She knew instinctively that she had found the Tower of High Sorcery-the place that Jenna and Dalamar had been circling around without success. Then this ancient woodland must be fabled Wayreth Forest! The Tower itself was so tall that she had to crane her neck just to see the tops of the two main spires. She counted innumerable parapets and lesser platforms, some carved right into the Tower's smooth, stone walls, others suspended out from the main structure by a spiderweb of cantilevers and elegant, narrow walkways.
Only gradually did she sense something intangible about this tower. It was beautiful, lofty, and graceful… but more than that, it was suffering. There was no visible movement, yet she could sense tremors within the immobile shape. There was no wetness on the outer walls, yet she could discern tears along its marble facade. She didn't know how a building could feel, much less express, pain, but she knew that this structure was experiencing an awful agony.
For the first time since leaving Two Forks, Coryn was truly afraid. She quivered like a frightened doe, wanting nothing more than to turn and flee.
But she could not. She had embarked from home at Umma's command, and then had followed Jenna's orders uncomplainingly. Now she was on her own, and it seemed as though her destiny was here-as if she had been brought to the tower by some strange force.
She was startled by that thought: Could it be that the Tower had called to Coryn?
Starting forward, she noticed for the first time that the base of the Tower was enclosed by a long, plain wall. A single gate stood just before her, a shimmering structure of wiry-thin bands of bright metal; that gate swung soundlessly open as she passed through. The gauzy material was more like a spiderweb than any construct of metal. It was still glowing, and she made no move to touch those gossamer strands as she passed through the gate and found herself upon a broad courtyard paved with smooth, gray stones.
Now she could see that the bases of the two great spires were connected by a squat foretower, a smaller structure that melded the two halves into one sprawling building. There was a single door in the base of that foretower, and she approached it, noting without surprise that it swung soundlessly open when she was still twenty paces away. Without hesitation, she came up to the very shadow of the great spire and stepped inside.
Immediately an aura of warm welcome surrounded Coryn The greeting was tangible in the aroma of fresh bread and the array of bright flowers in vases around the entry hall. She identified fleabane and columbine, daisies and willowbloom, and saw a host of unfamiliar blossoms. Some of these were huge and hooded, like cowls of deep indigo, purest white, and blood red, while others seemed to explode in bursts of yellow, orange, or purple petals. The light was subdued in the large, circular hall, but gathered into clusters of brightness around each arrangement, as if the air around the flowers breathed some enchanted illumination.
She found herself following her nose, and the scent of the bread, through an open, arched doorway. This room was rectangular, dominated by a long table large enough to seat a score of diners. One place setting lay pristine at the near end, plates and goblets shimmering like clear ice, utensils to either side-a multitude of forks, knives, and spoons, beyond anything Coryn had ever imagined. Just beyond the plates and goblets, still within easy reach, several silver domes formed a semicircle of small metallic hills.
And there was the loaf of bread, steaming on aboard with a sharp knife beside it, and the bright yellow butter in one of those icelike bowls. It looked safe-and familiar-enough. She wasted no time in seating herself, sawing off a thick piece of bread, and layering on the sweet spread. The butter was melting by the time she took her first exquisite bite. She forced herself to savor the bread when every instinct told her to wolf it down, and by the time she had finished that first slice, her worst hunger pangs were past.
More slowly, she worked on a second piece, while looking around with an attentive eye. She lifted one of the silver dish covers by its ornate pearl handle and was delighted to discover a trout, grilled to perfection and presented on a bed of fresh greens. Another uncovering revealed fruit, sliced and chilled and arrayed in concentric rings of color; a third protected some steaming white grains-white rice, but rice of a purity and plumpness far beyond any of the tiny, nutty grains her people gathered from the summer bogs.
She ate, alternately sampling the fish, the rice, and the fruit. The tastes were so splendid that she could think of nothing else than the wonderful sensations in her mouth- until a terribly obvious question occurred to her.
