David Cook - Beyong the Moons

Not all the rooms were empty of occupants. At one, Teldin carefully peered through the partially open door to find it filled with members of the Order of Aesthetics. They sat at rows of benches and intently copied texts that were laid out before them. The air was filled with the noise of quill pens on parchment. Teldin softly closed the door and moved on.

Finally, after taking a number of twists and turns, the monk stopped at a plain, unassuming door. Teldin was a little surprised that this was Astinus’s study. For a man of such importance, the farmer assumed his surroundings would be much greater. Tapping lightly, the doorkeeper called softly to the one within, “Master, I have brought them, as you requested.”

“Show them in, Maltor. I will see them for a moment.” The voice was cold and emotionless, showing no trace of either warmth or hostility. Maltor swung the door open with a slight creak, ushered Teldin and Gomja into a small study, and indicated stools where the two were to sit.

A man-young or old, Teldin could not be sure-sat at the desk on the far side of the room, writing carefully on a sheet of parchment spread before him. Every few moments he lifted his hand from the page to dip the quill into an inkwell. With no unnecessary delay he resumed writing, never once stopping to think of a word or puzzle out a phrase. Stacked beside him were two piles of parchment, one clean and untouched, the other carefully filled with lines of immaculate writing. As he finished with the sheet before him, Astinus sprinkled it with white sand to blot the drying ink, carefully set the sheet aside, and laid another clean page before him. Then the quill began its steady course over the page once again.

All during this time, Astinus never looked up to acknowledge his guests’ presence. “Wait outside, Maltor,” Astinus said without stopping the flow of words from pen to page.

"Yes, Master,” the Aesthetic said with a bow. He backed out of the room and quietly shut the door.

Teldin waited for the great sage to speak, to ask a question, but Astinus paid the pair no mind. The ink steadily flowed from his pen. Finally, with a nervous swallow, Teldin spoke, “Lord Astinus, I-,"

“You are Teldin Moore of Kalaman, born the son of Amdar Moore and the woman Shari,” Astinus interrupted, still looking at his page. “Two weeks ago, your farm was destroyed by a ship that fell from the sky. I have made a note of this already. The one with you is called Gomja. He came on the ship. Before this, I knew nothing of him.”

Teldin and Gomja both let their jaws drop; mouths hung slack at the chillingly efficient recital of their histories.

“I know all these things, Teldin Moore of Kalaman, from what I have written,” Astinus continued in his pedantic, matter-of-fact tone. “Right now I am writing that you are here before me because I have become curious"-The sage rolled the word off his tongue with particular distaste-"about your misfortunes.” Astinus paused and finally looked up. A minor flicker of irritation shone in the sage’s eyes. “Ask your questions, and I will write those down, too, just as I will write the answers if I know them.” Without waiting for Teldin to speak, he resumed writing.

Teldin swallowed nervously again. Something about Astinus, his cold self-assurance, perhaps, filled Teldin with

terrified respect. “I was given this cloak and I can’t take it off,” he whispered.

“So I have noted,” Astinus said. “Explanations are unnecessary.

Teldin could not help but stare. It seemed there was nothing the great sage did not already know. It filled him with the hope that Astinus would provide him a solution. “I mean, how do I get it off?”

“I do not know.” Astinus stopped, realizing that he lacked a certain piece of knowledge. The sage closed his eyes and considered the implications. Finally, he spoke again, the faintest tinge of puzzlement in his voice. “The cloak comes from beyond this world, beyond the range of my. . authority.”

Teidin’s shoulders sagged with the sudden failure of his hopes. “Your authority? Then who does know?” he asked weakly, his confidence quickly draining away.

“For that answer you must go outside this sphere,” Astinus answered. He went back to looking at his writing, seemingly forgetting the pair’s presence.

“Sphere? What sphere?” Teldin asked. So far, the great sage Astinus had provided more riddles than answers.

“Your friend did not explain spelljamming?” Astinus asked with only mild interest.

Gomja nervously wetted his lips. “I’ve never understood it very well myself, sir,” the giff admitted.

“Ignorance of the world is no asset,” Astinus humorlessly remarked as he wrote in flowing strokes, “although too much knowledge may also be bad.” Carefully setting his quill into its holder, the impassive sage sprinkled the drying sheet with sand, then gently set it on the top of the stack. After the briefest pause, Astinus took up another sheet and began writing again.

Teldin remembered stories about the sage and his library. It truly was his library, for Astinus’s books were supposed to be the only works found here. According to tales, each day the sage wrote a precise number of pages and each night these were spirited away by his aides, bound into volumes, and shelved in the halls of the Great Library. In his works, the history of all the world was set down.

“You have delayed my work long enough. This audience is over.” The sage’s cold words shocked Teldin from his reverie.

“But our questions! We haven’t learned anything,” the farmer started to argue, half-rising from his chair.

“And how do I get home?” interjected the giff, his deep voice rumbling ominously.

Astinus appeared unmoved by their pleas, and continued his writing unabated. “Maltor,” he smoothly called, summoning the doorkeeper. The pudgy man hurriedly appeared, his nervous tic stronger than before. “Take these two-” Astinus noted that Teldin was ready to argue and rephrased his thought. “ Help these two find their answers. Gnome history, one hundred and twenty-three years ago. Mount Nevermind. There ate some passages there that may be of use.”

“Yes, Master,” the Aesthetic answered reverently. He stood waiting for the guests to leave. Sensing that perhaps their visit had not been a complete failure, Teldin rose and motioned Gomja to follow.

Astinus kept scribbling, never once looking to see them depart. The words on the page, meticulously recording every event, told all he ever needed to know.

…the farmer and the creature leave Astinus’s study. Neither says good-bye. Maltor takes them into the stacks of books…

From atop the ladder, Maltor finally sounded a note of triumph. “Ah, here it is!” the Aesthetic told the pair, who waited below. Prying a volume from the tightly packed shelf at the uppermost level of the stacks, where it almost brushed the ceiling, Maltor fastidiously wiped a layer of dust from its edges. The gray powder filtered down through the gloomy aisle like mist. “You have been most favored,” the monk continued as he struggled to lower his fat body down the ladder, book under one arm. “For Astinus to allow you to read one of his books, let alone meet with him, is a great honor.” Blowing out his breath, the Aesthetic reached the floor and led the pair to a bare table lit by a single lamp.

The room was almost solid bookshelves, more books than Teldin had ever imagined existed in all of Ansalon. The neat rows of black and brown bound volumes were crammed tightly onto the shelves, arranged and numbered according to dates and places. Dust seemed to coat everything, including the floor, where the three left their tracks. Teldin wondered how long it would be before those footprints faded. “This must be the Great Library,” he breathed in awe.