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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 6

The painful cramp in his neck told Gaspar Cloade it was time to take a break. To be frank, he should have done so an hour ago, and now it was getting too late - already the throbbing pain was radiating down into his back and writing hand.

Gaspar glanced around him, and finding the entrance hall blissfully quiet, blew out a satisfied sigh. It was noon: acolytes as well as clerics, the whole lot of them, were gathered behind closed doors in the great hall for midday prayers, which were rendered even more special today because Revered Daughter Crysania herself was leading them. Gaspar had seen her before she went in, looking divinely serene and unearthly in her long statuesque dress. Revered Father Elistan had used colours and patterns, but his successor seemed to be fond of simple white. It was fine; it suited her. Gaspar could not imagine her in colours.

Gaspar put the quill in its stand and stretched his sore neck. Closing his eyes, he laced his fingers on his lap and leaned his head against the back of his chair. Nowadays his body seemed to develop an ache or two on a daily basis, which for a man of Gaspar's health and stamina was an unpleasant realization: he was six and forty, starting to grow old. His wife Esther had told him to quit his job that was clearly taking a toll on him. You'll lose your spine and lungs and eyes, she had said, endlessly reading and writing, crouching over dusty tomes like a big old crouching thing. She was joking, of course: both of them knew, as clear as daylight, that leaving the temple was the last thing Gaspar could afford to do.

Thinking of Esther and their children made Gaspar's heart heavy. His family was suffering, and he felt responsible. He had been thinking of requesting a pay rise, but did not think he could find the guts for it before even one year in his office. Besides, the painstaking paperwork would take at least two months, and while Gaspar might have been alright with requesting a pay rise from the temporary vestry, he was thoroughly uncomfortable with asking it from a woman, no matter how holy and kind. He hoped there was another way, a less degrading one, to be found. Perhaps Paladine would send him a solution, sooner or later.

Gaspar heard a sound. Without moving from his resting position, he opened his eyes a crack and saw two men at the other end of the hall: an acolyte talking to a figure in black. Gaspar felt a moment's revulsion, but squinting a little decided it was not a mage's robe after all - just a black, hooded, knee-length coat paired with black, close-fitting trousers and shiny boots. He relaxed, watching the men lazily without much interest.

The acolyte was giving directions eagerly, pointing to where Gaspar was sitting. The man in black turned to see, nodded his hooded head in thanks and then took a course across the hall, walking in determined steps straight towards Gaspar.

Gaspar experienced a moment of panicky disorientation; quickly he grabbed the abandoned quill and returned to his writing in order to appear busy and qualified. He had no idea what it was, but a cold, uneasy feeling had suddenly slid inside his guts. The stranger was approaching like a silent buildup of thunderheads on a darkening day.

Gaspar glanced up only when the unexpected visitor had walked all the way down to his desk. "Can I be of assistance?" he asked in his best polite voice, looking neutrally at the man standing before him.

"Gaspar Cloade?" The man's voice was curiously flat and expressionless, polite but very cold.

"Yes, that's right, I am." Gaspar tried to conjure up a smile - his best polite smile - but there was something about the stranger that made him ill at ease. The eyes, perhaps. Gaspar was shortsighted, but he could tell from where he was sitting that there was something not right about the man's eyes.

"I would request an audience with the Revered Daughter Crysania," the man said next, and when he spoke Crysania's name in that impassive voice of his, Gaspar suddenly knew. Certainty washed over him like a gush of cold, sharp rain. In a matter of seconds, his mind flashed through everything he had been told, and, despairing, found that everything matched: the man's age, the wisps of white hair coiling over his shoulders from under the hood, the eyes... Gaspar did not have to see any closer to know now that what was wrong with them were the pupils, distorted into the shape of an hourglass.

It was him. The man who had sought to become god. It should not have been possible, and yet here he was in the flesh after two years, all too alive and well.

