Evermore: The Gathering

 

CHAPTER 40

The red brick manor had stood empty for half a decade. Its two rows of white-framed windows were dark and uninviting: the last one to leave had drawn all the curtains, shutting out the world and entombing the great house in twilight. On either side of the steps leading up to the veranda, a matching pair of stone lions guarded the entrance, surveying all who approached with their mighty paws poised atop crested shields bearing the letter "T". Before them, in the middle of the yard, a lily pond lay still and glassy; it was strewn with dead autumn leaves and overgrowth, and thin wisps of mist were rising from the water's surface in the brisk air. The scene was desolate, unreal: the flaming Hiddumont colours subdued in the soft dusk of the night.

And amidst that dark palette, a figure in the purest white, a stronghold against the fogs and storms of the descending autumn. With a small smile across his face Raistlin looked on as Crysania patted Digby's neck and raked her fingers through the horse's mane - every little thing she did captivated his attention and held him utterly enthralled, and he hadn't been able to stop smiling whenever he looked at her all evening. Once they had got out of the city, she had asked if he had a map and suggested that they go to her old family home, which lay in the southwest near the edge of the mountains. It was a straight two-hour ride down the main road, then left through the forest from the junction of Palanthas and Garnet - she said she hoped the signpost was still there, and he at once answered that they would find their way to the house with or without a signpost. The prospect was more than just tempting - it was enormously compelling and so much better than the random inns he had envisioned. Alone together, away from the world: the thought almost made him shake with anticipation, and he told Crysania that it was a great idea, an excellent idea; she said "maybe," and after that she had ceased talking altogether, only giving him one-syllable answers and mainly in the negative. Are you cold? No. Would you like to rest, take a break? No. That was pretty much the end of every attempt at conversation, and for two and a half hours they had ridden slowly and side by side in a not so comfortable silence past fields ripening with harvest, pushing against the wind occasionally accompanied by a drizzle. By a stroke of luck, they had come across a stray horse near the city gates, fully geared and without a rider; Raistlin had seized the distraught mare and securely tied Digby's reins to its bridle, while swallowing his disappointment at the lost opportunity. He had harboured a sort of vague hope of having Crysania's arm around his waist during the ride, whether she liked it or not, but in all truth two horses was far more practical than one in the long run.

Once they had arrived - the signpost was there - she had curtly pointed him to a secret back route - a break in the tall ivy-covered fence around the house, just wide enough for a slim person to squeeze through - and told him that the key was in Huma's mouth. Raistlin had slipped through the crack and traversed the yard in quick strides, throwing backward glances at every other step, certain that he would see Crysania kicking the horses into a run, galloping blindly away and leaving him, certain that the mouth of the statue was too obvious a hiding place and that the house had been broken into and burglarised a long time ago. Planting his foot for leverage on Heart the Dragon's folded wing, he had pushed himself up grabbing Huma's shoulders and peeked into the knight's mouth. Amazingly, the key was inside, lodged behind the heroic teeth.

He had returned, half running, to the gate and unlocked it, and now they were standing in the front yard, preparing to enter the grand manor. Winter Pines Hall: Crysania's ancestral home. Raistlin smiled again, running his gaze over the turrets and chimneys. She had wanted to bring him here instead of an inn. That must mean something.

Crysania waited as Raistlin tied the horses temporaily to the handrail, and then they started to ascend the stairs, her finger in his belt loop, tugging slightly, as she kept a deliberate distance. The key slid effortlessly into the lock and turned; Raistlin held the door open for Crysania, then stepped inside himself and pulled the door shut behind them. He felt an enormous relief when the lock clicked: it was just the two of them now.

It was very cold, and the air carried the musty smell of an abandoned building. In the dark Raistlin could discern the lanterns mounted on the walls, and as he reached for the two nearest and turned the little keys at the bottom, a light appeared in each at once, the soft glow driving away the shadows and imparting a cosy feeling of warmth and comfort.

