AN: I'm not sure there's much of an audience for Dragonlance fic, since the fanbase seems a little quiet online, but reviews are loved and I hope you enjoy this, whoever you are!
b - l - a - d - e' - s - - e - d - g - e
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"What of the girl?"
"We can't execute her."
"Exile, then."
"She'll escape any escort. She'll take a false name and return, as she did before."
The Conclave spoke in hushed whispers, heads bowed together. They deliberated the fate of the wraith-like elf confined to thick steel bars not more than five yards away. She sat on the floor of the cell, ankles bound together, wrists secured to the wall behind her, a gag stuffed between her teeth. There were more indeterminable murmurs from the group as she rolled her eyes, uncaring. It didn't matter what they did with her now. She'd live, either way.
"We could send her to Palanthas," said a voice.
"None can escape through the grove," agreed another.
"He still lives there. And Dalamar," argued a third.
"I doubt if indecency is a concern of ours, with him," scoffed a fourth.
Palanthas? That was where the High Mage Raistlin lived. They'd send here there? To her, it seemed excessive, if not uncomfortable. She'd heard the stories about his toxic nature and horrific appearance.
The conversation faded again and Sikeen leaned her head back against the cold wall, growing impatient. The chains restraining her against the wall were old, and she was sure with a little maneuvering she could have escaped them. But with the most powerful mages in Kynn within earshot, there was no way out of the cell.
Hours seemed to go by as they argued. Finally, another figure joined them. In the dim light, Sikeen could barely make out the red hue of the newcomer's robes. After a brief moment of listening, the red-robed mage approached the cell, standing before her. It was a woman – perhaps forty – who spoke, met with Sikeen's eerie stare.
"You have been sentenced to indefinite exile in the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas," she said. With a word Sikeen didn't recognize, several bars from the front of the cell fell to the floor and the woman entered. Before she could barely stir, the red-robed mage produced a leaf from her sleeve and pushed it against her exposed neck. Immediately, everything went black.
| - - : - - x - - : - - |
It was impossible to tell how much time had passed between her time in the cell and when she awoke. Uncharacteristically bleary, she managed to sit up just in time to overhear another tense conversation.
"What is the meaning of this?!" Her vision didn't seem to clear, no matter how much she blinked or rubbed at her eyes. Was it nighttime still? Growing concerned, she focused on making sense of the words spoken around her.
"She is for your service. Do with her what you please. She must not leave the Tower."
"You've already sent me one apprentice. Have I earned subjection to another?" There was then a hoarse cough.
"She is no apprentice. Do not, under any means, allow her to escape the Tower," repeated the red-robe.
Inside, the current apprentice peered through a window at the balcony below, watching this exchange with growing discomfort.
The Master of Past and Present resisted the urge to attack this nameless mage, undoubtedly sent by the Conclave. Without another word, the intruder turned around and boarded the massive winged beast she'd appeared on. It was with fuming disdain that he watched her coast easily over the Shoikan grove. These tower balconies were truly a weakness, he decided.
Several moments passed during which Raistlin heard a drop land on the marble floor. Suspiciously eyeing the newcomer, who still lay slumped on her knees, he retreated to the safety of a broad awning. She remained curled up in a heap under her gray velvet cloak. With another wheeze, he swept back into the tower and called for his apprentice.
"Dalamar!"
"Shalafi." The dark elf's reply was instantaneous, from the other side of the would-be sunroom, had Raistlin not insisted on the curtains sealed shut at all times. At night, it was especially gloomy, lit only by candelabrums spaced several feet apart along the walls.
"Bring her inside," commanded the mage. He was already well on his way back to his bed-chambers, the highest rooms in the tower. Tomorrow, he would figure out what to do with the girl.
Dalamar, meanwhile, cursed the rain as he rushed out onto the large balcony, all but dragging the heap of gray cloth inside. With the balcony doors shut safely behind her, Sikeen finally began to come out of her stupor. Eyes no longer rolling back into her head, she shook the massive hood off, revealing black hair. The points of her ears poked through, pale skin in contrast to the darkness around them.
The apprentice was taken aback. She was an elf.
"Who are you?" Still struggling to find her tongue, her reply came as barely a mumble.
"Let me leave," she said, remembering what the red-robed mage had said. Slowly, her senses began to restore themselves. Dalamar paced around to properly see her face.
"Who are you?" he repeated. Upon closer inspection, it was clear that there was something amiss about this one. The elves he remembered from home were traditionally beautiful – all with flowing, straight hair, even features, and manners, on top of that. The newcomer, on the other hand, was sickly thin, and it was clear that the dry bits of her hair were unkempt and wavy. Her skin shone with an eerie, marble-like tone, far too pale. But the strangest part about her was her eyes. Large and orb-like, in the dark they glowed light blue like an animal's.
