world had finally seemed to settle around him, but he felt
change coming once again, just as he had felt it two years ago.
He wished he could stop it….
Bertrem sighed. “I’m certainly not going to stop anything by
standing out here in the darkness,” he muttered. He felt uncom-
fortable anyway, as though surrounded by ghosts. A bright
light shone from under the door, beaming out into the hallway.
Giving a quick glance backward at the shadows of the books,
peaceful corpses resting in their tombs, the Aesthetic quietly
opened the door and entered the study of Astinus of Palanthas.
Though the man was within, he did not speak, nor even look
up.
Walking with gentle, measured tread across the rich rug of
lamb’s wool that lay upon the marble floor, Bertrem paused
before the great, polished wooden desk. For long moments he
said nothing, absorbed in watching the hand of the historian
guide the quill across the parchment in firm, even strokes.
“Well, Bertrem?” Astinus did not cease his writing.
Bertrem, facing Astinus, read the letters that – even upside
down – were crisp and clear and easily decipherable.
This day, as above Darkwatch rising 29, Bertrem entered my
study.
“Crysania of the House of Tarinius is here to see you, Master.
She says she is expected….” Bertrem’s voice trailed off in a
whisper, it having taken a great deal of the Aesthetic’s courage
to get that far.
Astinus continued writing.
“Master,” Bertrem began faintly, shivering with his daring.
“I – we are at a loss. She is, after all, a Revered Daughter of Pal-
adine and I – we found it impossible to refuse her admittance.
What sh -”
“Take her to my private chambers,” Astinus said without
ceasing to write or looking up.
Bertrem’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, rendering
him momentarily speechless. The letters flowed from the quill
pen to the white parchment.
This day, as above Afterwatch rising 28, Crysania of Tari-
nius arrived for her appointment with Raistlin Majere.
“Raistlin Majere!” Bertrem gasped, shock and horror prying
his tongue loose. “Are we to admit hi -”
Astinus looked up now, annoyance and irritation creasing
his brow. As his pen ceased its eternal scratching on the parch-
ment, a deep unnatural silence settled upon the room. Bertrem
paled. The historian’s face might have been reckoned hand-
some in a timeless, ageless fashion. But none who saw his face
ever remembered it. They simply remembered the eyes – dark,
intent, aware, constantly moving, seeing everything. Those
eyes could also communicate vast worlds of impatience,
reminding Bertrem that time was passing. Even as the two
spoke, whole minutes of history were ticking by, unrecorded.
“Forgive me, Master!” Bertrem bowed in profound rever-
ence, then backed precipitately out of the study, closing the
door quietly on his way. Once outside, he mopped his shaved
head that was glistening with perspiration, then hurried down
the silent, marble corridors of the Great Library of Palanthas.
Astinus paused in the doorway to his private residence, his
gaze on the woman who sat within.
Located in the western wing of the Great Library, the resi-
dence of the historian was small and, like all other rooms in the
library, was filled with books of every type and binding, lining
the shelves on the walls and giving the central living area a faint
musty odor, like a mausoleum that had been sealed for centu-
ries. The furniture was sparse, pristine. The chairs, wooden
and handsomely carved, were hard and uncomfortable to sit
upon. A low table, standing by a window, was absolutely free
of any ornament or object, reflecting the light from the setting
sun upon its smooth black surface. Everything in the room was
in the most perfect order. Even the wood for the evening fire –
the late spring nights were cool, even this far north – was
stacked in such orderly rows it resembled a funeral pyre.
And yet, cool and pristine and pure as was this private cham-
ber of the historian, the room itself seemed only to mirror the
cold, pristine, pure beauty of the woman who sat, her hands
folded in her lap, waiting.