Dragons of Spring Dawning by Weis, Margaret

Timber cracked. Masts fell. Men were flung, screaming, from the listing decks as the blood-red blackness sucked the Perechon down into its gaping maw.

After all was gone, two words lingered like a benediction.

“My brother…”

5

The Chronicler and the Mage

Astinus of Palanthas sat in his study. His hand guided the quill pen he held in firm, even strokes. The bold, crisp writing flowing from that pen could be read clearly, even at a distance. Astinus filled a sheet of parchment quickly, rarely pausing to think. Watching him, one had the impression that his thoughts flowed from his head straight into the pen and out onto the paper, so rapidly did he write. The flow was interrupted only when he dipped the quill in ink, but this, too, had become such an automatic motion to Astinus that it interrupted him as little as the dotting of an “i” or the crossing of a “t.”

The door to his study creaked opened. Astinus did not look up from his writing, though the door did not often open while he was engaged in his work. The historian could count the number of times on his fingers. One of those times had been during the Cataclysm. That had disturbed his writing, he recalled, remembering with disgust the spilled ink that had ruined a page.

The door opened and a shadow fell across his desk. But there came no sound, though the body belonging to the shadow drew in a breath as though about to speak. The shadow wavered, the sheer enormity of its offense causing the body to tremble.

It is Bertrem, Astinus noted, as he noted everything, filing the information for future reference in one of the many compartments of his mind.

This day, as above Afterwatch Hour falling 29, Bertrem entered my study.

The pen continued its steady advance over the paper. Reaching the end of a page, Astinus lifted it smoothly and placed it on top of similar pieces of parchment stacked neatly at the end of his desk. Later that night, when the historian had finished his work and retired, the Aesthetics would enter the study reverently, as clerics enter a shrine, and gather up the stacks of paper. Carefully they would take them into the great library. Here the pieces of parchment covered with the bold, firm handwriting, were sorted, categorized, and filed in the giant books labeled Chronicles, A History of Krynn by Astinus of Palanthas.

“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.