Rigus
You are the silence in between
What I thought and what I said
-No Light No Light, Florence + the Machine
Fistandantilus' quarters had a bed. It had never been used, since the undead had no need for sleep. Raistlin tipped the mass of books, glass decanters and papers on it to the floor. They hit the ground with a crash and the cracking of breaking glass. Raistlin closed his eyes, and balled himself up on the bed. It was dusty and moth-eaten but at least it didn't smell of the lich. He could be in any bed in Krynn, any abandoned house they had found to spend the night in…
But not alone. Raistlin tried to push the thought away, but it clung to his bones, silent and weeping. Alone, alone. He wrapped his arms around himself and it didn't help. Tried to call up Dalamar's face and could only see him through Fistandantilus' eyes, furious and hateful and hurting.
No. No more. And maybe the lich had done him one good turn, because it had left him so tired, he slept almost at once.
Time seemed patchy. He slept. Woke and ate food that had been left out. He hadn't eaten in two years and it all tasted of ash. He went back to bed. Went back to sleep. There at least, he didn't have to think. Didn't have to remember.
Raistlin had no real idea how long it lasted. Maybe days or even weeks. Everything passed in a grey haze, as though fog had settled in his head and blotted everything else out. But one day, he opened his eyes and saw a letter waiting on the table in the lich's chambers.
Who would write to him – no, of course, to Fistandantilus. Although who would write to the lich was an equal mystery. Raistlin sat up stiffly. His robes were stiff with sweat and old blood, his face rough and unshaven- a lot more than a week then, to get this bad – and he stank. Raistlin wrinkled his nose, and slid his legs over the edge of the bed.
The broken phials and books were still lying on the floor, the rug under it dyed black where ink bottles had smashed. Raistlin made his way cautiously around them, and picked up the letter. It must have been sent in by some spellcraft, because the wards on the door were unbroken.
Dark One was written on the front, and it was sealed with the symbol of a hammer. Raistlin frowned; it looked familiar, but he felt so sleep-befuddled and confused, he couldn't pull it from his memory. He broke the seal, and read it over.
It has been many weeks since we have seen you. We would be grateful for your presence at eveningsong.
Kingpriest Beldinas.
Raistlin stared at it for a few moments. The Kingpriest. Yes, they had gone back in time. Gods, nothing felt real. Like some bizarre, twisted nightmare.
But it was real. Raistlin shook himself. There was a date on the letter: only a few weeks before the new year. Only a few months before the Cataclysm. He needed to wake up, or he might as well go back to bed and wait for the burning mountain to come down on his head.
And Gods, that seemed almost tempting. Simpler, at least. What could he do? Prepare a spell and jump forward back to his own time and – try and explain? Hope he'd find someone willing to listen in the mass of people eager to kill him? Disappear and try and make his way somewhere far away and hope no one recognised him? It was hard to imagine a more miserable way to live.
But… he was in the past. Before a Cataclysm that could not come soon enough. Was there something he could do? Not to prevent it – Gods no – but to send a message, somehow, to the future? Carve a warning to Dalamar into the stones of the Tower of Palanthas? Hide an account of this disaster in Wayreth?
Raistlin closed his eyes. Gods, all of that and more. Anything, if it had even a chance of changing the future. That was it, was it not? He couldn't heal what had happened, but if he could change it – wipe out the misery of the past few years, start again…
He looked down at the letter in distaste. He would probably have to attend this farce, so as not to attract attention. Attend the eveningsong, whatever that was, and start digging through Fistandantilus' books and memories – and by the Abyss, if Raistlin had known what a nightmare that would be, he'd have made the lich eat that bloodstone pendant – and perhaps then, he could start to plan.
He found a basin of fresh water in a side room, stripped off Fistandantilus' ruined robes and stuffed them in the fireplace to burn later. The water was so cold, it cracked faintly on the surface when Raistlin dipped his hands in, but no matter how often he sluiced his filthy hands through it, it stayed crystal clear.
