Par-Salian hid a smile in another glass of wine.
“You yourself used to say that those who walk the paths of night had better know how to see in the dark,” Antimodes continued. “You don’t want him bumbling about blindly, I suppose.”
“That was part of my reasoning. The Test will teach him a few things about himself. Things he might not like to know, but which are necessary to his understanding of himself and the power he wields.”
“The Test is a humbling experience,” Antimodes said with something between a sigh and shudder.
Their faces lengthened, they cast surreptitious glances at each other to see if their thoughts were once more traveling in similar directions. It seemed that the thoughts were concurrent, as evidenced by the fact that they had no need to name the personage about whom they now spoke.
“He will undoubtedly be there,” said Antimodes in a low voice. He glanced around guardedly, as if he feared they might be overheard in the chamber, a chamber that stood alone in the topmost part of the tower, a chamber to which no one but the two of them had access.
“Yes, I fear so,” said Par-Salian, looking grave. “He will take particular interest in this young man.”
“We should finish him, once and for all.”
“We’ve tried,” Par-Salian said. “And you know the results as well as I do. We cannot touch him on his plane of existence. Not only that, but I suspect that Nuitari guards him.”
“He should. He never had a more loyal servant. Talk of murders!” Leaning forward, Antimodes spoke in a conspiratorial undertone. “We could limit the young man’s access to him.”
“And what of freedom of will? That has always been the hallmark of our orders. A freedom many have sacrificed their lives to protect! Do we throw the right to choose our own destinies to the Abyss?”
Antimodes was chastened. “Forgive me, friend. I spoke in haste. I am fond of the young man, though. Fond and proud of him. He has done me great credit. I would hate to see harm befall him.”
“Indeed he has done you credit. And he will continue to do so, I hope. His own choices will lead him on the path he is to walk, as our choices led us. I trust they may be wise ones.”
“The Test will be hard on him. He is a frail youth.”
“The blade must pass through the fire, else it will break.”
“And if he dies? What of your plans then?”
“Then I will look for someone else. Ladonna spoke to me of a promising young elf magus. His name is Dalamar.…”
Their conversation turned to other matters, to Ladonna’s pupil, dire events in the world, and eventually to the area that interested them most—magic.
Above the Tower, silver Solinari and red Lunitari shone brightly. Nuitari was there as well, a dark hole in the constellations. The three moons were full this night, as was necessary for the Test.
In the lands beyond the tower, far, far away from the room where the two archmagi sipped their elven wine and spoke of the fate of the world, the young mages who were traveling to the Tower to take the Test slept restlessly, if they slept at all. In the morning, the Forest of Wayreth would find them, lead them to their fate.
Tomorrow some might sleep, never to wake again.
2
THE TWINS’ JOURNEY TO THE TOWER TOOK THEM OVER A MONTH. They had expected it would take longer, for they had thought they would be traveling on foot. Shortly after their friends had left Solace, a messenger arrived to say that two horses had been delivered to the public stables in the name of Majere. The horses were gifts from Raistlin’s sponsor, Antimodes.
The young men traveled southwest through Haven. Raistlin stopped to pay his respects to Lemuel, who reported that the temple of Belzor had been razed, its stone blocks used to build homes for the poor. This had been accomplished under the auspices of a new and apparently harmless religious order known as the Seekers. Lemuel had reopened his mageware shop. He showed Raistlin the black bryony, which was flourishing. He asked where they were bound. Raistlin replied that they were traveling for fun, taking a roundabout route to Pax Tharkas.
Lemuel looked very grave at this, wished them luck and a safe road many times, and sighed deeply when they left.
The two continued their journey, riding south along the western slopes of the Kharolis Mountains, skirting the borders of Qualinesti.
Although they kept close watch, they saw no elves. Yet the two were always aware of the elves watching them. Caramon suggested visiting Tanis, seeing the elven kingdom. Raistlin reminded him that their journey was secret, they were supposed to be in Pax Tharkas. Besides, he doubted if they would be able to convince the elves to admit them. The Qualinesti took more kindly to humans than did their cousins, the Silvanesti, but with evil rumors flying on dark wings from the north, the Qualinesti were wary of strangers.