Favourably impressed, Raistlin surveyed the entrance hall resplendent with the grandeur of the past centuries. The oak-panelling provided the space with a warm and rich atmosphere, which was further enhanced by the three large chandeliers suspended from the high vaulted ceilings by chains. A grand staircase with a red velvet runner led majestically up to an open gallery that ran above the hall lined with suits of armour and statues, whereas the first floor walls were crowded with tapestries and portraits of ancestors, the fabrics and paints flickering in the dim light. Looking at all of this, Raistlin's thoughts shifted back to his own childhood in Solace: the whole Majere house - if you could even call it a house - would have fit in this single space.

"We need a fire," he said to Crysania, removing his riding gloves and rubbing his cold hands together. As soon as the words were out, he was worried that she might tell him to make one with a spell.

But she didn't say any such thing. "There's a closet for firewood in the kitchens," she only said, nodding forward. "Through the door on the left. In the back."

The kitchens were easy to find and similar to the rest of the house: huge, dark, abandoned. The middle of the area was dominated by long wooden tables for preparing food and surrounded by dozens of ovens, wallshelves, roasting hearths and a massive inglenook fireplace with a large black cauldron hanging by a hook. Everywhere one looked the shelves were filled with clay jars and pots and copper boilers. Taking a peek in one of the larders, Raistlin saw an array of dried herbs as well as salt and vinegar preserved foods in glass jars. That would do for a start, he thought, opening and closing doors until he found the right one: behind the third door on the left was a small closet which held plenty of dry wood in wrought-iron log carriers.

He took one in each hand and hurried back to the hall, terrified of finding it empty. But Crysania was there where he had left her, standing in the corner and lightly stroking the back of the statue of a crouching tiger.

"Which rooms are we going to use? Tell me, and I'll light a fire in each."

"The bedrooms are upstairs," Crysania answered and right away began to make her way towards the staircase. Placing one hand on the banister and holding up her gown with the other, she started to climb. Raistlin followed, struggling to keep the logs from falling off the carriers.

The landing on top of the stairs opened into three panelled corridors with rows of shut doors. Choosing the one hung with family portraits in ornate frames, Crysania started to proceed slowly but surely down the corridor, running one hand along the wall and tapping the doorknobs as she passed, silently counting. When she reached the last door, she stopped and opened it without a word.

Raistlin followed her into a room where everything was pale and muted, from the curtains and upholstery to the carpets and walls. The bedspread, the pillows and the drapery of the four-posted bed were printed with pink and white flowers on a green background, while the panelling was painted in a silvery tint that complemented the soft pearl-grey of the carpet. On the left, a sumptuous golden-framed mirror hung above a dressing table with a set of drawers on either side teamed with a comfortable stool; on the opposite wall there was a chest of drawers with a dusty timepiece, an equally dusty rosewood jewellery box and a vase of dead flowers. In the back was a marble fireplace with two graceful female statues holding up the mantle shelf and lots of different plants carved on the frieze.

Raistlin crossed over to it, laid an armful of logs into the hearth and took the fire strikers from his satchel.

"Was this your room?" he asked Crysania as he squatted down and struck a spark.

"Yes."

He glanced up at her while fanning the spark into a flame. She was standing near the door, her face an implacable mask, and it was obvious she was not going to say more. Mildly annoyed, Raistlin added several large twigs into the growing flames, feeding the fire until he had a nice roaring blaze. Then he got up, took the log carriers and marched past Crysania back into the corridor, but when he turned to see if she was coming, she quickly pulled the door shut and locked it from within.

Dumbstruck, Raistlin stared at the door that had closed in his face, his surprise slowly turning into anger: first she had stopped talking and now she'd had the nerve to lock him out. Soon he was trembling with rage, and he had to make an effort to stop himself from kicking the door off its fucking hinges. The only thing that prevented him from calling out her name and rattling the knob was that he knew how sad and desperate it would seem.

Collecting his composure, Raistlin tried the adjacent door, which led him into a luxuriously decorated guest bedroom. Grimly he dumped his bags on the bed and built another fire. He was somewhat concerned that the smoke from the chimneys might reveal their presence to potential trackers, although he did not believe Farag and friends had enough smarts to think of the Tarinius manor straight away.