Who had prepared this food for her?
For Coryn had no doubt she was the intended guest for this magnificent repast-since her first glimpse of the Tower, she knew she was supposed to be here, that the Tower wanted her to enter. Logically speaking, it was the Tower that had presented her with this meal, then. But how?
"Welcome."
She was so startled that she dropped her spoon with a clatter. "Who said that?" she asked, whirling around in her chair. A sad old man limped into the room, leaning heavily on a rickety cane. He had white hair, a beard of the same color, and a robe of such pure whiteness that she almost had to squint.
"It is I who offer you this food… and I who invited you. I am the Master of the Tower."
14
A Cosmos Unbalanced
Storms boiled and churned through the ether, spanning the void between worlds, swelling in the gaps among all the planes. Clouds of black billowed beyond all horizons, looming vast and dark and deadly. Immortal anger rumbled through all existence, fueled by the undying rivalry, the distrust, and the suspicion that ever marked the three colors of magic. Nuitari and Lunitari fumed and seethed, roared and spouted, and their fury coalesced in a storm that their alabaster cousin was forced to acknowledge and confront.
The three gods of magic met in the heart of the storm. They were the undisputed masters of the cosmic tumult, poised in balance atop the raging, seething force of the gale. Red lightning flashed and crackled, casting brilliant, flashing illumination across the trio of immortal visages. White light churned from a new sun, driving back the chill of the vast emptiness. And perfect blackness framed them all, a void that gave proof to their vitality.
"Foul!" cried Nuitari of the black moon, a gust of pure midnight blasting toward Solinari, surrounding him, welling up until it all but obscured him from their sight. "You betrayed our compact!"
"Betrayal!" boiled Lunitari the red. Red tongues of fire flared, embracing the white god, driving like blazing knives and swords against his immortal flesh. "Our trust is violated-our alliance imperiled."
The red and black violence surged, rising higher, surrounding them all, extending tendrils of destruction far beyond, into all the corners of creation. Other, lesser gods recoiled from the conflict, and those mortals who beheld the strife-they did so in their dreams, if at all-trembled and quaked, praying only for the daylight to come and soothe their fears.
"But for what cause is this most unjust protest?" asked Solinari calmly, his corona of white shielding him, for now, from the wrath of his fellows. "There has been no betrayal, no foul on my part. As ever, I seek to mend relations, to soothe the path of cooperation and friendship. Nay, if at all, these traits you accuse me of are hallmarks more of your own behavior."
His tone was reasonable, his mystification apparent, but even so, his cousins disdained his words, roaring closer in fury and vengeance.
"The girl who wears no robe has gone to the Tower alone! She meets with the Master, even as we speak!" cried Lunitari, her tone shrill. "While my devoted servant strives to find Wayreth, the Master comes to this child disguised as Par-Salian of the White Robe-what more proof do we need? You have tried to steal a march upon us, to maneuver the world into alignment with your favorite!"
"Not I!" cried Solinari, white beard quivering with indignation, raising his hands. "Cease these unfounded attacks! Lay back the furious tempest and let us talk about this calmly, with the dignity that befits our status."
"You deny it,
then?" asked Nuitari viciously. "You claim the girl has not entered the sacred place, alone? I know that my own dark elf has, like the Red Robe, been thwarted in his great quest. Do you still claim that you have not given her the access that has been barred to both of our wizards? How can you make such a claim, when we can all see the proof through the lens of the Tower?"
"Well, of course she has arrived in the Tower of High Sorcery-have we not all observed that fact, through the eyes of the Master? And is this not proof that the Master of the Tower serves us all? I will have no further talk of treachery and betrayal-why, the very idea!"
The white god, his immortal reputation assailed, effected a tone of high dudgeon. Pure light pulsed in the midst of the storm, and thus the black clouds and the crimson lightning, eased back slightly. The corona rose higher above the dangerous storms, bright light striving for release.
