The three wizards came together to construct the Tower of Wayreth. The Tower’s two spires, built atop a dome and enclosed by a triangular wall, were conjured out of silver mist, which slowly, over time, coalesced into stone. During that period, the Tower came under attack from a tribe of barbarians, who wanted to make it their own. The Tower and the wizards inside were saved by a black robe wizard who cast a spell that created a magical forest surrounding the Tower. The wizard died, but the enchanted Forest of Wayreth sprang up and drove away the barbarians. From that day forward, the forest’s magic hid the Tower and protected it from foes.
“You do not find the Tower of Wayreth,” the saying goes. “The Tower finds you.”
The Forest of Wayreth was kept busy finding a great many mages traveling to the Tower to celebrate the Night of the Eye. Generally, only wizards who had already taken the Test of High Sorcery or those coming to take the Test were permitted to enter the Tower. But a Night of the Eye was a rare and special occurrence, and on this occasion promising students, accompanied by their masters, were also admitted.
The Tower was filled with magic-users who had traveled from all parts of Ansalon. Every bed in every cell was occupied, with many more sleeping on blankets on the floor or setting up camp in the courtyard. The mood was celebratory. Old friends greeted each other with warm embraces and exchanged the latest news. Students wandered about in awe and excitement, losing themselves in the labyrinthine hallways and blundering by mistake into restricted areas. Familiars of all sorts roamed and flew, crept and crawled through the halls, always in danger of being trampled underfoot or flying into someone’s hair.
Some wizards were in the laboratories, hard at work preparing the ingredients for potions and other concoctions, ready to mix them when the power of the moons was most potent. Other wizards were holed up in the libraries, studying the spells they meant to cast that night. Black Robes and Red Robes rubbed shoulders with White Robes, everyone putting aside differences to talk magic, though occasionally arguments did break out, particularly in those turbulent times.
There were a few White Robes, for example, who were still bitter over the fact that the Black Robes had defected to Queen Takhisis. Those White Robes did not believe the Black Robes should be forgiven and took the opportunity to state their views. The Black Robes took offense, and shouting matches were the result. Such rows were quickly quelled by the Monitors, red robe wizards who were assigned to patrol the Tower, keep tempers in check, and make certain no untoward incidents marred the important night. For the most part, wizards of all three robes were glad to be united once again in their love of magic, even if they were united in nothing else.
There would be no meeting of the Conclave on that Night of the Eye, a break from tradition. Word was given out that the heads of the orders had decided to dispense with the meeting, which took time away from important work. Since the meeting was notable only for Par-Salian’s traditional Night-of-the-Eye speech, which was considered among the young wizards to be a snoozer, the news was greeted with applause.
Only a few, a very few, knew the true reason for the cancellation. The three heads of the orders were not going to be in the Tower of Wayreth this night. Ladonna, Par-Salian, and Justarius were planning to undertake a daring and dangerous mission to Neraka. Accompanying the three would be six bodyguards—strong, young wizards who had been spending the past several days equipping themselves with combat spells designed to repel almost any type of foe, living or undead, and spells of protection to cast upon themselves and their leaders.
As evening was falling, the other wizards were attending a sumptuous and lavish banquet, set up in the courtyard. Ladonna and Justarius and Par-Salian were locked in one of the Tower’s upper chambers, discussing their plans. They sat in the shadows, their faces indistinct, their eyes shining in the light of the fire. Seeing that the fire was dying and feeling the chill of the night air, Par-Salian rose to add another log.
An hour-counting candle stood upon the mantelpiece, the unwavering flame slowly eating away the time until the three moons would move into alignment and the wizards could undertake the dangerous journey through time and space to the temple of the Dark Queen.
“Timing is critical,” said Ladonna. She was wearing fur-trimmed robes, pendants around her neck, and rings on her fingers. None of the jewels were for vain show. All of them were either magical or could be used as spell components. “Jasla’s spirit must be removed from the Foundation Stone with my necromancy spell first.”
