Instead, she touched the latch on the door, lifted it, and walked through.
The sun was shining brightly; it was hotter than she had ever known it to be, as she continued across the unending sandy waste. This arid flatland had been draining her strength for hours. No tree, no hillock, no ridge, not a single formation rose above the featureless plain. She wondered if this part of the Test was simply a challenge to her physical endurance. Coryn stopped and thought about her problem for a moment, but she could picture no spell to magically conjure up food or drink. Much less a map, she thought with a chuckle.
So she stumbled along, wearily, for more hours. Her feet were blistered, and eventually she became so exhausted that she almost slept as she walked. But she wouldn't allow herself to rest for more than a few minutes at a time-as soon as her eyelids grew heavy, and her head began to nod, she pushed herself to her feet and resumed her relentless trek. Her belly growled. And her hunger was nothing compared to the parching thirst that left her tongue feeling like a piece of dried leather in the arid cavern of her mouth. Water-what a precious substance, yet so easy to take for granted!
Certainly, the wild magic of her former life might have led her to a spring, or at least indicated where she might dig to discover moisture, but she never even considered employing those former powers; in her mind, she had already cast them away, forever. She would die of hunger and thirst before she would go back to that vulgar pathway, even if it held the means to her survival.
In the instant of that understanding, she was confronted by another door, a portal that suddenly materialized to stand upright on the ground before her, bringing her stumbling progress to an abrupt halt. Dazed, she studied the door. It was not in any of the three colors she had come to expect; rather, this was a simple panel of wooden boards strapped together with bands of iron. Come to think of it, it seemed identical to the long-ago door she had opened during the initial phase of the Test.
She had no doubt that she would open this door, and again pass through, but first she took a moment to gather her strength, to marshal her thoughts. A glance to the side showed her that the white moon, Solinari, was just rising above the flat horizon, a full white disk that seemed to smile upon her, shower her with promise, kindness, and love. Allowing that beneficence to fill her heart, she reached for the latch and pushed open the door.
Now she entered a huge, dark room, so vast that all the walls were lost in the shadows of distance. She was alone. Turning to look at the door she had entered, she was startled to see it was no longer there-indeed, the wall behind her was as far away as the other boundaries of the vast chamber. Her torch was in her hand and she raised it up, spotting a small table a few paces away. There was a pitcher of water on that table and she snatched it up, eagerly drinking down half the contents, with much of the rest splashing onto her dirty, dust-stained tunic.
It was then that she noticed the chairs some distance away, many of them arranged in a ring, all facing the center of the room. She approached, and studied the nearest chair. It, and all the others, seemed to be carved from black stone, as if they were part of the floor rather than resting upon it. There were twenty-one of these sturdy seats, arranged in three sections of seven.
"For the three orders," she murmured in sudden understanding.
She imagined a great meeting, a Conclave of the three orders, and she even saw herself, Coryn, sitting as the head of that great meeting.
All of a sudden she realized the chairs were occupied, not by people, but by empty, yet animated robes. The three sections were divided between the red, black, and white robes. The three different-colored robes filled the seats, turned and moved as if engaged in lively discourse, empty sleeves gesturing.
And then the hoods of those robes-with empty holes where the faces should be-all turned toward Coryn. They watched her intently, expectantly. She felt a momentary panic-what was she supposed to do now?
That is when the three moons came into view, rising with impossible speed until they loomed over her. Even the black one was visible, because it was actually darker than the darkness yawning above. The white was brilliant, the red like a spot of fresh blood, and all were full, round, and nearing zenith.
She heard a groan, coming from across the room, beyond the chairs. She made her way around the ring of ghostly robes, ignoring the gestures, the pantomimes urging her to stay. Instead she crossed to the far wall of the room. A spot of light attracted her and when she drew near, she saw that this was not a door, but more of a passage right through the wall of the room. She drew nearer and gasped as she recognized the familiar interior of Umma's little hut.
She stopped, pressing her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob of dismay.
Umma lay in her bed, wasted and frail. Her eyes were bright with fever; sweat streaked her brow. She turned her face back and forth, and her eyes were vacant, unseeing. A violent chill wracked her skeletal body, and she coughed and gagged, straining for each wheezing breath.