Sitting down on the bed, Raistlin took the letter out of his pocket and read the first lines.

Dear Sirs,

For long I have held my peace, but now, as the inauguration of Revered Daughter Crysania as head of the church draws nigh, I feel it is my duty to step forward and disclose to you certain relevant matters relating to the lady...

He smirked a little and looked up at the flames. Fools. When, if ever, would they realise that he was the one who had written it?

He placed the letter on the table and gulped some water from his flask. Feeling the headache creeping up the back of his skull, he clasped his hands behind his neck and for a moment lay down against the pillows, studying the details of the room. A mahogany bed with a wall-mounted and fabric-covererd canopy with rosy pink drapes; a mahogany armoire with mermaid carvings; two tables, also mahogany, with velvet buttoned chairs; expensive wall-to-wall carpet from Qualinesti; a silver bathtub with working taps, the table next to it topped with scented salts. Nice. Everything so insipid and uninspiring it made you want to puke.

After a while, when the headache had somewhat abated, Raistlin got up, returned to the corridor and stood undecided for a moment. What if she came out while he was gone? He told himself to calm down. He wouldn't be long, and she was blind, for heaven's sake. She wouldn't get far by herself.

Raistlin headed back towards the landing through the portrait gallery, where he stopped to have a look at the paintings. It was an extremely lifelike and richly detailed collection of counts and countesses dating back hundreds of years, and some moments passed before he found Crysania's parents. Lord Eldon Tarinius was a brown-haired, finely groomed man, slender and tall with a pair of keen eyes, while his wife, Lady Amelia Tarinius, had the same black hair as Crysania. There was a certain resemblance between mother and daughter, but Lady Amelia's features were much more harsh and angular, and the expression on her thin-lipped face was far more strained. Beneath Eldon and Amelia hung the portrait of Crysania, and seeing it Raistlin couldn't help but exhale a sigh of pure delight. She was about twenty in the picture, and she was looking back at him with eyes that were sad and distant. On her neck, she wore a teardrop pearl, while on one hand she had a matching bracelet and ring. Her gown was lavender with ivory-coloured lace, and on her head, across her free-flowing hair, she had a band that was decorated with pearls. The artist had perfectly captured her spirit on canvas; the paleness of her visage, the exquisiteness of her form. A shiver of desire tore through Raistlin as he studied the portrait. He might have gone on staring at it for gods knew how long, but eventually he removed his gaze to take a stroll through the upstairs.

The house was ridiculously large. Raistlin counted thirty-two rooms on the upper floor alone, and he estimated that the total number would be about eighty, including the servants' quarters. Being an only child, Crysania had inherited the place after her parents had died from the plague - that much he had managed to drag out of her during their taciturn journey through the night, and as he sauntered along the corridors, admiring the exhaustive collection of art and design, opening random doors and taking a look inside, he wondered absently if she was ever going to actually do something with the house she had owned for some years now. At the end of the left corridor was a nursery with a handmade rocking horse, its white coat covered with grey flower-shaped spots, its black mane and tail made of what looked like real horsehair; there was also a toy pram full of porcelaine dolls with eternally surprised faces and a miniature version of the house itself. In another room - a gentleman's study - stood a massive writing table laid with crystal inkwells and fine stationery, two plush sofas and fitted bookshelves on top of which a variety of stuffed birds remained frozen in flight or perched on pieces of wood. There were also fully equipped lavatories - something that many people hadn't even heard of in Solace.

After the tour, Raistlin listened for a moment at Crysania's door. Not a sound. He fetched the log carriers from his room and skipped down the stairs. Outside he led the horses into the stables behind the house, as empty and neglected as the rest of the premises, watered them quickly and fed them some grain from the sacks he found in one of the sheds. He then hurried back inside, picked up the carriers and started to explore the ground floor.

He went left first and found himself in a space that held the same pale greens and silvery whites as Crysania's room. The furniture was covered with dust sheets, which gave the place a ghostly feel, but the walls were decorated with painted murals depicting a lively springtime scene of birds and nature. Three fair-haired girls were dancing in the green meadow in see-through clothes, and the early morning sun was rising behind them, sending diamonds of light across the landscape.

