Chapter 28

It was late, and the sacred chancery was quiet. One of the world’s largest libraries—smaller only than the collection in Palanthas and the underground Archives of Khrystann in Tarsis—the Great Temple’s scriptorium was a seemingly endless labyrinth of bookshelves and scroll-racks. It was said that every word ever put to parchment—or papyrus, paper, even clay tablet—in the gods’ name could be found there, as either an original, or as a copy laboriously inscribed by the Temple’s scholars. The place was so vast that a man could get horribly lost—as, indeed, some of the elder clerics did now and then. By day the library bustled with activity, with scribes and illuminators and binders and archivists all working in the sunlight that streamed through its many tall windows. At night, however, the chancery emptied, its twisting aisles and huge copy-rooms swallowed by shadow. No one in the library worked after sunset—except one man.

Brother Denubis sat alone, his head bent low over a book. Of all the Temple’s scholars, he preferred to work at night. Fewer interruptions that way—less nonsense. The clerics who came here during the day spent all their time yammering and arguing and drinking wine, Brother Denubis thought. That was all right for philosophers, but not for a copyist… certainly not one whose life’s work was so urgent.

The book before him was thick and heavy, more than two thousand pages long. He was a translator, and had spent more than forty years bringing the Peripas Mishakas into the Solamnic vulgate. It was unspeakably tedious labor, yet Denubis, a man for whom the word meticulous seemed inadequate, reveled in it. The other scribes rolled their eyes when he shuffled past them, entering the chancery as they were all leaving. He knew they called him a boring old drudge, and perhaps they were right. But he didn’t care. This was his mission, done in the gods’ name—if others didn’t grasp that, it was their problem, not his.

His pen scratched across the page almost incessantly now. When he was young, his hand had been uncertain, his Solamnic primitive. He’d redone most of the oldest pages in recent years, unsatisfied with the quality of the original work. He took few breaks, stopped only now and then to dip the stylus in his inkwell, or to push up his spectacles—an unfortunate inconvenience, the price for having worked in half-light for decades. When he finished a page—something that, counting illuminations, might occupy a whole evening or more—he would pause to reread and check his work. If he found he’d made a mistake, as was sometimes the case, he would daub the corner with red, marking it for the binders to remove the next day. Then, either way, he would sprinkle sand to dry the ink, and get himself some watered wine, perhaps some fruit and cheese. Denubis subsisted on little else.

Tonight was going well. He was setting a swift pace, each letter well formed and straight upon the paper’s ruled lines. The ink-mixers had given him good colors, too. The flourishes of crimson and violet, green and gold were all richly vibrant—almost too much so: he worried the previous page’s illuminations would look watery beside the new ones. And the translation, for a change, felt utterly effortless and natural: no odd declensions, no brow-knuckling idioms. It was the kind of night that made most scribes rejoice, but it only made Denubis nervous. It was too good to be true. Any moment now, he was bound to make some monumental error that would force him to scrap the lot. He prayed to Paladine that wouldn’t happen. On the southern slope of seventy, he knew he didn’t have many days to spare for mess-ups, and he had to get this done before his old heart finally gave out. Had to—or what had he sacrificed his life for?

His source was the Reductionist text of the Disks. Denubis, a Completist if ever there were one, had nearly wept when he heard the Kingpriest had recovered the originals, and he yearned for even a glimpse of them. But His Holiness hadn’t yielded the Peripas to the chancery, so Denubis redoubled his work. He had a job to do, and while the thought that the true Disks were just across the Temple grounds was enticing, he wasn’t about to let it distract his progress.

A bead of sweat formed, trickled, and hung on the end of his nose. Horrified, Denubis leaned back, blotting the moisture with an ink-stained sleeve. By Paladine, it was hot tonight—strangely so, for the time of year. Istar seldom truly turned cold, but it was nearly Yule, and usually the evenings evidenced a bit of chill to them. This year, however, it was as though the summer had never truly ended. If anything, the air had grown balmier, closer. He dabbed at his expansive forehead—his hairline had been in retreat since his eighteenth summer, and now had quit the field entirely—and ran a hand down his face.

His eyes went to the water clock in the corner. Two hours till dawn—till the chancery filled up with noise again and he would pack up his bag and leave. But he could get this page done, surely. He reached for the inkwell, the nib of his pen disappearing into its black depths—and stopped, his brow furrowing.

Odd. He’d heard a footstep.

Denubis’s eyesight was nearly gone—the younger scribes sniggered that a dragon could perch on his nose, and he’d only know by the smell of brimstone—but his hearing remained sharp. Years spent alone in silence had honed it to the point where he could make out a whispered word halfway across the library. He set his pen down, and twisted around in his seat. Somewhere behind him, he’d heard the whisper of robes. He squinted, peering into the shadows, but couldn’t see a thing.

“Is someone there?” he croaked, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Brother Morr, are you having trouble sleeping again?”

He heard the sound again, even closer than before. His mouth going dry, he squeaked his chair back and rose from his desk. He lifted a silver candlestick, almost wholly encased in melted wax. He had no illusions of being able to defend himself, but its heft still felt comforting in his grasp. The glow spread into the gloom, and suddenly there was something there. He pushed up his spectacles, trying to make out the fuzzy, dark shape in the shadows.

“Hello?” he asked, shivering. When had it gotten so cold?

“Denubis,” whispered the shape.

The scribe blinked. “Who are you?”

“You should know,” said the shadow. “How many men in the Temple wear black, Brother?”

