5

The Chronicler and the Mage

Astinus of Palanthas sat in his study. His hand guided the quill pen he held in firm, even strokes. The bold, crisp writing flowing from that pen could be read clearly, even at a distance. Astinus filled a sheet of parchment quickly, rarely pausing to think. Watching him, one had the impression that his thoughts flowed from his head straight into the pen and out onto the paper, so rapidly did he write. The flow was interrupted only when he dipped the quill in ink, but this, too, had become such an automatic motion to Astinus that it interrupted him as little as the dotting of an ‘i’ or the crossing of a ‘t.’

The door to his study creaked opened. Astinus did not look up from his writing, though the door did not often open while he was engaged in his work. The historian could count the number of times on his fingers. One of those times had been during the Cataclysm. That had disturbed his writing, he recalled, remembering with disgust the spilled ink that had ruined a page.

The door opened and a shadow fell across his desk. But there came no sound, though the body belonging to the shadow drew in a breath as though about to speak. The shadow wavered, the sheer enormity of its offense causing the body to tremble.

It is Bertrem, Astinus noted, as he noted everything, filing the information for future reference in one of the many compartments of his mind.

This day, as above Afterwatch Hour falling 29, Bertrem entered my study.

The pen continued its steady advance over the paper. Reaching the end of a page, Astinus lifted it smoothly and placed it on top of similar pieces of parchment stacked neatly at the end of his desk. Later that night, when the historian had finished his work and retired, the Aesthetics would enter the study rever ently, as clerics enter a shrine, and gather up the stacks of paper. Carefully they would take them into the great library. Here the pieces of parchment covered with the bold, firm handwriting, were sorted, categorized, and filed in the giant books labeled Chronicles, A History of Krynn by Astinus of Palanthas.

‘Master . . .’ spoke Bertrem in a shivering voice.

This day, as above Afterwatch Hour falling 30, Bertrem spoke, Astinus noted in the text.

‘I regret disturbing you, Master,’ said Bertrem faintly, ‘but a young man is dying on your doorstep.’

This day, as above Restful Hour climbing 29, a young man died on our doorstep.

‘Get his name,’ Astinus said without looking up or pausing in his writing, ‘so that I may record it. Be certain as to the spelling. And find out where he’s from and his age, if he’s not too far gone.’

‘I have his name. Master,’ Bertrem replied. ‘It is Raistlin. He comes from Solace township in the land of Abanasinia.’

This day, as above Restful Hour climbing 28, Raistlin of Solace died—

Astinus stopped writing. He looked up.

‘Raistlin . . . of Solace?’

‘Yes, Master,’ Bertrem replied, bowing at this great honor. It was the first time Astinus had ever looked directly at him, though Bertrem had been with the Order of Aesthetics who lived in the great library for over a decade. ‘Do you know him, Master? That was why I took the liberty of disturbing your work. He has asked to see you.’

‘Raistlin. . . .’

A drop of ink fell from Astinus’s pen onto the paper.

‘Where is he?’

‘On the steps, Master, where we found him. We thought, perhaps, one of these new healers we have heard about, the ones who worship the Goddess Mishakal, might aid him. . . .’

The historian glared at the blot of ink in annoyance. Taking a pinch of fine, white sand, he carefully sprinkled it over the ink to dry it so that it would not stain other sheets that would later be set upon it. Then, lowering his gaze, Astinus returned to his work.

‘No healer can cure this young man’s malady,’ the historian remarked in a voice that might have come from the depths of time. ‘But bring him inside. Give him a room.’

‘Bring him inside the library?’ Bertrem repeated in profound astonishment. ‘Master, no one has ever been admitted except those of our order—’

‘I will see him, if I have time at the end of the day,’ Astinus continued as if he had not heard the Aesthetic’s words. ‘If he is still alive, that is.’

The pen moved rapidly across the paper.

‘Yes, Master,’ Bertrem murmured and backed out of the room.

Shutting the door to the study, the Aesthetic hurried through the cool and silent marble halls of the ancient library, his eyes wide with the wonder of this occurrence. His thick, heavy robes swept the floor behind him, his shaved head glistened with sweat as he ran, unaccustomed to such strenuous exertion. The others of his order gazed at him in astonishment as he swept into the library’s front entryway. Glancing quickly through the glass pane set in the door, he could see the young man’s body upon the stairs.

