“Nightmare!” he cried again, his hopes bizarrely inflamed by the sight of the once familiar creature, however ill-tempered, that had shared the village with him.
But then he was weeping again, this time in frustration, as the horse vanished from his view. He plodded along, his earlier energy rapidly dissipating into bleak despair.
Nearly an hour later he came upon the animal once more, now standing passively at the side of the trail. Walking softly, approaching from the rear, Danyal was startled to hear a gentle, feminine voice—someone who sounded very much like one of the girls from the village.
“Have a taste of this, you poor old mare. I know you’ve had a bad scare. Believe me, I know what that’s like. There, take another bite. There’s plenty more apples on the ground in the orchard.”
Danyal’s next step brought him in view of the speaker, and he was surprised to see a kendermaid. He recognized her race immediately. Several times a year, one or more of the diminutive wanderers would travel through Waterton, to the dismay of honest and gods-fearing folk. But they had always been friendly and entertaining to the village’s children.
This one was the size of a human girl, but wisps of gray streaked her thick, dark hair, a mane that she had bound in the typical kender topknot, except that it split into two tails, one draped over each of her shoulders. Her face was round and becoming; only the spiderweb of wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes suggested that this was other than a pretty girl. That, and the pointed tips of her ears, Danyal realized, as he recognized the elfin shapes framing her face. She wore practical and well-worn leggings, moccasins, and jacket, and had an assortment of pouches and purses dangling from her neck, shoulders, and belt.
Her eyes widened as she saw him, but then she smoothly raised a finger to her lips, silencing him before he could speak. She pulled an apple from a voluminous bag at her side and allowed Nightmare to nibble on the ripe fruit. At the same time, she slipped a halter line over the horse’s muzzle and carefully drew the rope over the now upstanding ears.
Danyal, having previously seen this maneuver attempted upon Nightmare, inevitably with disastrous results, was surprised when the horse nickered softly, then probed toward the pouch in search of another apple.
“There, there.” Now that he watched her speak, he could see that the stranger spoke with a maternal, soothing tone that belied her diminutive size. She gently patted the horse on the neck, and Nightmare’s head bobbed in response—or perhaps the motion was simply an effort to chew the next apple.
“Hello,” she said at last, looking at Danyal with an expression of sympathy and concern. “I saw the dragon. Are you from the village?”
He nodded dumbly.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I guessed that this horse came from there. Is there anyone else …?”
She let the question hang in the air, and this time his mute response was a shake of the head.
“Well, here,” she said, offering him the end of the halter. “I think you should have him.”
Reflexively Danyal took the rope, though he was vaguely surprised that Nightmare didn’t immediately take off running. “Th-thanks,” he said, also by reflex.
“I wouldn’t try to ride him just yet,” she said. “He got kind of burned on the shoulder there. I was thinking that maybe a mud poultice would help it heal.”
“You’re right!” The youth was suddenly infused with enthusiasm, with the thought that there was something he could do to help. “I’ll be right back.”
He skidded down the slope, into a silty patch of the streambed, and quickly scooped a double handful of the smooth, gooey stuff. Scrambling back up the bank, he struggled to keep his balance without using his hands. At the horse’s flank, he reached up to gently place the poultice over the hairless, seared patch of flesh. Nightmare shivered, his pelt rippling along his flank, but he didn’t shy away from the ministrations.
“That was a good idea,” he said, speaking softly to the kendermaid, who had been standing on the other side of the animal. Questions suddenly occurred to him, and he blurted them out: “Who are you? What’s your name? Do you live somewhere around here, in the valley?”
When he got no response, he dipped his head, looking under Nightmare’s neck. He felt a chilling sense of surprise, wondering if, for a moment, he had imagined the kendermaid’s presence.
She was nowhere to be seen.
Chapter 19
Autobiography
To His Excellency Astinus, Lorekeeper of Krynn
Inscribed this year of Krynn, 353 AC
As Your Excellency can well imagine, I am moved and flattered by your request that I provide a summation of my own life story. Of course, it has always been my belief that the proper historian should be a reporter, a chronicler of great deeds, and not a participant. Whether the fortune be good or ill, however, it has been my luck to have been thrust into the role of participant in some of these occurrences. Overcoming my reluctance, suppressing my discipline and training, I have forced myself, as it were, to stir the river’s waters with a paddle of my own.
Naturally my humble role is dwarfed, virtually to insignificance, by the deeds of the great actors on the historical stage. Indeed, it seems presumptuous of me even to take up quill and ink for the discussion of such abjectly inconsequential deeds of my own, though admittedly those trivial occurrences did involve a certain level of risk to me. My blood still chills at the knowledge of the perilous circumstances that I repeatedly encountered. With nothing more then the steadiness of my spirit, the keenness of my observer’s eye, and the sly wit of my tongue, I went into contest with villains of monstrous capability, fiends who would have flayed me alive as soon as looked at me.
