Crysania of Tarinius waited patiently. She did not fidget or
sigh or glance often at the water-run timing device in the cor-
ner. She did not read – though Astinus was certain Bertrem
would have her offered a book. She did not pace the room or
examine the few rare ornaments that stood in shadowed nooks
within the bookcases. She sat in the straight, uncomfortable,
wooden chair, her clear, bright eyes fixed upon the red-stained
fringes of the clouds above the mountains as if she were watch-
ing the sun set for possibly the first – or last – time upon
Krynn.
So intent was she upon the sight beyond the window that
Astinus entered without attracting her attention. He regarded
her with intense interest. This was not unusual for the histo-
rian, who scrutinized all beings living upon Krynn with the
same fathomless, penetrating gaze. What was unusual was
that, for a moment, a look of pity and of profound sorrow
passed across the historian’s face.
Astinus recorded history. He had recorded it since the begin-
ning of time, watching it pass before his eyes and setting it
down in his books. He could not foretell the future, that was
the province of the gods. But he could sense all the signs of
change, those same signs that had so disturbed Bertrem. Stand-
ing there, he could hear the drops of water falling in the timing
device. By placing his hand beneath them, he could cease the
flow of the drops, but time would go on.
Sighing, Astinus turned his attention to the woman, whom
he had heard of but never met.
Her hair was black, blue-black, black as the water of a calm
sea at night. She wore it combed straight back from a central
part, fastened at the back of her head with a plain, unadorned,
wooden comb. The severe style was not becoming to her pale,
delicate features, emphasizing their pallor. There was no color
at all in her face. Her eyes were gray and seemingly much too
large. Even her lips were bloodless.
Some years ago, when she had been young, servants had
braided and coiled that thick, black hair into the latest, fash-
ionable styles, tucking in pins of silver and of gold, decorating
the somber hues with sparkling jewels. They had tinted her
cheeks with the juice of crushed berries and dressed her in
sumptuous gowns of palest pinks and powdery blues. Once she
had been beautiful. Once her suitors had waited in lines.
The gown she wore now was white, as befitted a cleric of Pal-
adine, and plain though made of fine material. It was
unadorned save for the belt of gold that encircled her slim
waist. Her only ornament was Paladine’s – the medallion of the
Platinum Dragon. Her hair was covered by a loose white hood
that enhanced the marble smoothness and coldness of her com-
plexion.
She might have been made of marble, Astinus thought, with
one difference – marble could be warmed by the sun.
“Greetings, Revered Daughter of Paladine,” Astinus said,
entering and shutting the door behind him.
“Greetings, Astinus,” Crysania of Tarinius said, rising to her
feet.
As she walked across the small room toward him, Astinus
was somewhat startled to note the swiftness and almost mascu-
line length of her stride. It seemed oddly incongruous with her
delicate features. Her handshake, too, was firm and strong, not
typical of Palanthian women, who rarely shook hands and
then did so only by extending their fingertips.
“I must thank you for giving up your valuable time to act as a
neutral party in this meeting,” Crysania said coolly. “I know
how you dislike taking time from your studies.”
“As long as it is not wasted time, I do not mind,” Astinus
replied, holding her hand and regarding her intently. “I must
admit, however, that I resent this.”
“Why?” Crysania searched the man’s ageless face in true per-
plexity. Then – in sudden understanding – she smiled, a cold
smile that brought no more life to her face than the moonlight
upon snow. “You don’t believe he will come, do you?”
Astinus snorted, dropping the woman’s hand as though he