The Cataclysm

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  In sum, my recovery is complete. Now, too, I have heard news that again compels me to walk the pathways of history! The information comes to me by a most reliable source (more about him in a moment).

  I have received word of one who claims to have touched a higher power — and whose claims can be supported by creditable witnesses. A messenger arrived here, after many days of riding, from a land to the east. He tells me of a priest who has performed actual miracles. Having heard of we scribes who quest for the truth, the priest sends me testimonials by this messenger and extends an invitation to witness proof that the gods have not abandoned Krynn.

  I understand that, if your calculations are correct (as they must undoubtedly be, Your Eminence!) and the gods have not left man, but man has left the gods, then there will be evidence of godhood found somewhere in the world. In a place distant or near, anywhere from the war-ravaged depths of Thorbardin to the crimson flowage of the Bloodsea, there exists proof of godly powers, whether they be curative or corruptive, beneficial or deadly.

  The priest goes by the name of Erasmoth Luker. He dwells near a small town on the shore of the Newsea — a place called, oddly (symbolically?). Halcyon. Claiming that he can wield the powers of the gods, Erasmoth has established himself in a temple on a hilltop and preaches to all who will listen.

  The source of my information — the one who dispatched the messenger to me — is a man known to you, Excellency. He is Underscribe Tyrol Deet, a historian of unusual acuity and perception. (Do you remember him — the young fellow who wanted to be a soldier until he lost his eye in a hunting accident? Now he wears a black patch over the socket and swears that the focus of his other eye has improved tenfold!) He says he has not witnessed the miracles wrought by Erasmoth — those traditionally have been reserved for the initiates, and, naturally, no historian could become such an initiate and still maintain the objective viewpoint required for our craft. Nevertheless, young Tyrol is convinced that there is truth to the tale and has persuaded the priest to allow your representative to witness and record the proof.

  That one, needless to say, is me. The cleric has invited me, in my capacity as official scribe, to join his flock at the temple, there to witness the miracles of godhood and provide proof of their existence to you, Most Gracious Master Lorekeeper!

  A ship awaits me at the wharf below. The captain has promised to carry me to Halcyon, though he warns that the waters will be rough. We embark with the morning tide, shortly past the dawn.

  My lamp flickers as the oil runs low, and I realize that most of the night has passed. I will close for now. A rider departs for Palanthas in the morning, and he will carry this parchment with all the speed he can muster. I hope, Excellency, that it reaches your hands in good order. My next communication shall be sent by more unpredictable means, for it will originate from the vale of Halcyon itself.

  Until such time, I remain your devoted servant:

  Foryth Teel, Senior Scribe to Astinus Lorekeeper

  Most Merciful Master,

  I pen this missive from my room in the quaint shoreline town of Halcyon. The sun shines through my windows. The wetness of the recent rain steams on the cobbled street. Indeed, this is the first glimpse of sunshine I have seen since weeks before my departure. Perhaps the gods DO, in fact, favor this comer of Ansalon with their presence.

  The voyage itself was a nightmare, from embarkation until I stepped onto the docks of Halcyon. Mountainous seas tossed the galley about like a matchstick. My poor body suffered countless bruises from the beating inflicted on it by collision with random parts of the vessel.

  The voyage melded into a blur of seasickness; drenching, ice-cold rains; and even a night attack by some monstrous sea-beast. I could not get a look at the scaly horror in the darkness, but, whatever it was, it took two crewmen with it before it was driven off!

  But, then, Halcyon hove into view, and the clouds lifted from my spirits as they did from the skies above. Green hills rise beyond whitewashed huts, huddled in a wide valley that breaks into a sheltered bay. Two broad arms of encircling ridge protect the waters, which seem too shallow for a vessel of any great draft but accommodated our galley with no difficulty.

  I had expected Tyrol Deet to meet me at the dock, and I looked for his unforgettable eye-patch, but I was disappointed. He was not here. Seizing my small baggage, I hastened down the plank and was relieved to plant my feet once again upon a motionless surface.

  I asked several people, but none of them knew the young scribe. I could think of no way to find him. As he gave me no address, I have reserved a room at the Halcyon Inn, the largest and grandest establishment of its kind within the town. I assume that Deet will look for me here.

  This is the first night of my stay. I am hopeful that on the morrow the scribe will find me and we can commence our quest for the truth. In the meantime, I rejoice in the discovery of this tiny port — a place where the overcast breaks, at least momentarily, to allow Krynn to catch a little glimpse of the sun.

  My next missive to Your Excellency will follow as shortly as circumstances allow. I remain your ever-devoted servant,

  Foryth Teel

  Most Esteemed Historian:

  I resume my communication two days since my previous letter, which I trust has reached you in good order. Much has happened since that missive, which I will attempt to summarize for Your Grace as best I can.

