Time of the Twins

Margaret Weis Tracy Hickman Time of the Twins

Book 1

The Meeting

A lone figure trod softly toward the distant light. Walking unheard, his footfalls were sucked into the vast darkness all around him. Bertrem indulged in a rare flight of fancy as he glanced at the seemingly endless rows of books and scrolls that were part of the Chronicles of Astinus and detailed the history of this world, the history of Krynn.

“It’s like being sucked into time,” he thought, sighing as he glanced at the still, silent rows. He wished, briefly, that he were being sucked away somewhere, so that he did not have to face the difficult task ahead of him.

“All the knowledge of the world is in these books,” he said to himself wistfully. “And I’ve never found one thing to help make the intrusion upon their author any easier.”

Bertrem came to a halt outside the door to summon his courage. His flowing Aesthetic’s robes settled themselves about him, falling into correct and orderly folds. His stomach, however, refused to follow the robes’ example and lurched about wildly. Bertrem ran his hand across his scalp, a nervous gesture left over from a younger age, before his chosen profession had cost him his hair.

What was bothering him? he wondered bleakly—other than going in to see the Master, of course, something he had not done since... since... He shuddered. Yes, since the young mage had nearly died upon their doorstep during the last war.

War... change, that was what it was. Like his robes, the world had finally seemed to settle around him, but he felt change coming once again, just as he had felt it two years ago. He wished he could stop it...

Bertrem sighed. “I’m certainly not going to stop anything by standing out here in the darkness,” he muttered. He felt uncomfortable anyway, as though surrounded by ghosts. A bright light shone from under the door, beaming out into the hallway. Giving a quick glance backward at the shadows of the books, peaceful corpses resting in their tombs, the Aesthetic quietly opened the door and entered the study of Astinus of Palanthas.

Though the man was within, he did not speak, nor even look up.

Walking with gentle, measured tread across the rich rug of lamb’s wool that lay upon the marble floor, Bertrem paused before the great, polished wooden desk. For long moments he said nothing, absorbed in watching the hand of the historian guide the quill across the parchment in firm, even strokes.

“Well, Bertrem?” Astinus did not cease his writing.

Bertrem, facing Astinus, read the letters that—even upside down—were crisp and clear and easily decipherable.

This day, as above Darkwatch rising 29, Bertrem entered my study.

“Crysania of the House of Tarinius is here to see you, Master. She says she is expected...” Bertrem’s voice trailed off in a whisper, it having taken a great deal of the Aesthetic’s courage to get that far.

Astinus continued writing.

“Master,” Bertrem began faintly, shivering with his daring. “I—we are at a loss. She is, after all, a Revered Daughter of Paladine and I—we found it impossible to refuse her admittance. What sh—”

“Take her to my private chambers,” Astinus said without ceasing to write or looking up.

Bertrem’s tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, rendering him momentarily speechless. The letters flowed from the quill pen to the white parchment.

This day, as above Afterwatch rising 28, Crysania of Tarinius arrived for her appointment with Raistlin Majere.

“Raistlin Majere!” Bertrem gasped, shock and horror prying his tongue loose. “Are we to admit hi—”

Astinus looked up now, annoyance and irritation creasing his brow. As his pen ceased its eternal scratching on the parchment, a deep unnatural silence settled upon the room. Bertrem paled. The historian’s face might have been reckoned handsome in a timeless, ageless fashion. But none who saw his face ever remembered it. They simply remembered the eyes—dark, intent, aware, constantly moving, seeing everything. Those eyes could also communicate vast worlds of impatience, reminding Bertrem that time was passing. Even as the two spoke, whole minutes of history were ticking by, unrecorded.

“Forgive me, Master!” Bertrem bowed in profound reverence, then backed precipitately out of the study, closing the door quietly on his way. Once outside, he mopped his shaved head that was glistening with perspiration, then hurried down the silent, marble corridors of the Great Library of Palanthas.

Astinus paused in the doorway to his private residence, his gaze on the woman who sat within.