She barely resembled an elf. And now, she glared mercilessly at him.
"Sikeen Tirmedhi," she said, as clearly as she could. "Let me leave."
"Shalafi was just told not to let you leave," replied Dalamar. Her frustration was a bit amusing – she'd clearly been put under the effects of some magical drug to be transported here. But why? She shifted slightly and the sleeves of her robe fell away from her hands, revealing the tightly-wound rope that restrained her. So that was why it had been so difficult to get her to move. She was drugged and bound. "Is there a reason why the Conclave deemed you necessary of restraint?" he asked, taking a step toward her. Gods, mages were pretentious. Sikeen had never liked them.
But it occurred to her that for the time being, she was stuck here. The best course of action was to cooperate with Raistlin Majere and this Dalamar fellow and eventually convince them to let her leave. She could figure out a way through the Grove later.
"I've committed a crime. A mage turned me over to the Conclave, and they sent me here as punishment." This was truly amusing. The Conclave decided the Tower of Palanthas, where both Raistlin and Dalamar lived – willingly, at that – was the best place to send someone for exile.
It made some sense, at least. She could never get through the Grove, Shalafi's spectral minions would surely terrorize her if given permission, and it was perpetually gloomy. But why not send her out of the country, if exile was the necessary course of action? Or to prison?
"What sort of crime?" he asked, still trying to decide if setting her free of her bonds would be such a good idea. Judging by her wraith-like appearance, he wasn't led to believe she was capable of causing him harm. But appearances could be deceiving.
In response, she grinned wickedly at him, water dripping from her lashes onto her cheeks.
"I won't harm you," she said innocently.
"You're not capable," he decided, rolling his eyes. Whatever she was capable of, it wasn't magic. If it were, they wouldn't have sent her to a tower of sorcery as punishment. Therefore, Shalafi and he were more than able to handle her. He reached for a blade he'd left on one of the low tables in the sunroom and slowly sawed through her bonds, completely missing the bizarre stare she fixed on the dagger's surface. When he was done with the ones on her wrists, her hand shot out with lightning speed and snagged the dagger from his fingers.
Dalamar jumped slightly, concerned out of reflex. A knife was a weapon, and Shalafi wouldn't appreciate him using magic outside his permission, even if it were for self-defense. But Sikeen didn't harm him, as she'd promised. Instead, she pulled the gray cloak up to her thighs and expertly sliced through the rope around her ankles. Her legs, noted Dalamar, were just as pale and sickly as the rest of her. But she had some skill with the blade.
The rope had left deep marks on her ankles. Around the marks, her flesh was swollen and slightly purple, and from the grooves in her skin blood sprang to the surface in small cuts. How long had she been tied up? Sighing, he stood over her and watched as she assessed the damage to her bony ankles.
"I don't believe I can extend much hospitality to you," he said, truly unsure. She was not his guest, after all. This was not his tower. It was Shalafi's. The constant deference to his master usually didn't bother him, but right now he was forced into rudeness without taking permission from Raistlin.
"I don't need your hospitality," spat the girl, using her wet cloak to wipe at the blood. Dalamar, out of pity, ignored her comment and swept into the stairwell. Shalafi would have to handle this. It was out of his domain.
To his surprise, he was already in the stairwell, the light of the Staff of Magius illuminating the dark corridor. As he passed down the stairs, he once again spoke to Dalamar over his shoulder.
"Your racket has awoken me," he hissed, entering the balcony room. In reality, he hadn't had a chance to sleep at all. Curiosity had overcome him.
When the door opened once more, Sikeen didn't look up, assuming it was Dalamar returning with word from Raistlin. But when the tower master's whispering voice reached her ears, she bristled.
"So the Conclave has sent me another elf," he said, bitterly amused. Sikeen had to force herself to look at him. As much as mages irritated her, she harbored a fear of their power. And this was Raistlin Majere, the most powerful mortal being. Willing herself not to shake, she turned to meet his infamous eyes.
In the darkness and the shadow of his black hood, it was difficult to discern the alleged hourglass shapes of his pupils. Covered by his robe, he seemed fairly normal to her. But he was taller than she'd expected, which only intimidated her further. Pushing her fear to the back of her mind, she spoke.
"Sorry to disappoint," she said evenly, forcing a smirk.
Raistlin eyed her carefully as he paced across the room. He, too, noticed the odd things about her appearance. Aside from this, the fact that she was an elf was more of a mercy than anything. She aged only slightly in his eyes, but her already sickly appearance made for a strange "older" elf. With age, she would only become more frail, her pale eyes appearing to expand into blue globes as her cheeks sunk further. Her skin became paper-thin, the color of fresh snow.
