《冬季庆典的幽灵》

By　Michelle　Smith

翻译：玄音


**　作者注——这一切发生在龙枪传奇的故事开始之前　**


　　在帕兰萨斯，大雪已经下了整整一天。平日里在商店和酒馆间熙熙攘攘的人群现在已经看不到了，街面上显得空荡荡的，盖着厚厚的一层冰。虽然在黄昏的一场大雨之后，雪已经停了下来，但是凄零而冰凉的雨丝依然稀稀拉拉地在夜晚的空气中飘舞着，把寒冷带给那些还在深夜中赶路的人，连偶尔从酒馆区的高墙上飘出来的笑声也都显得有点潮湿起来。冬季庆典就快到了——实际上，就是明天——然而这一切似乎已经被遗忘在今夜这片幽蓝的、包裹着冰霜的薄雾中了。

　　整个城市都已经进入了梦乡，人们期盼着这场冰冷的雨雪会在明天早晨之前停下来，好让节日里的庆祝活动能够正常地举行。每家每户的壁炉里都点着火，在这样的深夜中，只有少数几家的窗台边还会闪烁着蜡烛的光芒。　　

　　在这些屈指可数的灯光里，其中一盏是冬眠中的帕兰萨斯市民所无法看到的。只有那些在修肯森林中永不得安息的不死亡灵，才能望见那道微弱的烛光，在大法师之塔的窗台前隐隐约约地闪动着——不过它们对此根本毫不在意。

　　在这座塔里，至少高塔主人的房间还是相当舒适的，正好和他的实验室形成了强烈的对比——危险的魔法器材被严格地摆列在那里，神秘的阴影爬满了整个房间，每个角落都蜷缩着那些黏糊糊的活物们，在重重叠叠的架子上，冰冷的魔法卷轴静静地躺在黑暗中。——而大法师的那些私人房间则显得明亮而且温暖，每个房间都给人一种豪华和舒适的感觉，温暖的黑色木料做成的家具被孜孜不倦的学徒们磨得非常光滑，柔软的地毯厚厚地铺在石质地板上。石墙上则装饰着壁毯和窗帘。火焰在每一个房间的壁炉里跃动着。而且毫不夸张地，几乎在塔里的任何角落都会看到书桌，上面放着纸和羽笔，要不就是一个书架，摆放着那些厚厚的，阴森森的魔法书，不过在火焰的亮光中，即使是这些魔法书，看起来也能让人有种舒服的感觉——一种贵重物品受到珍爱的感觉。

　　在大法师的卧室里，正放着从远方运来的水果、面包、奶酪，还有一瓶冰镇过的、暗红色的酒；在书桌上有一本打开的书，不过眼下大法师的注意力并没有放在这些东西上，至少今晚没有。

　　法师现在正站在窗前，纤瘦而泛金的手里举着一支蜡烛，他把目光投向这片寒冷的夜色。乌云在夜空中纷乱地翻滚着，索林纳瑞的光偶尔会从薄雾中透出来，让整座城市微微地反射出宁静的白光，再过一会儿，这些就会换成努林塔瑞那血一般的光辉。星星们躲在乌云背后，狡黠地闪烁着。

　　一阵寒冷的夜风从窗口吹了进来，壁炉里的火花仿佛又得到了新的活力，噼里啪啦地响着。大法师那身黑色天鹅绒做成的长袍被夜风扬了起来，在他身后翻腾着，划出一道弧形，他头上的兜帽也被掀开了。法师心不在焉地把身上的袍子裹紧了些，并没有从窗口离开。他的法袍可以让他安然无恙地站在大雪里，所有的寒冷都会消融在他的魔法中。他抬起那双金色的眼眸——温暖的烛光在这双金眸里孤零零地闪烁着——望向夜空中的群星。

　　“冬季庆典......”他耳语般轻柔地低语着，凝视着天空，看着那些乌云从月亮前面掠过，他随后发出了一声几乎觉察不到的轻微叹息，又把目光转向他眼下这座静悄悄的城市，整座帕兰萨斯城就在他脚下沉默着，雪花无声无息地在细雨中盘旋，在家家户户的屋顶上织出一面柔软而洁白的毯子。

　　他久久地站着，凝望着这座城市。“庆典前夕，”他终于稍微大声了点，“据说，在这样的庆典前夕，诸神们也会聚到一起，来庆祝又一年已经过去......愚蠢的想法。”他低语着，撇了一下嘴唇，“我肯定那些神有他们更重要的事情要忙，而不是凑在一起交换礼物，然后让冬季庆典的酒灌个烂醉如泥。”无声的笑浮现在他脸上，随后他转身离开了窗口，继续开始他的研究，他自己，同样地，也有更重要的事情要忙。

　　忽然，不知道从哪里——也许是某个迟迟不睡的家庭——传来了一阵笑声，在夜空中轻轻地回荡着，传到了雷斯林耳中。他停下了脚步，再一次把目光投向那座熟睡中的城市。街道上一点动静也没有。雪花无声地从空中飘落着，一切都是那么的宁静，都已经进入了梦乡——都在默默地等待。家人们温暖地挤在一起，共同度过这漫漫的冬夜，孩子们都心满意足地躺在床上，无忧无虑地做着美梦；恋人依偎在彼此的怀里，看着壁炉里的火苗，或者，也许也在看着冬季的夜空中那些凌乱飘零的雪花，就像现在的雷斯林......

