The Survivors

CHAPTER 26

The Journeyman stood on a stone parapet overlooking the courtyard in front of the anvil chamber. He wore a light woven robe and sandals bound with a simple belt. The wind chilled him, cutting through the plain garment as a slushy rain fell over the City of Lost Names. He didn’t know when the Aesthetic would arrive, but he watched a few minutes anyway, staring out into the gray pallor of the stormy sky.

It didn’t matter, he told himself. He wasn’t likely to see that particular Aesthetic coming.

Shivering as the wind blew the rain over him, he turned and made his way back inside. The wet leather of his sandals slapped the stone staircase as he passed down a level to the snug chamber he had made his residence.

As he opened the heavy door, a wave of heat rolled out of the room, enveloping him. He stood there in the door for a moment, allowing the feeling of warmth to swell within him before he entered. He’d been cold for so long that he relished the warmth, savoring it like lingering over a fine meal.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind himself, and crossed the carpeted floor to a high-backed, overstuffed leather chair. Though the Journeyman liked his pleasures, the room itself was simple. A plain bed stood in one corner with a wardrobe and a night table nearby. A washbasin and cloak rack were farther along the wall, just past the space where the door opened.

Along the opposite wall, the Journeyman had an immense writing desk with many drawers for pens, ink, paper, and other sundries. And in the far corner stood an iron stove with a coal scuttle in front of it and a black pipe on top that carried the smoke out through a hole in the stone.

The chair sat next to the stove with a cushy footstool resting before it. A small book table stood by the chair, and a magical lantern hung over it, suspended by a curved piece of wood that attached to the back of the chair.

The Journeyman sat, kicking off his sandals and crossing his feet on the stool. On his left foot, the two little toes were missing, and the wound hadn’t quite healed, causing the Journeyman to ease one foot gently over the other when he crossed them.

Not by coincidence, the stool stood a mere foot from the stove. On the table, beside the chair, a brandy snifter lay on an angle, cradled in a wood frame that suspended the glass over a lit candle. Below the brandy warmer, there were a number of books, all with bookmarks hanging out of them, attesting to the Journeyman’s usual habit of reading several books at once.

He picked up the glass, careful not to touch the hot spot. Swirling the brandy absently in his left hand, he reached out and took the topmost book off the pile. That book was unlike its fellows in almost every way. The book had been made entirely of metal: cover, spine, pages, and all.

Because of its weight, the Journeyman slipped it into his lap before he opened the cover and leafed through the few metal pages to the final one.

“Comfy?” a mocking voice echoed through the chamber.

The Journeyman turned to confront a spectral visitor regarding him from just inside the door. He stood only about five feet tall and wore the flowing robe of an Aesthetic, though both body and robe were transparent, allowing the Journeyman to see the planks of the door behind him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t knock,” he said, clearly intending the comment as a joke. “May I come in?”

The Journeyman chuckled, perhaps not very mirthfully. “And if I say no?” he asked.

“Then I will leave until it is convenient,” the Aesthetic said.

The Journeyman put his glass back on the warmer and shut the metal book. “My, my,” he said. “I see you have developed some manners over all those years.”

The specter smiled, taking no offense. “I see you brought what I asked for,” he said.

The Journeyman looked down at the book in his lap then back at the Aesthetic. “Why do you want it?” the Journeyman asked. “You were there when it was found. What’s so special about this book, Chisul?”

The ghost chuckled. “There’s a name I haven’t heard in quite a while,” the specter said, a wistful smile crossing his face. “Where did you come up with Perin, by the way?”

“It’s ancient Elvish,” the Journeyman said. “It means ‘Traveler.’”

Chisul’s ghost laughed. “I see you’re as imaginative as ever,” he said.

“Don’t change the subject,” the Journeyman said, holding up the metal book. “What’s so special about this?”

“It isn’t the book that’s dangerous,” Chisul said. “It’s what’s in the book.”

“That can be said of all books,” the Journeyman said.

“This is rather a special book,” Chisul said. “You see, Galoka and his people were being taught things by Reorx himself. Things they shouldn’t know.”

The Journeyman shrugged. “So Reorx was cheating to help his people,” he said. “So what? They all do it.”

“Not like this,” Chisul said. “Starlight Hall was just a foothold. Reorx meant it as a beacon to unite the dwarf clans and bring them back under one rule.”

“That would never work,” the Journeyman said. “Most of the clans hate each other.”

“The other gods didn’t think so,” Chisul said. “They feared a united dwarf nation. They feared the power Reorx would wield if that ever happened. It was a chance they were not prepared to take, so they created the Disir specifically to destroy Starlight Hall and to keep its existence secret.”

“How could that be?” the Journeyman asked. “The gods never agree on anything.”

