been called. With a nervous glance at Lyim, Guerrand drew in a deep breath and pushed himself from his seat. He could feel beads of sweat springing from his forehead. 'It's a snap,' Lyim called after him again, though Guerrand could barely hear over the pounding of his heart.
Stepping through the doorway, Guerrand stood in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. He suspected it, too, was round, like the foretower, though much, much larger, since the walls and ceiling were beyond his sight, obscured in shadow. The room was lit by a pale white light, cold, cheerless, and yet there were no torches or candles. Guerrand stopped without intending to and shivered.
He could see no one, and yet he knew he was not alone. The Council of Three were there, Lyim had told him. Guerrand waited, too frightened to call to them, even had he known their names.
'Be seated,' a voice said at long last. Puzzled, Guerrand looked around and was surprised to find that a heavy, carved, oaken chair stood beside him. He slipped into it quickly, as if it could conceal him.
'You wish to become a mage.'
It was not a question, and yet Guerrand felt compelled to answer the unseen man's soft, aged voice. Yes. It has always been my heart's desire.'
'I sense other desires there,' put in another voice from the darkness, a woman's sultry tones that made Guerrand long to see its owner.
He squinted into the darkness. 'Would it be too impertinent to ask that I be allowed to see those who question me?'
'Impertinent, yes,' said yet another man's voice, younger and robust with unspoken humor. 'But not unreasonable.'
Abruptly those present in the chamber revealed themselves. Guerrand was certain the light had not increased or crept farther into the shadows, and yet he could now see a semicircle of mostly empty chairs; a quick count revealed twenty-one. Seated in the very center, in a great throne of carved stone, was an extremely distinguished though frail-looking man. He had piercing blue eyes and long, gray-white hair, beard, and mustache that nearly matched his white robe.
Following Guerrand's eyes, the old man said, 'I am Par-Salian of the White Robes, Head of the Conclave of Wizards. This enchanting creature,' he said with a nod to the woman in black seated at his right, 'is LaDonna, Mistress of the Black Robes.'
Guerrand's eyes fixed on the striking woman whose iron-gray hair was woven into an intricate braid coiled about her head. Her beauty and age defied definition; Guerrand wondered if both were magically altered.
'I need no illusions to embellish my looks or diminish my age,' LaDonna said abruptly. Guerrand jumped, blushing.
A small smile at Guerrand's embarrassment further creased Par-Salian's weathered face. With his eyes, he directed the young man's gaze to the man seated on his left. 'I would have you meet the Master of the Red Robes, but he is unavailable, locked in study in his laboratory. Serving in his stead today is Justarius of the Red Robes.'
The dark-haired man with neat mustache and beard resting on his white ruff nodded at Guerrand, who returned the gesture. Guerrand judged him to be in his late thirties, though he knew with a mage he could be off by decades.
'We are today's Council of Three,' Par-Salian explained. 'We convene at the Tower of Wayreth primarily to conduct these interviews, devise Tests, and deal with everyday problems of the orders that do not require the attention of the full conclave of twenty-one members, seven from each order.'
Par-Salian brushed a wisp of white hair from his eyes. 'The day has been a long one,' he said with an edge of tired impatience in his voice. 'Declare an alignment, young man, and let us draw today's interviews to a close.'
Guerrand shook his head quickly. 'I've chosen no alignment.'
'Then why did you come here today?' demanded LaDonna with an peevish frown.
'I came to begin my training as a mage. Frankly, I did not know what that entailed.'
'Your master didn't tell you before he sent you? What color robe did he wear?'
'I've had no master,' Guerrand explained, feeling more and more like an ignorant rube. 'A mage came to me recently and encouraged me to come to Wayreth and seek a master who could teach me.' Guerrand tapped his chin in thought. 'He wore a red robe, come to think of it.'
'You've had no master?' repeated Justarius. 'Each of us has probed your mind and found within it enough talent and skill to have brought you before us. Are you saying no master instructed you in magic?'
'No, sir. All that I've learned has come from books I found in my father's library.'
'Interesting,' muttered Justarius.
Guerrand was both embarrassed and desperate to persuade them he could quickly overcome his deficiencies. 'If you would be kind enough to explain the different philosophies of the disciplines, I would happily and swiftly choose one.'
The three revered mages exchanged surprised looks. 'This is most unusual,' said Par-Salian. Justarius leaned to whisper something in his ear, and the old mage shrugged. 'You are right, Justarius. If it brings even one more mage to our dwindling ranks, the time is well spent.' Par-Salian looked directly at Guerrand. 'We will make an exception. Listen closely. I'll not repeat what you already should know.'
'Yes… yes, thank you,' Guerrand said, his head bobbing eagerly. He leaned forward in his chair.
'Wizards of the White Robes,' began Par-Salian, 'embrace the cause of Good, and we use our magic to further the predominance of Good in the world. We believe that a world in which there are only good deeds and thoughts would benefit all races and end much suffering.'
LaDonna leaned back in her chair indolently. 'Wizards of the Black Robes,' she said in her husky voice, 'believe the darker side that all creatures possess is their most productive. Therefore, we believe that magic should be pursued without ethical or moral restraints. It is beyond such considerations.'
Justarius sat forward in his chair, his left leg stretched out and twisted awkwardly, as if it pained him. 'We mages of the Red Robes recognize that elements of both Good and Evil-'
'We prefer the nonpejorative term 'dark side,' ' interrupted LaDonna.
Justarius nodded in respect to the black-robed woman's request, but under his mustache his lip curled up in a slight smirk. 'Both Good and Evil exist in all creatures. We believe that to try to eliminate one or the other is not only futile, but an undesirable goal. It is when these two opposing elements are balanced in an individual-or in a society-that life has the richness we all seek. Wizards of the Red Robes use their magic to encourage and maintain that balance.'
'Realize this, too,' added Par-Salian, 'before you make your decision. Every wizard, no matter the color
of his robe, vows his primary allegiance to magic. All wizards are brothers in their order. All orders are brothers in the power. Though we may disagree on method, particularly during important conclaves, the places of High Wizardry, such as this tower, are held in common among us. No sorcery will be suffered here in anger against fellow wizards.' Par-Salian shifted a bushy white brow.
Guerrand pondered all that they had said, conscious not to take too much time in his evaluation. Finally, he said, with a nod to Par-Salian and LaDonna, 'With all due respect to your disciplines, I believe the philosophy of the Red Robes, as outlined by Justarius, most closely aligns with my own outlook on life.'
'You are certain?' asked Par-Salian. 'Are you prepared to declare loyalty to that order?'
Guerrand nodded solemnly. Clearing his throat, he said with great formality, 'I, Guerrand DiThon, do hereby pledge my loyalty to the Order of the Red Robes.' He was rewarded with a warm smile from Justarius.
'That is done.' Par-Salian's ringed fingers slapped the arm of his stone chair in satisfaction. 'There is one last piece of business to conclude today's interviews.' The door behind Guerrand flew open abruptly, and the same disembodied voice that had called Guerrand forth from the foretower drew in the two young mages still waiting there.
'Welcome once more,' said the white-haired wizard as the other young mages seated themselves next to Guerrand. 'Our last bit of business is to ascertain or assign masters so that you may all begin your apprenticeships.
'Stand, Nieulorr of Swansea Valley,' called the head of the conclave. The shrouded elf slid gracefully from the chair, almond-shaped eyes fixed on the elderly mage. 'You have declared your allegiance to the White
Robes. Have you a master, or are you in need of placement with a suitable archmage? The council has a