　　那种嘲讽的笑容从他脸上消失了。又一阵冰冷的风吹进房间，拂灭了微弱的烛光，他眼中的光也随之消逝。雷斯林瘦削的身体颤抖起来，他在袍子里蜷缩着，魔法似乎已经无法再为他带来温暖，那件长袍，那件用最厚的天鹅绒做成的长袍，也似乎无法再为他抵御这种刺骨的严寒。他拉上兜帽，罩在自己头上，然后再一次地发起抖来。雷斯林关上了窗户，把它栓住，将黑夜隔在外面。

　　他转身静静地穿过房间，向壁炉走了过去，长袍在他脚边婆娑着。他拿起酒瓶，熟练地把酒斟入一盏水晶做成的高脚杯中，随后把瓶子放回桌面。他用两支纤长的手指夹起杯子，茫然地摇荡着杯中的酒。酒液在火光中闪烁着红宝石般的光芒。这是西瓦纳提斯运来的酒，精灵们以他们特有的耐心将它贮藏了相当长的年份，然后它被冰镇后送到了帕兰萨斯，敬献给大法师之塔的主人——这是最昂贵一种酒。

　　雷斯林忽然从椅子上站了起来，他嘲弄般地将酒杯举到眼前，作出一个祝酒的动作，“庆典快乐。”他轻轻地说，带着浓浓的讽刺和痛楚。接着他闭上双眼，将杯中的酒一饮而尽，又心不在焉地随手把酒杯斟满，然后坐了下来。在叹息中，他将杯子连同里面的酒一起推到一边。雷斯林依然闭着眼睛，如果他想要什么，只要一伸手就能拿到，因为他对身边的一切都太熟悉了：这个豪华的房间是他亲自指定的，满满地堆放着珍贵的魔法书籍和富丽堂皇的家具；但是他的另一个房间，他内心深处的房间，却空荡荡的。　　　
　　卧室里忽然卷起一阵冷风。雷斯林的兜帽又被掀开了，他雪白的头发从脑后披洒下来，袍缘不断地在他手脚边扑打。冷风撕扯着桌面上翻开的书页，壁炉里再一次发出噼里啪啦的响声，火光跃动了几下，随后黯淡下来。

　　风停了。

　　雷斯林感到有些紧张，他在黑暗中迅速地站起身，双手依然紧紧地抓在座椅的木制扶手上。他在一片漆黑中四下扫视着，目光飞快地滑过床铺和椅子那模糊不清的边缘，落在灰蒙蒙的窗框上，窗户依然紧紧地关闭着。他默颂了几个字，将法杖凭空召到手中，随后顿了一顿，用稍大一点的声音念出了另外一句咒语：“施拉克!”

　　耀眼的白光从镶嵌在龙爪里的水晶中流泻而出，照亮了这把雷斯林最珍爱的法宝——玛济斯法杖。突如其来的亮光让雷斯林一时眼花起来，他诅咒着自己的失误，迟了一步抬起手来遮在眼睛前面。片刻之后，他就不耐烦地强迫自己把眼睛睁开，一只手下意识地滑向挂在腰带上的小袋子，那里面装着他的魔法药材。

　　眼前的房间依然空荡荡的，几张羊皮卷轴散落在地板上，墙壁上的窗帘还在微微的风中晃动着。雷斯林的目光掠过远处的石壁，望向那个窗口......那些窗扇，依然牢固地关闭着，而且还插上了窗栓。他细长的手指紧紧地抓在法杖上，指节由于用力而显得有些发白。慢慢地，他的脉搏开始加快，呼吸也难受地急促起来，雷斯林转过身，面朝向卧室的大门。

　　一名白衣女子突然出现在房间里——房间的大门依然紧闭着，实际上从来就没有被打开过——乌黑柔顺的秀发披拂在她肩膀上，她静静地站着，双手交握在胸前。在她的银质项链上，漂浮着一枚白金护身符，正温柔地发出白光。她那双眼眸——一种深邃而温暖的棕褐色——一眨不眨地凝视着眼前的黑暗。雷斯林注意到了，无论是玛济斯法杖发出的那种刺眼的亮光，还是笼罩在亮光周围的黑暗，都无法对她造成影响，恐怕永远也不会，因为她已经瞎了。让雷斯林感到有些惊讶的是，她就那样恬静而沉着地站着，丝毫也没有感到害怕。

　　雷斯林默默地站了一会儿，对这名在半夜三更忽然出现在他卧室里的女子感到有些意外，还有她那异乎寻常的，闪耀着冷光的美貌也同时震慑着他。在她身上他似乎感觉到有点异常，看上去好象......有什么不太对劲，但他很快就把这种感觉先放到一边。

　　“神眷之女，”雷斯林沙哑地说，刚才那些心头的痛苦似乎已经消失了——被掩藏在他如镜的金色双眸背后。他对这名牧师的身份所做出的判断只不过是他的猜测；虽然他对塔外那些来来往往和魔法无关的世事从来是不屑一顾，但要作出这样的推断并不太难——从她那身白袍的质地，以及她佩戴的那枚显然价值不菲的护身符，他能看出她多半是一名帕拉丁的牧师，而且是牧师中相当重要的一位。

　　她空洞的眼神向他这边转了过来，出乎意料地，雷斯林仿佛觉得这双眼睛深深地洞穿了他的金眸，尽管他自己那种锐利而透彻的眼神曾经让许多人都感到心惊胆寒，但是在她的注视下，雷斯林还是感到自己有些不太自然。这名大法师之塔的主人觉得自己似乎又变回了从前那个小男孩，正拘谨地站在最高阶的法师面前，他强压住要低下头来的冲动，控制住自己的双脚没有在内心的慌乱中前后挪动。