He washed the blood from his hands and face, the dried sweat from his body. Ran hands over a body he hadn't seen in – what was it? Five years? No. Seven. Seven and two of them stolen from him. His skin was pale now, warm and healthy as it had been before his Test.
He dunked his head into the basin and gasped in the cold. It soaked through his hair; Raistlin ran his hands through it, again and again until he got the knots out. Auburn hair between his fingers. There was no mirror, but when Raistlin stroked circles around his eyes, he knew they were blue again, the world warm and alive around him, a weary balm to his aching soul. He found a small knife on one of the tables and used it to shave, then looked for something to wear.
There were no white robes here, or red. Raistlin hesitated before picking out a set of Fistandantilus' spare black ones. It didn't feel right. Those were not his. He was not a Black Robe.
Well, neither was Fistandantilus. Raistlin sighed, and pulled them on. Nuitari wouldn't have had him, and nor would anyone else. It made no difference then, no different than putting on peasant clothes to hide who he was. He drew up the hood to hide his face, and turned away to open the door.
Istar was vile. Five minutes here and Raistlin felt like tearing his own skin off. Oh, it was beautiful, buildings and art that Raistlin had only read about, clean and polished to the point of wearing out the stones, but…
No wonder Fistandantilus had wanted to come back here. It was like a glaring mirror image of the lich himself. Bright and shining and so profoundly wrong, standing outside the balance of good and evil and bending it out of all alignment. Fistandantilus by himself had worked to overthrow a Goddess. What in the Abyss were they all planning here?
At least he was ignored. No one approached or even looked at him. Raistlin pressed himself into a corner, trying to get at least two walls to his back. The Kingpriest's light hurt his eyes and he turned away, looking around at the assembled clerics-
Her!
Raistlin started, shoulder blades ramming into the wall. The cleric from Palanthas, her face chill and cold as the temple around her. Gods, of course she'd fit right into this place where mages were burnt at the stake. The Conclave had sent her and Caramon here then. She looked around and her eyes fell, for a moment, on him. Raistlin didn't move, forced himself to meet her eyes. But she looked away, thinking him Fistandantilus. After all, she had never seen him before.
That was long enough. Raistlin wasn't spending another moment in this mockery. He barely needed to think, and the magic caught around his hands, bright, sweet fire. The magic. His magic. That wild, blazing joy he hadn't tasted for years. Raistlin smiled, a real smile, and disappeared.
He went to Palanthas. Crossed half the world with a thought and a few words. Slipped into the ancient, crumbling tower and started to carve his words on the door-
And remembered, with perfect clarity, Fistandantilus tearing them down with Raistlin's hands.
Walked into Wayreth, with his warning-
And saw it burned, a hundred years before he would have been born to see it.
Buried a book in a lead-lined box, in the roots of a Vallenwood-
But he'd never found it, had he? Or he would not be here, now.
Like chess, playing chess against himself. Every move checked and rebutted until there was nothing but stalemate. Laid down in stone, a path marked out and eternal. Leading him again and again down the same road, down through magic and love and joy and sorrow and down, again and again and again, into Fistandantilus' hands.
Gods. Gods. For a flash fire moment. Raistlin wondered about Fistandantilus' plans. To take on the Gods that set this miserable mockery. To let mortals see the horrors ahead and keep them from doing anything to prevent it. For a moment, Raistlin allowed himself to entertain the idea. Walk into the Abyss, slaughter the Dark Queen – and he could do it, he knows he could – force the Gods to change their revolting rules and-
Idiocy. Raistlin rubbed his face, and he would need the Revered Daughter besides, and Raistlin would rather stick his arm into a dragon's mouth that go anywhere near that woman.
Then home it was. Home, to try and fix what Fistandantilus had utterly destroyed. Not to the Tower of Palanthas, of course; Dalamar would be waiting and it would mean a fight and Raistlin… Raistlin couldn't face it. Not that. Dalamar could have the Tower, Gods knew he deserved it.
