Ivory and Ebony, part 11: Temporal

[skull_bearer]

Yes. I’m alive. Apologies of the obscene wait, but I think it’s to be expected after a major nervous breakdown. Anyway, the update will be faster, although I’m now juggling an original work along with it, so that doesn’t mean they’ll be fast. However, I have the next few chapters plotted out so fingers crossed they’ll come faster. I can’t promise it’ll go on beyond this, but I want to tie up this story on some sort of ending, so as I said, fingers crossed.

 

This has not been beta-read. If anyone feels up for the job, please email me at skullbearer5@yahoo.co.uk

As it is, I apologise for any spelling mistakes the checker has missed.

 

Temporal

 

 

Limbo

 

This is the End

Beautiful Friend

This is the end

My only friend

The end.

-The End, The Doors.

 

It took longer than Raistlin had hoped for Fistandantilus' plan to commence. The lich was performing a difficult balancing act between more factions than Raistlin could perceive, and trying to rush things would only attract undue attention. Even though, with luck, none of them would be needed.

 

But at last, it seemed that the lich was ready to make the first step. Raistlin thinned himself out, making himself too small and insignificant and colourless for the creature to notice, and when the spell was cast, the walls weakened, and Raistlin was able to look out.

This mist was thick, and Raistlin didn't dare push and attract attention to himself. He couldn't allow impatience to force him to take risks, not this close.

 

"Astinus."

Raistlin didn't see the Chronicler, but felt him as he had Takhisis, and he knew he was also felt. He felt the lich's thoughts bend under the scrutiny, before forcing it away.

 

Then it was gone, and Raistlin hid himself away as Fistandantilus checked his thoughts carefully, only coming back when the lich's attention was once again turned outwards, on the woman, this priestess than Fistandantilus sought to make his cat's paw, the pure cleric he needed to open the portal. Raistlin didn’t her name, Fistandantilus didn't care about it and Raistlin didn't bother looking. If his plan worked he'd have no need of her, and if it didn't she would be the least of his worries.

The lich's thoughts trembled with barely suppressed frustration, trying to charm her as Raistlin had seen him charm Caramon, however long ago that now was.

 

She was hostile, but Fistandantilus was confident she couldn't see what he really was. It occurred to Raistlin that if she could, he would have a possible ally. The thought was discarded and thrown over the Wall as useless. She would be as much use as Caramon in the circumstances. /Dalamar/ hadn't been able to help him, why bother looking for help from anyone else?

 

Raistlin paid half attention to what was going on outside now, nothing too vital to his plans it seemed, the rest of his mind fixed on the same task he had been working on since his plan had been made: Fortifying a Wall-within-a-Wall to imprison Fistandantilus once his past self had been defeated.

 

Outside, the lich was pleased, the cleric was falling well under his spell, attracted by his words and, to the lich's amusement, his stolen body too.

Raistlin's thought scattered and it was only with a terrific force of will that he held his new construction together against the waves of utter revulsion that shook it. He held on to it tightly, trying to push away the images crowding in on him. Amberyl. Raistlin turned away from them, bleached them of colour and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand.

 

It would not come to that. The lich would meet her perhaps once more, and no cleric, no matter how weak willed, would do- do that, after so short an acquaintance. After that they would be in Istar, Fistandantilus would be dead and he could blast the cleric into a thousand motes of dust is he wanted to. Or he would have failed, and then if rape was the worst thing he faced he would count himself fortunate. Focus. Work.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dalamar was leaning from the window when the cleric arrived. Fistandantilus had left the tower to meet her a few days ago, and had come back pleased -- if pleased was the right word for the expression of barely-human gloating that tortured it's stolen face -- and now the cleric was coming to meet it.

 

"Do you know what it has planned?" A useless question, speech for the sake of speech, for Dalamar to remind himself he was as yet still alive and not yet a Dead One.

 

Dalamar shuddered as Andras Rannoch joined him at the window, looking down; the proximity of the undead was like standing under a sheet of freezing water. It waved its hands in the closest approximation to a shrug, then pointed at the Shoikan Grove. Dalamar couldn't see anything. The Dead One clawed at where its throat had once been, then at its chest, then pointed again.

 

"You think she will make it through?" Had it been Raistlin there, Dalamar would have laid down a wager. The reminder still hurt, these years later, but they had become tolerable and less frequent as the years went on. Dalamar didn't know whether to feel reassured or horrified at this proof that anything could be gotten used to.