On the last morning of their journey along the border, the two woke to find an elven arrow embedded at the foot of each of their bedrolls. The Qualinesti’s message was clear: We have allowed you to pass, but don’t come back.
The brothers breathed a little easier once they were out of elven lands, but they could not relax their vigilance, for now began their search for the wayward Forest of Wayreth. The lands in this part of Abanasinia were wild and desolate. Once the two were set upon by thieves, another time a band of goblins passed by so near that the twins could have reached out and smacked one on its scaly hide.
The bandits had thought to jump defenseless young travelers. Caramon’s sword and Raistlin’s fiery spells soon apprised them of their mistake. The bandits left one of their number dead on the road, the rest dashed off to bind their wounds. The goblins proved too numerous to fight, however. The brothers took refuge in a cave until the troop had marched past, heading northward at a rapid pace.
The twins spent four days searching for the forest. Caramon, frustrated and nervous, said more than once that they ought to turn back. He consulted three maps—one given him by Tasslehoff, one provided by an innkeeper in Haven, and another taken from the body of the thief. Not one of the maps showed the forest in the same location.
Raistlin soothed his brother’s concerns with as much calm as he could muster, though he himself was starting to worry. Tomorrow was the seventh day, and they had seen no sign of the forest.
That night they spread their bedrolls in a clearing of scraggly pines. They awakened to find themselves lying beneath the huge, spreading bows of enormous oak trees.
Caramon almost fled then and there. The oak trees were not ordinary oak trees. He saw eyes in the knotholes, he heard spoken words in the rustling of the leaves. He heard words in the songs of the birds as well. Though he couldn’t understand them clearly, the birds seemed to him to be warning him to leave.
The twins gathered their belongings, mounted their horses. The oak trees stood shoulder to shoulder, stalwart guards blocking their path. Raistlin regarded the trees in silence a moment, summoning his courage. He urged his horse forward. The oaks parted, forming a clear path that led straight to the tower.
Caramon tried to ride after his brother. The trees glared at him with hatred, the leaves rustled in anger. His courage failed him. Fear took hold of him, wrung him, left him weak and helpless, powerless to move.
“Raist!” he cried hoarsely.
Raistlin turned. Seeing his brother’s predicament, he rode back. He reached out, took hold of his brother’s hand.
“Do not be afraid, Caramon. I am with you.”
The two entered the forest together.
On the seventh day of the seventh month, seven magi were ushered into a large courtyard at the base of the Tower of High Sorcery.
Four men and three women: Four were human, two elven, and one appeared to be half-human, half-dwarf, a rather unusual combination for a magic-user. The youngest by almost five years was Raistlin Majere, the only one to arrive with an escort. The others glanced askance at the young mage, observed his delicate features, his pallor, and the excessive thinness that made him appear you
nger than he was.
They wondered why he was here, and why he was permitted to have a family member with him. The elves were open in their disdain. The half-dwarf suspected the young man of having sneaked in uninvited, though he could not say how.
The garden courtyard in the Tower of High Sorcery was an eerie place, crisscrossed with corridors of magic. Magi passed through here regularly, traveling the magic pathways on errands to the tower or on business of their own. Those standing in the garden could not see the travelers on their hidden pathways, but it seemed to them that they could feel the breath of their passing.
The older, more experienced magi who frequented the tower grew accustomed to the sudden shifting eddies of magic that swirled about the courtyard. This being the first occasion any of the novices had visited the tower, they found the voices that spoke from nothingness, the sudden whiffs of air down the back of the neck, the half-seen flash of a hand or foot, most disturbing.
The initiates and the single lone warrior stood in the courtyard, waiting for what they hoped would be the beginning of their lives as one of this elite group of wizards. The initiates tried not to think about the fact that this might be the last day of their lives.
Caramon jumped, with a clatter of sword and leather armor, and whipped around to stare fearfully behind him.