Chisul shrugged. “Fear is a great motivator,” he explained.

“How did you find out about all this?” the Journeyman asked. “You didn’t seem to know anything about it when Rose found the book.”

“That was the past,” Chisul said. “I’ve learned many things since that time. Being an Aesthetic helps, too.”

“So why is this book so important?” the Journeyman asked. “Starlight Hall is gone; no one even remembers it.”

“That’s right,” Chisul said. “The only evidence that Starlight Hall ever existed is that book.”

The Journeyman stared down at the gleaming book in his hands. He’d read it twice. It was very interesting, containing everything about the founding and building of Starlight Hall. Their fantastic machines and their alchemical metals were all detailed, as was their faith and their unification goals.

“So this book is dangerous,” he said.

“If the gods knew it existed, they’d kill anyone who had touched it,” Chisul said.

“So you sent me on that little walk to keep this from getting out into the world,” the Journeyman said.

Chisul nodded. “That, and of course to witness and help.”

“Just so,” Chisul continued. “If Bradok and those who survived had kept this book, word of its existence would have spread, little by little. By the time the gods learned of it, thousands could have been contaminated, maybe tens of thousands.”

“It could have triggered another Cataclysm,” the Journeyman gasped.

“So you see why it’s better off being lost,” Chisul said, putting out his hand.

The Journeyman looked down at the book, running his hand over the smooth steel of the cover, then he handed it to Chisul. The specter grabbed the book, supporting the metal with his transparent hand. The Journeyman decided he would never get used to that.

“I’ve got a very safe place picked out for this one,” he said, slipping it inside his robe.

“Is there something else?” the Journeyman asked when the specter didn’t leave immediately.

“I did wonder,” Chisul said. “What happened to Bradok and the others?”

“They made it out,” the Journeyman said. “You can read all about it,” he added, gesturing around the room at his table and writing supplies, “eventually.”

“I always felt sorry for him,” Chisul said, nodding. “Because he was in love with Rose but she had the Zhome.”

“She got better,” the Journeyman said with a smile.

Chisul cocked his head to the side. “What do you mean?” he asked.

“Sunlight,” the Journeyman said. “It kills the Zhome. Didn’t you know that?”

Chisul laughed, shaking his head. “Something as simple as that,” he said.

“I’ve got a question for you,” the Journeyman said. “Why did your spirit linger? You told me you didn’t learn about the dangers of this book until after you died.”

“I lingered for quite a different reason,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’m not dead.”

“What do you mean, you’re not dead?”

“My body never died,” Chisul said. “It’s still alive somewhere, shambling around in the bowels of Krynn. So long as I’m alive, my spirit is bound here, even though it has taken leave of my body.”

“That’s monstrous,” the Journeyman said, shuddering.

“Just so. But I’ve made the best of it,” Chisul said good-humoredly. “I’ve spent quite a lot of time figuring out how to get my hands on this.” He held up the book, chuckling.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” the ghost asked.

The Journeyman nodded. “After the first time I used the Anvil,” he said. “You were with the group of Aesthetics who came to see me.”

“That’s not the first time we met,” Chisul said, shaking his head. “The first time we met was in my father’s shop, after you convinced him to let you be his apprentice.”

The Journeyman opened his mouth but stopped. “But that can’t be. I hadn’t gone back in time yet then,” he said finally.

“Time doesn’t work like that,” Chisul said. “When I saw you here, at the Anvil, I recognized you. I knew then that I had a job for you and that it was you I would send to get the book.”

“Time is complicated,” the Journeyman murmured, musing on his words.

Chisul just nodded.

“What will you do now?”

Chisul shrugged. “I’m sure I can find something to occupy my time.” He turned and drifted toward the door. “Perhaps I’ll look in on you again,” he said, pausing at the door. “We’re old friends now. And I’ve come to find your exploits most amusing.”

“How did you manage to become an Aesthetic, if you don’t mind my asking?” the Journeyman queried as Chisul turned to leave.

“You’d be amazed what you can get away with when you have all the time in the world,” he said.

“That’s not an answer,” the Journeyman said.

“No,” the ghost said, “it’s not.” He nodded toward the tall writing desk. “I like your souvenir,” he said. “It’s very … appropriate.”

With that he drifted right through the door and disappeared, his words still ringing against the room’s stone walls.

The Journeyman sat for a long time, considering the door, absently sipping his brandy. At length, he set the glass aside and added another shovelful of coal to the fire. As the stove began to heat up again, he picked up the next book on the pile and leafed through to the page where his ornate bookmark lay.

Before he began reading, however, he cast a glance up to the top of his desk where a little rag doll sat, lovingly cleaned and repaired.