The Cataclysm

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  "I'm grateful for the invitation and the hospitality."

  She shook her head, as if I had missed the point. "No! The story must be told. The world must learn of our discoveries."

  "It could be very important," I agreed, taken aback by her passion.

  "Everything will have meaning then. If only you can convince the historian that the gods have not abandoned us!"

  To my surprise, then, she leaned toward me, took my gray head in her hands, and kissed me full upon the lips!

  I must admit, Your Grace, that it has been many years since I have received the attentions of a young woman — not to mention one of such stunning beauty.

  "Er… delightful," I stammered, somewhat slow to respond, "but I really… my task is to observe…" In retrospect, I find that my words were a trifle confused.

  Her gaze burned into mine with a secret smile — a smile that kindled spiritual fires I had thought long extinguished. Fortunately (unfortunately?) Erasmoth called us to dinner just then.

  We dined on rib of lamb, accompanied by spiced potatoes. Our meal was a most pleasurable experience, prepared and served by Erasmoth alone. Only the high priestess, the priest, and myself were seated at the wellladen table; the acolytes presumably shared some plainer fare elsewhere.

  During the dinner, Erasmoth proved himself a gracious and charming host. He is well-educated, though he lacks the polish of formal schooling. By his accent, I place his home in Ergoth somewhere, though I gather from his remarks that he has been in nearly every part of Ansalon. He probably is the most well-traveled person I have met — outside of our own ranks, in any event.

  His dinner was excellent — the meat delicately cooked, tender and succulent; the bread crusty and hot from the oven. His amusing remarks on the antics of his apprentices were delightful. I left his company — and that of the priestess — with true regret.

  Now my bed has been prepared, and the weariness of the day's march propels me there. Nevertheless, my pulse quickens at the thought of the morrow, and the promised miracle. May we find proof that gods can work their powers upon Krynn I

  I tremble with anticipation of the joyful news that might be contained in my next communication. Until then, Your Grace, I am your obedient slave:

  Foryth Teel, Senior Scribe of Astinus

  O Learned One:

  A day has passed, and success! The priest has just pronounced me ready to bear witness at the inner sanctum of his temple! The activities of today have included exercises in meditative discipline and discussions with Erasmoth of the role of spiritual faith, which I quite enjoyed. We had a lively debate on the moral state of the Kingpriest prior to the Cataclysm and what effect, if any, that had on it. We debated the implications of the Newsea on trade in Ansalon.

  I also spent time with Kassandry, and, though it was not so intellectual, it was no less stimulating, if Your Excellency understands my meaning. There was an air of desire — almost hunger — in her attitude toward me that, I confess, tempted me in ways I had thought long forgotten. I assure Your Grace that my impartiality remains intact, though her beauty and charm has put considerable strain on my sense of duty and discipline. Indeed, were I a younger man…

  In any event, Excellency, the priest Erasmoth has agreed that tomorrow I will be given the opportunity to witness an actual demonstration of clerical powers!

  He does not reveal the exact nature of the miracle he plans — nor even the nature of his god — but he has assured me that I will find it convincing. I am prepared for anything, hoping that soon I can relay a communication of truly historical import.

  As to the strange globe you provided, Excellency, it seems to me that it functioned flawlessly. I inserted the letter into the jar as you instructed and screwed the top tightly in place, then I held it over the flame of a bright candle for a few seconds and — poof — the parchment vanished in a bright flash of light. I trust that it arrived safely in Your Great Library. Such a device has obvious advantages, Lord, in that it avoids the use of unreliable post. And, too, it allows me to report from locations where I must otherwise remain discreet. I will employ it in all future correspondence.

  But that was last night. My day in this pastoral vale has passed swiftly, and once again it is after sunset that I relate my experiences to you now.

  Those times I was not in the company of the priest or priestess I spent in contemplation beside the Mirror of Souls — a remarkably invigorating pastime.

  Once again we dined sumptuously, just the three of us. Indeed, the valley has been empty most of the day, though toward sunset I witnessed a file of the brown-robed acolytes winding their way up the trail toward the gleaming arch of the temple gate. They go, Erasmoth informs me, to prepare for tomorrow's ceremony.

  Kassandry was a delightful dining companion. She has not kissed me again, and I confess to a certain disappoint ment there — though, of course, her restraint does make my position of impartiality easier to maintain.

  Until my next missive, Excellency, I remain loyal to the service of our cause! Your devoted servant of history:

  Foryth Teel

  Your Grace,

  I inscribe this from the dizzying ledge that serves as portal to the temple, halfway up a mountain that is much steeper than it appeared from the valley. I steal a moment to inscribe some quick observations, prior to entering the stonewalled temple compound. I will endeavor to complete this later and send it to you by means of the magical device you provided to me.

