The cataclysm t2-2

by Margaret Weis

  "What is the meaning of this?" Astinus barked.

  Caught, the monks cast swift, apologetic glances at the master and hastened back to their seats. Pens scratched diligently. Work resumed.

  Astinus walked among them, eyes darting this way and that. Pausing beside one pale-faced older man, the master of the library stared down at the manuscript, pointed.

  "That is a blot, Johann."

  "Yes, Master. I'm sorry, Master."

  "What is the meaning of that blot, Johann?"

  "I–I'm afraid, Master. Afraid we're all going to die!"

  "If we do, I trust it will be neatly. Start the page over."

  "Yes, Master."

  The Aesthetic removed the offending sheet, slid a clean one in its place. He bent to his task, but, Michael noticed, the monk's fear had eased. He was actually smiling. If Astinus could be concerned over blots at a time like this, surely there was no danger — that's what he was telling himself.

  Michael would have liked to believe that as well, but more and more he was becoming convinced that the master of the library was either drunk or insane or perhaps both.

  They left the main library, entered what Astinus termed the living area. He guided them through long hallways, past the small, comfortless cells where the monks resided.

  "My study," said Astinus, ushering them into a small, book-lined room that contained a desk, a chair, a rug, a lamp, and nothing else. "I rarely permit visitors, but today I will make an exception, since you seem unduly disturbed by the noise in the streets. You" — he indicated Michael — "may sit in the chair. You" — he glowered at Nikol — "stand by the door and touch nothing. Do you understand? Touch nothing! I will be back shortly."

  "Where are you going?" Nikol demanded.

  He stared at her, face frozen.

  "Master," she added in a more respectful tone.

  "You asked for the Disks of Mishakal," said Astinus, and left.

  "At last!" Michael said, sitting in the chair, glad to rest. "Soon we'll have the disks and the answers — "

  "If we live long enough to read them," Nikol stated angrily. She left her place by the door, began pacing the small room, waving her hands. "That old man is a fool! He'll let himself and these poor, wretched monks be butchered, his precious library torn down around his ears. When we get the disks, Michael, we'll take them and leave. And if that old man tries to stop us, I'll — "

  "Nikol," said Michael, awed. "Look… look at this."

  "What?" She stopped her pacing, startled by the odd tone of his voice. "What is it?"

  "A book," said Michael, "left open, here, on the desk."

  "Michael, this is no time to be reading!"

  "Nikol," he said softly, "it's about Lord Soth."

  "What does it say?" she cried, leaning over him. "Tell me!"

  Michael read the text silently to himself.

  "Well?" Nikol demanded, impatient.

  He looked up at her. "He's a murderer, Nikol, and worse. It's all here. How he fell in love with a young elven maid, a virgin priestess. He carried her off to Dargaard Keep, then murdered his first wife, to have her out of his way."

  "Lies!" Nikol cried, white-lipped. "I don't believe it! No true knight would break his vows like that! No true knight would do such a monstrous thing!"

  "Yet, one did," came a deep voice.

  Lord Soth stood in the room.

  Part VIII

  Michael, trembling, rose to his feet. Nikol turned to face the knight. Her hand went to her sword, but fell, nerveless, at her side. The accursed knight's chill pervaded the small room. His flame-eyes were fixed, not on the two who stood before him, but upon the book.

  "That tells my story?" Soth asked, gesturing with his gloved hand to the book on the table.

  "Yes," Michael answered faintly. Nikol fell back, to stand by his side.

  "Turn the book toward me, that I may read it," Soth ordered.

  Hands shaking, Michael did as ordered, shifting the heavy, enormous volume around for the death knight to view. An awful darkness filled the room, doused the lamplight, grew deeper and darker as time passed. The only light was the burning of the flame-eyes, which did not read, so much as devour, each page. Michael and Nikol drew near each other, clasped each other tightly by the hand.

  "You did these terrible deeds?" Nikol asked, her voice as small and unhappy as a child's, whose dream has been shattered. "You murdered…"

  The blazing eyes lifted; their gaze pierced her heart.

  "For love. I did it for love."

