'And she is the leader of all the Red Robes? Are there many of them?'
For the first time, the youth looked unsure. 'Well, there used to be. And when the moons came back-there are three of them, you know, 'cuz there's a black one you can't see-'
'I know about the three moons!' Coryn declared. He continued as if she hadn't spoken.
'But since the moons came back, Jen-I mean, the Lady Jenna-has been looking for other wizards. But she hasn't found any.' His face brightened, in sudden inspiration. 'I bet that's why we got the mules.'
'Why?' the girl asked, wondering what mules had to do with wizards.
But Donny had already said too much, and by this time they were making their way up Nobles Hill to Jenna's house.
There she was rather surprised to find that the lady had already laid out three pairs of saddlebags, bulging with provisions. Her men-at-arms started loading them onto the animals as soon as they arrived. Coryn barely had time to run in and get her knapsack, which she lashed to one of the mules, before Jenna was saying good-bye to her servants.
'Rupert, please take charge of my affairs, as usual,' she directed the majordomo. 'We might be gone for a very long time.'
'Of course, my lady. And may I wish you great success on your quest.'
Jenna didn't offer any explanation to Coryn, but the girl was resigned to another long adventure on the road. As they started away from the villa, Jenna strolling easily in the lead while Cory led the three mules, the girl looked back at the placid animals and made a practical decision about the only thing where she seemed to have a little control.
She decided to name the mules.
Chapter 9
A Master Enslaved
The Master of the Tower had erred. That awareness came very slowly, but it was an undeniable truth.
At first he had welcomed the Awakening, a return to cognizance after so many decades of dormancy. The gods had reached out to him, and he had grown vibrant under their touch, their urging. Quickly, over the course of little more than a single cycle of the black moon, Nuitari, the Master of the Tower had shrugged off the lethargy of the godless years. This eight-day sequence spanned in its passing the fullness of the other two moons, Solinari and Lunitari, so that upon the second rising of Nuitari as a complete, dark circle-the Master could sense this fullness as clearly as could any black-robed wizard-the great structure in the heart of Wayreth Forest began to pulse with a return of long-forgotten vitality.
It happened during the spring of the year, and the Master of the Tower felt fully, vibrantly alive. When all three moons rose into the sky, the power of the gods of magic flowed toward the world, bringing forth that fully cognizant awareness of life.
With awareness there came remembrance, and with those memories, unspeakable pain.
The Master remembered eons of greatness, when these halls had been home to the likes of Fistandantilus, Raistlin the Black, and Par-Salian of the white robe. Power beyond imagination had once coursed through this center of learning and of might. Within this tower the great Portal had glimmered and glowed, tempting wizards over the years with easy transport between the towers of sorcery-all the time serving the sinister purposes of the Queen of Darkness. The Portal had been closed and sealed years ago, and now that queen was dead, and still the Tower stood. It remained aloof from the world, lofty and alone… save for the wizards who dwelled here, and the forest that protected it.
The forest!
The Master's first conscious act in this new age was to seek the comforting presence of that vast woodland, the warm nest that had been its bower since the Age of Dreams. The forest surrounded and protected, barred the unwelcome from entry, and sealed away the petty troubles of mortal lives and lands. That wood was the Tower's cocoon, its bower, its nest.
Yet now, in this new age when the three moons once again ruled the night sky, the Master could not feel this familiar, comforting, surrounding presence. The Master feared that the forest was dead, vanished into the same void that had nearly swallowed the Tower itself. A sense of bleak hopelessness surrounded the Tower, and if not for the strength in the deep-seated foundation stones, the spire might have collapsed in ruin.
Then, faintly, there came a sign-not a word or a message so much as the faintest of impulses, a hint of comfort, a signal that the ancient strength was being stirred and restored. The forest, like the Tower, was alive!
The Master of the Tower strained to enhance that contact, to reassure, to invigorate, but the weakness and hopelessness were too pervasive. Long years, decades, of catatonic unawareness had sapped the Tower's ability to project strength, to wield the sorcerous fundament that was its reason for existing.
But that arcane power held on and began to grow, and the master felt the power of all three gods of magic begin to thrum through those stones, parapets, and foundation. That magical might flowed into the surrounding forest, and the trees and shrubs and grasses began to show small signs of life. Over the course of another moon cycle, limbs once withered and drooping began to grow straight and strong, brown and rotted foliage fell away to be replaced by green buds that, in the course of only a few more days, turned into leaves and blossoms, fruits and nuts.
Slowly that warm embrace encircled the Tower, and the Master felt the vitality of ancient strength build and grow.
But the world beyond remained a vast wilderness, a haven of wild magic and blasphemy, a dark blight of ignorance, of seeking based on false gods. There was no time for rest, or reflection. There was an urgency in the summons of the gods, an urgency that the Tower and forest felt and shared. They had important work to do, and time was the enemy; for, with each passing sunset, the chaotic force of wild magic grew stronger in the world.
The Master of the Tower was a bulwark against that surging tide, but he alone was not strong enough, nor vital enough. The Tower needed a wizard, a mortal master to return here, to take up the challenge. The pulse had gone out across the world, a vibration through the ether that would tickle the fabric of magic, to seek, and to bring such a wizard home, to the Tower.
And now a wizard had come.
Kalrakin stared at the door, his bristling brows tautly knit together by the force of his concentration. Wild magic surrounded him, energy surging through the stones of the floor, entering his feet, climbing his legs, suffusing his body with the force of imminent, inevitable explosion. The sorcerer raised his right hand, where the Irda Stone shimmered with its pearly glow. For more than a day, he had prepared this spell, using the artifact to draw the power from many parts of the Tower, gathering it for this powerful blast.
Kalrakin concentrated his powerful store of magic not at the door-that barrier had resisted all of his previous efforts- but at the granite frame surrounding this entryway. With a cry of exultation, he let the spell go, hurling all his power-and the power of the Irda Stone-at that smooth granite.
Pain wracked his hands, his arms, and his shoulders. A vise closed around his heart, and his cry became a shriek of pain. Kalrakin stumbled backward, smashing his back against the opposite wall. Fire tinged the fringes of his vision, and he choked in agony, straining for a single breath of air. But his lungs would not respond. Blackness closed in, and though he fought to keep standing, he could not prevent himself from sliding down to slump on the floor, shoulders flat against the wall.
Very slowly, he drew a ragged breath, precious air driving back the unconsciousness that threatened to overwhelm him. His legs twitched convulsively. He was drooling into his beard-yet Kalrakin was unable to raise a hand, even to wipe his lips. He groaned. Bracing his hands to either side, he forced himself to sit upright and wiped his mouth spasmodically.
Crimson streaked his hand-from a cut on his lip and from blood streaming from his nose. His fists clenched in fury, and he spat contemptuously at the stubborn door, a glob of bloody saliva that dripped slowly down the