Another shrug, then Rannoch froze. Dalamar had learnt to recognise that expression. It mean Fistandantilus.

 

And indeed, the lich had just appeared below them, going out to fetch its cleric before -- he? She? It? -- became the newest Dead One in the Tower.

"A closer look?" Dalamar look at Rannoch, who responded with such a look of terror he almost laughed. "It is trying to impress the cleric; it wouldn't attack you in front of them. Take a look, how they talk; snatch a rag or hair from the cleric if you can. They are part of its plan; I might have to kill them."

Let no one say Andras Rannoch was a coward; the white eyes rolled as the dead mage tried to suppress terror with rage, and flitted down to gates where he had died.

 

Dalamar watched, catching glimpses of the lich and the cleric through the trees. White robes. One of the goodly gods then. Well, why not? Fistandantilus had been able to trick Raistlin; a goon of Paladin would be easy in comparison. Finally, he pulled away. The lich would expect him downstairs, and he would like a closer look at the cleric himself. Besides, if it saw him hanging out of the window it might become suspicious. As though it wasn't already. Dalamar swallowed fear as he descended the stairs towards the front door. Fistandantilus knew Dalamar was plotting against it, and more and more Dalamar was beginning to suspect it tolerated him not out of fear of the Conclave, but because it knew he could never hurt it.

 

Inhale, exhale. Push away fear and doubt. He would succeed. It would die. Perhaps tonight he would be able to decipher what the lich was up to and then it would be time to plot its destruction. There was no space for fear.

 

No space for doubt.

 

When Dalamar' opened the door, his face was as set and quietly polite as a mask. Nevertheless, the cleric flinched when she -- she -- saw him. Unsurprising, after a trip through the Grove.

"This is only my apprentice, Revered Daughter," That voice. Dalamar felt the mask of politeness slip. Every time, he got that bit closer to just throwing everything he had at the creature in the hope of killing it here, now and forever. "Dalamar is flesh and blood; he walks among the living -- at least for the moment."

 

Dalamar gritted his teeth. He had gotten used to the idea of dying here, after so long it was inevitable, but when the lich spoke of it, it regained the same fear it had had when Dalamar had first come here.

 

"My apprentice, Dalamar," Fistandantilus was all politeness again. "Lady Crysania, Revered Daughter of Paladine."

 

Dalamar took her in at a glance. Haughty, proud, ambitious, the big fish of her small pond, unaware that out here be dragons. Beautiful, maybe, but Dalamar had been three years a virtual prisoner in the Tower and with his only regular contacts being Fistandantilus, the Accursed and Andras, his ideals of beauty had warped a little. The woman looked more like a marble statue than a living thing. A mirror to the statue of Mishakal in Xak Tsaroth.

 

"Lady Crysania." Her hand was as cold as marble.

 

"An elf!" Wonderful. Such manners. "But, that's not possible, not serving evil --"

 

Dalamar hoped Rannoch had snatched something from the woman, having her killed was no longer a blow against Fistandantilus, but a point of personal pride. He didn't have to look at the lich to know its expression. "I am a Dark elf, Revered Daughter." If he hadn't been able to keep the bitterness out of his voice, at least he managed not to make the title sound sarcastic. "At least, that is what my people call me." Odd, after so long here, the memory of exile had lost its bite. Numbed under the avalanche of new misery.

 

"Of course, I didn't mean --" She looked down uncertainly at her hand in Dalamar's, then jerked it away.

 

"The Revered Daughter has had a fatiguing journey, Dalamar, please show her to my study and pour her a glass of wine. With your permission, Lady Crysania" -- Fistandantilus bowed -- "there are a few matters that demand my attention. Dalamar, anything the lady requires, you will provide at once."

 

"Certainly, Shalafi." Dalamar fought the words past the knot in his throat and led the priestess up the stairs. Oh Nuitari, let it not have noticed Rannoch, please. I've gone through this much; let it not have guessed it was him. He barely paid attention to what he was doing, leading Crysania to the study on autopilot, absently noticing the fire had been lit for the first time since his first day in the Tower, and serving her the wine and food. Please Rannoch, please, run. The Spectre was clever, and had had three years worth of experience hiding. But this was Fistandantilus, and if it had realised even a fraction of what Dalamar and Rannoch were trying to do, even walking through walls wouldn't save them.