Maybe he could write a message. Send it to Wayreth and – what? As though Par-Salian would do anything but burn it. He would magic it to Palanthas then, no way of sending an answer, but Raistlin didn't think he could face the response he'd get.
Enough. Time to get to work. The nights were getting shorter, and there was less than a month before Yuletide, and the Cataclysm. Cast his spell, go back to his own time, and try and patch his world back together as best he could.
The treasury was deep under the temple. The riches of Istar, hidden deep and warded against all entry. Lost under the Cataclysm forever. Raistlin remembered hearing stories about it in Flotsam, wretched humans endlessly hunting along the shores of the Blood Sea for lost wonders.
The walls shone gold. Gemstones lay in heaped piles, tapestries rolled up in the corners of the great chamber, only the edges showing their impossibly intricate detail. Ancient, dwarf-made weapons and armour, enchanted weapons – oh, apparently the Kingpriest had no problem with that kind of spell craft, the hypocrite – and elven furnishings. There were riches enough here to fill a thousand treasuries, a dozen great dragons' hoards.
Raistlin walked in after a few spells, and started stripping the place. Diamonds to grind to dust to form the circle of power to send himself forward, sapphires to echo the River of Time, an intricately carved chair of rare vallenwood to smash to pieces and use as a focus for place as well as time.
And an enchanted bag to fill with a variety of riches to return to his own time along with Fistandantilus' spellbooks. Raistlin didn't think money would do much for his problems, but it might help. Maybe he'd just buy a kingdom somewhere and pay everyone to leave him alone.
He locked and warded the door after he left. Most likely no one would come down here before the Cataclysm, but there was no reason to tempt fate. No need for anyone to notice half the treasury was missing.
He stayed in his chambers. They weren't very secure, but Raistlin didn't want to go anywhere near the laboratory, and Fistandantilus' rotting body. He blocked the door with a wardrobe, snatched food from the storerooms, and saw no one as he worked.
The circle was carved in deep into the stone, marked out with a mixture of diamond dust and his own blood. The remains of the chair burned in the fireplace, the legs cut off into staves to mark out the compass points of the River of Time – Past, Present and Future – and to anchor him to a new place. Back to Solace, at least to begin with.
Raistlin looked up, the sun had set hours ago, and Solinari was full. Lunitari would not be up for another hour, giving him a little more time. A few minutes to snatch something to eat and prepare for the last incantations.
The kitchens turned up half a cold meat pie and a handful of winter apples. Raistlin sat down on the bed while he ate and looked over his work. Nearly finished. Nearly home. Despite everything waiting for him there, Raistlin couldn't help but smile. He would be out of this place, at least.
There was nothing to do now but to set the sapphires. One in each stave, one for the Past, where he was, one for the Present, where he aimed to go, and one for the Future, to orient the River.
He had a knife in the Future stave and was just cutting a hole in the wood to set the sapphire, when he heard footsteps outside. Raistlin froze. No one came to this end of the temple. No one had ever come back when Fistandantilus was living there, and the lesson had been learnt.
He sat back on his haunches, watching the door. The footsteps stopped outside. Raistlin reached for his spell components, and waved a hand to move the wardrobe away from the door. An assassin? Rather heavy-footed if that was the case. Some priest so blinded by their own self-righteousness they thought to destroy to Fistandantilus? Raistlin drew out a piece of crystal from his pocket, and a scrap of fur. He'd be happy to keep up the old lich's reputation in this, at least.
The door burst open; Raistlin was up, the spell ready and sparking between his fingers. It took him a moment to see the absurd figure silhouetted in the doorway, and another to drop the spell, sending flashes of lightning scattering all over the floor. What in the Abyss-
"Raist?" The voice was tentative, almost uncertain. "Is that- is that really you?"
Oh hells of the Abyss, not him.
