Dragonlance 03 - Dragons of Spring Dawning (10 page)

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, leaving 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 metallic-colored, 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.

I
tell you, it was Raistlin!”

“And I tell you, one more of your furry-elephant, teleporting-ring, plants-living-off-air stories and I’ll twist that hoopak around your neck!” Flint snapped angrily.

“It was
too
Raistlin,” Tasslehoff retorted, but he said it under his breath as the two walked along the wide, gleaming streets of the beautiful city of Palanthas. The kender knew by long association just how far he could push the dwarf, and Flint’s threshold for irritation was very low these days.

“And don’t go bothering Laurana with your wild tales, either,” Flint ordered, correctly guessing Tas’s intentions. “She has enough problems.”

“But—”

The dwarf stopped and gazed grimly at the kender from beneath bushy white eyebrows.

“Promise?”

Tas sighed. “Oh, all right.”

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he didn’t feel quite certain he had seen Raistlin! He and Flint were walking past the steps of the great library of Palanthas when the kender’s sharp eyes caught sight of a group of monks clustered around something lying on the steps. When Flint stopped for a moment to admire some particularly fine piece of dwarven-crafted stonework in a building opposite, Tas took advantage of the opportunity to creep silently up the stairs to see what was going on.

To his amazement, he saw a man that looked just like Raistlin, golden-colored metallic skin, red robes, and all, being lifted up off the stairs and carried inside the library. But by the time the excited kender ran across the street, grabbed Flint, and hauled the grumbling dwarf back again, the group was gone.

Tasslehoff even ran up to the door, banging on it and demanding entrance. But the Aesthetic who answered appeared so horrified at the thought of a kender coming into the great library that the scandalized dwarf hustled Tas off before the monk could open his mouth.

Promises being very nebulous things to kenders, Tas considered telling Laurana anyway, but then he thought of the elfmaid’s face as it had appeared lately, wan and drawn from grief, worry, and lack of sleep, and the soft-hearted kender decided maybe Flint was right. If it was Raistlin, he was probably here on some secret business of his own and wouldn’t thank them for dropping in on him uninvited. Still …

Heaving a sigh, the kender walked on, kicking stones with his feet and looking around the city once more. Palanthas was well worth the look. The city had been fabled even during the Age of Might for its beauty and grace. There was no other city on Krynn that could compare to it, at least to human thought. Built on a circular pattern like a wheel, the center was, literally, the hub of the city. All the major official buildings were located here, and the great sweeping staircases and graceful columns were breathtaking in their grandeur. From this central circle, wide avenues led off in the directions of the eight major compass points. Paved with fitted stone (dwarven work, of course) and lined with trees whose leaves were like
golden lace year-round, these avenues led to the seaport on the north and to the seven gates of the Old City Wall.

Even these gates were masterpieces of architecture, each one guarded by twin minarets whose graceful towers rose over three hundred feet into the air. The Old Wall itself was carved with intricate designs, telling the story of Palanthas during the Age of Dreams. Beyond Old City Wall lay New City. Carefully planned to conform to the original design, New City extended from Old City Wall in the same circular pattern with the same wide, tree-lined avenues. There were, however, no walls around New City. The Palanthians didn’t particularly like walls (walls ruined the over-all design), and nothing in either Old or New City was ever built these days without first consulting the overall design, both within and without. Palanthas’s silhouette upon the horizon in the evening was as lovely to the eye as the city itself, with one exception.

Tas’s thoughts were rudely interrupted by a poke in the back from Flint.

“What is the matter with you?” the kender demanded, facing the dwarf.