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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 7

347 AC - Winter Pines Hall, Palanthas

The red crescent moon pinched her. It rose at the back of her head from the pitch black sea of hair, sparkling in scarlet and gold as a beam of sunlight from the window reflected off the embedded rubies. Everyone said it looked absolutely lovely and divine, but Crysania's only thought was how would she fit through the doorways or survive the night without inadvertently impaling anyone.

The monstrous headgear severely hindered her ability to use her hands, too: the shiny red veil that hung from the moon's two horns was attached at the other end to the two golden bracelets around her wrists, and every time Crysania forgot that - which happened a lot - and made a sudden move, her neck and scalp cried out in a choir of pain. Just smile and be lifeless, she told herself flatly. For ten hours.

"There," said Oliva, fastening the golden clasps on Crysania's shoulders. "Doesn't she make a lovely goddess of magic, my lady?"

"Upon my word she does," said Lady Amelia Tarinius from the couch, nodding her head approvingly. "The black hair really sets the red off."

Did Lunitari have black hair? Crysania had ever only seen one picture of the patron goddess of red magic in an old book in his father's library. She made as if to ask, but then thought the better of it. Of course Lunitari did not have black hair; she did not have hair of any colour. There were no gods, they did not exist; they were masquerade characters, words in poems and songs. How incredibly embarrassing it would have been to ask such a childish question, and in front of Oliva at that!

For the first time in three hours, Lady Amelia rose to her feet, put down the ice-filled drink glass, and walked over to the gilt framed dressing mirror, her long gown rustling on the hardwood floor, to take a thorough look at her daughter.

Oliva folded her hands against her crude linen skirt and took two steps backwards. Since she had nothing else to do but wait for the next order, she studied the two Tarinius women in their gorgeous colourful silks and jewels which never ceased to enthral her, even after ten years in the family's service. First Oliva's gaze went to her Ladyship Amelia Tarinius. The lady's dress was a very fashionable deep purple with lace shoulders and a buttoned back. Her hair - as black as her daughter's - was tied up in an intricate bun, and expensive rings flashed on her long fingers as she made little corrections here and there to her daughter's fancy dress. The woman herself was thin and tall, almost forty years of age, and as elegant as anyone could be, with that certain something in her features that only the members of the aristocracy seemed to have - a natural-born sense of worth, a touch of disdain. Today that proud face was glowing with excitement. Lady Amelia had been sighing on the couch for weeks, terribly bored and counting days for the next fancy dress party, which finally was to take place tomorrow night here at Winter Pines Hall for the celebration of her only daughter's - her only child's - sixteenth birthday.

The daughter herself did not appear as excited. Through the mirror Oliva could see Crysania's gaze crawl up and down her flaming red dress with a slight frown that told Oliva she did not like what she saw. That frown was very characteristic of the young miss: she was always pondering something, thinking deep thoughts that Oliva had no access to. Also Lady Amelia had noticed this tendency, and would often tell her daughter not to furrow her forehead like that and gain wrinkles. Those words were an exaggeration: as far as Oliva could see, there was not a single wrinkle or flaw on Miss Crysania's face. Where Lady Amelia's features were sharp and handsome, her daughter's look was softer, more vulnerable. Blessed with a swan-like neck, a pretty nose and a pale, creamy complexion, Crysania was a very beautiful girl with a graceful dignity and the modesty of one who does not even know how attractive she is. Her black, flowing hair that Oliva had dressed with meticulous care under Lunitari's fantastic headpiece accentuated her fair skin, and under the beautifully arched dark eyebrows, thick long lashes outlined her large, grey eyes which Oliva thought were permanently a bit sorrowful, or at least thoughtful, and she rarely saw the corners of those full, naturally rich coloured lips turn up in a smile.

"Lower the neckline some more, Oliva," Lady Amelia ordered in her sharp and loud voice. "She's sixteen now."

