Fistanadantilus Reborn

CHAPTER 24

First Majetog, Reapember

374 AC

It is with a mingled sense of purest excitement and deepest regret that I at last address my notes. On the one hand, I have made a startling discovery that twists an understanding of history on its ear: Fistandantilus, a god! With a priest who is not a charlatan. Of course the story must be examined, the evidence studied by my critical eye, but here is great meat for the researcher’s diet.

On the other hand there is a matter that lays such a heavy cloak of guilt uponmy shoulders that I doubt I shall show these writings to anyone. (Of course, that cannot exclude the all-seeing perceptions of my ever neutral god, yet it is that very neutrality, I fear, that lies at the root of my failure. I shall expound momentarily.)

Who will believe me? Fistandantilus neither dead, nor undead; instead he has become immortal! It seems that the archmage has somehow vaulted himself into the pantheon of Krynn! Of course, it also seems unthinkable, but I saw the proof with my own eyes.

A priest of a self-proclaimed religion has demonstrated the power to heal! It was a limited healing; Kel-ryn all but admitted that the crushed knee of the bandit called Gnar was too badly damaged for the magic of his god to prevail. Yet the spell he demonstrated was enough to humble my own priestly ambitions-I who have yet to heal so much as a hangnail through the use of the magic of my faith.

Indeed, the proof was enough to whet my appetite, but I must learn more. Does Kelryn Darewind possess the bloodstone of Fistandantilus? And what does he know about the fates that cast the archmage into Krynn's pantheon? Though he was recalcitrant in conversation, the priest of Fistandantilus did promise me that I would have some access to his notes. (He claimed that his library was located in a lofty tower top, perfectly suited for reflection and research.)

But there weighs upon me that other matter, a fact that dulls the elation of my discovery, for I know that I have erred terribly.

Gilean, I confess to my utmost failure, though you doubtless know of my trespass already. How quickly I have abandoned the dispassionate viewpoint of the historian, allowing myself to become involved in the affairs of insignificant persons, while in full awareness that such involvement cannot help but steer my studies away from the truly impartial voice of the aloof chronicler.

Specifically, it is in the matter of the mistruth-oh, I must strip away obfuscation and call it by the proper name: the lie-I spoke on behalf of the young traveler who had made my acquaintance on that very night.

Of course, he is no more a squire than I am a high priest, or even any priest at all. My own actions served to obscure the truth, to twist my captors' perceptions of reality, all because of a realization that I would find the lad's execution unsettling. Indeed, Lord of Neutrality, it was this own selfish frailty that led to my weakness.

My actions kept the boy alive, but at what terrible cost to my objectivity? I have searched The Book of Learning, seeking some sign indicating the severity of the affront, but the tome has been ominously silent on the matter.

Even in self-recrimination I forget myself. It is my duty to put aside my distress and to continue with the task that brought me to this corner of Kharolis. The deception of which I speak has occurred some two days prior to my recording of these notes; I shall hasten to put down the events of the current day and to describe as best I can my situation and prospects.

Following the escape of that rather frightening horse and Kelryn's healing spell, the bandits tied my hands before me, prodding me through the darkness on the narrow trail (upon which I tripped several times, scuffing my hands and, once, bloodying my nose) until we again reached the Loreloch Road and the bridge of gray stone. It was not until then that I saw that the youth, Danyal Thwait, had been similarly bound and forced to follow behind me.

Footsore and weary, we ascended the winding, rough road through the remainder of the night. We were slowed by the need of Gnar to be helped by two men, and in this I was fortunate. Indeed, should the band have proceeded at its normal pace, I have no doubts but that it would have been me who restricted the pace of the rest of the party, with all the awkward attentions-particularly from the one-eyed bandit, Zack-that would have entailed.

By the time dawn began to color the sky, we had reached a small grove of pines in the protection of a low saddle. This was not a pass through the range-I could see higher and more rugged elevations rising on the north side of the ridge-but it provided a place for our captors to seek concealment and rest through the day.