‘We are commanded to bring him inside,’ Bertrem told the others. ‘Astinus will see the young man tonight, if the mage is still alive.’

One by one, the Aesthetics regarded each other in shocked silence, wondering what doom this portended.

I am dying.

The knowledge was bitter to the mage. Lying in the bed in the cold, white cell where the Aesthetics had placed him, Raistlin cursed his frail and fragile body, he cursed the Tests that shattered it, he cursed the gods who had inflicted it upon him. He cursed until he had no more words to hurl, until he was too exhausted even to think. And then he lay beneath the white linen sheets that were like winding cloths and felt his heart flutter inside his breast like a trapped bird.

For the second time in his life, Raistlin was alone and frightened. He had been alone only once before, and that had been during those three torturous days of Testing in the Tower of High Sorcery. Even then, had he been alone? He didn’t think so, although he couldn’t remember clearly. The voice . . . the voice that spoke to him sometimes, the voice he could never identify, yet seemed to know . . . He always connected the voice with the Tower. It had helped him there, as it had helped him since. Because of that voice he had survived the ordeal.

But he wouldn’t survive this, he knew. The magical transformation he had undergone had placed too great a strain on his frail body. He had succeeded, but at what a cost!

The Aesthetics found him huddled in his red robes, vomiting blood upon their stairs. He managed to gasp out the name of Astinus and his own name when they asked. Then he lost consciousness. When he awoke, he was here, in this cold, narrow monk’s cell. And with waking came the knowledge that he was dying. He had asked more of his body than it was capable of giving. The dragon orb might save him, but he had no more strength to work his magic. The words to draw upon its enchantment were gone from his mind.

I am too weak to control its tremendous power anyway, he realized. Let it once know I have lost my strength and it would devour me.

No, there was only one chance remaining to him—the books inside the great library. The dragon orb had promised him that these books held the secrets of the ancient ones, great and powerful mages whose like would never be seen again on Krynn. Perhaps there he could find the means to extend his life. He had to talk to Astinus! He had to gain admittance to the great library, he had shrieked at the complacent Aesthetics. But they only nodded.

‘Astinus will see you,’ they said, ‘this evening, if he has time.’

If he has time! Raistlin swore viciously. If I have time! He could feel the sands of his life running through his fingers and, grasp at them as he might, he could not stop them.

Gazing at him with pitying eyes, not knowing what to do for him, the Aesthetics brought Raistlin food, but he could not eat. He could not even swallow the bitter herbal medicine that eased his cough. Furious, he sent the idiots away from him. Then he lay back on his hard pillow, watching the sun’s light creep across his cell. Exerting all his effort to cling to life, Raistlin forced himself to relax, knowing that this feverish anger would burn him up. His thoughts went to his brother.

Closing his eyes wearily, Raistlin imagined Caramon sitting beside him. He could almost feel Caramon’s arms around him, lifting him up so that he could breathe more easily. He could smell his brother’s familiar scent of sweat and leather and steel. Caramon would take care of him. Caramon would not let him die. . . .

No, Raistlin thought dreamily. Caramon is dead now. They are all dead, the fools. I must look after myself. Suddenly he realized he was losing consciousness again. Desperately he fought, but it was a losing battle. Making a final, supreme effort, he thrust his shaking hand into a pocket in his robe. His fingers closed around the dragon orb—shrunk to the size of a child’s marble—even as he sank into darkness.

He woke to the sound of voices and the knowledge that someone was in the cell with him. Fighting through layers of blackness, Raistlin struggled to the surface of his consciousness and opened his eyes.

It was evening. Lunitari’s red light glanced through his window; a shimmering bloodstain upon the wall. A candle burned beside his bed and, by its light, he saw two men standing over him. One he recognized as the Aesthetic who had discovered him. The other? He seemed familiar. . . .

‘He wakes. Master,’ said the Aesthetic.