"Umma!" cried the girl, starting forward. The gap in the wall shimmered; there lay a free passageway that would take her away from the Tower, take her home, to this place where she was desperately needed.
"Wait!"
A command came from behind her, pulling her around. She saw the Master there, the white-bearded visage coming toward her slowly, holding up a restraining hand. He leaned on his staff but shuffled forward urgently.
"But she needs me!" she said. "I have to go to her."
"You don't understand," replied the Master of the Tower. "The Test reveals many truths, to you and about you. And this is the part that may doom you!"
"How?"
"You have felt the power, the magic, as you have wandered these past hours, have you not? And here, in the Hall of Mages, you saw the wizards of the Conclave all turning to you—honoring you, attending you, seeking your wisdom?"
"Y-yes. I saw that, sensed it."
"This has never happened before," the Master declared. "That one so young, so unprepared, has nearly emerged from the Test in a position, not just of learning, but of power, command, and influence! All this magic, the accolades of your fellow wizards, all will be yours if you but finish the Test!"
"While this hole in the wall you see before you, this escape from the Tower, is a cruel deception. For if you leave now, if you go to your grandmother and turn your back on the Conclave, your powers will be wiped away. You will have renounced the magic, renounced the world, and gone back to your miserable little village in the Icereach to live out your years. Until you, too, die as an old woman on a wretched pallet in a pathetic hut!"
"It is not a miserable village!" Coryn snapped, furious. "And you have no right to stop me! It is the place that made me what I am-the place where I belong!"
"No… I have no right," said the old man with a feeble shake of his head. "But I thought that you should know the very real stakes involved."
"My grandmother is truly ill?" she asked, knowing it to be the truth.
"Oh, most certainly. Probably dying—the Test does not deceive in these matters."
"Then I must go to her."
"The choice," said the Master of the Tower, "is yours."
Coryn nodded. She thought of the flight spell, of the tower of wonders, and the wizards of the Conclave. But she knew where she belonged. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of her decision, but there was only one thing she could do. She stepped forward, through the opening in the wall, and reached out to soothe Umma's fevered brow.
But Umma was no longer there. Instead, Coryn stood in a hallway-the same place where she had started the Test, she realized. There was a table beside her that had not been there hours—days?—earlier, when she had begun. Three objects rested there: a clear bottle containing a blood-red liquid, a small book of midnight black, and a slender wand of white.
She was obliged to take these things, she understood, and so she picked up the bottle first. But where to put it?
Only then did she realize that she no longer
wore her travel-worn shirt and torn leather leggings. With a sense of awe, she looked down, felt the smooth, plush material against her skin, a cloth caress that felt wonderful all around her.
She was wearing a robe that was perfectly, immaculately white.
18
A Slow Death
Dalamar's eyes watered, and though he tried he couldn't seem to draw a breath. He could just die here… that would be the easiest thing to do. He had been tricked, fooled, and defeated by a creature so much older, so much more powerful than himself. It was fitting rebuke, for the arrogance he had shown in recklessly entering the lair. By Nuitari, he didn't deserve to live!
Jenna, he guessed, was all but dead. Certainly she would lose her leg even if, somehow, she managed to cling to life. The dark elf groaned and leaned his head back against the unforgiving rock. He closed his eyes, with the events that had doomed them replaying themselves in the lightless shade of his mind.
He saw the dragon approaching, the reptilian head swiveling this way and that, jaws opening to flash teeth that were as long as swords. The dark elf was trapped, helpless, and terrified. He was appalled by the dragon's size-so much greater than the serpent he and Jenna had expected. This green was a very ancient wyrm, a monster that had somehow survived the Cataclysm, the War of the Lance, the Dragon Purge, and the War of Souls. Surely it had been alive during Huma's time and had survived the sundering of the elven nations thousands of years before! It was a beast from the lost ages of Krynn, and the two wizards and their magic were but feeble opponents.
Invisibility was useless, of course-the creature's sensitive nostrils would locate him more surely than its eyes. But deception? Drawing a breath, biting back his choking and coughing, Dalamar had lain on his back and summoned a spell of illusion. He whispered the words and then rolled over, directing the magic toward the far side of this cavern of doom.