　　“雷斯林·马哲理，”牧师柔声地说。她点了点头，似乎在表示问候，或者只是在确认自己的话。

　　也许是她声音里的某种东西，或者是她说出他的名字时那种微微欠身的动作，无论如何，雷斯林的紧张感消失了，他稍稍昂起头来，扬了一下眉毛。随后他优雅地绕过椅子，走到她的跟前，在离她只有一步之遥的地方停了下来。刚才她的意外出现和那种从容不迫的姿态着实让他吃了一惊，但是现在他已经恢复过来了，这种游戏雷斯林以前玩过无数次——从来就没有输过。

　　“我们见过面吗，神眷之女？”他的唇角露出了一丝扭曲的笑容。

　　面对他淡淡的不悦，牧师露出了一个微笑作为回应——一种没有任何挑战和嘲讽意味的微笑，但是......这微笑中包含着什么呢？雷斯林疑惑地思索着，难道是期盼......？　

　　“我们见过面吗？”她重复着，她的声音温柔而平静，但在每一个字里，都透着一种深深的幽伤。“哦，是的，雷斯林，我们见过面，我们见过一百次，一千次面——每当我闭上眼睛的时候......”她的声音喃喃地低了下去，似乎变成了耳语。在她失去光明的眼眸中，写满了内心的痛楚。

　　听着她的话，雷斯林的心忽然间抽痛了起来，好象被什么紧紧地抓住了一样，她那种苦苦地压抑着自己的样子，那种用无神的目光注视着他的样子——不，这种目光不仅仅注视着他，也穿透了他，在他的灵魂深处，那些他自以为早已经死去的情感，又仿佛重新被激活了过来。

　　“你叫什么名字？”雷斯林顿了一下，然后温柔地问，那种嘲讽的味道已经从他声音里消失了，现在他的声音显得非常平静，甚至带了点好奇。忽然间，他意识到了，他从她内心深处读到的情感仿佛也同时撕开了他灵魂上的伤口，就像今夜，以及所有的夜晚，他对煎熬着她的这种情感体会太深了——孤独。 她摇着头，秀发垂落在脸上，她那双雪白柔润的手颤抖着，就像她的声音一样，强烈的感情让她久久地说不出话来。

　　“这一次见面我已经在心里反复预演了无数次，”她喃喃地说着，仿佛在自言自语一样，“想象着我该怎么说，我肯定——”她的声音忽然停住，犹豫了一下，然后又继续说，“我......深信，只要我能用这些话说服你，就能改变你的想法，就能改变那些已经发生过的事，在一切都太迟以前，在你被......”她的声音越来越低，最后终于无法再继续下去。如同浮在池面上的冰块，她的冷静粉碎了。她又一次地发起抖来，战栗着低下头，闭上了眼睛。她的双手——颤抖着——掩在脸上，整个身体在啜泣中崩溃了。

　　雷斯林不由自主地走到她的身边，他的法杖静静地竖立在房间中央，发着白光——暂时被主人遗忘了。雷斯林伸手搂住这名牧师的肩膀，温柔地将她脸上的发丝拂开，把她的小手紧紧握在他那瘦削，但却出奇有力的手中。就像一道机关被打开了一样，他心中多年以来的苦闷似乎融化了。在这里，雷斯林是强者，只有这么一次，有人需要依靠着他。他轻轻地拂去她脸上的泪水，嘴里温柔地呢喃着一些安慰的话语，就像是在安抚一个小孩子。他紧紧地搂着她，一直到她的呜咽慢慢地平息下来，当他的手轻拂过她的脸颊，雷斯林惊讶地发现她的肌肤是多么的光滑......秀发是多么的柔软......

　　过了一会儿，她终于轻轻地将他推开，重新抬起了头，用她那双奇异而透澈的眼眸注视着雷斯林，眼中依然闪动着泪光。在一瞬间，雷斯林敏锐地意识到了自己那身柔软的天鹅绒黑袍，在玫瑰花瓣的香味中，夹杂着那种甜腻、腐败的味道。他轻轻地将一只手放到她背上，再一次把她搂近，他的另一只手放在她的肩膀上，深深埋入她乌黑柔长的秀发中。她轻轻地靠在他怀里，一种短暂而炽热的念头在雷斯林脑海中一掠而过，她是这么的美......

　　就好像触到了他的想法，她再一次地颤抖起来，同时默默地低下头，仿佛被施了魔法一样。

　　雷斯林的身体忽然间僵住了，他随即把她推开。他的手——被自己体内的魔法燃烧起来——这一定吓到她了，雷斯林想，——或许，只不过是因为他抱了她......在所有人中偏偏是他，一个披着黑袍的大法师，居然抱了一名帕拉丁的牧师!　他心头忽然间涌起了一阵怒意，对自己刚才失去理性而恼怒不已，随后，他回身抓起他的法杖。“杜拉克。”他怒气冲冲地低语道。法杖上的光熄灭了，随后被放到一边，整个房间又陷入了黑暗。雷斯林坐回到他那张昂贵的座椅里，背对着她，抓在座椅上的手还在微微地抖动。片刻之后，他又重新掌握住自己，他的声音也不再颤抖了。

　　“我肯定你不会介意这片黑暗，”他讽刺地说，“而且我同样肯定，如果你要从这个房间出去，也不会有什么困难。”他凝望着眼前的黑暗，等着开门的声音传过来，还有那名女子从走廊离开的脚步声。

　　但是他什么也没有听到，只有他自己的喘息声——在他的胸腔里轻微地嘎嘎作响，就像往常一样。在他重新控制住自己以后，他的呼吸也慢慢地在痛苦中平息下来。他强压住怒气，紧紧地握着拳头，怒火在他体内沸腾着，他的指甲深深地嵌到了肉里。但疼痛反而让他感到安心，甚至有些亲切。这种痛苦至少还是熟悉的，而那名牧师从他灵魂深处发掘出来的痛苦却完全不同，那是一种让人更加无法忍受的痛楚。当他还是一个小孩子的时候，就已经体会到了，那时候他的哥哥还......