"Are you ill?" he demanded, peering down at her. Dalamar recognized the same wicked grin spread across her features. If she feared his Shalafi, he could not tell.
"I am not," she said, as if she were used to being asked.
"Why do you not stand?" His connotation was clear to both Dalamar and Sikeen – "Why do you not stand in my presence?" He eyed her ankle, raising a pale brow. She looked away, her pride preparing for damage. She'd now have to admit to her injuries.
"Out of fear that my ankles may give out, Master Raistlin," she said, her grin fading into an apologetic smile.
"You will call me Shalafi, elf," he said, kneeling before her ankles. "You speak Silvanesti, do you not?"
"I do…" she said, growing uneasy. The Staff of Magius remained still when he released it. His hands, impossibly warm, closed around the bloody wounds. She winced from the sting and was about to jerk her ankles away when some incomprehensible words escaped the mage's lips. Instantly, with a slight tingle, the pale skin stitched itself back together. With that, Raistlin stood again.
"Now you may stand," he said evenly. For someone rumored to be so sick, he moved with surprising grace. As she pulled herself to her feet, he pushed the hood off his head, letting her see his face.
She blinked, the blue light from her eyes winking in the darkness. All previous notions she'd had that Raistlin perhaps appeared more normal than she'd been told were obliterated. He was not horrific, nor did he appear overly alien-like, and he was not how she'd imagined. But despite this, he certainly was nothing like anyone else she'd seen. His eyes, truly adorned with the hourglass figures of rumors, regarded her coldly. Though his cheeks were only slightly sunken, the skin that covered them had a truly gold sheen to it, and his hair fell against it in stark contrast. White, pale, shimmering white, was the color of his hair – completely distinct from the white hair of her elven elders, white in a way that had nothing to do with age. In fact, he quite looked his age: barely past thirty.
Curious, still, to get a better look at him, she subconsciously stepped forward, peering. From the shadows, Dalamar winced. She was supposed to be afraid.
"I see my appearance does not frighten you," he said, still icy. Snapping out of her reverie, she stood straight up again.
"I am not easily frightened," she said confidently. Her gaze fell to his shoulders, which she realized were fairly broad. Wasn't he horribly, irreparably ill? He didn't seem so. Ignoring her reply, he continued.
"Tell me of these crimes for which the Conclave has banished you to my home," he said. She noted some disdain for the Conclave in his tone, and silently thanked the Gods. They had one thing in common, then.
"With respect, Shalafi, I do not wish to speak of it." The honorable term in her mother tongue felt alien on her lips. But alas, she would have to learn to respect him if she wanted to escape from here.
"Then you will starve, and die here," he responded, not missing a beat. She drew in a deep breath, but before she could speak he continued. "Are you ashamed for what you've done? Is that why you do not wish to tell me?" Without thinking, she raised a brow at him.
"I simply would rather not frighten you, dear Shalafi," she said sweetly. It was the wrong move. Instantly, she fell onto her back and skidded until she hit the balcony doors, as if pushed by a great wind. In seconds, Raistlin was before her once more. For someone so sick, he moved remarkably fast.
"You're not capable," he said, unknowingly repeating Dalamar's words. Sikeen kicked herself. These were mages. They were full of themselves, and insisted on having what they asked for. "Another misstep and you will find yourself at the bottom of the tower at the mercy of the creatures of the Grove." Well, there was an opportunity. She scrambled to her feet on the slippery marble floor and faced him once more as he lessened the space between them, glaring at her from his height. "Tell me of these crimes." She cleared her throat, knowing she had no choice but to listen.
"I'm a contract killer," she said simply, meeting his glare with an unreadable expression. It didn't matter how she said it, everyone's reaction was more or less the same.
Raistlin, contemplative, nodded.
"Then I suppose I have nothing to fear," he said.
"What if I were here to kill you?" she asked. It was yet another mistake, and from what he'd just said, she should now be at the foot of the tower, faced with the Grove. Raistlin, however, understood the intent of her rudeness – she wanted desperately to be banished. He sighed.
"Then I would wish you the best of luck," he said, rolling his eyes. "The Red Mage said you were to be in my service, did she not?" He paused. When no answer came, he continued. "Dalamar will show you the kitchen. You will brew tea six times a day and bring it to me. At dawn, early morning, noon, afternoon, in the evening, and before you retire. Other than that, keep to yourself," he said before turning on his heel. On his way out, he spoke to his apprentice once more. "She will stay in the vacant chambers next to yours, Dalamar."
"Shalafi," murmured the dark elf in acknowledgement. As soon as Raistlin disappeared into the stairwell, he approached Sikeen. "I would advise you not to provoke my Shalafi. He can be rather foul-tempered," he said casually. "Follow me," he said, leading her into the stairwell opposite the one that led to his master's quarters. In silence, she followed, plotting.