Dragons of Spring Dawning - Margaret Weis [28]
“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!”
Bertrem’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 which, 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.”
Ignoring Bertrem’s shocked look, Astinus turned and began to walk toward the door.
“Wait!” Raistlin’s voice rasped. The mage reached out a trembling hand as Astinus slowly came to a halt. “You asked me what I saw when I looked at you. Now I ask you the same thing. I saw that look upon your face when you bent over me. You recognized me! You know me! Who am I? What do you see?”
Astinus looked back, his face cold, blank, and impenetrable as marble.
“You said you saw a man who was not dying,” the historian told the mage softly. Hesitating a moment, he shrugged and once again turned away. “I see a man who is.”
And, with that, he walked out the door.
It is assumed that You who hold this Book in your Hands have successfully passed the Tests in one of the Towers of High Sorcery and that You have demonstrated Your Ability to exert Control over a Dragon Orb or some other approved Magical Artifact (see Appendix C) and, further that You have demonstrated Proven Ability in casting the Spells—
“Yes, yes,” muttered Raistlin, hurriedly scanning the runes that crawled like spiders across the page. Reading impatiently through the list of spells, he finally reached the conclusion.
Having completed these Requirements to the Satisfaction of Your Masters, We give into Your Hands this Spellbook. Thus, with the Key, You unlock Our Mysteries.
With a shriek of inarticulate rage, Raistlin shoved the spellbook with its night-blue binding and silver runes aside. His hand shaking, he reached for the next night-blue bound book in the huge pile he had amassed at his side. A fit of coughing forced him to stop. Fighting for breath, he feared for a moment that he could not go on.
The pain was unbearable. Sometimes he longed to sink into oblivion, end this torture he must live with daily. Weak and dizzy, he let his head sink to the desk, cradled in his arms. Rest, sweet, painless rest. An image of his brother came to his mind. There was Caramon in the afterlife, waiting for his little brother. Raistlin could see his twin’s sad, doglike eyes, he could feel his pity.…
Raistlin drew a breath with a gasp, then forced himself to sit up. Meeting Caramon! I’m getting light-headed, he sneered at himself. What nonsense!
Moistening his blood-caked lips with water, Raistlin took hold of the next night-blue spellbook and pulled it over to him. Its silver runes flashed in the candlelight, its cover—icy cold to the touch—was the same as the covers of all the other spellbooks stacked around him. Its cover was the same as the spellbook in his possession already, the spellbook he knew by heart and by soul, the spellbook of the greatest mage who ever lived, Fistandantilus.
With trembling hands, Raistlin opened the cover. His feverish eyes devoured the page, reading the same requirements—only mages high in