studied here as a boy, taken his Test here. At least this Tower was still standing, though. A shudder ran through him as he thought of what had happened elsewhere. As long as the Tower remained, so did, the chance that the mages might one day return.
Sighing, Merroc turned away from the gates. The oaks were in full leaf, summertime coming early this far north. The breeze that whispered among their boughs smelled of the sea. The Shoikan Grove was dark, the most fearsome of all the enchanted woods that surrounded-or once surrounded-the Towers. Its magic filled the minds of those who entered it with fear, terrifying them so that even the doughtiest Solamnic fled weeping before he came close to the other side.
At a gesture from the highmage, the oaks moved aside, forming a path. The sounds of the city grew louder, more distinct. Finally, the trail opened up onto the streets of Palanthas. A crowd had formed outside, thousands strong, the folk of the city clamoring to glimpse the mages’ surrender. When they saw Merroc, they let out a burst of raucous noise: jeering and hissing, mixed with the jubilant shouts of victory. Merroc shook his head sadly, then walked down the path toward them.
The lords of the city awaited him: Urian, the Lord of Palanthas, resplendent in his robes of office; Yarns, the High Clerist of the Solamnic Knights, looking grave beneath his winged helm; Torvald, the city’s high priest, practically ablaze with righteous satisfaction. Astinus the Undying, the master of the Great Library, who had accepted the sorcerers’ tomes, stood nearby. When this was done, he would write it all out in the
The highmage looked to Lord Urian, trying not to show his distaste. The man’s eyes all but glowed with eagerness as he stared at the Tower. The rumor was that he hoped to turn the place into his private treasury for his hoard of gold and jewels.
“Your Worship,” Merroc said, “the Tower is empty. My people have left it and will not return.”
Urian nodded, licking his lips greedily. The highmage shook his head, annoyance growing as he reached into a pouch and produced an amulet on a silver chain. It was a black gem, unlovely and seething with power. Whoever wore it could pass through the Shoikan Grove unharmed. Even when he held it forth, however, the Lord’s eyes remained fixed on the Tower.
“This is the Nightjewel,” Merroc said. “It will-”
“Who is that up there?” the Lord of Palanthas interrupted, pointing.
Merroc froze. Even Astinus was looking in the same direction, his brow furrowing. That, more than anything, put a cold lump in the highmage’s belly.
Slowly he turned, and saw it too.
It stood in one of the Tower’s windows, high up near the crimson dome: a lone figure, tall and gaunt, his face obscured by a deep, dark hood. His robes were ragged black, billowing in the wind. The people of Palanthas gasped at the sight, exclaiming in horror.
Merroc’s eyes went wide. The Tower had been empty when he left it. He had checked the rooms care fully, with spells and his own eyes. There had been no one left within.
But then, who
The figure raised his hands, and the crowd fell silent, edging back. Merroc ran through some spells he knew, finding one that would conjure a shield to protect the mob from whatever the Black Robe meant to do. He murmured the incantation under his breath, his fingers twitching, then felt the magic course into him. He held it back, waiting.
The Black Robe raised his head and spoke, his voice carrying clearly down beyond the grove.
“You think you have won!” he shouted. “You have won nothing! The gates of this Tower will remained closed and its, halls empty until the day when the master of both the past and the present comes to claim its power!”
With that, he stepped up onto the windowsill.
“No!” Merroc cried.
The Black Robe jumped.
People screamed as he fell, robes fluttering like wings, but not bearing him up, not even slowing him as he plummeted, down, down, down.
The sound his body made when he hit the gates was unspeakable. The golden points drove through him in half a dozen places, impaling him. The latticework bent and warped beneath his weight, turning red as his blood poured out onto the ground. The Black Robe didn’t die right away, though. Somehow, he found the strength to tilt his head up, and speak one last spell with his final breath.
“No,” Merroc said again, his skin turning to ice. He knew those words, knew what would happen even as the Black Robe slumped at last, his life draining away to seal the curse he had laid upon the Tower. “Oh, sweet Solinari, no.”
The golden gates groaned, writhing like a living thing. As Merroc watched, the gold and silver changed from bloody red to the black of corruption, the jewels falling to dust. That wasn’t all, though. Above, the Tower also began to transform. Its minarets cracked and crumbled, chunks of stone raining down on the ground below. The white and red colors faded, turning ice-gray, the Tower’s beauty becoming gruesome. The path through the Shoikan Grove closed.
The crowd’s screams were all around now. Lord Yarus shouted for his men. Lord Urian was gone, running away with the rest, the high priest too. Only Astinus remained, one eyebrow raised as he stoically observed the chaos.
Feeling dead, Merroc sank to his knees, bowed his head and sobbed like a child.
The Dark One laughed, watching the Tower of Palanthas wither and die, the folk who had come to celebrate its fall fleeing in terror. Peering into his scrying vessel-the skull of a silver dragon, cut open and filled with its namesake metal-he nodded in satisfaction at what he had wrought.
It had been a long time coming, and more bother than he had expected. Another man would have regretted that so much death had been necessary to accomplish these things, but it troubled Fistandantilus not a bit. The knights of the Divine Hammer … the people of Daltigoth and Losarcum … his fellow mages … even Andras, whose death had sealed the Tower of Palanthas. What were they to him? Even if ten times as many had perished, it would not have given him pause.
At last his perseverance had its reward. The Order of High Sorcery was driven into hiding, where it could not meddle in his affairs. The church of Istar was in disarray, and he had a place close to the Kingpriest, close to the Lightbringer.
He waved his hand above the dragon shull, and the image of the blighted Tower faded.
The next move would have to wait-perhaps for years-but Fistandantilus had lived for centuries. Above all else, he was patient.
In the darkness, he smiled. The time would come.