And with all humility, I have overcome my modesty enough to describe how my encounters in these adventures were indeed met with some measure of success, however small and unportentous it may have been.
But, of course, I digress, forgetting that you have requested a history of the time preceding those sublime accomplishments. As ever, I shall strive my best to be the equal of Your Excellency’s requirements.
To wit: My studies commenced during the autumn of 366 AC, when I was accepted into the Temple of Gilean in Palanthas as a novice. I was commended upon my literacy, though (as Your Excellency is no doubt aware) several of the elders held certain misgivings as to my suitability for the priesthood.
My studies progressed in two directions. In areas of research, of scribing, recording, and of accurate description, I was universally praised. However, in matters representative of faith in our god of neutrality, I confess that I displayed a rather extreme impairment. A typical novice, of course, has learned the basics of casting a spell after the conclusion of a year or two of study. And naturally it is not uncommon for the learning to increase in rapidity as the apprentice spends more time in the monastery.
In my own case, sadly, I passed the better part of a decade pursuing my studies devoutly, yet failed to so much as stir the dust in the library by means of magic. It was as if a light, a discernible spark, was glowing in the spirit of each of the other monks. In my case, however, the ember had been long ago doused, and so thoroughly soaked that it could never be relit.
In the course of my academic accomplishments, however, I did manage to make such a name for myself (or so I was told by the masters and Patriarch Grimbriar himself) that it drew even the attention of Your Excellency. It was the matter of my writing, of course, and not my faith that resulted in this notice. Specifically it was the study of Fistandantilus, the topic that became such a focal point of my early research.
The archmage of the black robe, so utterly corrupt and yet so immortally powerful, was a figure unlike any other in the long history of Krynn. His was a story full of contradictions and indeed is one of the powerful side currents wherein the River of Time goes through such tumultuous cascades in order to draw the various streams together. The tale began in the mists of ancient times and carries through the present, and it even
, during the future that is my past, bears a relevance to the ongoing course of the great river.
Too, it is a tale that is known to be entwined with another of history’s great figures, the archmage Raistlin Majere. In places, in fact, the currents of the two archmages in the stream of history seem to run together, mingling in such a fashion that they are truly indistinguishable.
It was my choice to make the study of Fistandantilus my first area of specialization. I derived great pleasure during those years in the monastery in tracing the accounts of the archmage’s presence in this or that portion of Ansalon, during times when he was active, times when he was dormant, and even during epochs when it seemed that he was in two places at once! I did a bit of traveling in the course of these studies, most notably a journey to Haven in 370–371, where I unearthed key details. There you will remember that I did (or should I say “I will”?) unearth the first mention of Kelryn Darewind, though at my first encounter, I did not learn the name of the false high priest.
And there was a great deal that had been written about my subject, enough to keep me occupied for those years of research. (Forgive me, Excellency, if I now dare to think that my own body of work has significantly expanded that material, that it might provide months or years of inspiration to the diligent student historian who might someday follow in my tracks!)
Yet inevitably I reached a time when I had exhausted the available sources. And still I had displayed no aptitude for the casting of even the most basic spells of clerical magic. In truth, it seemed that my aspirations toward the priesthood were destined to end in failure.
It was in the spirit of a last chance that Patriarch Grimbriar and my own tutors at last called me into their presence. I remember still the flickering tapers casting yellow beams of light through the dark, lofty library. My heart was hammering, for I feared that I was to be dismissed as a failure, sent from the place to make my way in the world as one who could not find his true calling.
Instead, my mentor, Falstar Kane, opened the meeting by giving me a gift. The Book of Learning, it was, and I well recognized the treasure that I held and the level of trust that the temple hierarchy had placed in me.
I opened the enchanted tome and was confronted with a blank page. I knew enough of the meaning to wait expectantly for the further words of the masters. (Of the book, more later.)
“We have decided, Foryth, that your learning must continue along a different path than it has to date,” Falstar Kane declared, his tone gentle.
“I await your commands, your inspiration!” I pledged with utmost sincerity.
“We are sending you once again into the world beyond the walls of our temple,” continued my mentor gravely.
“Where, my lords?” I inquired in tones as bold as I could muster.
“Your diligence in the matter of the archmage is well known,” declared Thantal, one of the other masters. “It has been suggested that you journey to a place where you might continue that study, where you might seek to add to your work … and at the same time seek something else as well.”
I was admittedly intrigued. Even at that moment, I had determined upon an initial target for my studies.
“Field research—and a quest for magic,” declared Patriarch Grimbriar, putting all the cards on the table (if Your Excellency is not repelled by a gambling metaphor).
“What kind of magic?” I dared to ask.
It was Falstar who replied. “Any kind, my son. You are to travel for a year, and it is hoped that you will take advantage of the time to further your studies on the matter of Fistandantilus.”
“However, it is expected, nay, required”—the patriarch’s tone was very stern indeed—“that you return to these premises in possession of a spell of clerical magic. You must do this within the allotted time of a year, or your course of study under the Scale of Gilean shall be terminated.”
