“Then you live there? With Rai—With him?” Try as he might, Tanis knew he could not speak the archmage’s name without bitter anger, and so he avoided it altogether.
“He is my Shalafi,” answered Dalamar in a pain-tightened voice.
“So you are his apprentice,” Tanis responded, recognizing the elven word for Master. He frowned. “Then what are you doing here? Did he send you?” If so, thought the half-elf, I will leave this place, if I have to walk back to Solanthus.
“No,” Dalamar replied, his face draining of all color. “But it is of him we will speak.” The dark elf cast his hood over his head. When he spoke, it was obviously with intense effort. “And now, I must beg of you to move swiftly. I have a charm, given me by Elistan, that will help me through this trial. But it is not one I care to prolong.”
Elistan giving charms to black-robed magic-users? Raistlin’s s apprentice? Absolutely mystified, Tanis agreeably quickened his steps.
“Tanis, my friend!”
Elistan, cleric of Paladine and head of the church on the continent of Ansalon, reached out his hand to the half-elf. Tanis clasped the man’s hand warmly, trying not to notice how wasted and feeble was the cleric’s once strong, firm grip. Tanis also fought to control his face, endeavoring to keep the feelings of shock and pity from registering on his features as he stared down at the frail, almost skeletal, figure resting in a bed, propped up by pillows.
“Elistan—” Tanis began warmly.
One of the white-robed clerics hovering near their leader glanced up at the half-elf and frowned.
“That is, R-revered Son”—Tanis stumbled over the formal title—“you are looking well.”
“And you, Tanis Half-Elven, have degenerated into a liar,” Elistan remarked, smiling at the pained expression Tanis tried desperately to keep off his face.
Elistan patted Tanis’s sun-browned hand with his thin, white fingers. “And don’t fool with that ‘Revered Son’ nonsense. Yes, I know it’s only proper and correct, Garad, but this man knew me when I was a slave in the mines of Pax Tharkas. Now, go along, all of you,” he said to the hovering clerics. “Bring what we have to make our guests comfortable.”
His gaze went to the dark elf who had collapsed into a chair near the fire that burned in Elistan’s private chambers. “Dalamar,” Elistan said gently, “this journey cannot have been an easy one for you. I am indebted to you that you have made it. But, here in my quarters you can, I believe, find ease. What will you take?”
“Wine,” the dark elf managed to reply through lips that were stiff and ashen. Tanis saw the elf’s hands tremble on the arm of the chair.
“Bring wine and food for our guests.” Elistan told the clerics who were filing out of the room, many casting glances of disapproval at the black-robed mage. “Escort Astinus here at once, upon his arrival, then see that we are not disturbed.”
“Astinus?” Tanis gaped. “Astinus, the Chronicler?”
“Yes, Half-Elven,” Elistan smiled once again. “Dying lends one special significance. ‘They stand in line to see me, who once would not have glanced my way.’ Isn’t that how the old mans poem went? There now, Half-Elven. The air is cleared. Yes, I know I am dying. I have known for a long time. My months dwindle to weeks. Come, Tanis. You have seen men die before. What was it you told me the Forestmaster said to you in Darken Wood—‘we do not mourn the loss of those who die fulfilling their destinies.’ My life has been fulfilled, Tanis—much more than I could ever have imagined.” Elistan glanced out the window, out to the spacious lawns, the flowering gardens, and—far in the distance—the dark Tower of High Sorcery.
“It was given me to bring hope back to the world, Half-Elven,” Elistan said softly. “Hope and healing. What man can say more? I leave knowing that the church has been firmly established once again. There are clerics among all the races now. Yes, even kender.” Elistan, smiling, ran a hand through his white hair. “Ah,” he sighed, “what a trying time that was for our faith, Tanis! We are still unable to determine exactly what all is missing. But they are a good-hearted, good-souled people. Whenever I started to lose patience, I thought of Fizban—Paladine, as he revealed himself to us—and the special love he bore your little friend, Tasslehoff.”
Tanis’s face darkened at the mention of the kender’s name, and it seemed to him that Dalamar looked up, briefly, from where he had been staring into the dancing flames. But Elistan did not notice.
“My only regret is that I leave no one truly capable of taking over after me,” Elistan shook his head. “Garad is a good man. Too good. I see the makings of another Kingpriest in him. But he doesn’t understand yet that the balance must be maintained, that we are all needed to make up this world. Is that not so, Dalamar?”
To Tanis’s surprise, the dark elf nodded his head. He had cast his hood aside and had been able to drink some of the red wine the clerics brought to him. Color had returned to his face, and his hands trembled no longer. “You are wise, Elistan,” the mage said softly. “I wish others were as enlightened.”
“Perhaps it is not wisdom so much as the ability to see things from all sides, not just one,” Elistan turned to Tanis. “You, Tanis, my friend. Did you not notice and appreciate the view as you came?” He gestured feebly to the window, through which the Tower of High Sorcery was plainly visible.
“I’m not certain I know what you mean.” Tanis hedged, uncomfortable as always about sharing his feelings.
“Yes, you do, Half-Elven,” Elistan said with a return of his old crispness. “You looked at the Tower and you looked at the Temple and you thought how right it was they should be so near. Oh, there were many who argued long against this site for the Temple. Garad and, of course, Lady Crysania—”
At the mention of that name, Dalamar choked, coughed, and set the wine glass down hurriedly. Tanis stood up, unconsciously beginning to pace the room—as was his custom—when, realizing that this might disturb the dying man, he sat back down again, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.
“Has there been word of her?” he asked in a low voice.
“I am sorry, Tanis,” Elistan said gently, “I did not mean to distress you. Truly, you must stop blaming yourself. What she did, she chose to do of her own free will. Nor would I have had it otherwise. You could not have stopped her, nor saved her from her fate—whatever that may be. No, there has been no word of her.”
“Yes, there has,” Dalamar said in a cold, emotionless voice that drew the immediate attention of both men in the room. “That is one reason I called you together.”
“You called!” Tanis repeated, standing up again. “I thought Elistan asked us here. Is your Shalafi behind this? Is he responsible for this woman’s disappearance?” He advanced a step, his face beneath his reddish beard flushed. Dalamar rose to his feet, his eyes glittering dangerously, his hand stealing almost imperceptibly to one of the pouches he wore upon his belt. “Because, by the gods, if he has harmed her, I’ll twist his golden neck—”
“Astinus of Palanthas,” announced a cleric from the doorway.
The historian stood within the doorway. His ageless face bore no expression as his gray-eyed gaze swept the room, taking in everything, everyone with a minute attention to the detail that his pen would soon record. It went from the flushed and angry face of Tanis, to the proud, defiant face of the elf, to the weary, patient face of the dying cleric.