“After waiting for some time, I was taken to his chamber where he sits all day long and many times far into the night, recording the history of the world.” Crysania paused, suddenly frightened at the intensity of Raistlin’s gaze. It seemed he would snatch the words from her heart, if he could.
Looking away for a moment to compose herself, she continued, her own gaze now on the fire. “I entered the room, and he—he just sat there, writing, ignoring me. Then the Aesthetic who was with me announced my name, ‘Crysania of the House of Tarinius,’ as you told me to tell him. And then—”
She stopped, frowning slightly.
Raistlin stirred. “What?”
“Astinus looked up then,” Crysania said in a puzzled tone, turning to face Raistlin. “He actually ceased writing and laid his pen down. And he said, ‘You!’ in such a thundering voice that I was startled and the Aesthetic with me nearly fainted. But before I could say anything or ask what he meant or even how he knew me, he picked up his pen and—going to the words he had just written—crossed them out!”
“Crossed them out,” Raistlin repeated thoughtfully, his eyes dark and abstracted. “Crossed them out,” he murmured, sinking back down onto his pallet.
Seeing Raistlin absorbed in his thoughts, Crysania kept quiet until he looked up at her again.
“What did he do then?” the mage asked weakly.
“He wrote something down over the place where he had made the error, if that’s what it was. Then he raised his gaze to mine again and I thought he was going to be angry. So did the Aesthetic, for I could feel him shaking. But Astinus was quite calm. He dismissed the Aesthetic and bade me sit down. Then he asked why I had come.
“I told him we were seeking the Portal. I added, as you instructed, that we had received information that led us to believe it was located in the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas, but that, upon investigation, we had discovered our information was wrong. The Portal was not there.
“He nodded, as if this did not surprise him. ‘The Portal was moved when the Kingpriest attempted to take over the Tower. For safety’s sake, of course. In time, it may return to the Tower of High Sorcery at Palanthas, but it is not there now.’
“‘Where is it, then?’ I asked.
“For long moments, he did not answer me. And then—” Here Crysania faltered and glanced over at Caramon fearfully, as if warning him to brace himself.
Seeing her look, Raistlin pushed himself up on the pallet. “Tell me!” he demanded harshly.
Crysania drew a deep breath. She would have looked away, but Raistlin caught hold of her wrist and, despite his weakness, held her so firmly, she found she could not break free of his deathlike grip.
“He—he said such information would cost you. Every man has his price, even he.”
“Cost me!” Raistlin repeated inaudibly, his eyes burning.
Crysania tried unsuccessfully to free herself as his grasp tightened painfully.
“What is the cost?” Raistlin demanded.
“He said you would know!” Crysania gasped. “He said you had promised it to him, long ago.”
Raistlin loosed her wrist. Crysania sank back away from him, rubbing her arm, avoiding Caramon’s pitying gaze. Abruptly, the big man rose to his feet and stalked away. Ignoring him, ignoring Crysania, Raistlin sank back onto his frayed pillows, his face pale and drawn, his eyes suddenly dark and shadowed.
Crysania stood up and went to pour herself a glass of water. But her hand shook so she slopped most of it on the desk and was forced to set the pitcher down. Coming up behind her, Caramon poured the water and handed her the glass, a grave expression on his face.
Raising the glass to her lips, Crysania was suddenly aware of Caramon’s gaze going to her wrist.
Looking down, she saw the marks of Raistlin’s hand upon her flesh. Setting the glass back down upon the desk, Crysania quickly drew her robe over her injured arm.
“He’s doesn’t mean to hurt me,” she said softly in answer to Caramon’s stern, unspoken glare. “His pain makes him impatient. What is our suffering, compared to his? Surely you of all people must understand that? He is so caught up in his greater vision that he doesn’t know when he hurts others.”
Turning away, she walked back to where Raistlin lay, staring unseeing into the fire.
“Oh, he knows all right,” Caramon muttered to himself. “I’m just beginning to realize—he’s known all along!”
Astinus of Palanthas, historian of Krynn, sat in his chamber, writing. The hour was late, very late, past Darkwatch, in fact. The Aesthetics had long ago closed and barred the doors to the Great Library. Few were admitted during the day, none at night. But bars and locks were nothing to the man who entered the Library and who now stood, a figure of darkness, before Astinus.
The historian did not glance up. “I was beginning to wonder where you were,” he said, continuing to write.
“I have been unwell,” the figure replied, its black robes rustling. As if reminded, the figure coughed softly.
“I trust you are feeling better?” Astinus still did not raise his head.
“I am returning to health slowly,” the figure replied. “Many things tax my strength.”
“Be seated, then,” Astinus remarked, gesturing with the end of his quill pen to a chair, his gaze still upon his work.
The figure, a twisted smile on its face, padded over to the chair and sat down. There was silence within the chamber for many minutes, broken only by the scratching of Astinus’s pen and the occasional cough of the black-robed intruder.
Finally, Astinus laid the pen down and lifted his gaze to meet that of his visitor. His visitor drew back the black hood from his face. Regarding him silently for long moments, Astinus nodded to himself.
“I do not know this face, Fistandantilus, but I know your eyes. There is something strange in them, however. I see the future in their depths. So you have become master of time, yet you do not return with power, as was foretold.”
“My name is not Fistandantilus, Deathless One. It is Raistlin, and that is sufficient explanation for what has happened.” Raistlin’s smile vanished, his eyes narrowed. “But surely you knew that?”
He gestured. “Surely the final battle between us is recorded—”
“I recorded the name as I recorded the battle,” Astinus said coolly. “Would you care to see the entry... Fistandantilus?” Raistlin frowned, his eyes glittered dangerously. But Astinus remained unperturbed. Leaning back in his chair, he studied the archmage calmly.
“Have you brought what I asked for?”
“I have,” Raistlin replied bitterly. “Its making cost me days of pain and sapped my strength, else I would have come sooner.”
And now, for the first time, a hint of emotion shone on Astinus’s cold and ageless face. Eagerly, he leaned forward, his eyes shining as Raistlin slowly drew aside the folds of his black robes, revealing what seemed an empty, crystal globe hovering within his hollow chest cavity like a clear, crystalline heart.
Even Astinus could not repress a start at this sight, but it was apparently nothing more than an illusion, for, with a gesture, Raistlin sent the globe floating forward. With his other hand, he drew the black fabric back across his thin chest.
As the globe drifted near him, Astinus placed his hands upon it, caressing it lovingly. At his touch, the globe was filled with moonlight—silver, red, even the strange aura of the black moon was visible. Beneath the moons whirled vision after vision.
“You see time passing, even as we sit here,” Raistlin said, his voice tinged with an unconscious pride. “And thus, Astinus, no longer will you have to rely on your unseen messengers from the planes beyond for your knowledge of what happens in the world around you. Your own eyes will be your messengers from this point forward.”