Oliva stepped forward and did as told, although she could clearly see the discomfort on the young lady's face. "You'll be the star of the night, Miss Crysania," she said to encourage her as she loosened the fabric to reveal more of the delicate chest that had hardly begun to form into that of a grown woman. "Bachelors will drown you in gifts."

Poor Oliva - she spoke her well-meaning words of consolation to the girl without knowing that gift-bearing bachelors were precisely what Crysania was worried about. She was especially troubled by Viscount de Etirel, an obese, red-faced, fifty-five year old barrel of a man whose previous two wives had both died in childbirth. Unfortunately Crysania knew she had caught this man's attention at the previous ball a month ago, where he had been following her around all night with a gleam in his eyes that still sent shivers of disgust down her spine. If - and when - the Viscount had decided that she would be the perfect stepmother to his children older than she was, Crysania had no doubt that her parents would full-heartedly support the idea of an alliance between their daughter and such a distinguished man.

There was only one way to prevent such a disaster from ever occurring: she would have to start dropping hints of her own, sooner rather than later, suggest a name or two so that her father could launch the marriage negotiations. But, Crysania thought grimly, what if there were no hints to drop? The fact was that she had never been impressed or taken with anyone in her entire life, which was not a good thing for an aristocratic girl who, come tomorrow, would be almost old enough to marry. Although eighteen was more common by far, some of Crysania's elder cousins had been married off at sixteen, and Crysania did not think her parents had any intentions of delaying the matter, either. Quite the opposite, in fact: orchestrated by Lady Amelia, who had insisted on speeding things up for six months, Crysania had already made her official entry into society in the beginning of the passing year - something like an overture to whet the appetite of all the eligible bachelors out there.

Tomorrow their wait would be over. Crysania would come officially of age, and marriage proposals would start rolling in from every direction.

At least that's what Lady Amelia thought. But what Lady Amelia did not know was that during this half a year her daughter had already found small ways of discouraging her admirers. When her mother was not looking, Crysania would do her absolute best to confuse her dancing partners into a stumble. It was a very easy thing to do: she only needed to strike up a conversation on contemporary politics or world history, and look them straight in the eye all the time. The gist of it was that this kind of behaviour went completely against all the rules of propriety. First of all, she should have kept her eyes lowered and let the man lead the conversation, giving only brief answers to his inquiries about her china painting or her improvement on the harp. Second - and this was the most important thing -, she should have taken care not to get into a debate with him, because it was a very ugly thing in a girl to be argumentative. But this girl was, and she wielded her erudition like a sword. More often than not the young gallants were left utterly dumbfounded and knew not how to reply, which led Crysania to the smug conclusion that her knowledge was, in fact, superior to theirs. It worked like a charm: after one tricotee with her, the bewildered bachelors rarely attempted to get in her good graces again.

As enjoyable as this little game of hers was, deep down in her soul Crysania knew she was fighting against the impossible. Her entire life had been written in stone since the day of her birth: being married off into a large hereditary estate, painting flora and landscapes with water colours, writing letters according to the rules of eloquence, learning new dances with a wooden smile and giving birth to a line of babies - or better yet, painting flora with a wooden smile while giving birth to a baby - was all that was ever going to happen to her. The knowledge was devastating, but she was resolved to accept it with her head held high. And in the meantime, she would do everything in her power to stall her fate for at least two more years.

It was not that she did not try to fit in; lately she had genuinely tried to will herself into a state of romantic infatuation, but every time it would slowly die out as the evening proceeded. She could not understand her cousins' gasps and sighs: all she could see were shy smiles and awkward bows and sweaty palms, and where was the charm in those? She could not fathom their fussy excitement over a dream wedding dress, either. They were drowning in gorgeous dresses one and all - what was there to be gained in wearing yet another one for a single day? It was as if her cousins' entire sense of worth depended solely on that one big day, and so they threw themselves into dreaming about it all day and every day.

