those with no power to read them. There were no battlements on the smooth-topped obsidian walls. Bram presumed the wizards who gathered there had little use for such mundane protection.
Beyond the gated wall, twin towers of polished black obsidian pierced the forest roof. He turned to glance around, but the forest here looked and felt so oddly malevolent that he quickly returned his attention to the structure. The gates were open, so he strode slowly through them, eyes attempting to look everywhere at once. The courtyard was stark and barren, paved with cold gray flagstone. Though he could see no one, he had the vague feeling that he was not alone, as if the vard were teeming with people rushing to and fro. Turning quickly, he thought he saw a face and the upturned collar of a white robe, but then it was gone. He shook his head, knowing the vision was impossible. Other than himself, he could see no one in the flagstone courtyard.
Bram walked toward the only door in a small fore- tower between the twin columns. At his approach the door abruptly flew back. Though no one appeared, it was obvious he was expected to step inside, and so he did. Smokeless torches provided dim illumination inside the simple, circular room. Three doors led from the room at equidistant points in the circle. Opposite the door an empty row of chairs followed the curve of the wall. Inside his still-new boots, Bram's feet had begun to throb, so he slipped over to the row of chairs and lowered himself into one. Bram unconsciously tapped his foot while he waited for someone to arrive to direct him.
And waited. Had he overlooked some bell or buzzer new arrivals were expected to ring? Bram squinted in the dark, spotted a simple wooden stand in the shadows to the left of the door, but it held only a thick, much-used book from the look of the binding. He drummed his fingers on the armrests.
Many more anxious moments passed, and Bram began to debate whether he should pick a door and go looking for someone. Perhaps he should just leave.
He had just risen to do so when the door to his left opened abruptly with a noisy creak, and from it emerged a man in a white robe, pushing a broom, his head bent to the task. Actually, Bram only assumed it was a man, since all he could see was the top of the person's tilted head, hair slicked down and carefully arranged so that each toothmark of the comb was still visible.
'Pardon me, my good man,' Bram tried to say, but his voice was phlegmy from lack of use this day. The words came out sounding like something a chicken might croak.
The man's head shot up. Spying Bram in the shadows, he whirled his broom about and held its handle like a spear. 'Speak the common tongue or be sausage!' he threatened. The man was old, his skin ash-gray, as were the fingers that trembled upon his mock weapon.
Bram cleared his throat and summoned the words he had been rehearsing since Northern Ergoth. 'I have traveled far to speak with the wizard named Par- Salian.'
The man smacked his lips in thinly veiled impatience. 'You've come too late in the day for Testing, or to declare an alignment. The Council of Three has recessed for the day.' He continued to sweep, pausing expectantly when he came to the floor under Bram's feet.
The young man stepped from the broom's path. 'I don't know anything about Testing or alignments,' said Bram. 'I need Par-Salian's help.'
'Come back tomorrow,' the man said, shooing Bram toward the exit with a wave of a blue-veined hand.
'But tomorrow may be too late,' Bram cried. He refused to be put off so easily. 'Can't you make an exception this once?' he pleaded, impulsively touching the man's arm.
Blue light crackled around the bent figure, gathered near his shoulder, and arced to Bram's hand. The young man yelped and yanked back his smoking fingers, as surprised as if a bucket of cold water had been splashed in his face. He had just suffered from what he was sure was a small demonstration of the mage's ability. If he wished to get any information here, he would have to use his wits.