Raistlin lowered his hands as Caramon shuffled sheepishly into his room. The big man was wearing an extraordinary outfit Raistlin had only ever seen on the high-class male whores in Balifor. Mostly shreds of wispy fabric and a lot of gold ornamentation meant to look like armour if one was half blind and brain damaged.
Just as well he hadn't cast the spell. The lightning bolt would probably have been too embarrassed to hit him. Raistlin was feeling too embarrassed just being in the same room.
"What are you wearing?" It slipped out before Raistlin was aware of it, and he silently cursed himself. Tell him to get out, to jump out of the window, to leave him alone-
Caramon was staring at Raistlin, doubtfully. "Is that you?" He hesitated. "You… look different."
Shock burst into burning, blinding rage. He looked different? He looked different? The oaf couldn't tell the difference between his own twin brother and a mad lich and Raistlin was the one with the problem?
Caramon must have seen something of the outrage on Raistlin's face because he hurried on, quickly. "I mean, I- I came. Just as you told me to do. I was waiting for you to come but I suppose you didn't know where we were?" Taking Raistlin's speechless fury as assent, he carried on. "It was the wizards. Those in the Conclave. They set us up so we got arrested and sold. We've been in the fighting pits for the last two months. It must have gone like you said: they couldn't stop us back in our time, so they tried to ruin us here."
Like he said- oh Gods, those letters. He hadn't realised Fistandantilus had been writing to Caramon. All those lovely, honeyed words the big man had spent years waiting to hear from Raistlin, all the lich had to do was say them, and the idiot came running like a dog, too blinded to see the truth-
No. Not blinded. Raistlin could see it in Caramon's face. He knew. He had known the man he'd met in Neraka- the one who'd wrote him the letters, and Raistlin were two different people. He'd known, and he hadn't cared. He'd happily take the nice, loving, false brother, who was everything he could have dreamed, over Raistlin.
"They sent Crysania through, too." Caramon continued, "I don't know if you've seen her, they took her away from me when we got here. Those damned wizards made them think I was a drunk! Made it look like I'd, you know, with her! I bet that Dark elf set them up to it. I told you he was bad news, Raist-"
Gods below why was he doing this to himself? Raistlin shook his head and tightened his grip on the components. The blast would probably knock out part of the circle and he'd have to redo at least two of the staves, but that was an acceptable loss for throwing Caramon out of the window. Better than standing here listening to his monster of a brother for another moment-
Then the door opened again, and in walked a dream come true.
Raistlin's mouth dropped open; the crystal rod fell from his nerveless fingers and rolled under the bed. He stared at the figure in the doorway, unable to speak, unable to think around the raw, glorious realisation that filled his mind like the rising sun.
"Raist?" Caramon's voice seemed to come from another plane entirely. "You okay?"
The ideal, the image of wonder, looked back at him in concern. "I think you broke him, Caramon."
"Raist?" A hand grabbed his shoulder and Raistlin pulled free impatiently. Stepped forward to the figure of perfection, perfection from its green, curly toed shoes to its bobbing topknot.
Oh thank you. Thank you, Par-Salian, you old bastard. Thank you for being such a phenomenal moron you sent a kender back in time.
The laughter threatened to bubble up somewhere deep inside Raistlin, but he managed to choke it off. Tasslehoff was watching him, a little frightened, and it occurred to Raistlin he was looking at the kender much as a hungry draconian might look at a particularly juicy steak. He tried to glance away, but his eyes were dragged back uncontrollably. "How did you get here?" He tried to keep his voice soft, but it shot out high and delighted, Gods, he was so happy. All of his troubles, all of his trials and horrors – all of that ended here, with this kender.
