Welcome back everyone! Thank you for being so patient.
Tiernan Hunter: Thank you! That was a lovely thing to read.
Greenedera: Sorry to keep you waiting! Hopefully six months wasn't too bad!
I am currently looking for a second beta reader, but thank you for my old friend Shadowvalkyrie for doing a beta run on this one!
Gehenna
You are the hole in my head,
You are the space in my bed.
-No Light, No Light, Florence + the Machine
The memories slammed in like the Cataclysm. That simple, single fact that Fistandantilus had guarded from him just as surely as Raistlin had guarded the knowledge of the lich's own death. Like a key unlocking a door, the door bursting open and burying him under wave after wave of memory until Raistlin staggered to the wall, dry heaving.
He could almost hear the dead monster's laughter, echoing through his head. The images, crazed and fragmented as smashed mirrors, spilling out on and around him.
The Conclave, turning away from him, outcast, renegade. The whole of Palanthas, frightened enough to hate but not enough to stay away, the horror on their doorstep, the creeping horror in their midst. The forces of the Dark Queen, loathing him and readying to destroy him, traitor, turncoat. The forces of Light, detesting and readying their swords, monster, dark beast.
Fistandantilus might have dreamed of godhood, but the lich certainly took enough time out of its deranged plans to wreck Raistlin's life as thoroughly as possible. The only thing waiting for him in his own time was a knife to the throat.
And gods – oh gods, oh gods, oh gods – he knew whose hand would wield it, didn't he? He could – no, no, I don't want to, please don't make me – he could see it.
See the hate and murderous rage in Dalamar's eyes as he lunged at him, knife out to butcher Raistlin in the laboratory. His hands, so tight around Raistlin's neck that – oh Lunitari – they're still there. He can feel the bruises, the raw ache on his windpipe where Dalamar had almost crushed his throat. The impossible, wild strength of him, the insane broken hate in his eyes…
Raistlin slid down the wall, his legs buckled up under him, and he was down, down to the cold raw stone. And his hand. The same hand now clotted black with the dead lich's blood. Fistandantilus, pressing his hand flat against the elf's chest – as he had Raistlin's, so many years ago.
It would have killed him. Would have killed Dalamar, had Raistlin not killed it first. Killed him, when Dalamar tried to stop him, or maybe kept the elf as a backup, in case Raistlin's body should fail it?
A soft, choking sound made him jump – but it was from his own throat. The dead lich was still lying in a pool of black blood.
Why didn't you run? Raistlin hissed, unable to form words, huddling in Fistandantilus' black robes. Gods below, Dalamar, why didn't you run? Get out of that nightmare and go somewhere safe instead of…
The memories, the cloying, drowning wave of them. Dalamar in the tower. Dalamar at Fistandantilus' hands. The lich's cold, delighted satisfaction in hurting the elf, storing the memories away where Raistlin couldn't find them. Maybe once it had killed the elf, it would have made sure Raistlin saw them. In all their detail. Again and again.
Raistlin couldn't be sick. Fistandantilus must not have bothered with food. The tears ran down, almost painfully hot on his freezing face. Oh gods. Oh gods.
Why didn't you do something? His throat croaked, but the words didn't come. It didn't matter, he wore His robes, Nuitari could hear him in his own head. He was so loyal, he did everything for the magic. Why didn't you do something, damn you? Why didn't you take him away?
His hands were shaking. He tried to wipe them on his robes and there was a rent, a tear in the fabric where Dalamar had come so close to killing Raistlin. Killing Fistandantilus, too, but Dalamar didn't know that. Couldn't have known that, because Raistlin had guarded that secret so well that by the time he realised what a mistake it was, it was too late.
And now it wouldn't matter. Because he'd seen the look in Dalamar's eyes and nothing he could say, nothing he could do would make any difference.
The ice in his throat cracked, and Raistlin screamed, harsh and cracking and broken.
Dalamar felt numb. Numb but for the draining, clawing pain in his chest. The spell that had taken him to the Tower of Wayreth made him stumble, bracing a hand against the door, trying to catch his breath. The Tower was cold and still, but after two years in Palanthas, it seemed almost vibrantly alive.
Around him, just above the walls, the enchanted trees wavered and swayed. Aspens. Funny, two years ago, that would have hurt. Now it was just a dull fact, irrelevant. He pushed the door open, straightened his back like a puppet on strings, and marched down towards the Hall of Mages
Inside, Par-Salian was speaking. Dalamar paused, one hand on the knocker.