  The first news I received was not a positive harbinger. The morning following my arrival, I was greeted at my inn by a tall, slender man dressed in brown robes, who located me in the common room as I broke my fast. The gaze of his eyes, of clear and light blue, fastened on me from across the chamber, and I felt at once the presence of an unusual individual. As he approached, his narrow lips parted in a smile — though still I sensed those eyes appraising me, as if evaluating my fitness.

  I must confess, Excellency, that I squirmed somewhat under that penetrating gaze, but nevertheless rose to my feet and took his hand as he reached my table.

  "I am Erasmoth Luker," he said in a deep and powerful voice. "You are the scribe — the historian?"

  "Indeed," I replied, not surprised to find that this was the priest of whom I had been informed. Something in the force of his gaze, in the depth of his voice, told me I faced an extraordinary person. "I am Foryth Teel, but I was supposed to be met by my colleague, Tyrol Deet."

  "Alas," answered the priest. "I am sad to bring you unhappy tidings. The young scribe was taken by fever shortly after he wrote you. He was a strong lad, and held on for several days, but, in the end, to no avail."

  "He's dead?" I asked, astonished. The news struck me with unexpected force. Deet was not a close friend of mine — we barely knew each other — but it was as if a promising lead had drawn me this far, only to vanish before my eyes.

  "I see the news has affected you grievously," observed the priest, his tone sympathetic. "Would you want to see where he is buried? We have given him the full honors of the church, though, of course, he was not an initiate." "Yes.. yes, I should like that," I replied. The priest led me through the streets of Halcyon — which then, alas, were dark beneath the same gray overcast that so thoroughly blankets Ansalon these days. We passed from the town and climbed a smooth dirt track that progressed into the surrounding hills.

  Erasmoth has an elegance about him — a grace, if you will — that made me feel immediately at ease. His hair is dark and long, combed back to his neck, and shows traces of silver at the ears. His skin is smooth, but there is a maturity in his bearing that causes me to guess his age at perhaps fifty. Nevertheless, he moves easily — with far more energy than I can manage!

  Soon the priest turned onto a side trail, and we quickly passed between a pair of looming pillars into a small, sheltered grotto — a small niche protected by the much larger hills. A clear pool of water, surrounded by drooping willows, formed the centerpiece of the vale. Among the broad tree trunks I noticed several headstones. It was the most peaceful and pastoral setting for
a cemetery this welltraveled scribe has ever seen.

  "I hope you approve of the arrangements," said Erasmoth when, at length, we had passed among the graves to reach a flowered mound with an admirable granite marker, clearly bearing the name of Tyrol Deet, and marking his station as a scribe of Your Greatness.

  (Indeed, though his actual rank was a mere assistant scribe, I saw that insufficient space remained upon the stone for a correction; therefore, I let the matter lie.)

  "Very nice," I said. "You have honored him well."

  "No more than you honor us by your presence," Erasmoth informed me.

  "The honor is to my master's name — Astinus, Lorekeeper of Krynn," I reminded him.

  "Quite. The written affirmation of a historian such as yourself will validate the truth of my faith. The gods have not abandoned Krynn! They merely require the proper forms of approach from those who would worship them."

  "In reference to these gods," I responded, grateful for the opportunity to broach the subject of my quest, "young Deet was quite vague in his letter. How do you intend to prove their presence?"

  "I'm glad you asked!" he declared, positively beaming. His enthusiasm, I must admit, was quite contagious.

  Before he spoke further, he took my arm and led me back along the forested path, toward the rocky notch leading into this grotto. He explained as we climbed steadily upward.

  "There are powers in the world that derive from sorcery," he said, "and others — reputedly vanished since the Cataclysm — that can be traced only to the gods and their faithful priests and priestesses. These powers, these clerical abilities, have been long since lost, abilities that no sorcerer can wield. Surely an astute historian like yourself is familiar with examples of those who have tried and failed."

  True," I allowed. "Such things as the healing of wounds and sickness, the communing with gods, auguries of the future, powers over trees and water and air, come only from the gods and are granted only to their most faithful servants — not to mention darker powers," I added as an afterthought. "From gods of evil."

  He brushed that aside. "Surely you see, then," he noted, "that any who can wield these powers must have gained knowledge of the true gods — and more than that, he must be the recipient of their favor!"

  We came through the rock-bordered notch, and I saw several people waiting for us.

  Where they had come from was a mystery, for there were no dwellings — not even a simple homestead or farm — within sight. The group included a dozen or so people dressed in plain, dark brown robes, each person's face concealed by a blank plaster mask. A tall woman, unmasked and wearing a lovely red dress, stood at the center of the gathering.

