds, inhaling the salty breeze, listening to the push and pull of the waves, the screaming of the gulls, the slow swaying and creaking of the ships in the harbour water.

The edge of the world. The endpoint. It was now complete: the dissolution of her life as she had known it for the past two years.

They had taken everything from her and destroyed her dream.

The town crier had passed on the news in Snowmelt village: Revolution in full swing in Palanthas. New leader for the church - Revered Father Farag. Over two hundred killed in the riots. Lady Crysania Tarinius, "former Revered Daughter of Paladine" and "former future head of Paladine's Holy Church," under excommunication for severe violations of religious and moral values. Raistlin Majere, archmage of the Black Robes, wanted for serious crimes against humanity. Considered to be extremely dangerous; do not try to approach or apprehend directly. Arrest warrants issued, valid throughout Solamnia. If you have any information concerning these persons, please contact your local law-enforcement official.

Excommunication.

Secretly, outwardly showing nothing, she had gone from disbelief to outrage to sorrow, and now there was only a dull tiredness. One moment she was certain that the pretender - this man called Farag - had no authority from Paladine. But then she thought about the deep dead silence that answered her prayers. The Platinum Father continued to be quiet.

She was tired of running, of cold, of saddle sores. So tired that the sea, an impossible prospect at first, now seemed like the longed-for liberation finally come. After Relgoth they had spent six nights in six different inns, riding straight past the capital, even though she had resisted to the end.

"I want us to stop in Solanthus."

"Not this again."

She forced Digby to a halt, so that Raistlin's steed had to stop as well.

"Fine," he said. "I'll cut you loose and be on my way. The lady is welcome to make for the city on her own. I see lots of rocky hills and downed trees, but if you'll stay on the path I'm sure you'll manage. Lots of helpful folk out there who'll be really glad to come across a pretty little woman wandering the woods alone."

She stared blankly into space.

"Don't be silly, Crysania."

Softly Digby nudged forward and resumed its pace.

She did not speak another word until the next village.

Slowly, jarringly, in these days of endless movement and change, Crysania had opened herself up to the possibility that the woman in her dream might not have been a demon. What was she then? It frightened her that she actually wanted it to be Araminta. But accepting it would go against her principles. She would have to rethink everything she had ever thought about the dead. She now knew that the woman had spoken the truth, and she had to admit that when she recalled the dream she did not experience a sense of threat, but of safety and comfort. Was it really possible, as Raistlin claimed, that it was Paladine communicating with her, in a new way which indicated that some divine change was coming, a shift that would allow her to see the reason for these recent events? "You forget that I'm no longer a cleric," she'd said bitterly in response to his words. "Yes, you are," Raistlin had answered. "Don't let anyone ever tell you different." No buts: he had sounded so firm and conclusive that she was suddenly filled with renewed hope and wonder.

Everything was tilting, fading, slipping, and he was her only solid ground. She had no one else left in the world.

And the world was against them.

The recurring thought was incredibly powerful, and the more days passed, the more she could feel something terrible awakening in her that she had to hold down with both hands; some terrible truth about herself that only emerged when her conscious mind was half gone, in the darkness of those pulsating dreams that would wake her up panting and throbbing in the middle of the night. They were awful, shameful, those visions, and she had always had them: formless before, fearfully vivid ever since she had first met Raistlin.

On her knees, trying to pray it away, she thanked Paladine for this adversity, which had taught her many helpful lessons, and asked Him to consider that she had passed this test; and having learned it, she asked Him to withdraw it, to let her return home. She said it so many times that she almost managed to suffocate the vague note of revulsion that should not have been there when she thought about the life that had been taken from her. What would I be doing at this very moment, she asked herself, and answered herself: Sitting. In my private chambers or in the audience hall. Dressed and coiffed by Araminta, the sunray crown heavy on my head. Signing papers. Listening to petitions. Heading a meeting. Leading a service. Kissing and blessing.

