The historian arrived to find the door to the great library held spellbound. He was not much surprised. With a sigh of resignation, he took a small book from the pocket of his robes and then sat down in a chair, beginning to write in his quick, flowing script. The Aesthetics huddled together near him, alarmed at the strange sounds emanating from within the locked room.
Thunder boomed and rolled, shaking the library’s very foundation. Light flared around the closed door so constantly it might have been day within the room instead of the darkest hour of the night. The howling and shrieking of a windstorm blended with the mage’s shrill screams. There were thuds and thumps, the rustling sounds of sheaves of paper swirling about in a storm. Tongues of flame flicked from beneath the door.
“Master!” one of the Aesthetics cried in terror, pointing to the flames, “He is destroying the books!”
Astinus shook his head and did not cease his writing.
Then, suddenly, all was silent. The light seen beneath the library door went out as if swallowed by darkness. Hesitantly the Aesthetics approached the door, cocking their heads to listen. Nothing could be heard from within, except a faint rustling sound. Bertrem placed his hand upon the door. It yielded to his gentle pressure
“The door opens, Master,” he said.
Astinus stood up. “Return to your studies,” he commanded the Aesthetics. “There is nothing you can do here.”
Bowing silently, the monks gave the door a final, scared glance, then walked hurriedly down the echoing corridor, leaving Astinus alone. He waited a few moments to make certain they were gone, then the historian slowly opened the door to the great library.
Silver and red moonlight streamed through the small windows. The orderly rows of shelves that held thousands of bound books stretched into the darkness. Recessed holes containing thousands of scrolls lined the walls. The moonlight shone upon a table, buried under a pile of paper. A guttered candle stood in the center of the table, a night-blue spellbook lay open beside it, the moonlight shining on its bone-white pages. Other spellbooks lay scattered on the floor.
Looking around, Astinus frowned. Black streaks marked the walls. The smell of sulphur and of fire was strong inside the room. Sheets of paper swirled in the still air, falling like leaves after an autumn storm upon a body lying on the floor.
Entering the room, Astinus carefully shut and locked the door behind him. Then he approached the body, wading through the mass of parchment scattered on the floor. He said nothing, nor did he bend down to help the young mage. Standing beside Raistlin, he regarded him thoughtfully.
But, as he drew near, Astinus’s robes brushed the metallic-colored, outstretched hand. At that touch, the mage lifted his head. Raistlin stared at Astinus with eyes already darkening with the shadows of death.
“You did not find what you sought?” Astinus asked, staring down at the young man with cold eyes.
“The Key!” Raistlin gasped through white lips flecked with blood. “Lost … in time… Fools!” His clawlike hand clenched, anger the only fire that burned in him. “So simple! Everyone knew it… no one recorded it! The Key… all I need . . . lost!”
“So this ends your journey, my old friend,” Astinus said without compassion.
Raistlin raised his head, his golden eyes glittering feverishly. “You do know me! Who am I?!” he demanded.
“It is no longer important,” Astinus said. Turning, he started to walk out of the library.
There was a piercing shriek behind him, a hand grasped his robe, dragging him to a halt.
“Don’t turn your back on me as you have turned it on the world!” Raistlin snarled.
“Turn my back on the world…” the historian repeated softly and slowly, his head moving to face the mage. “Turn my back on the world!” Emotion rarely marred the surface of Astinus’s cold voice, but now anger struck the placid calm of his soul like a rock hurled into still water.
“I? Turn my back on the world?” Astinus’s voice rolled around the library as the thunder had rolled previously. “I am the world, as you well know, old friend! Countless times I have been born! Countless deaths I have died! Every tear shed- mine have flowed! Every drop of blood spilled-mine has drained! Every agony, every joy ever felt has been mine to share!
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