She added, with a stern glance at Par-Salian, “This is only logical, my friend,” continuing an argument that had been ongoing between them for days. “If you raise your barriers to seal off the stone before I cast my spell, you will seal the girl’s spirit inside it.”
“My concern is what will become of Jasla’s soul,” said Par-Salian. “Her spirit is a good one, by your own account, Ladonna. I want assurances that you will set her free, not keep her a prisoner.”
“You must admit that finding out how the spirit managed to block Queen Takhisis would be extremely valuable information,” Ladonna said coldly. “I want merely to ask her some questions. You are outvoted. Justarius agrees with me.”
“It is a matter of the greater good,” Justarius said. He carried several scrolls thrust into his belt, as well as pouches of spell components.
Par-Salian shook his head, unconvinced.
“You can be present during the interrogation,” Ladonna conceded, though she did not sound pleased. “And you can see for yourself that I will set her free.”
“There. Are you satisfied? This argument is wasting precious time,” said Justarius.
“Very well,” said Par-Salian. “So long as I can be present. Ladonna will cast her spell first, remove Jasla’s spirit, and take it to a secure location. Justarius, you will then cast your spells to alter the nature of the Foundation Stone—”
“For all the good that will do,” Ladonna muttered.
Justarius bristled. “We have gone over this a hundred times …”
“And we will go over it a hundred more, if need be,” said Ladonna acerbically. “This is too important to undertake lightly.”
“She is right,” said Par-Salian. “Some who go to Neraka this night will not return. Each of us must be fully committed. State your reasoning.”
“Again?” Justarius asked, exasperated.
“Again,” said Par-Salian.
Justarius sighed. “The original stone, which was made of white marble, was blessed and sanctified by the gods. Takhisis cast her own ‘blessing’ upon it, in an attempt to corrupt it. But Par-Salian and I both agree that the stone is still pure at its heart, which is why Jasla’s spirit is able to find sanctuary there. If the corruption is removed and the stone can be returned to its original form and it is further protected with powerful spells of warding that Par-Salian will cast upon it, Takhisis will not be able to again pervert it.”
“And since her temple rests upon the Foundation Stone, if it is transformed, the temple will fall, forever sealing the Dark Queen inside the Abyss,” Par-Salian said.
Ladonna sat in silence. They were all silent, their expressions troubled. Each of them knew the arguments were desultory, meaningless, meant to avoid the subject that was uppermost in everyone’s mind. At last Ladonna was driven to speak what she knew they were all thinking.
“I have sought Nuitari’s blessing on this plan of ours. The god of the dark moon pays no heed to me. I do not believe I have offended him, but if I have—”
“It is not you, Ladonna. I have approached Solinari and with the same result,” said Par-Salian. “No response. You, my friend?”
Justarius shook his head. “Lunitari will not speak to me. And this is all the more troubling because the goddess enjoys chattering about even trivial matters. This plan of ours is the most dangerous undertaking any wizards have performed since the Sacred Three ended the Second Dragon War, and my goddess will not speak a word. Something is wrong.”
/> “Perhaps we should call this off,” said Par-Salian.
“Don’t be such an old woman!” Ladonna said scornfully.
“I am being practical. If the gods do not—”
“Hush!” Justarius said peremptorily, raising his hand. Shouts and cries could be heard coming from outside the door. “What is the cause of all this commotion?”
“A surfeit of elven wine,” said Par-Salian.
“That is not merry-making,” said Ladonna, alarmed. “It sounds more like a riot!”
The shouts grew louder, and the wizards could hear people running in panicked haste down the corridor. Someone started beating on their door, then others joined in, raining blows on the wood. The wizards began to call out for their leaders, some yelling for Par-Salian, others for Ladonna or Justarius.
Angry at such unseemly behavior, Par-Salian rose to his feet, stalked across the room and flung open the door. He was startled to find the hall was dark. The magical lights that generally illuminated all the passageways in the Tower had apparently failed. Seeing some in the crowd carrying candles or lanterns, Par-Salian felt a sense of foreboding.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded sternly, glowering at the crowd of wizards milling around in the hallway. “Cease this tumult at once!”