His words chilled into a ball of ice within my gut. I had struggled mightily to learn a spell, but if I had failed within the reverent, controlled environment of the monastery, it did not seem likely that I could succeed in the chaos of the outside world.
“Do you have an idea,” Falstar asked, “of where you might commence your journey?”
To that, I replied with confidence. “You may recall from my research the discovery of a man, a false priest of the Seekers, who once lived in Haven,” I replied. Encouraged by my listeners’ apparent interest, I continued.
“During the time of the Seekers, he established a false religion, gaining considerable prestige until the coming of the dragonarmies. He left the city then, but I have encountered hints in my studies that suggest he may still live somewhere in the remote and mountainous country south of Qualinesti.”
“Why does this particular cleric—a false cleric, it should be noted—interest you?” There was honest curiosity in Brother Thantal’s voice.
“Because his sect was based on a worship of Fistandantilus,” I replied.
“Appropriate enough,” agreed Grimbriar. “But the man must be very old by now. Perhaps he has died.”
“He may have died,” I agreed, “but I doubt that he is old.” In the face of their questioning glares, I explained. “His sect lasted for some fifty years in Haven, yet at the time of its dissolution, he was still a young man. He had found a means to avoid the effects of aging.” (I did not mention my supposition, but I believed even then that the bloodstone of Fistandantilus might have been the key to this longevity.)
“That is interesting,” Falstar Kane declared with a pleased smile. “May the god of neutrality watch over you on your travels.”
“And grant you good fortune as well,” added the patriarch. (For all his sternness, I believe that he really did want me to succeed.)
So it was that I left the monastery in Palanthas behind, taking ship to New Ports, then following a rough overland road into the depths of the Kharolis wilderness.
And it is there, Excellency, that my story truly begins, in that future era when I was a much younger man.
In Devotion to the Truth,
Your Loyal Servant, Foryth Teel
Chapter 20
A Disturbance in the Night
374 AC
Fourth Bakukal, Paleswelt-First Linaras, Reapember
The apple orchard was right where the kendermaid had said it would be. Tethering Nightmare to a sturdy branch, Danyal gathered as much of the fruit as he could. He placed the apples in his creel, for lack of a better place, and then ate several while he sat on the grass and watched the black horse graze.
Nightmare, for her part, glared balefully at the lad, the relentless stare of the large brown eyes making Danyal very uneasy. He imagined the horse thinking about a way to break loose, perhaps to trample him or, at the very least, to gallop away, never to be seen again.
“Maybe I should just let you go,” he reflected aloud. “You’re probably going to be a lot more trouble than you’re worth.”
The horse’s ears came forward at the words, and as Nightmare started to crunch another apple, Danyal felt a strange kinship to the animal. He knew he would be even more lonely if the steed was to run away, so he shook his head and laughed ruefully.
“I guess we’re stuck together, the two survivors of Waterton.”
It still didn’t seem real when he thought about it, and so he tried not to do so. He wondered about the trail he would walk tomorrow, though these thoughts were troubling, too, because they led, inevitably, to the dragon that had flown away into the north.
When darkness descended, the lad pulled his blanket over himself and fell asleep, only to toss and turn anxiously. His dreams were troubled by images of fire, of giant crimson wings and a killing maw. Interspersed were episodes in which he saw his mother or the rest of his family, only to have them snatched cruelly away by some force over which he had no control.
He awakened before dawn, shivering despite his blanket, and feeling a powerful gnawing in his gut. It was a hunger that could not be addressed by apples,
and he made his way to the stream as the first tendrils of light reached upward from the eastern horizon. Before half the sky had paled he had three nice trout. He built a fire at the edge of the grove and felt the warmth of the flames. Cleaning and splitting the fish, he speared the fillets onto sharp sticks and grilled them over the fire.
By the time the sun had risen into the treetops, he was well fed, warm, and dry. He changed the muddy poultice over Nightmare’s wound, relieved to see that it had begun to heal nicely. Finally he took the tether in one hand, his fishing pole in the other, and started along the streamside trail.
Before the sun reached its zenith, he knew he was farther from home than he had ever been before. The valley here looked much the same as it did around Waterton, though he noticed that the stream had more frequent stretches of frothing rapids. The weather remained warm and sunny, for which he was grateful, and at times he would walk for a mile or more without remembering the horror that had driven him onto this trail. He would lose himself in a sense of adventure, the confidence of the fisherman that, just around the next bend, he would find the ideal pool, the perfect fish.
But then the memories would return, and he plodded forward under a melancholy that was more oppressive than the heaviest overcast, borne down by a weighty depression as dispiriting as any drenching shower.
The sun itself seemed to darken in the sky, and Danyal found himself slowing, stumbling, biting back the lump building in his throat. At these times, it was Nightmare that kept them going, the big horse leaning forward, hooves clopping at a steady pace, the tether in the boy’s hand tugging him along, keeping him from a state of utter collapse.
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