“You do not resemble your twin,” Astinus said coolly, “but then Raistlin had undergone many trials that marked him both physically and mentally. Still, there is something of him in your eyes...
The historian frowned, puzzled. He did not understand, and there was nothing on the face of Krynn that he did not understand. Consequently, he grew angry.
Astinus rarely grew angry. His irritation alone sent a wave of terror through the Aesthetics. But he was angry now. His graying brows bristled, his lips tightened, and there was a look in his eyes that made the kender glance about nervously, wondering if he hadn’t left something outside in the hall that he needed—now!
“What is it?” The historian demanded finally, slamming his hand down upon his book, causing his pen to jump, the ink to spill, and Bertrem—waiting in the corridor—to run away as fast as his flapping sandals could take him.
“There is a mystery about you, Caramon Majere, and there are no mysteries for me! I know everything that transpires upon the face of Krynn. I know the thoughts of every living being! I see their actions! I read the wishes of their hearts! Yet I cannot read your eyes!”
“Tas told you,” Caramon said imperturbably. Reaching into a knapsack he wore, the big man produced a huge, leather-bound volume which he set carefully down upon the desk in front of the historian.
“That’s one of mine!” Astinus said, glancing at it, his scowl deepening. His voice rose until he actually shouted. “Where did it come from? None of my books leave without my knowledge! Bertrem—”
“Look at the date.”
Astinus glared furiously at Caramon for a second, then shifted his angry gaze to the book. He looked at the date upon the volume, prepared to shout for Bertrem again. But the shout rattled in his throat and died. He stared at the date, his eyes widening. Sinking down into his chair, he looked from the volume to Caramon, then back to the volume again.
“It is the future I see in your eyes!”
“The future that is this book,” Caramon said, regarding it with grave solemnity.
“We were there!” said Tas, bouncing up eagerly. “Would you like to hear about it? It’s the most wonderful story. You see, we came back to Solace, only it didn’t look like Solace. I thought it was a moon, in fact, because I’d been thinking about a moon when we used the magical device and—”
“Hush, Tas,” Caramon said gently. Standing up, he put his hand on the kender’s shoulder and quietly left the room. Tas—being steered firmly out the door—glanced backward. “Goodbye!” he called, waving his hand. “Nice seeing you again, er, before, uh, after, well, whatever.”
But Astinus neither heard nor noticed. The day he received the book from Caramon Majere was the only day that passed in the entire history of Palanthas that had nothing recorded for it but one entry:
This day, as above Afterwatch rising 14, Caramon Majere brought me the Chronicles of Krynn, Volume 2000. A volume written by me that I will never write.
The funeral of Elistan represented, to the people of Palanthas, the funeral of their beloved city as well. The ceremony was held at daybreak as Elistan had requested, and everyone in Palanthas attended—old, young, rich, poor. The injured who were able to be moved were carried from their homes, their pallets laid upon the scorched and blackened grass of the once-beautiful lawns of the Temple.
Among these was Dalamar. No one murmured as the dark elf was helped across the lawn by Tanis and Caramon to take his place beneath a grove of charred, burned aspens. For rumor had it that the young apprentice magic-user had fought the Dark Lady—as Kitiara was known—and defeated her, thereby bringing about the destruction of her forces.
Elistan had wanted to be buried in his Temple, but that was impossible now—the Temple being nothing but a gutted shell of marble. Lord Amothus had offered his family’s tomb, but Crysania had declined. Remembering that Elistan had found his faith in the slave mines of Pax Tharkas, the Revered Daughter—now head of the church—decreed that he be laid to rest beneath the Temple in one of the underground caverns that had formerly been used for storage. Though some were shocked, no one questioned Crysania’s commands. The caverns were cleaned and sanctified, a marble bier was built from the remains of the Temple. And hereafter, even in the grand days of the church that were to come, all of the priests were laid to rest in this humble place that became known as one of the most holy places on Krynn. The people settled down on the lawn in silence. The birds, knowing nothing of death or war or grief, but knowing only that the sun was rising and that they were alive in the bright morning, filled the air with song. The suns rays tipped the mountains with gold, driving away the darkness of the night, bringing light to hearts heavy with sorrow.
One person only rose to speak Elistan’s eulogy, and it was deemed fitting by everyone that she do so. Not only because she was now taking his place—as he had requested—as head of the church, but because she seemed to the people of Palanthas to epitomize their loss and their pain. That morning, they said, was the first time she had risen from her bed since Tanis Half-Elven brought her down from the Temple of High Sorcery to the steps of the Great Library, where the clerics worked among the injured and the dying. She had been near death herself. But her faith and the prayers of the clerics restored her to life. They could not, however, restore her sight. Crysania stood before them that morning, her eyes looking straight into the sun she would never see again. Its rays glistened in her black hair that framed a face made beautiful by a look of deep, abiding compassion and faith.
“As I stand in darkness,” she said, her clear voice rising sweet and pure among the songs of the larks, “I feel the warmth of the light upon my skin and I know my face is turned toward the sun. I can look into the sun, for my eyes are forever shrouded by darkness. But if you who can see look too long in the sun, you will lose your sight, just as those who live too long in the darkness will gradually lose theirs.
“This Elistan taught—that mortals were not meant to live solely in sun or in shadow, but in both. Both have their perils, if misused, both have their rewards. We have come through our trials of blood, of darkness, of fire—” Her voice quavered and broke at this point. Those nearest her saw tears upon her cheeks. But, when she continued, her voice was strong. Her tears glistened in the sunlight. “We have come through these trials as Huma came through his, with great loss, with great sacrifice, but strong in the knowledge that our spirit shines and that we, perhaps, gleam brightest among all the stars of the heavens.
“For though some might choose to walk the paths of night, looking to the black moon to guide them, while others walk the paths of day, the rough and rock-strewn trails of both can be made easier by the touch of a hand, the voice of a friend. The capacity to love, to care, is given to us all—the greatest gift of the gods to all the races.
“Our beautiful city has perished in flame.” Her voice softened. “We have lost many whom we loved, and it seems perhaps that life is too difficult a burden for us to bear. But reach out your hand, and it will touch the hand of someone reaching out to you, and—together—you will find the strength and hope you need to go on.”
After the ceremonies, when the clerics had borne the body of Elistan to its final resting place, Caramon and Tas sought out Lady Crysania. They found her among the clerics, her arm resting upon the arm of the young woman who was her guide.
“Here are two who would speak with you, Revered Daughter,” said the young cleric.
Lady Crysania turned, holding out her hand. “Let me touch you,” she said.
“It’s Caramon,” the big man began awkwardly, “and—”
“Me,” said Tas in a meek, subdued voice.
“You have come to say good-bye,” Lady Crysania smiled.
“Yes. We’re leaving today,” Caramon said, holding her hand in his.