“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.