　　忽然，他感觉到一双冰冷而纤秀的手轻轻地搭在了他的手上。

　　“求求你，别这样，”她柔声地呢喃着。

　　雷斯林诧异地倒抽一口冷气；他根本没有听到她的移动，她就那样无声无息地穿过房间，出现在他面前。这次意外的猛烈吸气让他的喉咙噎住了，他的肺部徒劳无力地起伏着。大法师知道那该死的咳嗽又要开始发作了，他绝望地吸进一口气，然后剧烈地咳嗽起来。胃酸和鲜血从他的咽喉里涌上来，他的身体弯倒在座椅上，每一声咳嗽都让他全身发出猛烈的抖动。耀眼的白光随即流泻而出，舞动着划破了在他眼前的黑暗。　

　　他感觉到牧师的手顺着他的手臂滑向了肩膀，她试图帮助自己，他能看出来，同时这种想法也让他产生了一种奇怪的、莫名其妙的罪恶感。

　　“不行......你帮不了我......”他上气不接下气地吐出这些话，瘦削的身体在咳嗽中不停地颤抖着。他的手紧紧抠在座椅上，指节在发作中一阵阵的泛白。血沫从他的嘴角边冒了出来，他眼前的光变得越来越强，几乎要刺瞎了他。自从他披上红袍以来，就再也没有这么厉害地发作过，雷斯林回忆着，开始觉得有些恐慌起来。他听到了牧师的声音：是那些祈祷的圣辞——他痛苦地意识到。脚下的地面开始旋转，他感到自己的神智渐渐地沉了下去......

　　就在雷斯林即将失去意识的一瞬间，纯白的光芒包围了他。咳嗽停止了。他试探性的吸进一口气，然后谢天谢地的深深吸入另外一口。雷斯林在这片突如其来的强光中闭上了双眼，他飞快地从口袋里摸出一块手帕，将嘴角的血丝抹掉，然后赶紧把手帕藏了回去，以免......以免什么？他恼怒地问自己，以免那个失明的牧师看到这些血迹？

　　他在椅子上坐直了身体，然后睁开眼睛。那名牧师正屈身跪在他的面前，她的护身符散发着温暖而柔和的白光，这些光芒似乎只照亮了他们两个，把雷斯林的那些书，他的卷轴，还有那些华贵的家具统统都留在黑暗中。她的双手在祈祷的同时紧紧地交握在胸前。似乎感觉到了他的目光，她把头抬了起来，看着他。　　

　　“雷斯林......”她耳语着，几乎显得有些虔诚。泪水在今夜又一次地充满她的眼眸。她优雅地站了起来，目光始终停留在雷斯林身上。慢慢地，她有些奇怪地伸出一只手，指尖轻柔地抚过了雷斯林的脸颊。

　　“雷斯林，”她又叫了一声。

　　忽然间，雷斯林意识到了是什么从她出现以来就一直让自己觉得有些不对劲。她很美，是那种真正的、彻底的美!　在他万物飞逝的眼中，她居然没有衰老下去，更没有最终化成飞灰!她不像那些精灵——美丽，但只持续了短短的一瞬，随后就和他眼中的其他事物一样，灰飞湮灭——虽然要慢得多。而她的美丽，这名黑发牧师的美丽却没有和她周围的事物一起老化衰败下去。她不存在死亡!　雷斯林无言地注视着她，在惊鄂中瞪大了他那双金色的眼睛；在雷斯林的一生中只有那么几次，会让他像现在这样说不出话来。　　　　

　　在她起身退开之前，雷斯林抓住了她的手腕，同时将自己的视线集中到她的眼眸里。“我已经把你的眼睛治好了，”他用一种低沉的，似乎带着威胁的语气宣布，“就像你刚才治好了我的咳嗽一样!”　随后他突然把她推开。在她面前，雷斯林挫折地甩着头，再也无法保持冷静。“我多少年以来第一次能像现在这样自由地呼吸——多少年了，神眷之女!　你根本不知道这意味着什么。还有你——你根本不会死亡!”他抬手召来了法杖，几乎有点防御性的紧紧抓在手里，“这一切都不可能!”

　　牧师的眼神中再度流露出痛苦，这一次又交织了一丝遗憾。她摇着头，“对，这一切都不可能——无论在哪一个时空，都不可能。”她似乎有些抱歉地叹了一口气，走上前来，重新来到雷斯林面前，用她那乌黑的，充满了忧伤的双眼迎向他的目光。

　　“我得到了一份礼物，雷斯林，”她轻轻地说，“一份帕拉丁的礼物。”她伸手握向那枚挂在项链上，正发着柔光的护身符，“我知道它不会持续太久，它不会的，当然不会的，但是......在它还没有消失以前......”她的声音渐渐地低了下去。她注视着他，仿佛在等待一个心照不宣的回答。

　　雷斯林的眼睛眯了起来，他摇了摇头。“这些话毫无意义!”他不耐烦地打断了她，“你到底是怎么来的？还有你究竟是谁？”　　

　　牧师伸出一支手指轻轻地贴在雷斯林唇前，她摇着头，“不是现在，雷斯林，还......不到时候。很快你就会知道我是谁了，你将会来到我的身边......不顾一切地来到我的身边。”她微微地叹息着，似乎透着一丝怀念，“不顾一切地。”她轻柔地重复道。