  Erasmoth himself led the procession to the gates of his temple. We stand beneath the alabaster arch, which looms high above, and wait for the priest to perform his incantations and gestures, all of which are rendered in a tongue indecipherable to myself. His apprentices, masked and silent, remain immobile while he performs his rites, with Kassandry at his side. Today the high priestess has been surprisingly aloof, and I wonder at the change in her attitude. She does not seem unfriendly, merely preoccupied.

  I will spare you the details of the perilous ascent to the temple. Suffice to say that I survived by dint of concentration on the objective, with oft-repeated reminders to myself about the significance of the historian's role and the importance of diligence and integrity in research. I made it this far… and when we pass within the temple walls, at least the threat of a fatal fall will be removed!

  The temple, which has been dedicated to the worship of Erasmoth's gods, looms above me. The walls are solid, smooth, and much higher than they appeared from below. Each is topped with an array of spikes resembling the bristling spears of a rank of soldiers. The towers that flank the gate are tall, and I sense the presence of watchful eyes observing me and my escort. When I asked him about this, however, Erasmoth assured me that the place is empty.

  The gates themselves are impressive doors made of pure silver. Even to my untrained eye, the aura of power protecting them is visible; a hazy and ominous film sparkles from the metal, bidding the unwary or uninitiated to remain at bay.

  "We may now enter," Erasmoth announced.

  The great gates swung soundlessly open, revealing a courtyard of dazzling white stone, with a beautiful fountain splashing just beyond the gate. The wondrous sight infused me with joy of discovery. We shall enter at once.

  I hasten to close, Your Grace, with the hope that you will hear from me soon with the proof that our poor people have so long been seeking!

  I resume:

  I begin with the presumption that the enchanted globe performs its task and carries this information to you. Without that, all my labors shall have been spent in vain.

  I return to the moment when the portals of silver spread wide, and I followed my host beneath the tall archway. The high priestess Kassandry walked at my side, her step light, eyes shining. She did not speak, and her attitude toward me remained distant.

  The courtyard was filled with flowers, blazing with color. Walkways of white gravel meandered through the garden, as if to acknowledge that any course plotted straight through these wonders meant too
hasty a passage. There are no buildings within, though the face of the mountaintop Ehas been scored with several apertures.

  We approached the inner doors of the temple, set in the mountain itself. These gleamed with a pure surface of burnished gold and, like the outer gates, seemed to forbid intrusion. Erasmoth approached them and barked a sharp word of command — required, apparently, to loosen the hold of magic and cause the doors to swing wide.

  A dark tunnel led into the mountain. I hesitated for a moment, surprised by the sudden darkness, but Erasmoth entered and gestured to me with the imperious order, "Come."

  Wondering at my sudden unease, I passed the gilded portal. Darkness washed over me. The gates closed with a resounding clang.

  The heat was intense. I realized that the corridor must lead directly into the heart of the mountain itself! Great columns of basalt lined the walls to either side, with dusty alcoves lost in the shadows between them. Torches sputtered infrequently, cast inadequate light. It seemed a lifeless place, undisturbed for a long time, and I wondered how it could be the center of worship for the priest's faith.

  "Why did you build the temple to your god — here — in this dark place?" I asked.

  "I didn't build it. I discovered it." Erasmoth's voice rang with triumph. "It was placed here for me! I was a simple stone mason before I discovered my true calling. I was exploring, seeking materials for my trade, when I came across what was then only ruins. Now they are the magnificent gardens you have seen outside. I followed it to its heart… and learned of the glories of the gods!" Light flamed in his eyes, and his tone vibrated with intensity.

  Sudden movement in the shadowy corridor seized my attention. Ghostlike shapes advanced all around me, and I gasped in terror.

  Then a torch flared, and the forms were revealed as Erasmoth's acolytes, in their robes and flat masks. I heaved a sigh of relief and began to follow the priest and priestess down the long corridor, accompanied by the silent apprentices.

  "How much farther do we have to go?" I asked the priestess. I found the darkness and the heat oppressive.

  "Be patient, Historian!" said Kassandry softly. "We must display no unworthiness before we participate in the glories of the gods!"

  "The role of the historian is not to participate — merely to observe and to report," I corrected mildly.

  She regarded me strangely, her eyes flashing. Her oncepallid cheeks grew quite flushed, and her lips parted. She licked them, invitingly, I thought, but said nothing further.

  I grew more uncomfortable. "Why did the gods choose you?" I asked the priest.