But immortal rage still glowered and grumbled. The thunderheads of cosmic distress reared anew, and the brightness flickered and was muffled.
"Bah," Nuitari retorted. "Your servant has gone in before my own agent, or our cousin's. How is this not treachery? We both know what kind of advantage she seeks-she will infiltrate the Conclave, holding the other robes at bay. This is a betrayal that overrules anything that has happened in our immortal past! It is a treachery that cannot be allowed to stand!"
"It is not treachery, not betrayal, for a very simple reason. Because," Solinari continued, with an elaborate air of patience, as if he were lecturing stubborn and unruly children, "the girl does not wear the white robe. As you yourself stated, Fair Cousin-she is a girl of no robe, at the present."
"So she wears no robe at all, now, at the present? This matters not," cried Lunitari, "for she is your foil, your tool!"
"Your statement is proof of its own falseness. How can she be my tool, when she does not wear my robe?"
"She lacks but the Test, and you are arranging it so that she will soon have that chance. Do you deny that you seek to give her the white robe?"
Solinari shrugged his cosmic shoulders. "Of course not. But do either of you deny that you do not seek the same, with your own chosen colors?"
"I have my agent of red," Lunitari dismissed. "She has served me well and kept the faith of my creed even when the Dark Queen stole our world away. Now she seeks to spread the cause of magic around the world. I am well satisfied."
"As am I, with the dark elf who serves my own faction," Nuitari noted. His stormy visage darkened. "Though he labors from a position of weakness, since you both laid such a harsh condition on his return from the dead. Yet he is wily, and powerful in the ways of magic. He will remain my champion. As you well know!"
"Ah, but he did return from the land of the dead, did he not? And he does indeed seem to be on the way toward a restoration of his prominence." Solinari blew a cloud of steam, a billowing construct of cumulous that reflected the redness of Lunitari and brightened the aspects of them all.
"Besides, when have either of you, or any of us, been satisfied with that? If she is granted the Test, you will surely seek to steer her toward the color you wish her to wear. Is that not true?"
"We may steer, influence, guide. But her soul is free, and her soul leans toward the white," argued the black moon god.
"That much is clear. Furthermore, for the full Conclave to gather, we need wizards of all three robes. It is in our own interests to see that one wears the white," accused Lunitari.
"Then how may I be accused of treachery, if this serves the ends of us all?" inquired Solinari, with a great air of innocence.
"Enough of these word games!" spat Nuitari. "We concede, the girl must take the Test-and, as always, the Test will choose the robe. But we see your alabaster hand in this, Elder Cousin. And we demand satisfaction!"
"Satisfaction? In what way?"
"We will overlook the treachery that brought her alone to the Tower, leaving our wizards lost in the woods. But when she takes the Test, and earns her reward, let that reward be a gift that will serve all three robes."
"Hmm. Very well," Solinari agreed, easily. "That is only a fair condition. Should she succeed, she will be blessed with a boon for each of the orders. But let this be the result, no matter what the color of her robe."
And so it was that the gods of magic agreed.
Finally the Master felt as though he could breathe again, as if a monstrous weight had been lifted from his chest. The human body was a remarkable vessel, and he never felt so alive as he did when he wore the flesh of man. But a cloak of flesh was a rare treat and had been so ever since his gods had been stolen away. There had been a glimmer of hope when the moons again appeared in the sky, until the Master's domain had fallen under the corrupting influence of the two sorcerers. The very stone of the Tower, his eternal body, continued to suffer and complain under their relentless tortures.
Then had come the arrival, like a blessing from the gods, of this mysterious girl. It was this that gave him hope, allowed him again to feel vital. There was new promise in her bright eyes and fresh skin, new hope in the vibrant power that he sensed lay untapped within her.
He would make her welcome and hope that she could help him. The food had been an easy first offering-just by looking at her, he could sense her gnawing hunger. Now he needed to talk to her, to learn, and to teach.