　　“这解释不了什么。”雷斯林恼怒地挥了挥手，将身体从她面前转开，然后把双手交叠着放进长袍的袖子里。

　　两人都沉默了下来，过了一会儿，牧师重新走到大法师面前，她拉起他的手，紧紧地握在自己手里，两人的手指交织在一起。他们无言地站着，一个痛惜着自己炽热的情意无所附依，另一个默默守着自己冷冷的痛，从来就没有付出过真情，也不奢望得到回报。

　　“我终于知道了，”牧师低语着，“不管我怎么说，你都不会改变你选定的路。”她合上双眼，低下了头，乌黑亮丽的秀发从她头上垂了下来，遮到她的脸上。她仿佛在一瞬间失去了所有的勇气，在沉默中心灰意冷地瘫了下去；雷斯林不知道自己为什么会这么做，他不由自主地伸出一条手臂环绕着她，把她扶住，他的另一只手依然紧紧握在她的手中。

　　她颤抖着，过了一阵才又抬起头来看着他，“我很抱歉，雷斯林，”她喃喃地说，一滴眼泪从她眼中滑落下来。

　　雷斯林慢慢地抬起手，将她脸上的泪痕拭去。“你究竟为了什么道歉，神眷之女？”他温柔地问。

　　她笑了，一个充满着痛苦和渴求的笑容。她忽然踮起脚尖，伸出双手紧紧地抱住了雷斯林，随后她抬起头，在他的嘴唇上深深的一吻，全身都融化在他的怀里。雷斯林发现自己也在回吻着她，他的手轻抚着她的背，深深地没入她的秀发中，一种陌生的激情逐渐地在他心头凝聚，然后忽然淹没了他，他的迷惑和孤独全都融化在这一吻的温暖之中。

　　过了许久，她才从他身边退开。“我得走了，”她苦涩地低声说，“我的时间到了。”她向后退去，当她逐渐远离的时候，在护身符的白光中，雷斯林发现那种失明的乳白色阴霾又回到了她的眼中。

　　雷斯林向前走出一步，向她伸出手。“等等，至少告诉我你的名字!”他匆匆地说，强忍住要咳嗽的冲动，他感觉到鲜血和那些蜘蛛网一样的东西又逐渐回到他的肺里，“还有我去哪里找你？”

　　“我从来没离开过你，雷斯林，”她喃喃地说，护身符的光芒渐渐黯淡下来。

　　雷斯林绝望地摇着头，“别走，”他苦涩地低语着，“不要，别离开我!”

　　她再一次地笑了，一样心碎、一样充满痛楚地笑了，“我曾经说过和你同样的话，在许多年以前......”她的形体逐渐地消逝下去，“庆典快乐，雷斯林，”她最后柔声地说，护身符的光芒完全熄灭下来，随后消失了。

　　雷斯林孤独地站在一片沉寂之中。虽然卧室的大门没有打开，但是这一次，他知道她真的走了。片刻之后，他闭上了双眼，似乎依然能感觉到她幽幽的芳唇亲吻着自己，他能感觉到她的温暖，能感觉到在那一瞬间，所有的痛苦和寂寞都暂时离他远去......　　

　　过了很久以后，雷斯林才重新把黑袍上的兜帽拉回头上，他坐回到那张舒适而昂贵的座椅里，举起了那盏水晶杯——依然满满的，和刚才把它放下来的时候一样。雷斯林慢慢地啜饮着杯中深红色的酒，许多年以来第一次开始品味酒里的味道，他的目光融化在眼前的黑暗中。

　　“庆典快乐，神眷之女，”他默默地说。



　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　——玄音　2002.2.28

            原文如下，欢迎指正——

Yuletide Ghosts
by Michelle Smith

**Author’s note – this takes place just before Legends**

It had snowed all day in Palanthas. The streets, normally teeming with citizens bustling from shop to shop or tavern to tavern, were ice-covered and empty. Though the snow had stopped falling in heavy flurries as the sun set, a miserable frozen drizzle still floated through the night air, chilling the few late-night travelers and dampening what small cheerful noise managed to drift beyond the walls of the city’s tavern district. Yuletide, coming soon – the next day, in fact – seemed forgotten in the bluish midnight haze of ice and frost.

All throughout the city the people slept, content that by morning the freezing rain and snow would have ceased, allowing the holiday celebration to proceed unhindered. Fireplaces were lit in every house, but few candles burned in the windows this night.

One of the few lights still lit in the city of Palanthas went unseen by the snow-sleepy populace. The only souls to view the tiny flame flickering from the window of the Tower of High Sorcery were the undead haunts of the Shoikan Grove – and those spirits were uncaring.

The rooms of the Master of the Tower were, to say the least, comfortable. A stark contrast to his laboratory – a place in which every dangerous magical object was to be placed precisely, a realm of mysterious shadows with creeping, slithering creatures lurking in every corner and shelves upon shelves of darkly bound, coldly magical volumes – the private apartment of the archmage was well lit and warm. Every room had a rich, reassuring feel; the wooden furniture was a dark, warm wood polished smooth by fastidious apprentices, and thick, soft rugs covered the stone floor. Tapestries and curtains covered the stone walls, and fires burned in hearths in every room. True, at every turn there sat a desk, with quills and paper waiting, or a shelf of thick, forbidding spellbooks, but in the glow of the fire, even these felt soothing – the feel of precious possessions that have been well-loved.

Exotic fruits, breads, cheeses, and a bottle of chilled, dark red wine lay on a table in the Master’s bedchamber, and a book lay open upon his desk, but it was not to these the black robe wizard went. Not this night.

The magi stood, holding a candle in one thin, golden hand, staring out into the frosty night. Clouds blew angrily over the night sky; one moment Solinari’s light would pierce the mist and the city would seem to glow with a radiant, calming luminosity, only to be replaced with Lunitari’s bloody sheen a moment later. The stars themselves seemed mercurial, twinkling behind the clouds.