“Hold still! You are making a fool of yourself, Caramon,” Raistlin admonished as they stood waiting in the courtyard.
“I felt a hand touch my back,” Caramon said, pale and sweating.
“Very probably,” Raistlin murmured, unperturbed. “Pay it no mind.”
“I don’t like this place, Raist!” Caramon’s voice sounded unnaturally loud in the whispering stillness. “Let’s go back home. You’re a good enough mage without having to put up with this!”
His words carried quite clearly. The other initiates turned to stare. The upper lip of one of the elves curled in a sneer.
Raistlin felt the hot blood flood his face. “Hush, Caramon!” he rebuked, his voice quivering with anger. “You are shaming us both!”
Caramon shut his mouth, bit his lip.
Raistlin deliberately turned his back on his twin. He could not fathom why the conclave had insisted on Caramon’s being a part of his brother’s testing.
“Unless they plan on aggravating me to death,” Raistlin muttered to himself.
He tried to ignore Caramon’s presence, concentrating on banishing his own nervous fears. There was no reason he should be afraid. He had studied his spellbook, he knew it inside out, could have recited his spells backward while standing on his head, if that was what the judges might require. He had proven that he could work his magic under pressure. He would not fall apart, nor would his spell fall apart, in tense situations.
He need not be concerned about his abilities to perform magic during the Test. Nor was he particularly worried about the intangible portions of the Test, the part wherein the mage learns more about himself. Introspective from birth, Raistlin was confident that he knew all there was to know about his own inner workings.
For him, the Test would be a mere formality.
Raistlin relaxed, discovered that he was actually looking forward to the Test. His worries eased, he spent the time waiting for the judges to arrive in studying the fabled Tower of Wayreth.
“I will see it often in the future,” he said to himself and envisioned traveling the unseen pathways, tending herbs in the garden, studying in the great library.
The tower at Wayreth was in actuality two towers, constructed of polished black obsidian. The main towers were surrounded by a wall in the shape of an equilateral triangle, with three smaller towers located at each of the angles. The wall surrounded the garden, where grew many varieties of herbs used not only for spell components, but also for healing and cooking.
The tops of the walls had no battlements, for the tower was protected by strong magicks. The forest would not permit the entry of anyone unless he had been invited by the conclave. If an enemy did, by some mischance, manage to stumble into the forest, the magical creatures roaming within would deal with the foe.
There was need for such precautions. Long ago there had been five Towers of High Sorcery, centers for magic on Ansalon. During the rise of Istar, the Kingpriest, who secretly feared magic and the power of wizards, outlawed magic. He caused mobs to rise against the wizards, hoping to eradicate them.
The wizards might have fought back, and some advocated the use of force, but the conclave deemed such drastic action unwise. Defending themselves would result in tragic loss of life on both sides. The Kingpriest and his followers wanted bloody conflict. Then they could point an accusing finger at the wizards and say, “We were right! They are a menace and should be destroyed!”
The conclave made a bargain with the Kingpriest. The wizards would abandon their towers, retreat to a single tower located in Wayreth. Here they would continue to study unmolested. The Kingpriest, though disappointed that the wizards chose not to fight, agreed. He had already taken control of the Tower of High Sorcery at Istar, and now he looked forward to gaining the exquisitely lovely tower in Palanthas. He planned to make it a temple to his greatness.
As he entered the tower to claim it, a black-robed wizard, purportedly insane, leapt from one of the tower’s upper windows. The wizard impaled himself upon the sharp barbs of the iron fence below. With his dying breath, he cast a curse upon the tower, saying that none should inhabit it except the Master of Past and Present.
Who was this mysterious master? No one could say. Certainly it was not the Kingpriest. As he watched, horrified, the tower altered in appearance, becoming so hideous in aspect that those looking at it were constrained to cover their eyes. Even then, those who saw it were forever haunted by the dreadful sight.