It seemed so small now, and far away.

Too small. Too normal.

In that life nothing special stood out. The days resembled each other like falling rain, monotonous and weary, year after year the same. The unchanging wheel of existence: work, eat, sleep, wane, die.

She didn't want normal.

Another wave broke and rolled back to the sea; a salty mist sprinkled on her face, but Crysania didn't budge. The sea seemed to be whispering to her, washing her with words of seduction and promise.

You were dead. Become alive. Let go. There is freedom on the other shore. You and I both know that this was meant to be.

For two years she had been picking up the pieces of her life. Hands bleeding, putting up a brave front. And now, suddenly, every piece had fallen back into place. She had been given the chance to try again. To correct the failure. Last time she hadn't gone far enough. She had stopped at the door, not understanding the rules, scared of what she might find.

He was different. She was different. And they were something else. A far cry from the romantic tales she'd always despised.

She didn't want normal.

She wanted the man who had shoved her, bruised her, mocked her; who had lied, deceived and taken her for a joke.

All this she had endured from him, humiliation heaped onto humiliation, and yet she lay awake at nights, suffering, longing for him to come to her. She was afraid and desolate, certain that their pursuers were catching up, closing in, wanting to kill: she needed to be held and consoled. But there was no consolation: only the rain hammering on the roof and the wind moaning in the chimney. Once or twice, quite often, increasingly often, she had been close to giving up. She would go and knock on his door. Cry in his arms and say she was sorry. Let go of the dreadful pride that had defined her whole life. That same stupid pride and that same wretched fear that had made her tell him no in the temple gardens. Because she didn't dare to go far enough and face the nocturnal self who only came when her mind was shut down and couldn't force it back: the morbid little girl who was fascinated by things from which others averted their gaze. Who thought first and acted anyway just to prove people wrong. To show them that she could.

And right now she was walking on brittle ice ready to shatter at any moment, extending her hand, following the dark flickering light that was inviting her into the sweet perfect disaster where she could crash and burn. Be alive. Punished. Controlled.

In daylight it was just a half-awareness: an awareness that had been there since the beginning - in the first look, first touch, first words exchanged - but which she had never allowed, would never allow to blossom into full recognition. She was a good girl. A sanctimonious goody-goody. She was all the things he had called her. But she kept playing the look-but-don't-touch game she had set up that night in Relgoth by some insane impulse - the first and only step she was able to take - and she kept playing by instinct while telling herself that she wasn't, that such acts were beneath her. Slowly, she was learning which tricks to use. Playing with her hair, obviously. Lightly touching her lips with her fingertips. A certain tone of voice that seemed to affect him. A certain way of speaking.

Various ways to communicate a single message: Look at me. You lost me.

She thought she was learning. In truth, she could not read his reaction in the watchful silence that answered. She couldn't tell whether she was making him angry or sorry or aroused. She didn't even know which reaction she was looking for - just one or perhaps all of them at the same time.

But what she did know was this: only a self-destructive fool would play a game with Raistlin. Trembling, gasping, she pushed on, and the more the ice cracked and splintered, the greater her excitement and trepidation grew. Step by step she would venture deeper into that dark, fleetingly glimpsed awareness, going ever deeper and darker, until eventually no light would be left.

There, then, she would know the right way to love.

Crysania took a few more steps towards the sea; she had been slowly pacing along in her voiceless solitude and her senses told her she must be nearing the pier's end. A few more steps still. She hesitated, put our her foot and met nothing but air; gasping, she pulled back, but only just a little. Closing her eyes, she waited: a rush, a roar, and then the wave again crashed with force around her, wetting her arms and legs.