  "Not love," Michael said, the warmth of Nikol's touch giving him strength. "Lust, dark desire, but not love. She — the elven maid — she hated you for it, when she found out, didn't she?"

  "She loved me!" Soth's fist clenched in anger. He glanced down at the page. His hand slowly relaxed. "She hated what I had done. She prayed for me. And her prayer was answered. I was to be given the power of stopping the Cataclysm. I was on my way to do so, when I stopped at your castle, Lady."

  The deep voice was sad, filled with regret, a bitter sorrow that wrung the heart. The darkness deepened until they could see nothing except the flaming eyes, the reflection of their fire in the charred and blackened armor. The noise of the mob faded away, became nothing more than the keening of the wind.

  "And I turned aside, as it says here." Soth gestured at the flame-lighted page. "But it was Paladine who tempted me to do so. Elven priestesses, enamored of the Kingpriest, told me that the woman I loved was unfaithful. The child she had born was not mine. Wounded pride, soul-searing jealousy, overwhelmed me, drove me to abandon my quest. I rode back, accused my love, falsely accused her… The Cataclysm struck. My castle fell. She died in the fire… and so did I.

  "But not to stay dead!" Soth's mailed fist clenched again. His anger flared. "I awoke to endless torment, eternal pain! Free me. Cleric. You can. You must. You are a true cleric."

  He stretched out his ghostly hand to the medallion. "The goddess has blessed you."

  "Yet she does not bless you," said Michael, the words falling from fear-numbed lips. "You lied to us, my lord. The gods did not curse you unjustly, as you would have had us believe. All the evil passions that led you to disgrace and downfall are still alive within you."

  "You dare speak so to me? You dare defy me? Wretched mortal! I could slay you with a word!" Soth's finger hovered near Michael's heart. One touch of that death-chilled hand, and the heart would burst.

  "You could," Michael answered, "but you won't. You won't kill me for speaking the truth. I hear your regret, my lord. I hear your sorrow. Better feelings within you war with the dark passions. If you were wholly given over to evil, my lord, you would not care. You would not suffer." "Bitter comfort you offer me. Cleric." Soth sneered. "It could be your redemption," Michael said softly.

  Soth stood long moments in silence. Slowly, his hand lowered. It went to the book, lying on the table. The fingers followed the words, as though the death knight were reading them again. Michael clasped the medallion in one hand, Nikol's hand in the other. Neither spoke. Not that it would have mattered. The death knight seemed unaware of their presence. When he spoke, it was not to them.

  "No!" he cried suddenly, lifting his head, his voice to the heavens. "You tempted me, then treated me unjustly when I fell! I will NOT ask your forgiveness. It is you who should ask mine!"

  Flames sprang up, engulfing the page, the book, seemed likely to set fire to the room. Michael fell back with a cry, shielding Nikol with his body, his hand raised to ward off the searing heat.

  "WHAT is the meaning of this?"

  Astinus's voice fell over them like cool water, doused the flames in an instant. Michael lowered his hand, blinked, staring through an afterimage of fiery red that momentarily blinded him.

  Lord Soth was gone; in his place stood the library's master.

  "I cannot let you two out of my sight a moment, it seems," stated Astinus coldly.

  "But, Master. Didn't you see him?" Michael gasped, pointe
d. "Lord — "

  Nikol dug her nails into his arm. "Tell this old fool nothing!" she whispered urgently. "Forgive us, Master," she said aloud. "Have you brought the Disks of Mishakal?"

  "No," said Astinus. "They are not here. They have never been here. They will never be here."

  "But…" Michael glared at the man. "You said you went to get them…"

  "I said you wanted them. I did not say I would get them," Astinus replied with calm. "I went to open the doors."

  "The great doors! The doors to the library!" Nikol gasped. "You… opened them! You're mad! Now there's nothing to stop the mob from entering!"

  "At least," said Astinus, "they will not harm the woodwork."

  The rising clamor of the mob was much louder than before. They were chanting, "Burn the books, burn the books, burn the books!"