"You know that now we believe he intends to conquer the world? Along with your half-sister, Kitiara—or the Dark Lady, as she is known among her troops—Raistlin has begun to amass armies. He has dragons, flying citadels-"
Exhaustion struck Dalamar like a hammer. Gods, what was going on in there? And was he going to have to explain it to those idiots? He pushed the door open. "You know nothing, Great One." His words hung in the air as dull and heavy as he felt. "You are a fool."
"You!" The word cracked out so suddenly Dalamar started, and it was a mark of the last two years that it took him a moment to recognise the big man standing broad and angry before the Conclave. Caramon. Nuitari, he didn't need this.
He turned away from Caramon, to Par-Salian who was looking at him through narrowed eyes. "Explain yourself, Dalamar, why am I a fool?"
Dalamar looked back, the hate inside him was so old and cold it layered his soul like permafrost. "You know perfectly well what he wants." He could see it in the old man's face. He had overseen Raistlin's Test, he had seen the lich. You knew. You traded Raistlin to this monster. You knew.
But if he knew, he would never admit it. Had lied to Dalamar and would lie now. "Supposing you enlighten us, for the benefit of this Conclave."
Dalamar looked at them, some were thoughtful, some hostile, a few even looked sympathetic. Too few. No one spoke. Caramon crossed his arms, glowering at Dalamar. There was a smug sort of smile on the big man's face; something in it reminded Dalamar of his old Overseer in Silvanesti, all those years ago. He'd worn a similar smile when he'd watched Dalamar get dragged away to be exiled.
"What he wanted before." Dalamar looked back at Par-Salian. You know. "To challenge the Dark Queen. To become a God."
There was a still, trembling silence. Then Caramon snorted derisively, and Par-Salian narrowed his eyes. "I think you overestimate him."
What? The numbness was blown away in a moment and Dalamar was suddenly, painfully awake. "You know." Dalamar repeated, in disbelief, but the old man said nothing, all innocence. He would lie, about this, and here, to save his own damn hide and keep anyone from knowing the truth. No, let them all think it was Raistlin all along. Let no one ever know what Par-Salian did.
Dalamar fumbled for his robes. Gods, if this was what it would take, maybe the old man needed a reminder. "Is this overestimating him?" His robes tore with a wet ripping sound. The cold air made him hiss in pain. "Is this familiar to you, Great One?"
There was a flicker of something in Par-Salian's eyes: guilt, shame, horror – and yes, recognition. He knew those wounds. He'd seen what the lich had done to Raistlin in the Test. "He said to give you his regards, Par-Salian."
And oh, there was fear. Regretting it yet, you old bastard? Oh, it all seemed so harmless, seven years ago, when it was Raistlin standing here. Just one more young mage to feed to their pet lich, all necessary sacrifices and for the greater good. But now it's gotten out of control and the pet has new teeth.
Par-Salian looked old, old and trembling. Pathetic. Gods, Dalamar could kill him. Perhaps he should. Kill him and take down anyone else he fought him and force himself as head of the Conclave and… He pulled his mind away from this madness. Do that and they wouldn't let him return to the Tower. Someone had to stop this.
"So, our worst fears are realised. He knows we sent you-"
"Of course he did." Dalamar snapped. They didn't have time for this. "He's been using you. And he's using you now." He glowered at Caramon. The kender was with him, Dalamar noticed, and the Revered Daughter was on the floor. His fingers itched for his dagger.
"I find this all very difficult to believe," Justarius interrupted. "We all admit that young Raistlin is certainly powerful, but I find this talk of challenging a goddess quite ridiculous … quite ridiculous indeed."
Dalamar looked at him, him too? Sweet Nuitari, was there anyone in this place not in on that monstrous conspiracy? Did they think Dalamar an idiot, not to know it was Fistandantilus they were talking about? Or was this some kind of ploy for Caramon's sake?
"Oh, he is powerful enough." Dalamar hissed. "More than powerful enough. As powerful as he has ever been." He met their eyes. Par-Salian and Justarius looked away, Ladonna met his gaze, frowning a little. She didn't know. The others hadn't bothered to tell her. Gods. "All he lacks is the power to cross that dread threshold. But that power, he goes to find. He is on his way now. When I return, he will be gone."
"When you return?" Par-Salian frowns. "But he knows you for what you are-"
"Oh enough!" Dalamar snarled. "He has gone to challenge the Dark Queen. Have you given any thought to what would happen, were he to succeed? Someone must remain in the Tower, to destroy him upon his return-"
Dalamar stopped, because a hand as large as a ham and strong as a vice had clamped itself around his upper arm. Caramon wrenched him around, sword in hand. "What's going on?" He barked, the blade upheld, only inches from Dalamar's face. "You're talking about killing Raistlin? Is this was this is about?"