Raistlin wandered on through the next door and found another scene: here the sky was bright blue with a glimmering waterfall cascading in turbulent torrents down a hillside. The trees around the river were lush and green, the lemons as brightly yellow as the apple tree flowers were white, and there was not a single cloud to be seen as the sun at the zenith created sparkling pools of light on the swaying emerald grass.

By contrast, the third room was shrouded in twilight. Among the black skeletal trees stood the gate of a ruined building, rising from the whirling sea of flaming golds, reds and oranges. The fallen leaves were dancing in the wind, and the grass was chilled with frost.

Raistlin opened the next door and, as he'd expected, entered a snow storm. The frozen river was a single gleaming ribbon in the middle and large icicles hung from the branches of the trees; cold white flakes were descending from the grey clouds, covering the ground in a soft blanket while the deep blue night was falling.

Raistlin crossed the winter parlour and went through yet another door, this time stepping into a vast drawing room. Oozing a sense of calm and sophistication, the space was divided into three different seating areas, each inlcuding a sofa with outward-cuving arms, matching chairs and rectangular footstools, the upholstery of which was formal and luxurious with natural weaves and silks in subdued tones that were repeated in the heavily swagged floor-grazing curtains. There were three fireplaces in all: the largest one in the middle of the right wall was flanked by yellow urns and glazed cabinets on either side, and topped with an overmantle mirror creating an impressive focal point, whereas the fireside fender boasted a leather seat and brass column. In the back left-hand corner of the room stood an ancient clavichord with the lid painted in oils, featuring a landscape with dragons. Raistlin smiled as he pictured young Crysania pressing the keys with her deft fingers, those slim and white fingers that only a moment ago had caressed the tiger in the hall with such loving motions.

Suppressing any other thoughts Crysania's stroking fingers might give rise to, Raistlin began lighting some of the wall sconces, one by one turning on the elven flames inside the glass globes. The three huge chandeliers overhead remained dark; he had no idea how and where to operate them. But the smaller lamps went some way to create a cosy enough atmosphere, and if not for the dead flowers in the antique handpainted vases, the room almost looked as though it had been lived in through all these years.

After lighting the largest of the fireplaces, Raistlin took some time, out of curiosity, to investigate the family heirlooms gracing the tables and walls. There were innumerable sculptures and decorative plates, mounted butterflies under glass domes, rotating globes on stands, tapestries and crests of all sizes. The Tarinius coat of arms hung in pride of place above the second fireplace on the northern wall. Surrounding the golden "T", there were three red lions on a white field in the first quarter of the shield, while the second and third quarters contained a white stork and a golden lute on blue and red fields. If Caramon was here, Raistlin thought, exploring the lions, he would pee his pants over that shield. His brother might not be an educated man, but when the mood took him he could go on for hours about heradlry, and once he had even designed a crest for himself.

Wondering about Caramon's infatuation with pictures painted on wood, Raistlin crossed over to the drinks cabinet, extracted a few of the crystal decanters and, holding them up to the light, saw they were filled with red liquid. Satisfied, he grabbed a goblet from an open-shelved unit for displaying silver, blew the dust off it and poured himself a warming drink of wine.

He quitted the drawing room with the goblet in hand - the wine was of excellent vintage, as he was glad to find out - and walked on along another corridor, approaching the end of the western wing. Finally, hidden behind two massive doors with elaborate wood carvings of mythical creatures, he found what he had been looking and hoping for. He stepped in, lighted a lamp and stopped to admire the view.

Reds and greens combined in the library that was filled with rows of floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookcases on all sides as far as the eye could see. The upper shelves were reached by an oak ladder on wheels, and the aisles between the shelves had buttoned leather sofas and reading desks in dark wood finish. At the end of each of these aisles there was a high arched window, where the sumptuous green velvet of the curtains, spilling down onto the red carpet and neatly held with silk tassel tiebacks, was enhanced with an intricate leaf motif.