"This dress is utterly gorgeous," said Lady Amelia behind Crysania's shoulder, gesturing with the glass in her hand. "Why, if it is not the most gorgeous fancy dress I ever saw!"

"Shall I wear it again at the Mayor's Ball, Mama?" Crysania asked. She had almost said "Monster's Ball", which was her own secret word for the annual event.

"The same dress twice? Don't be silly, dear."

Lady Amelia's haughty tone made Crysania remember that she was supposed to be angry at her mother right now and that she had made a promise to herself not to speak a word to her until tomorrow, because what her mother had done earlier today simply enraged her.

It all began with a problem with a carriage wheel. On their return from the central city, where they had gone to fetch the fancy dresses, their carriage came to a sudden halt near the fields at the edge of the forest. Crysania's mother and her Aunt Cora exchanged a worried glance - there was always a moment of intense dread when a journey through the forest was slowed or interrupted for one reason or the other, because the field people were known to roam the forest and the nearby areas, allegedly armed and crazed and dangerous.

As the carriage stood still and their driver - armed and dangerous, but presumably not crazed - hopped down to see where the problem was, Crysania took a cautious peek through the gold embroidered curtains and right away spotted one of them, one of the field people: it was a young girl with tangled hair and dirty rags for clothes, watching them from the other side of the narrow forest path. Looking at the girl, Crysania remembered Aunt Cora's words of warning about this fearful forest tribe: Never look them in the eye. But if you absolutely must, show them no fear. Fear only provokes them. That was Aunt Cora's golden advice - as if they were not people at all but wild animals, or belonged to an entirely different and alien race. Into what sort of action would fear provoke them? "Never you mind, pet," Aunt Cora had said. "I am only warning you, because were such an unfortunate rendez-vous to happen, it is you they would go for first. The young Miss Jessamine Lisle did not know of these matters, and see what happened to her." What happened to her, Aunt? And why would they go for me first? But Aunt Cora had silenced Crysania's questions with an impatient wave of her bejeweled hand and spoken no more.

Later Crysania had found out that five years ago the young Miss Jessamine, aged fifteen, had been dragged into the depths of the forest from a knotty rope tied around her small waist, and there, in a remote forest clearing, she had been stomped and kicked and brutally violated by four men, who after several hours of amusement had left the damsel to die of her injuries with their pockets bursting with her jewelry.

The story was horribly fascinating, although - or precisely because - Crysania was not entirely sure what "violation" meant exactly. But she had a vague idea. She lay awake in bed that night, thinking it through over and over, until her own thoughts began to scare her. She just could not stop imagining the details. The horror the girl must have felt, the look on her face. Her final moments of despair when she knew that no help was going to come and she would die alone and in pain.

Leave it to Aunt Cora to call such an event an "unfortunate rendez-vous".

Crysania did not know why her aunt was so certain that Miss Jessamine's perpetrators had been members of the field people - they could have been random highwaymen for all she knew. The young girl Crysania saw through the carriage window hardly seemed capable of crime, and so she decided to defy the advice and risk a glance into her eyes. She did, and saw no threat. Just interest. Wistful interest, even a touch of shame, in those brown and somehow weary eyes. An idea came to Crysania out of nowhere - an idea that she still thought had been exceptionally good: with everyone else - mother, Aunt Cora and two of her daughters - looking in the other direction, she rapidly unfastened her pearl earrings and slipped her hand out through the narrow window, holding the earrings out to the girl on the palm of her hand with an encouraging nod. But she never got as far as to actually give them to her: the girl was just about to take a hesitant step, when Crysania's shoulder was suddenly seized, and she was pulled back roughly from the window, so roughly that she landed sprawled on her side on the carriage seat, the earrings raining down onto the floor from her grasp.