"What fruit is this?" The cleric's voice shattered in on his thoughts. "I've never seen anything like this before?"

 

Oh please, Nuitari, have mercy. "It is fruit from the isle of Mithras." And it arrived this morning. Probably to impress you.

 

It succeeded. "Mithras? But that's the other side of the world! Minotaurs live there." Well done, we know our geography. "Who brings it?"

 

Not  me. I'm not allowed out. "Try it." I hope you choke on it. "It is quite delicious."

 

"Does your master often eat so? He seems so dreadfully frail."

 

My master doesn't eat. My master doesn't live. You are lusting after a corpse, my lady. "I do not know, we take our meals separately. Now, if you need nothing more, lady, I will retire. I have my own studies to pursue."

 

And an ally to check is still... in existence, at least.

 

"Of course. I will be fine here." Then. "He is your teacher, then, is he any good? Do you learn from him?"

 

Only the depths to which hatred and ambition can have you sink. Magic be damned, given the choice, should he ever survive this, Dalamar would gladly erase all memory of the last three years from his mind.

Dalamar stared at the wall, and Crysania prompted again. "I have heard he is the most skilled-"

 

"He is, my lady." Dalamar's voice was curt. "The most gifted. Now, if you please --"

 

"Certainly." She seemed to have already forgotten him.

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Dalamar walked down the stairs to the kitchen rather than magicking himself there. He needed the time to calm down, hitting the wall would result in a broken hand, but the urge to do it was almost overwhelming. He compromised by slamming the kitchen door as hard as he could. Heavy as it was, it barely moved any faster than usual.

Andras Rannoch floated out uncertainly, clearly wondering if it was him Dalamar was angry with. Bad mood forgotten, the Dark elf smiled. "Oh good. I was worried. It vanished for a while and I thought--" The wrong words. Had Rannoch been alive, he might have fainted. "But it didn't." Dalamar added quickly. "Do you have--"

 

Rannoch held up a few dark threads from one incorporeal hand.

 

"Excellent. Here please."

 

Hair definitely, slightly frosted from the Dead One's hand. Black hair, longer than his own. The cleric had had black hair. "Definitely from her?" This was no time for mistakes. A nod. "Good. We might as well start here. They will be busy upstairs for a while, and the Accursed would probably betray us if we tried the pool of seeing."

Dalamar licked his fingers, and picked up one single hair. The others would be needed later, but for now, one would do. "Kairseth Mikras, Arkenth Rok..." A soft murmur, air around the hair glowed, a soft sphere. The warmth of the magic filling him, Andras' ravenous eyes watching him, jealous beyond death for what he had lost.

 

Then, loud as though she was in the room with them, Crysania's voice.

"-The power is evil!

 

Even though he'd expected it, Dalamar couldn't help but start, and Rannoch cringed as Fistandantilus' voice came through, less loud, but just as clear; "Is it? Is ambition evil? Is my quest for power, for control over others evil? If so, then I fear, Lady Crysania, that you may as well exchange those white robes for black."

 

"How dare you--"

 

Dalamar propped his face on his hand, watching the single hair tremble like the string from a harp. It had taken him a long while to find this spell. Untraceable and undetectable, and that allowed him to hear everything the hair's owner could. Fistandantilus wanted to get the cleric on its side, make itself out to be less than evil. Dalamar wondered if he could try and convince the cleric otherwise, then abandoned the thought. She didn't seem all that clever, and the same obstacle always came up when he thought of telling anyone -- they would think him mad.

The argument went on, strange and hard to follow without expressions to or body language to see, and then the lich showed the cleric something that clearly agitated her -- some proof of humanity's innate evil or some such-- on the Dragon Orb.

 

"We are not so very different." Fistandantilus' voice was low, as soothing as the lich could get it. "I live in my tower, devoting myself to my studies. You live in your tower, devoting yourself to your faith. And the world turns around us."

 

"And that is true evil." Crysania sounded dazed. "To sit and do nothing."

Of course she'd fall under his spell. Caramon had done so, Tanis had done so, even Andras and Raistlin had once done so. Dalamar wondered what it was about himself that left him immune.