For this initial encounter he had chosen the guise of one of his favorites. He appeared as old Par-Salian, white-bearded and avuncular. He thought this shape would be less inclined to frighten the girl, than would the images of, say, severe Justarius, or lean and ever-hungry Fistandantilus. Par-Salian was a benign presence. And, too, the Master felt the girl would treat the esteemed White Robe with the dignity that he deserved.
At first, he was not sure that his benign intentions had been perceived. The girl's initial impression had been shock, and then she seemed to be afraid. But she gazed at the repast on the table, and then at the Master, and he could tell that she was not inclined to run. She had only eaten a little before his arrival, and he sensed her hunger, saw it in the longing looks she cast toward the food.
"I hope you like the bread," he said. "It is one of the classic recipes. I conjured it just as it was baked a thousand years ago, in the ovens of Ergoth."
"It… it is very good," she said cautiously. As if reminding herself, she tore off another large piece and chewed it vigorously, following the bread with a large drink of cold milk. Only after she had swallowed the food did she look at him curiously. "You said you are the 'Master of the Tower.' What does that mean?" she asked.
He sighed and allowed himself the liberty of sitting at the table near her as she slowly resumed her eating.
"In a sense, I am this tower… the presence, the sentience of this place, such as it exists. This flesh, this body you see"- he indicated himself, the elderly man in the white robe-"is something that I choose, that I can vary."
In that very instant he changed, for her benefit. Now he wore a red robe and sat tall, a proud man with black skin and a haughty demeanor. Then he became a female, garbed in a slinky black robe, with eyes shadowed in blue henna and a mouth that curled in a demure smile. In another blink he was Par-Salian again, holding up a liver-spotted hand to calm the girl-who was staring at him in amazement.
"I am the Tower, and I am all who dwelled here, all who served as the Heads of the Conclave and all who studied under their tutelage. This tower has stood for thousands of years, and in that time there have been many who have ruled the orders of magic. Mostly humans, but some elves… I can select the forms of any of them. But I chose Par-Salian, for you."
"Thank you," she said. "I-I think I like this one better than some of the other shapes you might have adopted."
He chuckled dryly. "Well, thank you for humoring an old man, in any event."
"But why am I here? I was traveling with two great wizards, and I know they were seeking this tower. Why did I find it, and they did not?"
"Because you, Child, are the one-the only one-who can
help me, now."
"Help you? How?"
He sighed. "There are bad men here. Men who are killing me. I invited them in because the gods commanded me to find a wizard to take the Tower. I summoned them-well, not them, but a wizard. These two came under false pretenses, bearing an artifact of potent magic, wielding it as great wizards would. But they are not wizards. They are sorcerers, wielders of wild magic. They dwell here like a cancer in my flesh, slowly taking my life."
"How can I help you?" The girl seemed mystified but- this was encouraging to the Master-bold.
"You must take the Test of Magic," said the Master.
"A test of magic? Why? How could I?"
"The Test will know you, do not worry. But you must convince them to let you live long enough to take the Test. If they kill you, then all is lost."
"I daresay!" the girl said, her eyes widening in alarm. Where are they now?"
The old man shrugged. "Elsewhere in the Tower. It is a very large place. But no doubt they will find you, soon enough."
She was courageous, this girl, but couldn't help looking around in some apprehension. "How can I fight them?"
"Oh, you can't. They are much too powerful for that. Even I cannot fight them-especially the tall one, with the long beard. He is most dangerous. And he bears the Irda Stone."
"The what-stone? Never mind. Tell me, why shouldn't I run away, while I still have a chance? I don't want to be killed!"
"If you leave here now, then all is lost-for me, you, and others to come. No, you must stay, and you must survive, and you must convince them to grant you the Test!"
"And if I do?"
"Then you must pass the Test!"
"What happens if I fail?"
"Well, you will die, of course. Death is ever the penalty for failing the Test-either that, or ultimate, hopeless madness. But that's not the worst part."
Wizard's Conclave Page 13