‘So he does,’ remarked the man imperturbably. Bending down, he studied the young mage’s face, then smiled and nodded to himself, almost as if someone he had long expected had finally arrived. It was a peculiar look, and it did not go unnoticed by either Raistlin or the Aesthetic.

‘I am Astinus,’ the man spoke. ‘You are Raistlin of Solace.’

‘I am.’ Raistlin’s mouth formed the words, his voice was little more than a croak. Gazing up at Astinus, Raistlin’s anger returned as he remembered the man’s callous remark that he would see him if he had time. As Raistlin stared at the man, he felt suddenly chilled. He had never seen a face so cold and unfeeling, totally devoid of human emotion and human passion. A face untouched by time—

Raistlin gasped. Struggling to sit up—with the Aesthetic’s help—he stared at Astinus.

Noticing Raistlin’s reaction, Astinus remarked, ‘You look at me strangely, young mage. What do you see with those hourglass eyes of yours?’

‘I see . . . a man . . . who is not dying. . . .’ Raistlin could speak only through painful struggles to draw breath.

‘Of course, what did you expect?’ the Aesthetic chided, gently propping the dying man against the pillows of his bed. ‘The Master was here to chronicle the birth of the first upon Krynn and so he will be here to chronicle the death of the last. So we are taught by Gilean, God of the Book.’

‘Is that true?’ Raistlin whispered.

Astinus shrugged slightly. ‘My personal history is of no consequence compared to the history of the world. Now speak, Raistlin of Solace. What do you want of me? Whole volumes are passing as I waste my time in idle talk with you.’

‘I ask . . . I beg . . . a favor!’ The words were torn from Raistlin’s chest and came out stained with blood. ‘My life . . . is measured . . . in hours. Let me . . . spend them . . . in study . . . in the . . . great library!’

Bertram’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth in shock at this young mage’s temerity. Glancing at Astinus fearfully, the Aesthetic waited for the scathing refusal that, he felt certain, must flail this rash young man’s skin from his bones.

Long moments of silenced passed, broken only by Raistlin’s labored breathing. The expression on Astinus’s face did not change. Finally he answered coldly. ‘Do what you will.’

Ignoring Bertrem’s shocked look, Astinus turned and began to walk toward the door.

‘Wait!’ Raistlin’s voice rasped. The mage reached out a trembling hand as Astinus slowly came to a halt. ‘You asked me what I saw when I looked at you. Now I ask you the same thing. I saw that look upon your face when you bent over me. You recognized me! You know me! Who am I? What do you see?’

Astinus looked back, his face cold, blank, and impenetrable as marble.

‘You said you saw a man who was not dying,’ the historian told the mage softly. Hesitating a moment, he shrugged and once again turned away. ‘I see a man who is.’

And, with that, he walked out the door.

It is assumed that You who hold this Book in your Hands have successfully passed the Tests in one of the Towers of High Sorcery, and that You have demonstrated Your Ability to exert Control over a Dragon Orb or some other approved Magical Artifact (see Appendix C) and, further, that You have demonstrated Proven Ability in casting the Spells—

‘Yes, yes,’ muttered Raistlin, hurriedly scanning the runes that crawled like spiders across the page. Reading impatiently through the list of spells, he finally reached the conclusion.

Having completed these Requirements to the Satisfaction of Your Masters, We give into Your Hands this Spellbook. Thus, with the Key, You unlock Our Mysteries.

With a shriek of inarticulate rage, Raistlin shoved the spellbook with its night—blue binding and silver runes aside. His hand shaking, he reached for the next night—blue bound book in the huge pile he had amassed at his side. A fit of coughing forced him to stop. Fighting for breath, he feared for a moment that he could not go on.

The pain was unbearable. Sometimes he longed to sink into oblivion, end this torture he must live with daily. Weak and dizzy, he let his head sink to the desk, cradled in his arms. Rest, sweet, painless rest. An image of his brother came to his mind. There was Caramon in the afterlife, waiting for his little brother. Raistlin could see his twin’s sad, doglike eyes, he could feel his pity . . .

Raistlin drew a breath with a gasp, then forced himself to sit up. Meeting Caramon! I’m getting lightheaded, he sneered at himself. What nonsense!