 

"Now you understand." Rannoch leant in closer. Dalamar smiled at him a little. Sometimes he wondered how dedicated the Dead One was to this, this was reassuring. "No longer am I content to sit and watch. I have studied long years for one reason, one aim. And now it is within my grasp." Dalamar barely dared breathe. Please, please. "I will make a difference, Crysania. I will change the world. That is my plan."

 

Come on, come on. Get to it.

 

"Your plan!" Crysania sounded as though she'd finally woken up. "It is the plan Paladine warned me of in my dream." Dalamar and Rannoch looked at each other. On one hand, if the Gods were getting involved it was a good thing; they could use all the help they could get. On the other hand, if Fistandantilus' plan was worrying the Gods themselves, it even worse than they had thought. "The plan to change the world will cause the world's destruction." Oh help. "You must not go through with it! Paladine-"

 

"Paladine will not stop me, for I seek to depose of his greatest enemy."

 

What?

 

"Listen, I will make it clear."

 

Neither of them said or signed anything even after Dalamar had negated the spell. The Dark Queen. The lich was out to kill the Dark Queen. Dalamar watched Rannoch and Rannoch watched Dalamar, and Dalamar knew they were both waiting for the other to make so disparaging remark as to how all of this was impossible and the Dark Queen would dice Fistandantilus to ribbons in seconds. Neither of them said anything, because Fistandantilus was mad enough and powerful enough to succeed.

 

"And we do what?" Dalamar voiced the question that had been hanging in the air. "We let it? The Dark Queen dies and we live in a world where Fistandantilus rules? Where this tower becomes the whole world? Or it destroys the world trying?"

 

Rannoch didn't move.

 

Oddly, it was a little easier now. There wasn't going to be a plan, because they didn't have anything remotely powerful enough to deal with this. If there was going to be a plan, it was going to be stupid and self-destructive and direct. There wasn't going to be subtlety because that would be the first thing the lich was expecting, and subtlety required secondary aims. Right now there weren't any. If Dalamar had to take out half of Ansalon to kill the lich, so be it. If he had to destroy the Tower to kill the lich, so be it. If he had to die -- well, Dalamar had been resigned to this possibility from the beginning anyway, and after this long he was only vaguely attached to his own life. He looked down at the ring on his hand, the ring of healing.

 

Whatever they had to do, whatever happened. He'd keep this ring for the end, so that whatever happened he'd still be alive enough to get out of the Tower and die outside.

 

Dalamar rubbed his face. "We wait. I have to anyway. If I can find out anything I will, but for the time being I'd prefer do nothing until I can alert the Conclave. When they know then maybe... maybe..."

Rannoch's expression told him all he needed to know of what the Dead One thought of that plan. The Conclave had been helpless before the lich's machinations in his time, and he didn't have any hope they'd know better now.

He sighed. Tired. Always tired now. "But if we find a way of killing the cleric, we do it. It will only delay its plans, but that's better than nothing. If we find a way."

 

Rannoch didn’t move, but then, there was nothing to say.

 

Comments

[shadowvalkyrie.livejournal.com]

*shivers* Gah! I missed I&E so much, I had almost forgotten how creepy the whole thing was at this point!

As to beta-ing, I found these:
this priestess that Fistandantilus sought to make his cat's paw, the pure cleric he needed to open the portal. Raistlin didn’t know her name, Fistandantilus didn't care about it

"What fruit is this?" The cleric's voice shattered in on his thoughts. "I've never seen anything like this before?"
Oh please, Nuitari, have mercy. "It is fruit from the isle of Mithras." And it arrived this morning. Probably to impress you.
It succeeded. "Mithras? But that's the other side of the world! Minotaurs live there." Well done, we know our geography. "Who brings it?"
Not me. I'm not allowed out. "Try it." I hope you choke on it. "It is quite delicious."
"Does your master often eat so? He seems so dreadfully frail."
My master doesn't eat. My master doesn't live. You are lusting after a corpse, my lady.

*snort* Dalamar, I love you. That conversation would be even more funny if it weren't so utterly horrifying...

Brilliantly done, as always, especially the atmosphere of "oh shit, nononono" and how you put bits of the book in in a way that makes sense. (More sense even.)
I'm also growing increasingly fond of dead!Rannoch.

[halokitty69.livejournal.com]

Yay! New chapter after all this time :) It's been a while since I read the books, I'd forgotten how annoying Crysania was. Gah! Not surprising Dalamar wants to kill her. I'm looking forward to reading more.