That was bad, certainly, but not bad or even unusual enough for Crysania to stop speaking to her mother. What had driven her to that decision came later, a few hours after the incident on the forest track, when Crysania had been looking out of a window into the yard below and suddenly seen her mother standing there next to Oliva's feet sticking out of the open carriage door. Immediately it occurred to her what it was: Oliva was kneeling down inside, searching for the lost earrings at the behest of Lady Amelia, as if sunrise depened on finding that one single pair.

At that moment, Crysania had hoped she hadn't looked out of the window. At that moment, perhaps for the first time in her life, she had simply despised her lady mother. She had everything. The girl in the forest had nothing.

Because of this sudden realization Crysania had decided to give Lady Amelia the silent treatment for the rest of the day, and now she was deeply angry at herself for having forgotten her anger. It felt as if she had betrayed the girl in the forest.

Also Lady Amelia had been irked at her daughter for acting in such a foolish manner, but she could not stay angry for long on a day such as this. The new fancy dresses were nothing short of fabulous, and the guests - good gracious, the guests! Lady Amelia rushed over to the window on hearing the sound of wheels down on the front yard. "Dear me!" she cried, brimming with excitement. "Lord Eldon's guests have arrived! Come, Oliva, do hurry; they must not be kept waiting!"

Oliva made haste to open the door to Lady Amelia, who was already half out of it when she suddenly paused and turned back, remembering her daughter at the last moment. "Oh, and Sunny," she said with a luminous smile, using the pet name she always used when she was in an exceptionally good mood, "no ruining the dress! Oliva will help you out of it once she returns, dear."

Crysania looked at her mother through the mirror, but did not smile back. What did she think she would do to destroy the dress? Cartwheel across the room? Pillow fight against herself?

A smile appeared on Crysania's lips only when the door was closed for good between her and the receding steps of her fussing mother. She eased her tired feet out of her pale blue silk shoes and quickly started to unfasten the heavy bracelets around her wrists. Tomorrow may be bad, but thinking of the rest of this evening filled her with happy anticipation. She would first have to fight in tears of frustration over an unfinished embroidery, sure, but after that, while mother was having her beauty sleep and father was out shooting game with his two brothers, she would have two hours just for herself, and during those two hours she would do something strictly forbidden: she would steal into her father's library and continue reading the book she had found. Lady Amelia would have hit the roof if she knew that her daughter was reading in secret, and reading an adventure story with dragons and pirates to boot, but the possibility of her finding out, unlikely as it was, only added to Crysania's growing sense of excitement, and she waited for the evening with as much enthusiasm as her mother did the birthday ball.

Crysania was not completely willing to admit it to herself, but beside the book there was something else. It was not important, not at all, but while she was in the library she could perhaps also take another look at the picture she had seen last time in one of the journals called Palanthas Year in Review. Thinking of that picture made her head swim in a strange but not altogether unpleasant manner. It was not just any picture, but a lifelike drawing of a convicted murderer on a scaffold, wearing a scornful and proud expression even as the noose was being slipped around his neck. The picture drew Crysania's eye, made her feel all weird and consequently a little embarrassed, too. She did not know why she wanted to look at it so much. She had even considered tearing it out and putting it in her hidden chest between the bed and the wall, so that she could look at it more often and easier.

Thinking of the library, Crysania suddenly felt cold inside: what if her future husband would keep his library locked, and she could no longer and never again read? The noblewomen of Palanthas did not read. The noblewomen of Palanthas were - well, women. But Crysania's idea of a highly accomplished lady did not include harp and needlework. She did not know what it included, though. In the world outside Winter Pines Hall, were there women teachers? Women mages? If she really tried, could she become a mage? Maybe in another life, she thought discouragedly.

She took Lunitari's golden mask with ribbons and feathers and held it over her eyes by its spiralled ivory stick. Looking herself in the mirror, she made a mock gesture of magic - an elegant twirl of the wrist - and whispered some inane words of a made-up spell.

It did not work. No one appeared out of thin air and said she had been relieved of ever having to marry.
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Evermore: The Gathering