The Kingpriest sent for powerful clerics to try to lift the curse. Surrounded by the Shoikan Grove, a forest of fear, the tower was guarded by the dark god Nuitari, who paid no attention to prayers uttered to any god except himself. The clerics of Paladine came, but they ran whimpering from the site. The clerics of Mishakal tried to enter. They barely escaped with their lives.
When the gods cast down the fiery mountain on Ansalon, the Cataclysm sent Istar to the bottom of the Blood Sea. Quakes broke the continent of Ansalon, ripping it apart, forming new seas, creating new mountain ranges. The city of Palanthas shook on its foundations, houses and buildings toppled. Yet not a leaf in the Shoikan Grove so much as shivered.
Dark, silent, empty, the tower waited for its master, whoever that maybe.
Raistlin pondered the history of the towers. In his mind, he was already walking the halls of the Tower of Wayreth, an accepted and revered wizard, when an unseen bell chimed seven times.
The seven initiates, who had been walking in the garden, visiting with each other, or standing apart, reciting their spells to themselves, came to a halt. All talking ceased.
Some faces paled in fear, others flushed in excitement. The elves, priding themselves on showing no emotion before humans, appeared nonchalant, bored.
“What’s that?” Caramon asked, hoarse with nervousness.
“It is time, my brother,” Raistlin said.
“Raist, please …” Caramon began.
Seeing the expression on his brother’s face—the narrowed eyes, the frowning brows, the hard, firm set of the lips—Caramon swallowed his final plea.
A disembodied hand appeared, floating above the roses in the center of the garden.
“Oh, shit!” Caramon breathed. His hand closed convulsively over the hilt of his sword, but he did not need his brother’s warning glance to understand that he should not draw any weapon on these grounds. He doubted if he could have found the strength to do so.
The hand beckoned. The initiates drew their hoods over their heads, placed their hands in the sleeves of their robes, and silently walked in the direction the hand indicated, heading for a small tower located between the two larger towers.
Raistlin and his brother, wh
o had been the last to arrive, brought up the rear of the line.
The hand pointed at the door in the foremost tower, a door whose knocker was the head of a dragon. No one was required to knock to gain entry. The door opened silently as they approached.
One by one, each of the initiates filed inside. Leaving the sunlit garden, they entered a darkness so thick that all were temporarily blinded. Those in front halted, uncertain where to go, afraid to go anywhere that they could not see. Those coming behind them bunched up inside the doorway. Caramon, entering last, blundered into all of them.
“Sorry. Excuse me. I didn’t see—”
“Silence.”
The darkness spoke. The initiates obeyed. Caramon was silent, too, or tried to be. His leather creaked, his sword rattled, his boots clattered. His stentorian breathing echoed throughout the chamber.
“Turn to your left and walk toward the light,” ordered the voice that was as disembodied as the hand.
The initiates did as commanded. A light appeared, and they moved toward it with quiet, shuffling steps, Caramon tromping along loudly behind.
A small corridor of stone, lit by torches whose pale fire burned steadily, gave no warmth and made no smoke, opened into a vast hall.
“The Hall of Mages,” Raistlin whispered, digging his nails into the flesh of his arms, using the pain to contain his excitement.
The others shared his awe, his elation. The elves dropped their stoic masks. Their eyes shone, their lips parted in wonder. Each one of the initiates had dreamed of this moment, dreamed of standing in the Hall of Mages, a place forbidden, a place most people on Krynn would never see.
“No matter what happens, this is worth it,” Raistlin said silently.
Only Caramon remained unaffected, except by fear. He hung his head, refused to look to left or right, as if hoping that if he did not look, it would all go away.
The chamber walls were obsidian, shaped smooth by magic. The ceiling was lost in shadow. No pillars supported it.
Light shone, white light that illuminated twenty-one stone chairs, arranged in a semicircle. Seven of the chairs bore black cushions, seven of them red cushions, and seven white cushions. Here was the meeting place of the Conclave of Wizards. A single chair stood in the center of the semicircle. This chair was slightly larger than the rest. Here sat the head of the conclave. The cushion on the chair was white.
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