"Unhand me!" Dalamar tried to pull free, but the man was as strong as he ever was – stronger even. His armor well oiled, sword razor sharp. His whole body was taut and ready.
He's been ready for this. Dalamar realised, belatedly. He had prepared.
"Raistlin warned me." Caramon growled. "He told me you'd try and do this. When he saw through your tricks, he told me you'd do anything to stop him. He told me to be ready, for when he needed me."
The Conclave whispered and hissed, some starting to stand. Caramon threw Dalamar down and turned on them. "And you!" He shouted. "Believing him. All this- cock and bull story about destroying the world. Raistlin wouldn't do that! He knew you'd try and stop him, whatever he was doing. I was the only one he could trust!"
"Silence!" Par-Salian stood and, suddenly no longer so weak, he was tall and powerful as a pillar of light. He looked at Dalamar. "Tell us what he means to do-"
"A Dark elf's lies-"
"Silence!"
Dalamar picked himself up, "He travels back in time." He said shortly. "To the days just before the Cataclysm. He seeks to recover his old spellbooks, those lost in Istar. This was where he learned how to cross the threshold between gods and men, and where he must discover it anew."
"His spellbooks?" A white robe, seated to Par-Salian's left, frowned, but lapsed when Par-Salian raised a hand.
"So Raist wants to get back some spellbooks." Caramon crossed his arms. "And you want to stop him – to get them yourself, I bet. Why do you even believe him?" He turned to the Conclave, glowering.
And – oh to the Abyss – some of them were nodding, glancing at Par-Salian and Dalamar doubtfully. And why shouldn't they? The idea that Raistlin would do this was deranged. But Fistandantilus…
But no one was likely to hear about that unless Dalamar said it. And no one would believe him if he did. Par-Salian and Justarius would not back him up. He'd be just one more Dark elf finally driven mad and delusional by one loss too many.
"He needs me." Caramon declared. "He told me." He glanced at Dalamar and there's that smile again, smug and delighted. "He wrote to me. He wrote me letters for years. You sent the elf to spy but you could just have come to me. He's going back in time to get his magic and save the world from the Dark Queen. He told Crysania about it too, and she wants to help him. We will be going back in time and you are going to send us, because you're frightened of him, and if you try and stop us he'll come back."
The silence that followed that extraordinary speech was deafening. Caramon looked triumphant, Par-Salian like he had been sucking lemons. "That is his plan." Dalamar said finally. "As you know very well. You will send this woman back to the only man capable of healing her, and of course such a Revered Daughter cannot be expected to go unaccompanied. You'll hand him the cleric he needs for his plans, and a bodyguard. Just what the Shalafi wants."
"We have suffered enough of your insults, Dalamar." Par-Salian snapped, "And your insolence, Caramon. It is the only way we can stop him. But why Lady Crysania? What possible interest could he have in someone so good, so pure."
"So powerful." Dalamar said. "Powerful enough to open the door to the Abyss. He will need a cleric of great power to face the Dark Queen-"
"Or maybe." Caramon growled. "He got away from you, and found someone for him for a change."
What? Oh. Yes, the cleric wanted to have sex with the lich. In Raistlin's body. Dalamar looked at the cleric and wondered if he could get to her fast enough to slit her throat before someone stopped him. Probably not.
"Raistlin has other reasons for wanting both this woman and his brother back in time with him, of that you may be certain," Justarius crossed his arms. "He has not revealed his game, not by any means. He has told us—through our agent—just enough to leave us confused. I say we thwart his plans!"
Finally, some sense. "She spent the night in his study." Caramon made a sound of obscene satisfaction. Dalamar ignored him. "I do not know what was discussed, but I know that when she left in the morning, she appeared distraught and shaken. His last words to her were these 'Has it occurred to you that Paladine did not send you to stop me but to help me?'"
"And what answer did she make?"
"She did not answer him," Dalamar replied. "She walked back through the Tower and then through the Grove like one who can neither see nor hear."
"What I do not understand is why Lady Crysania was travelling here to seek our help in sending her back? Surely she must have known we would refuse such a request!" Justarius frowned.
"I can answer that!" And oh Gods, he'd forgotten about the kender. Dalamar checked his pouches and dagger, the ring on his finger. The last thing he needed was to lose them. He kept his hands firmly on them as the kender babbled; a senseless wave of words. Crysania, redeeming the lich, going to find some gully dwarf…
Wait, gully dwarf?