A cold wind gusted through the window into the chambers, causing the fire to crackle with new energy. Raistlin’s robes billowed out behind him, into his bedchamber, in an arc of black velvet; his hood fell back from his face. He absently pulled his robes closer around him, but he didn’t move away from the window. His robes kept him safe from the snow; his magic melted away the cold. Instead, he turned his golden eyes – eyes glowing warmly in the flickering light of his solitary candle – to the stars.

"Yuletide," he murmured softly, his voice whispering and low. He stared up at the sky, watching the black clouds race across the moons and, sighing so quietly it was almost imperceptible, he looked back down at the silent town. The entire city of Palanthas lay below him, quiet as the sleet fell in swirls to gather in soft white blankets across the rooftops.

He stood for a long moment, looking down at the city. "Yuletide Eve," he said aloud, finally. "The eve when, it is said, even the gods themselves come together to celebrate another year’s passing. Foolish sentiment," he whispered, his lip curling. "I’m certain the gods have more important matters to attend to than exchanging gifts and becoming drunk on yuletide wine." Smiling silently, he began to turn away from the window, to resume his studies. He, too, had more important matters to attend to.

Suddenly, from somewhere – a household that had not yet gone to sleep, perhaps – the sounds of laughter drifted up through the night air, to Raistlin’s ears. He paused, looking down again at the slumbering city. Nothing stirred in the streets. The snow fell without a sound; all was quiet, sleeping – waiting. Families spent the night warm, together. Children slept, content and secure; lovers lay in each other’s arms, staring into the fire, or perhaps watching the snow whirl and drift through the winter air, just as Raistlin was…

The sardonic smile faded, and the glow in his eyes disappeared as another icy gust of wind blew into the room, extinguishing the candle’s feeble flame. A shiver wracked Raistlin’s thin body, and he huddled into his robes. His magic no longer seemed to warm him; his robes, made of the thickest velvet, couldn’t keep out the cold. He pulled his hood up over his head and, shivering again, he closed the shutters and bolted them against the night.

He turned and padded silently across the room to the fireplace, his robes whispering at his heels. He deftly picked up the bottle and poured some of the wine into a crystal goblet. Setting the bottle back down, he absently spun his glass between two long, thin fingers, watching the wine shimmer ruby red in the firelight. Silvanesti wine, aged with elven patience and then brought, chilled, to Palanthas for the enjoyment of the Master of the Tower – the best wine money could buy.

Raistlin stood suddenly, raised the glass in front of him in a grim mockery of a toast. "Merry Yuletide," he said softly, pain and irony full in his voice. Closing his eyes, he drained his glass, refilled it absently, and sat back down in his chair. Sighing, he set the full glass aside undrunk. He didn’t open his eyes – he knew all too well what he would find if he did: his luxuriously appointed room, filled with precious magical tomes and rich furnishings; his room – empty.

A gust of cold air suddenly whirled through the room. Raistlin’s hood was blown back from his face; his white hair streamed out behind him as his robes whipped around his wrists and ankles. The pages of Raistlin’s open spellbooks fluttered wildly. The fire sputtered once and, in a crackle of sparks, went out.

The wind died.

Raistlin tensed, stood up quickly in the darkness, his hands still gripping the wooden arms of the chair. He stared around him in the dark, his eyes quickly moving from the vague silhouettes of the chairs and his bed to the gray outline of the shuttered window. He murmured a word of command to call his staff, and then, a moment later, whispered more loudly, "Shirak!"

Brilliant light streamed from the crystal ball in the dragon’s claw atop Raistlin’s most prized possession – the Staff of Magius. Raistlin was blinded by the brilliance, and he cursed to himself, belatedly shielding his eyes with the back of one hand. After a moment, he impatiently forced open his eyes, his hand sliding automatically to the pouch of spell components always at his belt.

The room lay empty before him. Sheets of parchment littered the floor, and the curtains along the walls still swayed in the wind. Raistlin’s eyes flew to the far wall, to the window… to the shutters, still closed and barred. His thin fingers clenched around his staff, the knuckles whitening. Slowly, his pulse racing, his breathing painfully quick, Raistlin turned towards the doorway.

Standing just inside the room – the door was still closed, in fact never opened – was a woman clothed all in white. Raven hair streaming down her shoulders, she stood with her hands folded before her. A soft white light emanated from the platinum medallion suspended from the silver chain around her neck. Her eyes – a deep, warm brown – stared straight into the darkness, unblinking. Raistlin realized, suddenly, that neither the incongruously bright light of the Staff of Magius nor the darkness beyond the circle of the staff’s light bothered her, nor would it ever; she was blind. To Raistlin’s mild surprise, she stood calmly, self-possessed, unafraid.

Raistlin stood a moment in silence, taken aback by her strange, luminescent beauty and sudden, startling appearance in his bedchamber after midnight. Something about her seemed out of place, something seemed… wrong about her, but he pushed the feeling aside.

"Revered Daughter," Raistlin said, his voice a hiss, the pain of a moment before gone – hidden behind the surface of his golden, mirror-like eyes. His judgment of the cleric’s position was a guess; he had never bothered to keep himself updated on the comings and goings of those not concerned with magic. But it was an easy assumption – judging by the quality of her robes and the obvious worth of the medallion she wore, he knew she must be a cleric of Paladine, and a cleric of quite some importance at that.

Her sightless stare moved to him, staring uncannily into his own golden eyes. Raistlin, who had intimidated so many others with his own piercing, mirrored gaze, felt uncomfortable under her stare. The Master of the Tower quelled the sudden impulse to bow his head and shuffle his feet nervously as he would have as a child had he met a full-ranking archmagus.

