Fistandantilus Reborn - Douglas Niles [6]
And always the wizard’s power grew, and his influence spread wide across the world-until, in 37 AC, his writings abruptly ceased.
Though this might be regarded as occurring at the height of Whastryk’s influence and power, a careful study of the records arrives at a different conclusion. Indeed, I have discerned that, during the five or six years preceding (say, from 31 AC on), the notations of Whastryk increasingly indicate the effects of advancing age. I see a hint of palsy creeping into what had once been a steady hand, and the last volume of records is shoddily kept, at least in comparison to Whastryk’s early notes.
Eventually, with no reason given, the notes cease altogether.
Perhaps boredom simply caused the mage to lose interest in his record keeping (a historian’s worst nightmare!), or perhaps he met some kind of sudden end that has been lost to the history books. Furthermore, though I have pored over the records from Haven during that and subsequent periods, I have found no mention of the silver vial given to Whastryk by Fistandantilus.
Whatever the archmage’s purposes with that uncharacteristic gift, it seems conclusive that those purposes were thwarted. The vial and its contents, like the life of Whastryk itself, were brought to a terminus in that chaotic city.
Perhaps I shall get to Haven some day to pursue the matter; until then, it seems that there is nothing more to learn.
Foryth Teel,
In Research for the Scale of Gilean
CHAPTER 4
An Unlikely Hero
37 AC
Third Miranor On the way home from the smithy, Paulus Thwait turned as he always did into the street where he lived. It was more of an alley, he was inclined to admit in moments of honesty, but-more important to him than any outward appearance of status or grandeur-it led the way to the place that he called home.
A smile played across his face, brightening the young man’s normally intense features as he thought of the wife and baby awaiting him a hundred steps away. He ignored the close quarters of the taverns and tenements pressing from each side, the squalor of Haven that was so rank around him, and allowed his step to be buoyed by the thought of the cramped rooms that would be warm and aromatic from the cookstove, and by the knowledge that his family would be there, waiting.
It was strange to feel so happy, he thought, remembering that a few years earlier he would have guessed such a life to be as removed from his future as a visit to the farthest of Krynn’s three moons. Indeed, how easily he could have fallen into a life of thuggery, playing the role of one of the Black Kite’s bullies as so many young men of Haven did. After all, Paulus had proved that he was strong and brave, and keen and steady with his blade. And he had a temper that insured his fighting skills stayed in good practice.
Yet he had talent with his hands and eyes as well, talent that had been recognized by one of the city’s premier silversmiths. That artisan, Revrius Frank, had taken the young man as an apprentice, allowed Paulus Thwait’s talent to grow through the working of an honest trade.
The brawny apprentice had progressed to journeyman in a surprisingly short time, and lately Revrius had slyly hinted that he would soon have competition in this city quarter from another master silversmith. Now, making his way home at the end of a long, hard day of work, Paulus felt a flush of pride at the notion, and his pride swelled into a determination that tomorrow he would do an even better job with his metal and his tools.
But even beyond the gratification of his developing craft, the young silversmith had the best reason of all to be happy. It had been nearly two years ago that a caravan of settlers had come through the city, on their way to the good farming country reputed to exist to the south, in Kharolis.
Belinda Mayliss, the daughter of one such farmer, had immediately caught the tradesman’s eye, an attraction that