Raistlin approached the nearest shelf, surveying the book spines, trying to make sense of the shelving system. He did not want history of warfare or Que-Shu tribal crafts, and he wasn't interested in floral design either. He turned the corner and came face to face with a family tree in the shape of a large medallion on a stand atop a table. The medallion was inlaid with miniature portraits of the Tarinius family, including uncles and ancestors far removed. It took some time before Raistlin spotted Crysania, this time about fifteen years old: again she appeared discontented and far away. Despite the wealth and titles, she had not been a happy child. And was it any wonder? Aristocratic ladies were not known for making a mark in the world: they were meant to dance, do embroidery, breed and be happy about it in rooms filled with flowers in pink. That was not Crysania. She was different. Smiling, Raistlin extended his hand and trailed a devoted finger down her neckline.

For a quarter of an hour he scanned the shelves, eventually choosing three volumes to skim through: one on eastern mythology and folklore, the second on ancient eastern families and the third on the ruins and monuments in the Plains of Dust. He sat down on the leather sofa and flipped open the book on the ruins, looking for information on the whereabouts of Redwald, the city beyond the invisible. Was it some sort of conundrum, a riddle to be solved? And was Redwald somehow linked to the Missing City, the notorious site inhabited by a hapless ghost community in the southeastern reaches of the Plains? There was a theory that the Missing City was a gateway to an alternative reality where the Cataclysm never occurred. Maybe, if the two were connected and if there indeed was another reality to be accessed through the ruined cities, maybe magic was different there. Make or break, he decided the Missing City would be the place to start.

But first, Solace. It was now too late in the season: the snows would come soon, blocking the roads and making it difficult and dangerous to travel. They would have to wait until spring and then set off towards the Plains. Maybe Caramon could join them. A big strong swordsman like him might come in handy on the road. Or maybe not. He would be able to put up with the hulking oaf for three days tops. At least in Solace he would have a private room for himself and Crysania, an idiot-free zone, which meant he would manage to get through the three months or so without losing his mind.

The journey from here to Solace would take about two or three weeks, first through Solamnia and then across the New Sea by ship. He only needed a couple of days to make the necessary arrangements. They would be on the road again in another three days or so, heading south. Keep her on the run, keep her guessing - that was the plan for now. When the time was right, he would tell her about Redwald.

With a sigh Raistlin sunk back in his chair, resting his head against the leather for a while, toying with the idea of staying here in this great house all winter. Three months, all alone, surrounded by snow and ice. Suddenly he had a clear vision of Crysania on her knees on the stairs in the hall. His gaze strayed to the curtains, to the tiebacks; so many things you could do with those tiebacks.

He sipped the wine. Pleasantly bitter, it warmed his throat, adding to the heat that was starting to rise. What if he told her again that he wanted her, right now? What would her response be this time? Or what if he simply skipped that part, took her in his arms and held her so tight that she would have no choice?

Only so many thoughts a man could have without working himself up to a fever pitch.

But he'd been sitting here for too long. She might have come out already. Raistlin knocked back the rest of the wine, gathered the three books and stood up, ignoring for now the demanding pulse of need.

He went out of the library and headed back upstairs through the drawing room, on the way scooping up the decanter from the drinks cabinet. He paused at Crysania's door and listened. Was she having a bath? He was certain he had heard a splash of water. He tried the knob very quietly, but it wouldn't budge. He knew it was useless, but he took the Huma key from his pocket anyway, immediately seeing that it wouldn't fit. Different keys for different doors.

Out of ideas, Raistlin turned, raised his cup at Crysania's portrait on the wall and entered his room, where he laid the books and the decanter beside the letter on the sidetable. He stood beside the table for an instant, staring out of the rain-spattered window into the dark. He had done so much to be with her, to have this moment. Magic too would come back, and then he would have the only two things he had ever wanted in his life.

Slipping his hand in his pocket, Raistlin extracted the ring and placed it on top of the books.

The rain had started again, rapping against the glass in sharp gusts. It must be past midnight now. But he could wait. For hours if necessary.

He dragged a chair over to the open door, positioning it so that he could see into the corridor, and sat down.

She would have to come out at some point.