  Michael looked at the book on the desk. It was whole, unharmed. The fire had not touched it. He stared at Astinus and thought he saw the tiniest hint of a smile flicker on the stern lips.

  "You two can escape out the back," said the master.

  "We should," said Nikol, regarding him with scorn. Shoving past Michael, she drew her sword, started for the door. "We should leave you to the mob, old man, but there are others here besides you and, by the Oath and the Measure, I'm bound to protect the innocent, the defenseless."

  "You are not bound. You are not a knight, young woman," said Astinus testily.

  Nikol, however, had already gone. They could hear her booted footsteps racing down the hall. And they could hear, as well, the rising tumult of thousands. Michael took hold of his staff, set out after Nikol. As he passed Astinus, who continued to regard him with that faint smile, Michael paused.

  "'This woman is far more worthy than any of you to wield the sword and wear the armor of a knight,' " he quoted, pointing back at the book that stood upon the desk. "Soth said that. You can read it here."

  He bowed to Astinus and left to join Nikol in death.

  The mob had been astonished to see the master open the great doors that led into the Library of Palanthas. For a moment, the sight of Astinus, standing framed in the doorway, even curbed the loquacity of the Revered Son, who certainly had never expected such a thing. His jaw went slack. He stared foolishly at the master, who not only opened the doors, but bowed silently to the people before leaving.

  Then Nikol appeared. Alone, she advanced to stand before the great doors.

  "Astinus asked me to tell you," she called, spreading her hands in a gesture of welcome, "that the library is always open to the public. The wisdom of the ages is yours. If you enter, do so with respect. Lay down your weapons."

  The crudest, most murderous villain in the crowd could not help but applaud such courage. And most of the people were not murderers or villains, but ordinary citizens, tired of fighting poverty and disease and misfortune, seeking to place the blame for their problems on someone else. They looked ashamed of what they'd done, what they'd been about to do. More than a few began to slink away.

  The Revered Son realized he was losing them.

  "Yes, it's open to the public!" he shouted. "Go inside! Read about the gods who brought this misery upon you! Read about the elves, the favored of the gods, who are living well while you starve! Read about the knights!" He pointed at Nikol. "Even now, they feed off your misery!"

  The people stopped, exchanged glances, looked uncertain. The Revered Son sent a swift glance at the leader of his henchmen, who nodded. A stone hurtled from the crowd, struck Nikol on her shoulder. Hitting her breastplate, the stone knocked her back a step but did no harm.

  "Cowards!" Nikol cried, drawing her sword. "Come and fight me face-to-face."

  But that is not the way of a mob. A second stone followed the first. This one hit its mark, struck her on the forehead. Nikol reeled, dazed from blow, and fell upon one knee. Blood streamed down her face. At the sight, the crowd howled in glee, excited. The henchmen, shouting, urged them on. Nikol staggered to her feet, faced them alone, glittering steel in her hand.

  Michael saw her fall. He started toward the door, to her. A hand clapped over his shoulder.

  The touch chilled him to the very marrow of his bones, drove him to his knees. Looking up into fiery eyes, Michael stifled a gasp of pain, knowing that the touch, if the knight had wanted, could have killed him.

  "The book will remain here forever — for all to, read?" Lord Soth asked.

  "Yes, my lord," Michael answered.

  Soth nodded slowly. It had not been a question, so much as a reaffirmation. "I cannot be saved, but perhaps my story can save someone else."

  The flame-eyes seemed to burn clear for a moment in what might have been a smile. "Ironic, isn't it,' Cleric? Two false knights defending the truth." He let go his hold, turned, and walked out the library doors.

  The mob surged forward. Men came at Nikol with clubs raised. She struck out at the leader, had the pleasure of seeing him fall back with a cry, clapping his hand over a broken, bleeding arm. For a moment, the rest held back, daunted, fearful of the gleaming steel. Then someone threw another rock. It struck Nikol on her hand, knocked the sword from her grasp.

  The mob gave an exultant shout, rushed at her. She tried to reach her weapon, beating those nearest her back with fists and feet, kicking and gouging, knowing all the time she must fall.