Gaspar gazed at the vision before him, simultaneously aghast, astonished and dumbly surprised. He did not know what he had expected, but this was not it. The mage was not a towering pillar of hellfire. He was small and slender, a lot shorter than Gaspar, with a quiet and cultured voice. It was almost impossible to believe that this man, this calm and composed man, had done the absolutely horrifying things he'd done and almost destroyed the world in his twisted ambition.

The wizard knew that Gaspar knew. His pale lips curved up into a disturbing smile. "I see they've told you about me."

"They might have," Gaspar returned, badly startled still, but keeping his voice steady. His lips were hardly moving. His throat had dried. He could only stare at the man, pressed deep into his seat, as if a herd of bulls on fire had just rushed over him and left him flat.

The wizard's sinister smile turned into one of seeming friendship. "And? What did they say?"

Although he was smiling, his eyes were cold. Cold.

"Enough for me to know that her Reverence won't under any circumstances receive you," Gaspar replied slowly, unable to tear his gaze away from those chilling eyes. He was only half aware of the words that were coming out of his mouth; most of his mind was occupied with trying to work out what was happening. The man who was supposed to be locked in the Abyss, suddenly standing in front of him, talking, smiling, moving, as if by some dark miracle. How was it possible? And why, in the name of all the gods, why?

"I see," the mage said, picking up a random pheasant quill from the stand on Gaspar's desk. He studied the quill boredly on both sides between thumb and forefinger, and then put it down again, his eerie eyes flicking back to Gaspar. "Has she personally told you this?"

Gaspar followed the mage's hand, profoundly irritated by this sudden display of insolence: those were his quills, the church's sacred quills, Paladine's quills. This was something he had expected, though - arrogance, scorn, taking liberties - and it snapped Gaspar out of the dull, stone-heavy daze that had fallen over him. He could wish all he liked, but he would not be able to wish it away, could not close his eyes and ignore it in hopes that the ghost would vanish and go back to where it had come from. He would have to deal with it now and seek for explanations later. For her Reverence's sake. For everyone's sake.

Gaspar stood slowly up from his chair: the wizard was trouble, and Gaspar wanted to face trouble on an even level. "She didn't have to," he answered the man in a deliberately cold manner. "It's common knowledge, see."

The wizard only looked back at him, narrowing his eyes like a dragon sizing up its prey. Although half a head taller, Gaspar could not help feeling that he was the one being stared down at.

The mage let out a soft, condescending scoff. "How amazingly stupid do you take her for?"

A surge of anger flared up in Gaspar - after everything the mage had done to the Revered Daughter, how dare he speak like that? "I assure you we hold her Reverence in the highest regard," Gaspar said rigidly, his tone dripping with poison.

"Then maybe you should stop making decisions for her," the mage retorted at once. There was a flicker of mean sort of pleasure in his eyes, which dared Gaspar to lose his cool, and consequently, the game. For a game of sorts it was, Gaspar could tell - he did not know the man personally, and did not care to, but he knew the wizard's type always had a game. A game of wills, of domination and submission, with practically everyone as pawns of manipulation and control. Oh yes, Gaspar knew the type.

"What we do or won't do is not your concern," Gaspar said with a quiet resolve, directing his brown eyes straight at the mage's disconcerting ones. "Your concern is the fact that you're not welcome here. Do I need to repeat myself?"

The mage smirked again, not any less unpleasantly than before. "Well," he said, amused indignation ringing in his bleak voice. "This is not the sort of reception one would expect to have in a church. See, I was under the impression that Paladine welcomes each and everyone, but when I come to his temple, asking for an audience in a perfectly civilized manner, what do I get? " He shrugged, looking almost genuinely hurt. "Paladine welcomes everybody, I'm sure. Too bad I didn't know there was an earthly obstacle of a secretary standing between a man and his redemption."

"Redemption?" Gaspar echoed sharply, astonished and amused in spite of himself. "Even if I believed that you were looking for a little heart-to-heart with a cleric, I wouldn't see any reason that Revered Daughter Crysania should be the one tending to your soul sickness. For your information, there are various other candidates that can take care of you. Why don't I assign you to one of them? Let us see..." Gaspar turned to look at the leather-bound tome that lay open on the desk before him and started to run his finger slowly down the page, affecting a careless manner, yet all the while thinking feverishly, Please let the midday prayers go on for a while longer, please don't let her walk through that door right now into this hall.