I gather that, though they are bold and lawless men, the bandits of Kelryn Darewind's band do in fact fear the Knights of Solamnia. Else how can I explain the hidden clearing, deep in the woods, where we sheltered during the day? Also, consider the fact that one of the men trailed behind us after we departed the road; I looked back to see that he was sweeping a pine bough, heavy with needles, across our trail. Thus all sight of our passage was concealed.

Hearing the deisultory talk of the men during the long trek and through the daylight hours of inactivity, I gather that they were returning from a successful raid on a specific enemy. Kelryn had taken them to kill the Solamnic Knight, Sir Harold the White, and his family, eliminating that enforcer of the law from the territory the bandits wanted for themselves. (Although I learned that their success was not complete; Zack complained loudly about a girl, a daughter of the knight, who somehow escaped their murderous net.)

The men's spirits were still inflamed by their cruel sport, and the gruesome stories of the murder could only enhance their villainy. At times I found it nearly impossible to consider their acts with dispassion, yet I was able to muster my faith, to forcefully remind myself that theirs was a current in history's river as worthy of telling as any other.

Danyal and I were bound together at one side of the encampment. My request that we be released and that I be provided with my book and writing implements was rudely laughed away.

Lacking the means to record events, I tried to talk to the lad, to explain my distress about the failure of my objectivity that had led me to lie about him. He was surprisingly appreciative, as I suppose is only natural. After all, as the old saying goes, even the meanest of lives is treasured by the one who lives it.

The boy showed traces of brightness and perception in our conversations, yet he seemed remarkably unsympathetic to my own dilemma. Indeed, so clearly did he treasure his own survival that he seemed rather put off when I mentioned my regrets at the loss of my historical dispassion.

Eventually I was released from my tether and taken to join Kelryn. I was able to gather much information from him, though he still denied me the chance to take notes as we talked. I can only hope that my memory has served me as accurately as does my pen.

He told me that when the True Gods returned to Krynn, with them came Fistandantilus, risen to the exalted status of a deity. Kelryn Darewind had demanded power of that god. He told me he used it to keep the memory and the knowledge of the archmage alive. His followers had woven great tapestries depicting the wizard's life, and he boasted of how those artistic fabrics still draped the halls of Loreloch.

It must have been the destruction of Skullcap, I mused, that somehow converted the archmage into god-hood. After all, he had opened the portal to chaos, a path to the Dark Queen herself. But when I voiced my speculations, I discerned that Kelryn Darewind had not the slightest interest in my suppositions.

Instead, he made mention of something that he called "the skull of Fistandantilus." I gathered that this was an object that he sought with a great deal of interest, though he would share little information about it when I pressed him for further explanation. I speculated upon an unconfirmed rumor I had heard in Palanthas, a report that Fistandantilus had existed as an undead lich after the destruction of Skullcap, at which Kelryn Darewind scornfully laughed in my face.

When I sought response to my other questions, the bandit became suddenly reluctant to talk. I was again secured to my tree, and we two prisoners spent the rest of the day in boredom and slumber.

With the coming of darkness, again we took to the road. The bandits prodded us with obvious urgency, and we followed the descending route down the north side of the ridge. At the base of the incline, we came to a rapid stream, here crossed by a sturdy bridge. After making the crossing, we proceeded upward again, and I sensed that we were drawing close to the lofty massif of the High Kharolis.

The long night of climbing exhausted me and many of the others, though Kelryn Darewind displayed no sign of fatigue. Finally we made camp again, this time in the depths of a mountainside cave. My captors have at last consented to provide me with the tools of my trade, and thus I hasten to write my observations, to record the history of the last few days with as much dispassion and objectivity as possible.

But as I look at the young lad who sleeps restively nearby and know that my interference was the act that kept him alive, I fear that I have already failed.