Shivering from the coldness of the water, Crysania felt for the pendant hidden under her corset. It was there, nestled safely against her chest. She wouldn't be recognised as a cleric any more than as a noblewoman. Although she had last worn the dress ten years ago, when she was eighteen, she remembered it well: it was a white silk travelling gown, atypically modest and down-to-earth, with long flowy sleeves and a full skirt. The only concession to luxury were the several rows of gold embroidery on the bottom and top of the brown leather bodice that was worn over the blouse. On top of it all she wore her white hooded cape; she prefered to keep her hair tied and covered, although she obviously wasn't the only woman in the world to have black hair. But probably there weren't that many black-haired and blind women travelling in the company of a white-haired male.

"You're not still wearing the robe, right?" she asked him, insanely nervous, behind the Snowmelt inn they had been supposed to stay at for the night.

"No. I'm wearing a black coat and a pair of trousers. And a fake beard. And a silly hat."

His words caught her off guard; her fidgeting stopped. "No, you're not," she said quietly, trying to keep her lips from twitching.

"Yeah, just kidding. Who would ever wear a black coat with matching pants?"

She turned her head away to smile.

When she had collected herself, she said seriously, with the nervousness setting in again, "They'll realise I'm blind."

"Trust me, they won't."

She considered for a moment, arranging her words, and then said, "What about your eyes?"

"People rarely look me in the eye."

From his answer she knew he still had the curse. She had never asked: asking would have shown personal interest. But now that she knew, the thought came to her at once, dismayed, and certainly not without womanly vanity: How do I look to him?

He immediately answered her thought. "Believe it or not, I can actually reverse the effect with a silly little necklace." There was a note of disdain in his voice. "Stupid, really. You'd think it was powerful magic, but it's not."

She changed the subject. She didn't want to hear him talking about powerful magic.

It had grown colder all of a sudden; the sun had gone behind a cloud, and the hiss of the waves had ceased. The New Sea was calming down. Crysania figured they would be ready to sail soon. The journey by ship from Port O'Call to Crossing took only a day. By this time tomorrow they would be on a different continent. Untouchable. The City Guard of Solamnia couldn't pursue them beyond their jurisdiction.

That was a fact, and she had known all along that they must cross the sea to be safe. But she had protested for reasons of dignity.

"They'll know where we're going and inform the local officials. They'll just be waiting for us at our destination."

"Welcoming us with open arms," he said. "We Abanasinians are a relaxed folk. We don't take things half as seriously as you Palanthians do."

She just pursed her lips and turned away with a that's-rich-coming-from-you expression on her face.

Then he had started casually talking about Solace. His home town. He assured her it would be safe there, and when she thought about it, she couldn't find any reason to believe otherwise. He also assured her that his brother would let them stay. She wasn't so sure about that. And she wasn't so sure that she was ready to meet Caramon Majere again. On the other hand, she knew he could be trusted. With his help, said the voice which was fast growing thinner and thinner, she could redeem her position and make things right again, so that she, and Raistlin too, could return to Palanthas.

The pier creaked; someone was approaching. Crysania tensed up, pulling the edge of her hood forward a bit, but when she could hear the steps she knew it was Raistlin. She would have recognised his steps anywhere.

Relief washed over Crysania. The formless dread evaporated; gone was the overwhelming sense of distress that took hold of her whenever Raistlin went away from her for even just a short time. A shuddering breath. Back to focus now. He's here. He did not leave you. He came back.

He stopped beside her. "Hey."

"Hey."

That was all the conversation. He didn't say what everyone else would. "Mind you don't fall" or "Don't stand here alone like that" or any other such inane patronising thing.

Crysania turned her face back to the sea, and for a while the two stood quietly side by side.

"We'll be aboard in half an hour."

She nodded, and they fell back to silence, both conscious of the quality of fresh beginnings always in the sea.

"You know," said Raistlin at length, "you and me, standing here together like this... In another world I would take you by the hand now."

Crysania's face grew hard and cold.

In another world. Not here. Not now.

She had closed the door. It had been her decision, and he would never ask her again.

She folded her arms. "There is only one world."

And it was ruined.
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Evermore: The Gathering