Cathan read the scroll twice, then rolled it up again and tucked it into his sleeve. The Kingpriest was right, he cared nothing at all for Marwort. The old wizard had seemed harmless enough, had even sided with the empire against his own order a few times. More than a few, actually. But he was still a sorcerer, and not to be trusted. With the Conclave sending a new wizard to take his place…
Cathan’s eyes went back to the broken hawk sprawled in the soil and wet grass. He sighed, then turned back toward the knights’ camp.
“Bring that,” he said to Marto and Pellidas as he strode into the wood, Tithian at his heels. “The pieces, too, and be quick about it. We ride for the Lordcity within the hour.”
CHAPTER 3
There were five Towers of High Sorcery in the world, each of them old beyond telling and alive with the power of the moons above. Four stood within the cities of mortal men, constant reminders of magic’s might. They loomed over Daltigoth, the Capitol of Ergoth, and Palanthas, the greatest city in the knightly realm of Solamnia. Istar, for its part, had two-one in the Lordcity itself, and one in Losarcum, the fabled Stone City, which had been the heart of the kingdom of Dravinaar before war and annexation made that proud realm into the Holy Empire’s two southernmost provinces.
Mages of all robes-the White of good, the Red of neutrality, and even the hated Black-dwelt within the Towers studying and teaching magic, united by their love for their Art.
Each held artifacts and lore of inestimable value, as well as vast laboratories where the most learned wizards toiled to discover new uses for the magic. Those few common folk who had been inside the Towers spoke of countless wonders: demons imprisoned in shards of crystal, hallways and rooms that changed size and shape without warning, windows through which one could gaze out upon lands hundreds of leagues away. Statues got up and moved when no one was looking, and flashes of light and eerie sounds came from nearly every door or window. Even in Daltigoth, where they tolerated magic, folk gave wide berth to the Tower, and to the surrounding grove of enchanted pine trees. In the other cities, where people viewed magic and its practitioners with suspicion, they gave the lofty spires dark glances, signing the triangle or Jolith’s horns or the twin teardrops of Mishakal against whatever evils lurked within.
Of all the Towers, however, the greatest was the one folk
It was a strange-looking structure of a style seen nowhere else on Krynn. Surrounded by triangular walls, it consisted of a pair of obsidian cones, raised from the earth’s bones by forces of forgotten power. Narrow slits of windows broke up its black, gleaming surface. It had no battlements, no turrets. Hidden by the forest and protected by the power of sorcery, it had no need of mortal sentries. Within dwelt the mightiest wizards in an Ansalon: men and women whose power in the Art knew no equal. Even Fistandantilus the Old, the legendary archmage called the Dark One by his fellow Black Robes, kept apartments at the Tower, though-to general relief none had seen him there in centuries. There was no place in all of Krynn more alive with magic.
Leciane do Cirica stared up at the two towers, reaching up toward the stars like the claws of the great dragons that once had filled Ansalon’s skies. Solinari, round and bright, made the northern tower gleam with silver light. Lunitari, also full, made the southern one seem dipped in blood. Nuitari was up there somewhere too, Leciane knew, but she could not see it. She was no Black Robe, but rather wore the Red of those who walked the path between light and shadow.
The night wind gusted, cold enough to make her shiver. Around the Tower the forest remained green, but the tang of winter was in the air. It blew back her hood, momentarily uncovering a dusky face that had been breathtakingly beautiful when she was a girl. Even now, with her fortieth year behind her, she made most women half her age seem plain. The lines around her eyes and mouth, the threads of silver that crept through her long black curls, only accentuated her loveliness. Her green eyes sparkled with equal parts amusement and annoyance as she grabbed for her hood and pulled it down over her face again.
She had been at Losarcum’s Tower when the summons found her. She had residences both there and at Daltigoth, where she had taken the Test to become a full-blooded wizard.
The message had come not as words written on parchment or vellum but rather as a pair of disembodied lips, which had appeared before her and bidden her come at once to Wayreth.
She had obeyed, and now she was here, the mouth still floating in the air beside her. It was hard to tell but she thought it had a smug look to it.
“Well?” she asked. “No one to meet us?”
The pointed tip of a tongue poked out, running over the ruby lips. “Be patient,” the mouth said. “The Conclave are in discussion now. They will call you soon.”
She scowled. The Conclave, the rulers of High Sorcery, consisted of the orders’ strongest wizards, its most influential. A powerful sorceress in her own right, Leciane hoped one day to ascend to their ranks. For now, though, she was as bound to do their bidding as any neophyte fresh from his Test. Still, that didn’t keep her from glowering at the twin spires.
She’d spent a great deal of energy getting here, using the Art to speed her travel. Now, to be kept waiting…
The mouth twitched, then curled into a grin full of pointed teeth. At the same time, the air around Leciane shivered, shimmered with silver sparks. They fell upon her, cold where they touched her dark skin. She didn’t flinch at them, or at the sinking in her stomach as the spell took hold. This wasn’t the first time someone had cast a teleportation spell on her.
“Go, then;” said the magical lips, still smiling. “The Conclave welcomes you, Your Excellency.”
Excellency? Leciane thought, glancing at the lips. The lips chuckled, then disappeared.
With a silver flash and a shimmer of noise, so did she.
*****
The Hall of Mages was a vast, dark chamber in the heart of the South Tower, its full dimensions lost amid shadows. No lamps or candles lit it; only a dim, blue-white glimmer in its midst. Darkness hid its walls, ceiling, and much of the floor. Neither did the hall have any doors. The only way in was by magic, and powerful wards kept out all but the Conclave and those they allowed to enter. Once, an ambitious Black Robe had tried to force his way past those wards. Sometimes, it was said, the echo of his howls could still be heard through the Tower’s halls.
In the room’s midst, at the edges of the pool of light, a half-circle of chairs stood atop a raised platform. There were twenty one in all-seven each for the followers of the three moons. Wizards sat in each of them, clad in hooded robes, their faces drenched in shadow.