"Um, well, he thought Caramon needed help, of course-" Tasslehoff tried, but Raistlin bit his lip so as not to laugh, and he changed tack. "Actually, I- um, I don't think he really intended to send me-"
Raistlin let the kender babble about rings and mice and sneaking into magic circles. Staring at him as the plan formed, deliciously, wonderfully in his mind. The kender. The creature of Chaos that could change time. Hang warnings carved on doors and written in books, with him Raistlin would change time himself. He could go back to Flotsam and drive Fistandantilus out. He could return to the Silvanesti nightmare and show his past self how to use the Dragon Orbs-
Or before. Gods, why stop there? Why not go for the best of all possible worlds? Go back to his Test, corner and destroy the lich before he could even get near Raistlin. The thought took his breath away. Gods, that would fix everything.
He was vaguely aware that Tasslehoff and his brother were watching him in concern, but ignored them. This was too important.
What would he need? The kender, of course; without him and the essence of Chaos inside him, everything would fail. What else? He would have to make sure to pass information to his past self, information he had gotten through Fistandantilus. The nature of Darken Wood, the Disks of Mishakal, how to use a Dragon Orb. By the Abyss, he could write that all down and leave it with the spell books he'd got in his Test! He wouldn't have to even meet his past self – after seeing what it had done to Fistandantilus, Raistlin was in no hurry to repeat the lich's mistake.
And with that, time would unravel, and re-weave itself. No lich. No leaving Dalamar in the Blood Sea. No damned cough. He and Dalamar would be safe in Palanthas and laughing at the world. He could even hide Fistandantilus' spellbooks somewhere he knew his past self would find them. In that cave in the Sentinel Peaks, perhaps-
"Raist!" Caramon shook him and Raistlin almost jumped out of his skin, reverie broken. "What's wrong with you?"
Raistlin was about to lift his hands and blast the idiot to oblivion, then stopped. He needed the kender's help. If he didn't keep him happy then who knew what Tasslehoff would do, and blowing up Caramon in front of him would not be a way of winning the kender over.
He looked up into Caramon's broad, worried face. Caramon, so very concerned for the well-being of a lich already two months dead. He'd already accepted that thing as his brother, if he realised it was dead-
Raistlin forced a smile. "Merely amused, dear brother. How strange that we would all be together again, in this place! Are you certain Par-Salian did not also magic Tanis here, too? Or Kitiara?"
It worked. Caramon's face split into a wide smile. "Yeah, I was a bit worried about having Tas here, but he's been a great help, Raist! He told me where you were and showed me how to find you." He frowned at Raistlin, "I don't think we should stay here, Raist, we've only been fighting a few weeks and already they tricked me into killing someone. You didn't know anything about that, did you?"
"I promise I had no idea where either of you were." Raistlin shrugged, for once entirely honest.
Caramon nodded, looking relieved. "I knew it, see, Tas?" Tasslehoff nodded. "That dwarf said you did it but I knew he must have been lying. But there are games coming up, and, well, what if it happens again?"
Now there was a thought. Hmm, Tasslehoff wouldn't turn against him if he thought Caramon's death was an accident. But the grief would make the kender erratic, and the last thing Raistlin needed was an even more unpredictable kender. Regretfully, he shelved the notion. It wouldn't matter anyway. Everything that happened here would unravel when time rewove itself.
"Did you get what you wanted, Raist?" Caramon pressed. "Those books you needed. We can stay longer if you want, if you need-"
"I need more time." Raistlin put in to shut him up. "I have not yet finished my preparations."
"That looks pretty finished to me." Tasslehoff looked around the circle in interest. "It looks a lot like the one we saw in the Tower, doesn't it Caramon? Were you planning to go without us?"
"Merely a precaution." Raistlin said quickly. "As you said, brother-" And Gods, didn't that word taste foul? "There are many dangers in this place."
Caramon nodded, satisfied. "But you'll call us if you need us, won't you? I'm ready, just like you said. Tika wasn't too pleased, but I knew you'd need me one day." He straightened, throwing out his chest in pride. He looked so absurd in the little loincloth and flimsy amour pieces, Raistlin had to fight not to laugh. Tasslehoff had no such restraint and fell into a fit of giggles.
"Of course I will." Raistlin kept his eyes on the helpless kender. "I'll most definitely have need of you."