Moistening his blood-caked lips with water, Raistlin took hold of the next night-blue spellbook and pulled it over to him. Its silver runes flashed in the candlelight, its cover—icy cold to the touch—was the same as the covers of all the other spellbooks stacked around him. Its cover was the same as the spellbook in his possession already—the spellbook he knew by heart and by soul, the spellbook of the greatest mage who ever lived—Fistandantilus.

With trembling hands, Raistlin opened the cover. His feverish eyes devoured the page, reading the same requirements— only mages high in the Order had the skill and control necessary to study the spells recorded inside. Those without it who tried to read the spells saw nothing on the pages but gibberish.

Raistlin fulfilled all the requirements. He was probably the only White or Red-Robed mage on Krynn, with the possible exception of the great Par-Salian himself, who could say that. Yet, when Raistlin looked at the writing inside the book, it was nothing more than a meaningless scrawl.

Thus, with the Key, You unlock our mysteries—

Raistlin screamed, a thin, wailing sound cut off by a choking sob. In bitter anger and frustration, he flung himself upon the table, scattering the books to the floor. Frantically his hands clawed the air and he screamed again. The magic that he had been too weak to summon came now in his anger.

The Aesthetics, passing outside the doors of the great library, exchanged fearful glances as they heard those terrible cries. Then they heard another sound. A crackling sound followed by a booming explosion of thunder. They stared at the door in alarm. One put his hand upon the handle and turned it, but the door was locked fast. Then one pointed and they all backed up as a ghastly light flared beneath the closed door. The smell of sulphur drifted out of the library, only to be blown away by a great gust of wind that hit the door with such force it seemed it might split in two. Again the Aesthetics heard that bubbling wail of rage, and then they fled down the marble hallway, calling wildly for Astinus.

The historian arrived to find the door to the great library held spellbound. He was not much surprised. With a sigh of resignation, he took a small book from the pocket of his robes and then sat down in a chair, beginning to write in his quick, flowing script. The Aesthetics huddled together near him, alarmed at the strange sounds emanating from within the locked room.

Thunder boomed and rolled, shaking the library’s very foundation. Light flared around the closed door so constantly it might have been day within the room instead of the darkest hour of the night. The howling and shrieking of a windstorm blended with the mage’s shrill screams. There were thuds and thumps, the rustling sounds of sheaves of paper swirling about in a storm. Tongues of flame flicked from beneath the door.

‘Master!’ one of the Aesthetics cried in terror, pointing to the flames, ‘He is destroying the books!’

Astinus shook his head and did not cease his writing.

Then, suddenly, all was silent. The light seen beneath the library door went out as if swallowed by darkness. Hesitantly the Aesthetics approached the door, cocking their heads to listen. Nothing could be heard from within, except a faint rustling sound. Bertrem placed his hand upon the door. It yielded to his gentle pressure.

‘The door opens, Master,’ he said.

Astinus stood up. ‘Return to your studies,’ he commanded the Aesthetics. ‘There is nothing you can do here.’

Bowing silently, the monks gave the door a final, scared glance, then walked hurriedly down the echoing corridor, leav ing Astinus alone. He waited a few moments to make certain they were gone, then the historian slowly opened the door to the great library.

Silver and red moonlight streamed through the small windows. The orderly rows of shelves that held thousands of bound books stretched into the darkness. Recessed holes containing thousands of scrolls lined the walls. The moonlight shone upon a table, buried under a pile of paper. A guttered candle stood in the center of the table, a night-blue spellbook lay open beside it, the moonlight shining on its bone-white pages. Other spellbooks lay scattered on the floor.

Looking around, Astinus frowned. Black streaks marked the walls. The smell of sulphur and of fire was strong inside the room. Sheets of paper swirled in the still air, falling like leaves after an autumn storm upon a body lying on the floor.

Entering the room, Astinus carefully shut and locked the door behind him. Then he approached the body, wading through the mass of parchment scattered on the floor. He said nothing, nor did he bend down to help the young mage. Standing beside Raistlin, he regarded him thoughtfully.

But, as he drew near, Astinus’s robes brushed the metalliccolored, outstretched hand. At that touch, the mage lifted his head. Raistlin stared at Astinus with eyes already darkening with the shadows of death.