"Raistlin Majere," the cleric murmured softly. She nodded her head in greeting, or perhaps in affirmation of her own words.

Perhaps it was something in her voice, or the way her shoulders bent ever so slightly as she said the name, but Raistlin’s uneasiness faded. Raising his head slightly, Raistlin arched an eyebrow. He smoothly stepped around a chair, coming a to stand a mere foot in front of her. She had taken him by surprise with her sudden entrance and disarming poise, but he had recovered now, and this was a game Raistlin had played many, many times before – played and won.

"Have we met, Revered Daughter?" he asked, a wry smile playing across his lips.

To his mild irritation, the cleric smiled in return – a smile not of sarcasm or challenge, but of… what? Raistlin wondered. Longing…?

"Have we met?" she repeated. Her voice was soft and calm, but a deep sadness tinged every word. "Oh yes, Raistlin, we’ve met. We’ve met a hundred times, a thousand – every time I close my eyes…" she trailed off into a whisper. Aching emotions filled her blind eyes.

Something painful gripped Raistlin’s heart as she spoke, something in the way she held herself, the way her blind eyes stared at him – no, into him. Something stirred emotions within the archmage’s soul he’d thought long dead.

"What is your name?" Raistlin asked softly, after a pause. The wry tone had faded from his voice, and now he spoke quietly, almost in wonder. He realized, suddenly, what it was that he saw in her that tore open the wounds on his own soul. Tonight, of all nights, he knew only too well what pained her – loneliness. She shook her head, her hair falling across her face. Her smooth, white hands trembled, and so did her voice when she spoke after a long, emotion-laden pause.

"I’ve been through this conversation too many times to count," she murmured, almost to herself, "imagining what I would say. I was so certain—" Her voice broke and hesitated a moment before she went on. "I was so sure that, if only I could get the words right, I could change your mind, change what happened, before it was too late, before you…" Her voice died again and she stopped. Like ice on a frozen pond, her composure shattered. She shuddered once and her head bowed, her eyes closed. Her hands – shaking – went to cover her face. A sob wracked her entire body.

Before he thought, Raistlin was beside her, the staff standing, still lit, in the center of the room – forgotten by its master, if only for a moment. Raistlin put one arm around the cleric’s shoulders and gently brushed her hair from her face. He held her smaller hands clasped securely in one of his own, surprisingly strong, thin hands. As though a switch had been flipped, years of pain and anguish melted away. Raistlin was the strong one here; for once, someone was leaning on him. He smoothed the tears from the cleric’s cheeks, murmuring soft nonsense to her as he would to comfort a child. He held her close to him until the sobs stopped, marveling at how smooth the skin of her face was when he brushed the tears away, at how soft her hair was against his face as he held her…

After a moment, she pulled away from him very slightly, far enough to turn her face up and fix her strangely piercing gaze on Raistlin. Her eyes still glistened with tears. For a moment, Raistlin was keenly aware of the softness of his velvet robes, of the scent of rose petals and cloying, sweet decay drifting lightly through the air. One hand rested at the small of her back, pulling her close again, as the other held her shoulders, tangled in her long, dark hair. As she leaned against him, fleeting, fevered thoughts of what he and this suddenly appeared, beautiful woman might…

As if sensing his thoughts, she shivered once, bowed her head, and said nothing. It was if the spell broke.

Raistlin stiffened suddenly and let her go. His hands – burning with the magic in his blood – had frightened her, he realized – or perhaps it was simply the fact that he’d held her… He of all people, a black robed archmage, holding a cleric of Paladine! Anger filled him suddenly, irrational anger at himself, and he reflexively grabbed his staff. "Dulak," he murmured angrily. He tossed the staff aside as its glow went out, plunging the room into darkness. He sat back down in his chair, his back to her, his hands shaking ever so slightly as he clutched the arms of his expensive chair. It took him a moment to master himself to speak; he would not have his voice tremble now.

"I’m sure you won’t mind the dark," he said caustically, "and I’m just as sure you won’t have any trouble finding your way out." He stared straight ahead into the darkness, waiting to hear the sound of a door opening and her footsteps retreating down the hallway.

Raistlin heard only silence, the sound of his own breathing – rattling slightly in his chest, as always, slowing painfully as he regained control of himself. He swallowed, clenching his fists, the anger seething inside of him. His nails cut viciously into the palms of his hands. The pain was comforting, almost – familiar. This pain he knew; the emotions the cleric had pulled from him were a different, far more agonizing type of pain. The kind of pain he’d known as a child, when his brother had…

He felt, suddenly, two small, cool, delicate hands resting lightly on top of both of his own.

"Please, don’t," her voice whispered.

Raistlin gasped in surprise; he hadn’t heard her move, much less cross the room to stand directly in front of him. His throat closed at the unexpected, ragged breath and he choked, his lungs heaving fruitlessly. The archmage felt the fit coming, and he took in one desperate breath before the coughing overtook him. He doubled over in the chair, acid and blood rising in his throat and his body shook, wracked with every cough. Brilliant flashes of light danced before his eyes in the darkness.

He felt the cleric’s hands move from his hands to his shoulders; she was trying to help him, he knew, and the thought made him feel strangely, irrationally guilty.

"Nothing… you can do…" he managed to gasp out in between the coughs that shook his thin frame. His hands clenched around the arms of the chair, knuckles whitening with each spasm. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and the lights before his eyes grew brighter, almost blinding him. He hadn’t had a fit this bad since his days as a red robe, Raistlin thought, a surge of panic rising within him. He heard the cleric’s voice: the words of a prayer, he realized bitterly. The dancing lights began to spin, and he felt his consciousness slipping…

Just as Raistlin was losing his grip on awareness, a white light enveloped him. The coughing stopped. He took a tentative, shallow breath, and then another, deep and thankful. Closing his eyes to the sudden brightness, Raistlin blindly took a bit of cloth from his pocket and hastily wiped the blood from his lips, replacing it before… before what? he demanded of himself in irritation. Before this blind cleric sees the stains?