The wizards crowding the darkened hallway fell silent, but only for a moment.
“Tell him,” said one.
“Yes, tell him!” urged another.
“Tell me what?”
Several began to speak at once. Par-Salian quieted them with an impatient gesture and searched around in the darkness for someone to be the spokesperson.
“Antimodes!” Par-Salian said, sighting his friend. “Tell me what is going on.”
The crowd parted to allow Antimodes to make his way to the front. Antimodes was an older wizard, highly respected and well liked. He came from a well-to-do family and was wealthy in his own right. He was passionate about advancing the cause of magic in the world, and many young mages had benefited from his generosity. A businessman, Antimodes was known to be level-headed and practical, and at the sight of his face, which was pale, strained, Par-Salian felt his heart sink.
“Have you looked outside, my friend?” Antimodes asked. He spoke in a low voice, but the crowd was straining to hear. They immediately caught hold of his words and repeated them.
“Look outside! Yes, look outside!”
“Silence!” Par-Salian ordered, and again the crowd hushed, though not completely. Many grumbled and muttered in a low, rumbling undercurrent of fear.
“You should look outside,” said Antimodes gravely. “See for yourselves. And witness this.” He lifted his hand, pointed a finger and spoke words of magic. “Sula vigis dolibix!”
“Are you mad?” Par-Salian cried, alarmed, expecting to see fiery traces burst from his friend’s hands. But nothing happened. The words to the spell fell to the floor like dead leaves.
Antimodes sighed. “The last time that spell failed me, my friend, I was sixteen years old and thinking about a girl, not my magic.”
“Par-Salian!” Ladonna called in a shaking voice. “You must see this!”
She was leaning on the window ledge, perilously close to falling out, her back arched, her head craned to stare into the heavens. “The stars shine. The night is cloudless. But …”
She turned toward him, her face pale. “The moons are gone!”
“And so is The Forest of Wayreth,” Justarius reported grimly, gazing out past Ladonna’s shoulder.
“We have lost the magic!” a woman wailed from the hall. Her terrified cry threw everyone into a panic.
“Are you witless gully dwarves to behave so?” Par-Salian thundered. “Everyone, go to your rooms. We must keep calm, figure out what is going on. Monitors, I want the halls cleared at once.”
The shouting ceased, but people continued to mill around aimlessly. Antimodes set the example by leaving for his chambers and taking friends and pupils with him. He glanced back at Par-Salian, who shook his head and sighed.
The Monitors in their red robes began moving through the crowd, urging people to do as the head of the Conclave decreed. Par-Salian waited in the doorway until he saw the hall starting to clear. Most would not go to their rooms. They would flock to the common areas to speculate and work themselves into a frenzy.
Par-Salian shut the door and turned to face his fellows, who were both standing at the window, gazing searchingly into the heavens in the desperate hope that they were mistaken. Perhaps an errant cloud had drifted across the moons, or they had miscalculated the time and the moons were late rising. But the evidence of the vanished forest was horrifying and could not be denied.
As Par-Salian gazed across the bleak and barren landscape of treeless, rolling hills, he tried to cast a spell, a simple cantrip. He knew the moment he spoke the words, which came out as gibberish, that the magic would fail.
“What do we do?” Ladonna asked in hollow tones.
“We must pray to the gods—”
“They will not answer you,” said a voice from the darkness.
A wizard dressed in black robes stood in the center of the room.
“Who are you?” Par-Salian demanded.
The wizard drew back his hood. Golden skin glistened in the firelight. Eyes with pupils the shape of hourglasses regarded them dispassionately.
“Raistlin Majere,” said Justarius, his tone harsh.
Raistlin inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“This is your doing!” Ladonna said angrily.