"What a stroke of luck!" Gaspar exclaimed, pretending to find what he had been looking for. "The Revered Son Leydon seems to be available first thing tomorrow morning. He's old and wise and very experienced." He turned his gaze back to the mage and offered him his best polite smile. "Specializes in hopeless cases."

"Very funny. Let's see how amused you'll be when someone tips your superiors off about your violations of professional duties. Because that someone can raise hell if he wants to, believe me."

Gaspar started at this, but immediately knew it was an empty threat. There was no one in the church the wizard could turn to who would not agree with Gaspar; if it came to that, simply everyone would understand why he had chosen to deny access from this particular man.

Gaspar lifted his chin and smiled. "I don't appreciate being threatened by anyone, especially a criminal under excommunication. Yes, you heard right - excommunication," he confirmed, thinking he had seen a faint glimpse of surprise - or perhaps strange pleasure, he could not say - in the mage's eyes.

But the emotion Gaspar had imagined to see had vanished as soon as it had appeared.

"Oh, I'm shaking," the mage said flatly, his eyes shining with cold amusement. "Let me guess: you made that decision on her behalf as well?"

"Look," said Gaspar impatiently, "I promise you the Revered Daughter does not want anything to do with you. And take my advice: if you care for your freedom at all, you will not show your face here again. There are so many of us willing to testify against you for her, if the situation should require. Excuse me a moment." Gaspar turned to the door behind him, opened it and called out, "Morzol! Could you give me a hand here, please, Morzol."

A huge minotaur in plain grey robes stepped out into the hall: a rare sight indeed in Paladine's temple.

The wizard put his head on one side, surveying the Kothian without a visible reaction, still smiling that sinister smile of his. After a short contemplation, he turned back to Gaspar. "Fine," he uttered shortly. "In case you should change your mind, and when she asks, do tell her I'm to be found at the Ghost and Rose inn, if you would be so kind."

That was it? He would leave now? At he back of his head Gaspar had been bracing himself for a long, tiring debate and eventually angry shouting. But when he looked at the mage he could read nothing in his blank face - there was no anger, no disappointment, certainly no desire to argue into the night - which Gaspar thought was even more chilling than plain open rage would have been.

Desperately wanting to have the final word in the matter, Gaspar opened his mouth to speak again. "If I were you, I wouldn't try any tricks," he said, thinking his own words sounded pathetically weak and trite. "There are enough of us to outnumber one lone magician. We can and we will keep you out, of that you can be sure. And believe you me, from this moment on I'll be keeping an eye on the lady's door even tighter than before."

"That is very considerate of you. Good day." The wizard took a small derisive bow, turned and started down the hall, towards the door at the opposite end: a black whirlwind blowing through the white marble pillars.

"It's alright, Morzol," Gaspar said to the minotaur still standing behind his shoulder, sounding a little more shaken than he would have cared to admit. "Thank you. You can go now. We'll talk more later."

After Morzol was gone, secretary Cloade collapsed into his chair and sat staring aimlessly about him. His eyes happened on the pheasant quill the wizard had studied. In a sudden flash of movement, driven by an inexplicable urge, Gaspar scooped it up and shoved it deep into the waste bin under his desk.

After that, all strength left his body. His hands started to quiver - a deep tremor that seemed to originate from his thumping heart. He had not said much, but too much all the same. He had crossed the wrong man. Behind those cold, numb eyes, a storm was brewing, and Gaspar had set himself in its way, offered himself as a pawn in a callous game that was about to start.

He gulped in air, amazed and grateful that he was still breathing. The mage could have swung him head first into the wall with a mere turn of his wrist. Then again, not even he would do such an inane thing in broad daylight.

Or would he? You could never be sure with madmen.
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Evermore: The Gathering