  She heard Michael shout her name, turned her head, tried to find him, then she was hit from behind. Pain exploded in her brain. She stumbled to her knees, weak, unable to rise.

  A shadow fell over her. Someone was standing at her back. Someone was helping her to her feet. Someone had retrieved her sword, was handing it to her. Wiping away blood, she peered through mists of pain and failing consciousness.

  A Knight of Solamnia stood beside her. His armor shone silver in the sunlight. His crest fluttered bravely in the wind. His sword gleamed, argent flame, in his strong hand. With respect and reverence, he lifted his sword to her in the knight's salute, then he turned and faced the mob.

  Nikol put her back against his, did the same. At least now she would not die alone, without making one last, glorious stand for the honor of the knights. True knights…

  Nikol blinked, stared in dazed astonishment, unable to comprehend what was happening. She and the knight were outnumbered a thousand to one, yet the mob was not attacking. Faces that had been contorted in bloodlust were now twisted in horror. Curses and threats shrilled to terrified shrieks. Men who had been racing up the library stairs were tumbling over themselves and each other in a panicked race back down.

  The Revered Son was among the first to flee, running for his life, driven by such stark terror that it seemed likely he would stop running only when he reached the Newsea.

  Nikol's sword was suddenly too heavy for her to hold. It slid from her grasp. She was tired, so tired. She sank to the stone steps, wanting only to sleep. Strong arms took hold of her, gathered her close.

  "Nikol!" a voice cried. "Beloved!"

  She opened her eyes, saw only Michael's face, illuminated by a soft blue light.

  "Is the library… safe?" she asked.

  Michael nodded, unable to speak for his grief and fear for her.

  Nikol smiled. "Cowards," she murmured. "They dared not stand and face a true knight."

  "No," said Michael, through his tears, "they dared not."

  Blue light surrounded her, soothed her. She slept.

  Part IX

  "Are you certain you are well enough to travel, my lady?" The young Aesthetic, Malachai, gazed at Nikol anxiously. "You were grievously hurt." "Yes, I'm fine," said Nikol, with a hint of irritation. "My dear…" Michael reprimanded gently. Nikol glanced at him, glanced at the young monk, who was looking downcast. She sighed. She detested being "fussed over."

  "I'm sorry I snapped at you. You've all been very kind to me. I thank you for everything you've done," said Nikol.

  "We would have done more, much more, but you seemed to be in good hands," Malachai said, with a smile for Michael.
"I'll never forget that terrible day," he added, with a shudder. "Looking down from the window, seeing you standing beside that evil knight, so brave, so courageous — "

  "What evil knight?" Nikol asked.

  The Aesthetic flushed crimson, clapped his hand over his mouth. Casting a guilty look at Michael, Malachai made a brief, bobbing bow and scuttled from the tiny room.

  "What was he talking about?" Nikol demanded. "There was no evil knight there. He was a Knight of the Rose. I saw him clearly."

  "Astinus wants to see us, before we go," Michael said, turning from her. "Everything's packed. The Aesthetics have really been very kind. They've given us food, warm clothing, blankets — "

  "Michael." Nikol came to stand in front of him, forcing him to face her. "What did that Book Reader mean?"

  Michael took hold of her, held her tightly, thinking of how he'd almost lost her. "Lord Soth was the one who fought at your side, Beloved."

  She Stared at him. "No! That's not possible. I saw a knight, a true knight!"

  "I think you saw the part of him that still struggles toward the light. Unfortunately, I think it is part of him that few will ever see again." Michael added, with a sigh, "Now, come. We must bid farewell to Astinus."

  The Aesthetics led them to the master's study. The ageless man with his expressionless face was hard at work, writing in a thick book. He did not glance up at their entry, but continued working. They stood for long moments in silence, then Nikol, growing bored and restless, walked over to look out the window.

  Astinus lifted his head. "Young woman, you are standing in my light!"

  Nikol jumped, flushed. "I beg your pardon — "

  "Why are you here?" he asked.

  "You sent for us, Master," Michael reminded him.

  "Humpf." Carefully Astinus replaced his pen back in the inkwell. Folding his hands, he regarded the two impatiently.