Dalamar looked down, and there, sure enough, peeking out from behind Caramon's discarded shield, was the little gully dwarf from Xak Tsaroth, so long ago.
And now the kender was talking about her, and Raistlin's kindness to her, and suddenly Dalamar could not speak, could not breathe. He'd do anything to get the kender to shut up, but his throat had closed up and his eyes were burning. The dwarf looked up at him, pleading, and shuffled over as the Conclave erupted in scorn around them.
A grubby little hand caught hold of his robes. Her big eyes gazed up desperately. "Where pretty man?"
And Dalamar was about to tell her, opened his mouth to say the pretty man was gone, was dead, eaten up from inside – but the words lodged somewhere inside his throat and caught like a hook. He could not say it.
The little gully dwarf's lip trembled, eyes damp. She might not be bright but she could see it wasn't good. She spun around as Par-Salian looked at her. She looked at Dalamar again, back and forth.
She could see there was something wrong. She was the only one who could. All the power of the Conclave, two heroes of the Lance and the next head of the Church of Palanthas, and the only ones who cared for the truth were Dalamar and a gully dwarf whose name he could barely remember. Bupu. That was what Raistlin had called her.
The only ones who cared that Raistlin was gone.
"Me know nothing 'bout big, powerful wizards. Me know nothing 'bout no charm spell. Me know magic is in this" she dug out a dead rat and waved it at Par-Salian. "And me know that man you talk 'bout here is nice man. Him nice to me. The others—the big man, the kender—they laugh at Bupu. They look at me like me some sort of bug."
Bupu rubbed her eyes. "Me know how me look." She pulled at her dress, wretchedly. "Me know me not pretty, like lady lying there. But him not call me 'creature!' Him call me 'little one.' Little one."
Yes. And he called me 'beautiful', and 'my Dalamar'. He was bright and brilliant and dazzling and he loved me. And Dalamar bit his lip so hard he tasted blood to keep the tears from burning his eyes.
"I-I want to stay with him. But him tell me, 'no.' Him say he must walk roads that be dark. Him tell me, he want me to be safe. Him lay his hand on my head and I feel warm inside. Then him tell me, 'Farewell, Bupu.' Him call me 'little one.' Him never laugh at me," she said, choking. "Never!"
Caramon started forward, one hand outstretched to the gully dwarf, but she turned back suddenly, pointing a stubby finger at Dalamar. "You say you keep him safe! You look after him! You promise!"
Dalamar could not speak. Perhaps some part of him had been waiting for this, for someone to demand answers from him, how he could have failed Raistlin so utterly. He hadn't expected it would come from a gully dwarf. He could only nod.
"And now he gone." Her face crumpled.
Dalamar closed his eyes. The tears slipped free, blood-hot trails down his cheeks. He nodded again.
"Stop that!" Caramon grabbed the little gully dwarf, who struggled, trying to pull free. "Stop upsetting her! You think it's funny? Telling her that when you know Raistlin's – ow!" He yelled and let go, Bupu pulled free and ran away to hide behind Dalamar, her sharp little teeth red.
The mages were looking at each other. The man to Par-Salian's left was even looking hopeful, eyes bright in his dark face. But Par-Salian and Justarius did not move. They knew this was pointless. Whatever kindness had been there in Raistlin, in seeing his own despised self in the little gully dwarf, was gone now. In its memory, Dalamar stepped in front of Caramon as the big man stamped over to Bupu.
"This is the reason Lady Crysania made this journey?" Par-Salian turned to the kender.
"Yes," the kender shifted.
"And why does she want to attempt this?" Par-Salian frowned. Caramon tried to get around Dalamar, but Bupu darted away, grabbing the back of his robes.
"Uh, well, Tika said—" Tas started, then stopped.
"What did Tika say?"
"Tika said… Tika said she was doing it … because she l-loved him—Raistlin."
Par-Salian nodded, as though his thoughts were confirmed. "What about you, twin?" he asked suddenly. Caramon turned from where he was trying to grab Bupu, frowned. "Do you love him still?
"Of course I love him." Caramon snarled. "He's my twin. And it means more to me than some people."
"Do you love him enough to make this perilous journey?" Par-Salian persisted, eyes narrow and fierce. "To risk his life for him, as this lady has done?" Caramon squared his shoulders, as solid and immovable as a dumb animal. "Do you love him enough to see with true eyes? Not want you want to see, but what is truly there?"
And that, Dalamar knew, would be the only thing Par-Salian would say to even come close to the truth.