“Come this way, young mage,” Astinus said, turning abruptly and starting off down the hall with a quick, strong stride that belied his middle-aged appearance.
Caught by surprise, Dalamar hesitated, then—seeing he was being left behind—hurried to catch up.
“How do you know what I seek?” the dark elf demanded.
“I am a chronicler of history,” Astinus replied imperturbably. “Even as we speak and walk, events transpire around us and I am aware of them. I hear every word spoken, I see every deed committed, no matter how mundane, how good, how evil. Thus I have watched throughout history. As I was the first, so shall I be the last. Now, this way.”
Astinus made a sharp turn to his left. As he did so, he lifted a glowing globe of light from its stand and carried it with him in his hand. By the light, Dalamar could see long rows of books standing on wooden shelves. He could tell by their smooth leather binding that they were old. But they were in excellent condition. The Aesthetics kept them dusted and, when necessary, rebound those particularly worn.
“Here is what you want”—Astinus gestured—“the Dwarfgate Wars.”
Dalamar stared. “All these?” He gazed down a seemingly endless row of books, a feeling of despair slowly creeping over him.
“Yes,” Astinus replied coldly, “and the next row of books as well.”
“I—I...” Dalamar was completely at a loss. Surely Raistlin had not guessed the enormity of this task. Surely he couldn’t expect him to devour the contents of these hundreds of volumes within the specified time limit. Dalamar had never felt so powerless and helpless before in his life. Flushing angrily, he sensed Astinus’s ice-like gaze upon him.
“Perhaps I can help,” the historian said placidly. Reaching up, without even reading the spine, Astinus removed one volume from the shelf. Opening it, he flipped quickly through the thin, brittle pages, his eyes scanning the row after row of neat, precisely written, black-inked letters.
“Ah, here it is.” Drawing an ivory marker from a pocket of his robes, Astinus laid it across a page in the book, shut it carefully, then handed the book to Dalamar. “Take this with you. Give him the information he seeks. And tell him this—‘The wind blows. The footsteps in the sand will be erased, but only after he has trod them.’”
The historian bowed gravely to the dark elf, then walked past him, down the row of books to reach the corridor again. Once there, he stopped and turned to face Dalamar, who was standing, staring, clutching the book Astinus had thrust into his hands.
“Oh, young mage. You needn’t come back here again. The book will return of its own accord when you are finished. I cannot have you frightening the Aesthetics. Poor Bertrem will have undoubtedly taken to his bed. Give your Shalafi my greetings.”
Astinus bowed again and disappeared into the shadows. Dalamar remained standing, pondering, listening to the historian’s slow, firm step fade down the hallway. Shrugging, the dark elf spoke a word of magic and returned to the Tower of High Sorcery.
“What Astinus gave me is his own commentary on the Dwarfgate Wars, Shalafi. It is drawn from the ancient texts he wrote—”
Astinus would know what I need. Proceed.
“Yes, Shalafi. This begins the marked passage:
“‘And the great archmage, Fistandantilus, used the dragon orb to call forward in time to his apprentice, instructing him to go the Great Library at Palanthas and read in the books of history there to see if the result of his great undertaking would prove successful.” Dalamar’s voice faltered as he read this and eventually died completely as he re-read this amazing statement.
Continue! came his Shalafi’s voice, and though it resounded more in his mind than his ears, Dalamar did not miss the note of bitter anger. Hurriedly tearing his gaze from the paragraph, written hundreds of years previously, yet accurately reflecting the mission he had just undertaken, Dalamar continued.
“It is important here to note this: ‘the Chronicles as they existed at that point in time indicate—’
“That part is underscored, Shalafi,” Dalamar interrupted himself.
What part?
“‘—at that point in time’ is underscored.”
Raistlin did not reply, and Dalamar, momentarily losing his place, found it and hastened on.
“—‘indicated that the undertaking would have been successful. Fistandantilus, along with the cleric, Denubis, should have been able, from all indications that the great archmage saw, to safely enter the Portal. What might have happened in the Abyss, of course, is unknown, since the actual historical events transpired differently.
“‘Thus, believing firmly that his ultimate goal of entering the Portal and challenging the Queen of Darkness was within his reach, Fistandantilus pursued the Dwarfgate Wars with renewed vigor. Pax Tharkas fell to the armies of the hill dwarves and the Plainsmen. (See Chronicles Volume 126, Book 6, pages 589—700.) Led by Fistandantilus’s great general, Pheragas—the former slave from Northern Ergoth whom the wizard had purchased and trained as a gladiator in the Games at Istar—the Army of Fistandantilus drove back the forces of King Duncan, forcing the dwarves to retreat to the mountain fastness of Thorbardin.
“‘Little did Fistandantilus care for this war. It simply served to further his own ends. Finding the Portal beneath the towering mountain fortress known as Zhaman, he established his headquarters there and began the final preparations that would give him the power to enter the forbidden gates, leaving his general to fight the war.
“‘What happened at this point is beyond even me to relate with accuracy, since the magical forces at work here were so powerful it obscured my vision.
“‘General Pheregas was killed fighting the Dewar, the dark dwarves of Thorbardin. At his death, the Army of Fistandantilus crumbled. The mountain dwarves swarmed out of Thorbardin toward the fortress of Zhaman.
“‘During the fighting, aware that the battle was lost and that they had little time, Fistandantilus and Denubis hastened to the Portal. Here the great wizard began to cast his spell.
“‘At the same instant, a gnome, being held prisoner by the dwarves of Thorbardin, activated a time-traveling device he had constructed in an effort to escape his confinement. Contrary to every recorded instance in the history of Krynn, this gnomish device actually worked. It worked quite well, in fact.
“‘I can only speculate from this point on, but it seems probable that the gnome’s device interacted somehow with the delicate and powerful magical spells being woven by Fistandantilus. The result we know all too clearly.
“‘A blast occurred of such magnitude that the Plains of Dergoth were utterly destroyed. Both armies were almost completely wiped out. The towering mountain fortress of Zhaman shattered and fell in upon itself, creating the hill now called Skullcap.
“‘The unfortunate Denubis died in the blast. Fistandantilus should have died as well, but his magic was so great that he was able to cling to some portion of life, though his spirit was forced to exist upon another plane until it found the body of a young magic-user named Raistlin Majere...’”
Enough!
“Yes, Shalafi,” Dalamar murmured.
And then Raistlin’s voice was gone.
Dalamar, sitting in the study, knew he was alone. Shivering violently, he was completely overawed and amazed by what he had just read. Seeking to make some meaning of it, the dark elf sat in the chair behind the desk—Raistlin’s desk—lost in thought until night’s shadows withdrew and gray dawn lit the sky.
A tremor of excitement made Raistlin’s thin body quiver. His thoughts were confused, he would need a period of cool study and reflection to make absolutely certain of what he had discovered. One phrase shone with dazzling brilliance in his mind—the undertaking would have been successful!