Riddles had never really interested Denubis. He shook his head. “Only one,” he answered, wondering what kind of trick—

—and then he realized there was only one who dressed in black. His mouth went dry, and he jumped back. The candle’s flame went out, drenching the room in shadow. He lost sight of the dark figure… of the wizard, he thought with a shudder… but he could still feel a stab of cold amid the room’s heat. The cold drew close, and his feet moved without command, propelling him back until he struck a bookshelf with a thud. Several tomes tumbled from the stacks, splaying on the floor. He winced with their pain as he heard the bindings crack.

“You needn’t flee,” whispered Fistandantilus. He was so close that Denubis could have reached out and touched him. “If I meant to harm you, I wouldn’t have to come here. I have killed men by merely thinking their names.”

It was very hard not to gibber. “Wh-why have you come here, then, Dark One? C-can I help you f-f-find a b-b-b-”

“A book? No. I have read most of the books you keep here, at least the ones that aren’t rubbish—even the banned ones,” the sorcerer replied. “No, Brother. It isn’t the lore in this place that interests me. It’s you.”

“Me?” Denubis tried to ask. His voice failed him, however, so all that came out of his mouth was a squeak.

“Yes, you,” Fistandantilus said, chuckling. “All this time, I thought the Lightbringer was the one. But no, those who rule are never fully truly pure of heart. No, I had to come here to find the one I sought.”

“I’m sorry?” Denubis asked. Conversations often rode away without him. “I don’t understand—”

“You don’t need to, Brother,” Fistandantilus declared, “Not yet. But there will come a time of great despair, and the hearts of many will fail. Yours must not. You will know what to do when that time comes.”

With that, he was gone. The cold went with him, letting the heat pour back in. Denubis stood motionless, staring into the blackness, the candlestick still clutched in his hand. What in Paladine’s name had just happened? Had Fistandantilus the Dark actually come to the chancery and spoken to him? Him, a humble copyist?

No, that made no sense. He sighed, suddenly feeling quite sad. Imagining wizards in the middle of the night. If that sort of thing kept up, before long he’d be just like old Brother Forto, lying in his bed, and drooling and muttering all day and night. Wincing, he signed the triangle against such thoughts.

“Well,” he muttered aloud, turning back toward his desk, “best get back to work, then. Don’t want to go all funny in the head before—aaagh!”

There was someone standing there, no more than three paces away. It wasn’t the wizard, though—this was an elf, elderly, balding, with a long white beard. He was dressed in snowy robes, and the medallion of Paladine—no, of E’li, for it was shaped like a pine tree—hung about his neck. There was a look of such sadness on his face that, though he didn’t know why, Denubis felt his eyes burn with sudden tears.

“I’m sorry,” he said huskily. “I-I didn’t see you come in. Can I help you? Are you looking for someone?”

“No, I have found the one I seek,” the elf said. His sorrowful expression did not change. “If you are Denubis.”

Denubis put a hand to his head. He’d spent entire decades working in the chancery without anyone looking for him. Now two visitors in one night: the Dark One, and then… who was this stranger? Wait, there was something familiar about him, but Denubis’s memory wasn’t what it had once been.

“I am Denubis,” he replied, mystified. “But, forgive me, I can’t place you—”

“My name is Loralon.”

Denubis gasped. He remembered now—he had known Loralon in his youth. The Emissary loved books and had come here sometimes, in the night. They had talked sometimes. But that had been, what? Forty years ago? Kurnos had cast the elf out, and Quarath had taken his place. What was he doing here now?

“Surely, you seek the Kingpriest,” Denubis stammered. “I’ll—”

“No, there is only one in this Temple I seek and that is you, Denubis,” Loralon said. “Come, now. We have a long journey ahead of us.”

“Journey!” Denubis repeated. That was the end of it—he must be going mad. “That’s impossible. I’m still not finished with my work—”

“Your work doesn’t matter,” Loralon said gently. “Not any more. Come along, Brother.”

He reached out his hand. Denubis stared at it, bewildered. For a moment, the world seemed to split in two. He saw himself take that hand, saw himself burst into tears as light spilled around him. Loralon had invited him on a journey—and suddenly he wanted to go, desperately. He wanted it so much, it hurt.

But he didn’t take Loralon’s hand. He felt a stab of cold, heard a voice whispering in his ear. “You will know when the time comes…”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I can’t go with you.”

Loralon shut his eyes, the sorrow on his face deepening. Slowly, he lowered his hand to his side. When he spoke, his voice was hollow as a cave. “Very well. I see now what holds you here. But you will make the journey one day, Denubis. I promise you.”

Then he, too, vanished.

Denubis stood alone, shivering, waiting for what would happen next. Another visitor—or vision? Nothing. After a while he started breathing again.

“Funny in the head,” he said, sitting down at his desk again. He reached for his pen, dipped it in the ink, and—

A single drop fell from its tip onto the paper, spattering it with black. Denubis stopped, stared, and sighed. Then he set the stylus down, picked up a brush, and daubed the page’s corner with red. He’d known something like that would happen.

He didn’t waste any tears over it, though. Setting the blemished page aside, he reached for a fresh sheet of parchment, picked up his pen, and started anew.

That night became known in later history as the Night of Doom, the night the last true clerics left Krynn. Where they went and what their ultimate fate may have been, never became known. Their passing went all but unnoticed at first, for few remained whose faith was pure, and those few were little missed—minor monks and clerics like Denubis, living in obscurity. The rest of the world continued on, certain the Kingpriest would deliver them from darkness.

Far off, deep in the night sky, something began to move.