  "My higher-ranking initiates," explained the priest, as we continued to advance. "They have come to meet us here, as I instructed them earlier."

  Erasmoth gestured to the woman. "The high priestess Kassandry," he said. She stepped forward to meet me.

  The woman was, even to my old and weary eyes, a person of exquisite beauty. Tall and lithe, her gown of shimmering red silk flowing around her; she moved like ripples of water across the surface of a pool. Her skin was pale, almost as if it had been powdered white, and her hair of deep black contrasted sharply with both her complexion and gown. She had high cheekbones and deep brown eyes flecked with green. Her long neck bore a collar that appeared to be a single bar of gold.

  "These are my acolytes, the faithful initiates of my temple." Erasmoth gestured to the dozen or so masked figures who remained in their watchful semicircle around us. They regarded me impassively, their eyes invisible behind the dark holes in their white masks. "They will be our escort, as we take you to the entrance to our temple."

  "Why are they masked?" I inquired.

  "They have all witnessed the glory of my god," Erasmoth explained, "but they do not know the full extent of that glory, or its attendant power. Their masks are a sign of their endeavors to learn. Only when they have achieved mastery will they again bare their faces to the world."

  "You will give me proof of that power today?" I asked, striving to contain my excitement.

  "Patience," the priest said, softly. "First you must be prepared for the miracle."

  Erasmoth took my arm and escorted me in the forefront. The priestess Kassandry raised her hands and uttered a sharp cry. The acolytes fell into rank behind us. The group led me higher into the hills of Halcyon.

  We made an odd procession — the priest and myself marching in the vanguard, followed by the crimson-gowned priestess immediately behind and the silent file of masked apprentices, making our slow and deliberate way in a winding column up the twisting trail.

  This lofty solitude seemed an appropriate place for the worship of gods. Blankets of mist shrouded the valleys, draping the gray-green domes of the hilltops like fine linen. Above, soft crests of heather and grass rose in pleasant majesty, without the craggy menace of higher mountains such as the Khalkists.

  We came upon a small valley, where stood a cluster of neat, thatch-roofed houses, whitewashed and surrounded by bright flower gardens. A crystal pool of water, formed by the damming of a narrow stream, looked cool and inviting after the exertion of the march.

  There!" proclaimed the priest, seizing my arm and gesturing with a finger toward the upper distance.

  My eyes swept across the vast shoulder of the nearest hill, following the rising ground until I saw a tall white arch. A long white wall expanded out from either side of the arch. Several tall spires dotted the length of the barrier.

  "What is it?" I asked.

  "My temple — the holy place of the gods!" he proclaimed. "Tonight you will stay here in the valley, the outer sanctum of my temple. We shall endeavor to familiarize you with certain keystones of our faith. Tomorrow, or the next day, you will accompany the worshipers onto the mountain — there to witness the miracles wrought by me, in the name of the gods of Krynn!"

  I studied the temple above with some trepidation. Your Excellency may recall, from my previous adventures, the vertigo that tends to grip me at the prospect of heights. The road that ascends to this temple is a sheer and winding track that would challenge a mountain goat — yet it was my goal!

  The great temple arch was flanked by a pair of slender towers, an inherent part of the structure's design. The long, white wall stretching along the mountainside must enclose a compound of some sort.

  Erasmoth led me on and, in a few moments, we had reached the houses in the valley. The high priestess went into one to arrange for my lodgings. I stood waiting on the shore of the pool.

  "We call it the Mirror of Souls," Erasmoth said. "It is a splendid focus for meditation and introspection." Indeed, the water's dark surface lay as still as glass, and it seemed that one could imagine it as a repository for the fathomless depths of knowledge.

  I stood entranced for some minutes, unaware of time's passage. At some point Erasmoth left, to arrange our dinner, as I recall him saying, but my gaze remained rapt on that magnificent reflecting pool.

  "This scroll and package arrived in Halcyon for you. They were delivered to your assistant before he succumbed to the fever. Erasmoth directed me to save them for you."

  Kassandry's voice brought me out of my meditation. She smiled, which was quite charming, and handed me a glass globe and a small scroll.

  "Thank you," I said, surprised.

  (Of course, Your Excellency is familiar with the package — the Jar of Sending, with which I shortly will try to convey this missive. At the time I did not know what it was, but I have since read your enclosed instructions.)

  "We are pleased that you have come," said Kassandry, her tone surprisingly gentle. She no longer seemed the commanding high priestess. Instead, she was like any young maiden, eager to make her honored guest feel welcome, and fearful that he will not find matters to his liking.