12

Old Friends.

A Proposed Meeting.

aistlin Majere stood in the study of Astinus of Palanthas. The archmage was restless, he roamed about the room, his gaze roving coldly and without interest over the volumes of recent history stacked neatly on the shelves. Astinus worked at his desk, writing in the book. At intervals, one of the Aesthetics would appear and, very silently, not disturbing the master, gather up the completed volumes and bear them away to the library, where they were then arranged in chronological order.

The two men had not spoken since Astinus’s return to his study. The bells in the town rang out First Watch. Raistlin paused in his restless pacing, looked out the open door and down the hall, as if he were expecting someone.

No one came.

He stood long moments, then, walking back, circled around Astinus’s chair, looked to read what the historian had just written. Satisfied, Raistlin nodded to himself.

“Thank you, my friend,” he said quietly.

Astinus did not lift his pen from the paper; the flow of ink ceased only when he stopped to dip that pen in the inkwell, and that he did so swiftly that the eye scarcely noticed it.

“I did very little,” Astinus replied, continuing to write.

“You showed Palin the book,” Raistlin said. “I grant this is not unusual, but you showed him the book in order to force him to make a decision. And you dislike meddling in mankind’s affairs.”

“Mankind’s affairs are my affairs,” said Astinus. “How not? I have written them, lived them-every one of them-for centuries.”

His writing slowed, finally ceased. He had, just that morning, begun a new volume. It was thick, leather-bound, its vellum pages blank, ready to receive laughter, tears, curses, blows, the cries of the newborn, the sighs of the dying. His fingers seemed permanently bent in a crook to hold his pen. His index finger stained bluish purple from the ink, Astinus thumbed through the blank pages until he came to the end.

“Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “this book will be the last.”

He picked up the pen, put it to paper. The pen made a harsh scratching sound, ink spluttered, blotting the page. Astinus frowned, tossed the split quill aside, selected a fresh one from a holder on his desk, and began writing again.

“You knew, I think, the decision your nephew would make.”

“I knew,” Raistlin said quietly. “That was why I sent Caramon back home. He would have interfered. Palin had to make his own choice.”

“The right one-for him,” Astinus observed.

“Yes. He is young, has never been truly tested. Life for him has been easy. He’s been loved, admired, respected. Whatever he wanted was given to him. He’s never known hardship. When he wanted to sleep, a bed was prepared for him, a bed with clean sheets in a warm and cozy room. Oh, true, he traveled with his brothers, but that-until the last-was more a holiday than anything else. Not like Caramon and me, when we were mercenaries before the war.”

Raistlin mused. “Only once was he truly tested, during the battle when his brothers died. He failed- “

“He did not fail,” Astinus remarked.

“He thinks he did,” Raistlin said, with a shrug, “which amounts to the same thing. In reality, he fought well with what magic he had, kept his head in the midst of fearful chaos, remembered his spells during a time when one wonders how a man remembers his own name. But he lost. He was doomed to lose. Only when he held the black robes in his hand, only when he had to condemn a man to death unjustly, only then did he come to the sacrifice he must be prepared to make.”

“He may well die in gaining such understanding.” Astinus, all this time, had not ceased to write.

“That is the risk we all take. So the Conclave judged . . .” Raistlin frowned down at the books, as if he could read their contents and was not finding much of it to his liking.

“As they judged once in your case, old friend.”

“They tempted me . .. and I fell, for which I was reviled, for which I paid a heavy price. Yet, had I not fallen, it is very likely that the War of the Lance would have been lost.” Raistlin’s lip curled in a sneer. “How does that thread weave into the grand design?”

“As do all threads,” Astinus said. “Look at the rug beneath your feet. Were you to turn the rug over, you would see what appears to be a confused tangle of many-colored strands of thread. But look at the rug from the top-the strands are neatly, tightly woven, merged together to form a strong fabric Oh, it is frayed a bit at the corners, but - overall - it has worn well.”

“It will need to be strong,” Raistlin said quietly, “to withstand what is coming. There is one more thing I would like you to do for me, my friend.”

“And that is . . . ?” Astinus did not look up, but his pen flowed across the paper.

“I would like to see Lady Crysania,” Raistlin said.

Now Astinus lifted his gaze; now the pen stopped. The historian was rarely astonished by anything, since he had seen, heard, felt everything. This request, however, took him by surprise.

“See Lady Crysania? Why?” Astinus demanded. “What would you say to her? That you are sorry for what you did to her? For the way you used her? That would be a lie. Did you not tell your brother that you would do what you did all over again?”

Raistlin turned. A hint of color stained the pale, wan cheeks. “I used her. What of the way she used me? We were two of a kind, just clad in different color clothes.”

“She loved you . . .”

“She loved her ambition more.”

“True,” Astinus agreed. “And she finally saw that, but only when she could see nothing else. What would you say to her? I am curious, particularly since this meeting you propose will never come about.”

“Why not?” Raistlin demanded sharply. “All I have to do is walk over to the temple grounds. They cannot - dare not - keep me out”

“You may walk over there any time you want, but it will avail you little. Have you forgotten what dire calamity faces the world? Lady Crysania has been called to fight her own battle against Chaos, as have many others. Your story, Palin’s story, Steel Brightblade’s story, are just one of many that I am currently writing.”

“The great tangle,” Raistlin murmured, scraping his foot across the rug. “Does Lady Crysania go alone?”

“No. Another is with her, a man devoted to her. He travels with her, though she is not aware of his true nature. That, too, is another story. Again, assuage my curiosity. Would you ask her for forgiveness?”

“I would not,” Raistlin returned coldly. “Why should I? She got what she wanted. I got what was due me. We are even.”

“So, you would not apologize to her. You would not ask for forgiveness. What, then, did you want to say to her?”

Raistlin was silent long moments. He had turned back to the bookshelves, was staring now at the shadows that surrounded the books, staring at a time that would never happen.

“I wanted to tell her that sometimes, in my long sleep, I dreamt of her,” he said softly.