Dragons of Spring Dawning by Weis, Margaret

Gazing at him with pitying eyes, not knowing what to do for him, the Aesthetics brought Raistlin food, but he could not eat. He could not even swallow the bitter herbal medicine that eased his cough. Furious, he sent the idiots away from him. Then he lay back on his hard pillow, watching the sun’s light creep across his cell. Exerting all his effort to cling to life, Raistlin forced himself to relax, knowing that this feverish anger would burn him up. His thoughts went to his brother.

Closing his eyes wearily, Raistlin imagined Caramon sitting beside him. He could almost feel Caramon’s arms around him, lifting him up so that he could breathe more easily. He could smell his brother’s familiar scent of sweat and leather and steel. Caramon would take care of him. Caramon would not let him die. . . .

No, Raistlin thought dreamily. Caramon is dead now. They are all dead, the fools. I must look after myself. Suddenly he realized he was losing consciousness again. Desperately he fought, but it was a losing battle. Making a final, supreme effort, he thrust his shaking hand into a pocket in his robe. His fingers closed around the dragon orb-shrunk to the size of a child’s marble-even as he sank into darkness.

He woke to the sound of voices and the knowledge that someone was in the cell with him. Fighting through layers of blackness, Raistlin struggled to the surface of his consciousness and opened his eyes.

It was evening. Lunitari’s red light glanced through his window; a shimmering bloodstain upon the wall. A candle burned beside his bed and, by its light, he saw two men standing over him. One he recognized as the Aesthetic who had discovered him. The other? He seemed familiar. . . .

“He wakes. Master,” said the Aesthetic.

“So he does,” remarked the man imperturbably. Bending down, he studied the young mage’s face, then smiled and nodded to himself, almost as if someone he had long expected had finally arrived. It was a peculiar look, and it did not go unnoticed by either Raistlin or the Aesthetic.

“I am Astinus,” the man spoke. “You are Raistlin of Solace.”

“I am.” Raistlin’s mouth formed the words, his voice was little more than a croak. Gazing up at Astinus, Raistlin’s anger returned as he remembered the man’s callous remark that he would see him if he had time. As Raistlin stared at the man, he felt suddenly chilled. He had never seen a face so cold and unfeeling, totally devoid of human emotion and human passion. A face untouched by time-

Raistlin gasped. Struggling to sit up-with the Aesthetic’s help-he stared at Astinus.

Noticing Raistlin’s reaction, Astinus remarked, “You look at me strangely, young mage. What do you see with those hourglass eyes of yours?”

“I see … a man . . . who is not dying. . . .” Raistlin could speak only through painful struggles to draw breath.

“Of course, what did you expect?” the Aesthetic chided, gently propping the dying man against the pillows of his bed. “The Master was here to chronicle the birth of the first upon Krynn and so he will be here to chronicle the death of the last. So we are taught by Gilean, God of the Book.”

“Is that true?” Raistlin whispered.

Astinus shrugged slightly. “My personal history is of no consequence compared to the history of the world. Now speak, Raistlin of Solace. What do you want of me? Whole volumes are passing as I waste my time in idle talk with you.”

“I ask… I beg… a favor!” The words were torn from Raistlin’s chest and came out stained with blood. “My life … is measured… in hours. Let me… spend them… in study… in the … great library!”

Bertram’s tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth in shock at this young mage’s temerity. Glancing at Astinus fearfully, the Aesthetic waited for the scathing refusal that, he felt certain, must flail this rash young man’s skin from his bones.

Long moments of silenced passed, broken only by Raistlin’s labored breathing. The expression on Astinus’s face did not change. Finally he answered coldly. “Do what you will.”