‘You did not find what you sought?’ Astinus asked, staring down at the young man with cold eyes.

‘The Key!’ Raistlin gasped through white lips flecked with blood. ‘Lost . . . in time . . . Fools!’ His clawlike hand clenched, anger the only fire that burned in him. ‘So simple! Everyone knew it . . . no one recorded it! The Key . . . all I need . . . lost!’

‘So this ends your journey, my old friend,’ Astinus said without compassion.

Raistlin raised his head, his golden eyes glittering feverishly. ‘You do know me! Who am I!’ he demanded.

‘It is no longer important,’ Astinus said. Turning, he started to walk out of the library.

There was a piercing shriek behind him, a hand grasped his robe, dragging him to a halt.

‘Don’t turn your back on me as you have turned it on the world!’ Raistlin snarled.

‘Turn my back on the world . . .’ the historian repeated softly and slowly, his head moving to face the mage. ‘Turn my back on the world!’ Emotion rarely marred the surface of Astinus’s cold voice, but now anger struck the placid calm of his soul like a rock hurled into still water.

‘I? Turn my back on the world?’ Astinus’s voice rolled around the library as the thunder had rolled previously. ‘I am the world, as you well know, old friend! Countless times I have been born! Countless deaths I have died! Every tear shed— mine have flowed! Every drop of blood spilled—mine has drained! Every agony, every joy ever felt has been mine to share!

‘I sit with my hand on the Sphere of Time, the sphere you made for me, old friend, and I travel the length and breadth of this world chronicling its history. I have committed the blackest deeds! I have made the noblest sacrifices. I am human, elf, and ogre. I am male and female. I have borne children. I have murdered children. I saw you as you were. I see you as you are. If I seem cold and unfeeling, it is because that is how I survive without losing my sanity! My passion goes into my words. Those who read my books know what it is to have lived in any time, in any body that ever walked this world!’

Raistlin’s hand loosed its grip on the historian’s robes and he fell weakly to the floor. His strength was fading fast. But the mage clung to Astinus’s words, even as he felt the coldness of death clutch his heart. I must live, just a moment longer. Lunitari, give me just a moment more, he prayed, calling upon the spirit of the moon from which Red-Robed mages draw their magic. Some word was coming, he knew. Some word that would save him. If only he could hold on!

Astinus’s eyes flared as he gazed upon the dying man. The words he hurled at him had been pent up inside the chronicler for countless centuries.

‘On the last, perfect day,’ Astinus said, his voice shaking, ‘the three gods will come together: Paladine in his Radiance, Queen Takhisis in her Darkness, and lastly Gilean, Lord of Neutrality. In their hands, each bears the Key of Knowledge. They will place these Keys upon the great Altar, and upon the Altar will also be placed my books—the story of every being who has lived upon Krynn throughout time! And then, at last, the world will be complete—’

Astinus stopped, appalled, realizing what he had said, what he had done.

But Raistlin’s eyes no longer saw him. The hourglass pupils were dilated, the golden color surrounding them gleamed like flame.

‘The Key . . .’ Raistlin whispered in exultation. ‘The Key! I know. . . . I know . . .’

So weak he could scarcely move, Raistlin reached into the small, nondescript pouch that hung from his belt and brought forth the marble-sized dragon orb. Holding it in his trembling hand, the mage stared into it with eyes that were fast growing dim.

‘I know who you are,’ Raistlin murmured with his dying breath. ‘I know you now and I beseech you—come to my aid as you came to my aid in the Tower and in Silvanesti! Our bargain is struck! Save me, and you save yourself!’

The mage collapsed. His head with its sparse white wispy hair lolled back onto the floor, his eyes with their cursed vision closed. The hand that held the orb went limp, but its fingers did not relax. It held the orb fast in a grip stronger than death.

Little more than a heap of bones garbed in blood-red robes, Raistlin lay unmoving amid the papers that littered the spell— blasted library.

Astinus stared at the body for long moments, bathed in the garish purplish light of the two moons. Then, his head bowed, the historian left the silent library, closing and locking the door behind him with hands that shook.

Returning to his study, the historian sat for hours, gazing unseeing into the darkness.