A vision of the tuatha coin sprang to mind, and he fished about in the folds of his waistband to retrieve it. 'I'm afraid I've started out on the wrong foot here,' he began again in his most conciliatory tones. 'I don't know if it matters, or warrants an exception to the rules, but I was given a faerie coin and instructed to hand it to Par-Salian by way of intra-'
'A faerie coin?' the man repeated over a hunched shoulder. 'Why didn't you say so earlier?' He let the broom handle drop to the slate floor with a loud, ringing sound, while he stepped over to the book on the stand near the front door. Squinting in the dim light, the man flipped back the heavy cover, sending dust flying, and began leafing through pages. He came to one in particular and traced an ash-colored finger down a column of words. Abruptly he tapped the page and mumbled, 'Ayup. Faerie coins are right here under, 'Reasons to disturb Par-Salian, Head of the Conclave, Master of the White Robes.' '
The man slammed the heavy book shut. When he looked at Bram again, the smile on his face made it obvious his attitude toward the young nobleman had changed. 'The name's Delestrius, and I'm the warden on duty. Come along, then,' he said, stepping over the broom on his way to the door through which Bram had seen him enter the foretower. Delighted with his new treatment, Bram hopped over the broom handle and followed the hastily retreating man through the door.
The old man in the white robe scurried like a mouse up a staircase immediately inside the door, allowing Bram not a glance about him as he hurried along behind. It was even darker here than in the foretower. There were no torches, no candles, no magical lights of any kind on the stairs, or even the landings that he presumed led to rooms he couldn't see. There were no decorations of any kind, neither tapestries nor carpets to warm the steps.
Delestrius departed the stairway on the second landing and entered a narrow hallway. A window at the far end allowed in a sliver of light, but not enough to illuminate anything near Bram and his guide. They walked, the man surefooted, Bram tentatively, in the hallway that felt as if it curved. Bram bumped into Delestrius, who had stopped before a doorway. The nobleman didn't feel the burning sensation he had the last time he touched the mage. Delestrius knocked at the unmarked door.
'Enter, Delestrius,' said a voice as strong and clear as if its owner were not speaking through a thick, wooden door. It swung open without Bram's guide touching it. Bram followed Delestrius into a room that was nicely lit by a low-burning fire in the hearth against the left wall. The light radiated in warm yellow rays, striking shelves of books bound in white leather, silver runes glinting upon their spines. The golden light led Bram's eyes to a white- haired man seated behind an elaborate desk, one leg lifted casually to rest upon its cluttered surface.
'You know I would not for the world disturb you after hours, Master,' Bram's guide said with an obsequiousness the young man wouldn't have thought him capable of, 'if it were not of the utmost-'
'You know I trust your judgment, Delestrius,' interrupted the white-haired mage. Setting down a feathered quill, he raised kindly, tired blue eyes to Bram.
It took many long seconds before Bram realized the look was a question. 'I was given a faerie coin and instructed to place it only in the hands of Par-Salian,' he blurted.
'A faerie coin?' repeated the old man with interest.
Are you Par-Salian?'
Delestrius gasped and slapped the back of Bram's head. 'I was told I would suffer death if I gave the coin: o anyone else,' Bram explained defensively, rubbing his skull.
The white-haired man behind the desk said, 'Your reticence is understandable, under such circumstances. I should have introduced myself.' He stood, walked around the desk, and extended a hand that winked with the facets of many precious gems. 'Par-Salian, Head of the Conclave, Master of the White Robes, Keeper of the Key, and so on, and so on,' he said with a self-deprecating formality.
The young man's work-reddened hand shook the mage's soft, warm one. 'Bram DiThon,' he said simply.
Par-Salian's eyes lit noticeably with interest at the surname, but before he could form a question, both men heard Bram's guide muttering, 'Shouldn't have to introduce the greatest mage alive.'
Par-Salian smoothed his snowy moustache with two fingers, hiding a slight smirk. 'That will be all, Delestrius. Thank you.'
Frowning, the man bobbed his head and backed through the door, leaving Bram and Par-Salian in the silence of the crackling fire.
Bram waited, red-faced, while the white-haired mage slowly shuffled to a chair by the hearth. He motioned Bram to join him. Par-Salian held out his soft, wrinkled palm, leaving no question as to what he wished. Bram rubbed the carved surface of the wafer- thin magical coin one last time, then placed it in the man's waiting hand. Par-Salian had just enough time to validate Bram's claim before the coin disappeared like snow into water.