He straightened reflexively in his chair and opened his eyes. Before him knelt the cleric, her medallion glowing with a soft, warm white light that seemed to illuminate only the two of them, leaving Raistlin’s books, his scrolls, and the rest of his luxury-bathed apartments in darkness. Her hands were clasped before her in prayer. As if sensing his eyes on her, she raised her head and looked up at him.

"Raistlin…" she whispered, almost reverently. Tears filled her eyes for the second time that evening. She stood gracefully, never taking her gaze from his. Slowly, wonderingly, she reached out a hand and brushed his cheek with her fingertips.

"Raistlin," she repeated.

Suddenly, Raistlin realized what it was that had been bothering him ever since she had appeared. She was beautiful. Truly, utterly beautiful! She did not wither and crumble to dust before his eyes! She was no elf – beautiful for a moment but doomed to die in his sight as did all the others, albeit more slowly. This beautiful, dark-haired cleric did not age and fade away as did all the others. She did not die! Raistlin stared at her wordlessly, his golden eyes open wide in amazement; for one of the very few times in his life, he was incapable of speech.

Raistlin caught her wrist before she could pull away, staring intently into her eyes. "Your sight is restored," he declared in a dangerous, low voice, "And so is my health!" He let go abruptly, pushing her away from him, and shook his head in frustration at the calm statement on her face. "I breathe freely for the first time in years – years, Revered Daughter! You cannot know what that means. And you – you do not die!" He reached for his staff, clutching it to him almost defensively. "This cannot be!"

Pain passed over the cleric’s eyes again, this time crossed with regret. She shook her head. "No, it cannot – not for any length of time." She sighed, almost as if in apology. She stepped forward, placing herself directly in front of him again, filling his gaze with her own dark, hurt-filled eyes.

"I have been given a gift, Raistlin," she said quietly. "A gift from Paladine." Her hand went to the softly glowing medallion hanging around her neck. "I know it won’t last. It can’t last, of course. But…while it does…" Her voice trailed away. She stared at him, as if expecting an answer to an unstated question.

Raistlin’s eyes narrowed, he shook his head. "This makes no sense!" he snapped in irritation. "How did you get here? Who are you?"

The cleric put a finger to his lips, shook her head. "Not now, Raistlin. Not…yet. Soon enough you’ll know me. You will come to me… against all odds." She sighed a very small, wistful sigh. "Against all odds," she repeated softly.

"That explains nothing." Raistlin turned away from her with an angry gesture with one hand, folding his hands in the sleeves of his robes.

There was silence for a moment, as the cleric again came to stand in front of the archmage. She took his hands in hers, lacing their fingers together. They stood in silence for a moment, one filled with the fiery regret of love wasted, the other the icy pain of love never given, never returned.

"I know now," the cleric whispered, "that there is nothing I can say to move you from your chosen path." She closed her eyes. Her head bowed, her shining black hair falling across her face. She seemed about to lose her nerve and simply shrivel away into silence; not quite understanding why he was doing it, Raistlin put an arm around her, supporting her, his other hand still clasped tightly in hers.

She trembled and after a moment, looked up at him. "I’m so very sorry, Raistlin," she murmured. A single tear slid down her cheek.

Raistlin slowly reached up and brushed away the tear. "Whatever for, Revered Daughter?" he asked gently.

She laughed then, a laugh full of bitter pain and longing. She wrapped her arms around him and, standing up on her tiptoes, she tilted her head back and kissed him full on the lips, melting against him. Raistlin found himself kissing her back, his hands tracing over her back, tangling in her hair, passion making up for what he lacked in experience. Sudden passion filled him, confusion and loneliness replaced by the warmth of the kiss.

After a long moment, she pulled away from him. "I have to go," she whispered, her voice breaking. "My time is almost up." She backed away from him, and as she did, Raistlin could see that, by the light of her glowing medallion, the milky haze of blindness was already returning to her eyes.

Raistlin took a step forward, reaching towards her. "Please, just tell me your name!" he said quickly, fighting back the his body’s impulse to cough as the spider webs and blood returned gradually to his lungs. "Where can I find you?"

"I never left you, Raistlin," she murmured. The glow of the medallion began to fade.

Raistlin shook his head helplessly. "Don’t go," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Please, don’t leave me!"

She laughed again, the same heart-rending, hurt-filled laugh. "I said those very same words, so many years ago…" she trailed off. "Merry Yuletide, Raistlin," she whispered. The glow of the medallion faded away and disappeared.

Raistlin stood alone in the silence. Though no door had opened, this time he knew she was truly gone. For an instant, he closed his eyes. He could feel the ghost of her lips against his, could feel her warmth, could feel the loneliness and pain fade, for just an instant…

After a long moment, Raistlin pulled the hood of his robes back up over his head. He sat back down in one of his comfortable, expensive chairs and picked up his fine crystal glass – still full, as he’d left it. Raistlin drank the deep red wine slowly, tasting it for the first time in years, staring into the darkness.

"Merry Yuletide, Revered Daughter," he murmured.

           

QUOTE

原作者 devilwing 记得过去也有一篇关于冬季祭奠的同人译作呢，结尾是raist送给小卡一个巨大的火鸡…………

是啊，是啊，回忆ing
不过那个有点恶搞的味道，就和那个信箱一样

玄音，这个偷懒了，就看了看译文，文笔还是不错的。
加油''

:cool: