“Caramon!” Tanis cried, springing forward. But, what could he do? He was not strong enough to physically overpower the big man. He’ll go to him, Tanis thought in agony. He will not let his brother die...
No, spoke a voice inside the half-elf. He will not... and therein lies the salvation of the world. Caramon stopped, held fast by the power of that bloodstained hand. The grasping dragons claw was close, and behind it gleamed laughing, triumphant, malevolent eyes. Slowly, struggling against the evil force, Caramon raised the Staff of Magius.
Nothing happened!
The dragon’s heads of the oval doorway split the air with their trumpeting, hailing the entry of their Queen into the world.
Then, a shadowy form appeared, standing beside Caramon. Dressed in black robes, white hair flowing down upon his shoulders, Raistlin raised a golden-skinned hand and, reaching out, gripped the Staff of Magius, his hand resting near his twins.
The staff flared with a pure, silver light.
The multicolored light within the Portal whirled and spun and fought to survive, but the silver light shone with the steadfast brilliance of the evening star, glittering in a twilight sky.
The Portal closed.
The metallic dragon’s heads ceased their screaming so suddenly that the new silence rang in their ears. Within the Portal, there was nothing, neither movement nor stillness, neither darkness nor light. There was simply nothing.
Caramon stood before the Portal alone, the Staff of Magius in his hand. The light of the crystal continued to burn brightly for a moment.
Then glimmered.
Then died.
The room was filled with darkness, a sweet darkness, a darkness restful to the eyes after the blinding light.
And there came through the darkness a whispering voice.
“Farewell, my brother.”
12
Astinus of Palanthas sat in his study in the Great Library, writing his history in the clear, sharp black strokes that had recorded all the history of Krynn from the first day the gods had looked upon the world until the last, when the great book would forever close. Astinus wrote, oblivious to the chaos around him, or rather—such was the mans presence—that it seemed as if he forced the chaos to be oblivious of him.
It was only two days after the end of what Astinus referred to in the Chronicles as the “Test of the Twins” (but which everyone else was calling the “Battle of Palanthas”). The city was in ruins. The only two buildings left standing were the Tower of High Sorcery and the Great Library, and the Library had not escaped unscathed.
The fact that it stood at all was due, in large part, to the heroics of the Aesthetics. Led by the rotund Bertrem, whose courage was kindled, so it was said, by the sight of a draconian daring to lay a clawed hand upon one of the sacred books, the Aesthetics attacked the enemy with such zeal and such a wild, reckless disregard for their own lives that few of the reptilian creatures escaped.
But, like the rest of Palanthas, the Aesthetics paid a grievous price for victory. Many of their order perished in the battle. These were mourned by their brethren, their ashes given honored rest among the books that they had sacrificed their lives to protect. The gallant Bertrem did not die. Only slightly wounded, he saw his name go down in one of the great books itself beside the names of the other Heroes of Palanthas. Life could offer nothing further in the way of reward to Bertrem. He never passed that one particular book upon the shelf but that he didn’t surreptitiously pull it down, open it to The Page, and bask in the light of his glory.
The beautiful city of Palanthas was now nothing more than memory and a few words of description in Astinus’s books. Heaps of charred and blackened stone marked the graves of palatial estates. The rich warehouses with their casks of fine wines and ales, their stores of cotton and of wheat, their boxes of wonders from all parts of Krynn, lay in a pile of cinder. Burned-out hulks of ships floated in the ash choked harbors. Merchants picked through the rubble of their shops, salvaging what they could. Families stared at their ruined houses, holding on to each other, and thanking the gods that they had, at least, survived with their lives.
For there were many who had not. Of the Knights of Solamnia within the city, they had perished almost to a man, fighting the hopeless battle against Lord Soth and his deadly legions. One of the first to fall was the dashing Sir Markham. True to his oath to Tanis, the knight had not fought Lord Soth, but had, instead, rallied the knights and led them in a charge against Soth’s skeletal warriors. Though pierced with many wounds, he fought valiantly still, leading his bloody, exhausted men time and again in charges against the foe until finally he fell from his horse, dead. Because of the knights’ courage, many lived in Palanthas who otherwise would have perished upon the ice-cold blades of the undead, who vanished mysteriously—so it was told when their leader appeared among them, bearing a shrouded corpse in his arms.
Mourned as heroes, the bodies of the Knights of Solamnia were taken by their fellows to the High Clerist’s Tower. Here they were entombed in a sepulcher where lay the body of Sturm Brightblade, Hero of the Lance.
Upon opening the sepulcher, which had not been disturbed since the Battle of the High Clerist’s Tower, the knights were awed to find Sturm’s body whole, unravaged by time. An elven jewel of some type, gleaming upon his breast, was believed accountable for this miracle. All those who entered the sepulcher that day in mourning for their fallen loved ones looked upon that steadily beaming jewel and felt peace ease the bitter sting of their grief.
The knights were not the only ones who were mourned. Many ordinary citizens had died in Palanthas as well. Men defending city and family, women defending home and children. The citizens of Palanthas burned their dead in accordance with ages-old custom, scattering the ashes of their loved ones in the sea, where they mingled with the ashes of their beloved city.
Astinus recorded it all as it was occurring. He had continued to write—so the Aesthetics reported with awe—even as Bertrem single-handedly bludgeoned to death a draconian who had dared invade the master’s study. He was writing still when he gradually became aware—above the sounds of hammering and sweeping and pounding and shuffling—that Bertrem was blocking his light.
Lifting up his head, he frowned.
Bertrem, who had not blenched once in the face of the enemy, turned deathly pale, and backed up instantly, letting the sunlight fall once more upon the page.
Astinus resumed his writing. “Well?” he said.
“Caramon Majere and a—a kender are here to see you, Master.” If Bertrem had said a demon from the Abyss was here to see Astinus, he could hardly have infused more horror into his voice than when he spoke the word “kender.”
“Send them in,” replied Astinus.
“Them, Master?” Bertrem could not help but repeat in shock.
Astinus looked up, his brow creased. “The draconian did not damage your hearing, did it, Bertrem? You did not receive, for example, a blow to the head?”
“N-no, Master.” Bertrem flushed and backed hurriedly out of the room, tripping over his robes as he did so.
“Caramon Majere and... and Tassle-f-foot B-burr-hoof,” announced the flustered Bertrem, moments later.
“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender, presenting a small hand to Astinus, who shook it gravely.
“And you’re Astinus of Palanthas,” Tas continued, his topknot bouncing with excitement. “I’ve met you before, but you don’t remember because it hasn’t happened yet. Or, rather, come to think of it, it never will happen, will it, Caramon?”
“No,” the big man replied. Astinus turned his gaze to Caramon, regarding him intently.