Raistlin gave a sardonic smile. “While I find it flattering that you think I have the power to make the moons disappear, madam, I must disabuse you of that notion. I did not cause the moons to vanish. Nor did I take away the magic. What you fear is true. Your magic is gone. The gods of the moons have been rendered impotent.”
“Then how did you travel here, if not by magic?” Par-Salian said, glowering.
Raistlin bowed to him. “An astute observation, Master of the Conclave. I said your magic was gone. My magic is not.” “And where does your magic come from, then?” “My god. My Queen,” Raistlin said quietly, “Takhisis.” “Traitor!” Ladonna cried.
She took hold of one of the pendants she wore around her neck and tore a piece of fur from her collar. “Ast kiranann kair Gardurm …” She faltered, then began again. “Ast kianann kair—”
“Useless,” Justarius said bitterly.
“I am not the traitor,” said Raistlin. “I am not the one who betrayed your plot to enter the temple and seal the Foundation Stone to the Dark Queen. If it were not for me, you would all be dead now. The Nightlord and his pilgrims are there now, waiting for you.”
“Who was it, then?” Ladonna demanded, glowering.
“The walls have ears,” said Raistlin softly.
Ladonna crossed her arms over her chest and began to restlessly pace the room. Justarius remained by the window, staring out into the night.
“Did you come here to gloat over us?” Par-Salian asked abruptly.
Raistlin’s eyes narrowed. “You chose me as your ‘sword,’ Master of the Conclave. And all know that a sword cuts both ways. If your sword has caused you to bleed, that is your own fault. But to answer your question, sir, no, I did not come here to gloat.”
He jabbed a finger toward the window. “The Forest of Wayreth is gone. This moment, a death knight called Soth and his undead warriors are riding toward this Tower. Nothing stands in their way. And when they get here, nothing will stop them from tearing down these walls and slaughtering everyone inside.”
“Solinari save us!” Par-Salian murmured.
“Solinari fights to save himself,” said Raistlin. “Takhisis brought new gods to this world, Gods of the Gray, she calls them. She plans to depose our gods and seize control of the magic, which she will then dole out to her favorites. Such as myself.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Justarius harshly.
“Believe your eyes, then,�
�� said Raistlin. “How are you going to fight Lord Soth? His magic is potent, and it does not come from the moons. It springs from the curse the gods cast upon him. He can blast holes in these walls with a gesture of his hand. He can summon corpses from their graves. He has only to speak a single word, and people will drop dead. The terror of his coming is so great that even the bravest will not be able to withstand it. You will cower behind these walls, waiting to die. Praying to die.”
“Not all of us,” said Justarius grimly.
“You might as well, sir,” Raistlin scoffed. “Where are your swords and shields and axes? Where are your mighty warriors to defend you? Without your magic, you cannot defend yourselves. You have your little knives, that is true, but they will barely cut through butter!”
“You, obviously, have the answer,” said Par-Salian. “Otherwise you would not have come.”
“I do, Master of the Conclave. I can summon help.”
“And if you work for Takhisis, why should you? And why should we trust you?” Ladonna asked.
“Because, madam, you have no choice,” replied Raistlin. “I can save you … but it will cost you.”
“Of course!” Justarius said bitterly. He turned to Par-Salian. “Whatever the price, it is too high. I would sooner take my chances with this death knight.”
“If it were our lives alone, I would be inclined to agree with you,” said Par-Salian ruefully. “But we have hundreds in our care, from our pupils to some of the best and most talented wizards in all of Ansalon. We cannot condemn them to death because of hurt pride.” He turned to Raistlin. “What is your price?”
Raistlin was silent a moment; then he said quietly, “I have chosen to walk my own road, free of constraints. All I ask, Masters, is that you allow me to continue to walk it. The Conclave will take no action against me either now or in the future. You will not send wizards to try to kill me or trap me or lecture me. You will let me to go my way, and I will help you remain alive so that you may go yours.”
Par-Salian’s brows came together. “You imply by this that our magic will come back, that the gods of magic will return. How is that possible?”
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