  But Erasmoth did not seem to hear. "Await me here while I complete the preparations," he said abruptly, stopping and pointing to one side of the trail.

  I noticed, for the first time, that what I took for an alcove between the arches of the tunnel wall was, in actuality, the entrance to a doorway. The priest chanted a word and waved his hand. This portal swung silently open to reveal a chamber of surprisingly comfortable appointments. A snap of his fingers brought a clear yellow flame to the wick of a glass lamp.

  "I will return for you when all is ready," he announced, refusing my entreaties to watch his preparations.

  I entered the room. The door closed behind Erasmoth. I was alone. The priestess Kassandry had already gone on ahead, striding toward the heart of the mountain.

  Now I sit writing at a table of darkened wood, its surface polished and smooth. Lush carpets of fur and wool line the floor; soft chairs offer me comfort. The oil lantern burns without smoke, its light steady and bright.

  But, now, Excellency, I bid farewell. I hear footsteps approaching down the hall, and hasten to complete the enchantment that will send this missive over magical pathways to your desk.

  I pray that my next missive will contain the proof we both desire! Your ever-devoted servant:

  Foryth Teel

  Most Learned Master:

  You probably are wondering at the delay. It has taken me time to regain my composure, so dramatic and terrible have been the experiences of the last few hours. Indeed, the palpitations of my heart bring tremors to my hand — I beg Your Excellency's pardon for my awkward script.

  Immediately after I sent my last report, Erasmoth entered my chamber. He was a man transformed. The flush of rapture tinged his cheeks, and a supernatural glow burned in his eyes. His appearance alone was almost enough to convince me that some divine force was at work here.

  The priest gestured to me, and I fell into step behind him. I noticed as I emerged from the room that two ranks of acolytes stood, waiting silently, their expressions concealed behind those featureless masks.

  We followed the black-walled, torch-lit passage for a distance I estimated as more than a mile. Finally, the narrow passage led us into a much larger chamber. The yellow glow of torches was lost in the vastness of the space. For a moment, I thought all was blackness, but as my eyes adjusted, I realized that a sullen crimson glow emanated from all around me — pools of molten rock, bubbling and flaming.

  "My temple!" proclaimed Erasmoth.

  The first thing that struck me was the size of this cavelike expanse. Judging from the distant echoes of our footsteps and the dim glow of the pits of lava and deep wells of burning coals, I could guess that we stood in a vast room.

  The floor was smooth beneath my feet — as if hundreds of hours of labor had been expended to polish the natural rock to an unnatural perfection.

  My next observation, as we stepped away from the tunnel that had led us here, was an unpleasant — almost nauseating — odor. I was reminded of the thick, close air of a charnel house. I gagged convulsively. For a moment, Excellency, I was quite overcome, and would have fallen, if not for the supportive grip of the priest upon my arm. Remembering the dignity of my station, I recovered my composure. Politely declining Erasmoth's assistance, I once again walked forward under my own power.

  I could see by the irregular shape that the shrine was a natural cavern, not an eccentric excavation. Nevertheless, it showed signs of centuries of use — such as the smoothness of the floor. Great, fluted columns, obviously wrought by hand, extended from floor to ceiling around the periphery.

  I became aware of someone approaching out of the darkness. It was the priestess Kassandry. Her arrival sent a wave of relief through my body. I had become uneasy, due to the heavy stench and the unusual surroundings, no doubt.

  A holy fire glowed within her, shining as a flaming light in her eyes. Her lips were moist; her tongue flicked back and forth across them. She wore no mask, and I feel certain she had not painted her skin in any way, yet the excessive pallor of her complexion was as white as if she had coated herself with chalk.

  Her eyes passed over me, and I saw none of the warmth, the friendship, or affection that she had displayed in the vale beyond this temple. In fact, the priestess appeared to take little note of me. She drew near Erasmoth and seemed to meld her body to his. Her voice was a throaty whisper.

  "All is readied," she told the priest.

  My heart pounded with excitement. The ceremony, which would provide the most valuable find of my career, was, I believed, about to start.

  "What do you do now?" I inquired, prepared to make mental notes.

  "First, my acolytes take their proper stations." The priest gestured to his dark-robed, masked assistants, who had gathered in an arc around us. I noted that there were more than two dozen of them in all.

  Erasmoth gestured imperiously to one of his masked apprentices, who shambled forward, stopping before Erasmoth. The acolyte waited for another command.

  "Remove your mask!"

  The acolyte did so. Forgive me once again, Excellency. The memory of what I saw causes a weakness in the very fiber of my being — a sensation like a stream of icy water infusing my limbs and paralyzing my heart.