Sorcery had shimmered for a moment, and then the spell took effect, in the form of a perfect image of Dalamar himself, black robe swirling as he stumbled back against the cavern wall. Dalamar added the illusion of a falling stone to his spell. The rock broke free under his perfect phantasm's "touch," dropping to the floor with a sharp crack, a sound that brought the dragon's head whipping around with a startled hiss. Those green jaws gaped wide, and then a roar filled the cavern to overflowing, breaking stones loose from the ceiling and rumbling the very bedrock underfoot.
In the face of that horrific sound, the illusory Dalamar had turned and fled, sprinting away as if under the influence of haste magic. The illusion was good, the dark elf knew- even the stink of his fear lingered in the air, so that even the dragon's nostrils affirmed the quarry, which was fleeing fast. With a roar, the dragon pounced after, great talons rattling on the stone floor.
The illusion of the black wizard disappeared into a narrow side cavern as the dragon lunged after. The sinuous forequarters vanished, followed by the long body, powerful rear claws gouging grooves into the stone floor. In just a few seconds, the phantom Dalamar was but a vanished memory, and so too the dragon, even its sinuous tail gone from the great cavern.
Still the dark elf had gagged and spit, convulsing on the floor as his lungs violently worked to expel the lingering taint of deadly gas. Knowing the urgency-the dragon would only keep up his fruitless pursuit for a short while-the dark elf pushed himself to his feet and staggered over to his red-robed companion. Kneeling, he saw immediately that her left leg was unnaturally twisted. But her chest rose and fell slowly, so she was still alive.
"Jenna!" he hissed. Her eyes fluttered open, blank for a second and then wide. "We have to get out of here," Dalamar continued. "Now!"
"Where… is the dragon?" she groaned weakly, struggling to sit up and then crying out in pain. "Ow, my leg!"
"It chased one of my illusion spells out of here," the dark elf replied. "But it'll be back-soon! Can you move?"
Weakly, Jenna shook her head. "You must go," she said. "Leave me!"
Dalamar grimaced, tempted by the offer. But he shook his head. "We'll need both of us to find the Tower," he reminded her, while reminding himself. "I'll help you walk."
"Can't… walk. Wait!" the enchantress reached for the bundle of her possessions, fumbled around for a second, then pulled out a bottle of liquid. "There's enough in here for both of us-you first," she said.
The dark elf quickly took a sip, recognizing the taste of the familiar potion. As Jenna grabbed the bottle from his fingers he felt the solidity of his flesh begin to dissolve and waft freely in the air. He looked down as the woman in the red robe also become diffused under the effect of the gaseous cloud. She soon was barely visible, like faint steam, hovering just above the floor. Her broken leg was no longer an immediate problem.
Together they had floated across the cave, making a slower progress than Dalamar would have preferred. Still, they made their way back up the entryway, along the winding subterranean corridor. Daylight glimmered around the next corner, when, within the depths behind them, the great green serpent could be heard roaring loudly in frustration. But it did not pursue.
And the potion wore off. Jenna collapsed to the ground, with Dalamar slumping down beside her. He could see that she was crippled, but he could only sit here, feed her a few drops of water, and sink deeper into gloom.
Jenna's world was pain, only pain. Agony rose like a tide, surging against her, pushing with hurricane force through the chinks in her soul. It swelled and overwhelmed her, drowned and suffocated her, pressing against her consciousness from all sides. She found no will to resist.
After falling to the stony ground, she felt such intense pain that she blacked out. She was vaguely aware of the dark elf staying beside her, giving her the few sips of water that were the only sustenance she craved. When her pain grew too great to bear, she cried out unintelligibly. They were not far from the dragon's lair, and Dalamar quickly cast a cone of silence, so that Jenna's fevered ranting could not be heard.
For a very long time, she slipped in and out of consciousness. She lost track of the hours, perhaps even days, during which the darkness claimed her. When she was awake, she prayed only for the mercy of healing oblivion. During these times she was keenly aware of Dalamar's presence, but she had no strength-or inclination-to acknowledge him. Of course, he had saved her life, but only after she had protected him with the ice spell, at terrible cost to herself. Protecting her now was uncharacteristic of him. She knew that, for the dark elf, her fate posed a cruel question: How long would he stay?
He was impatient, that much she could sense. It would not have surprised her to wake up and find him gone. But each time consciousness returned, he was there, dour and restless but there. She understood, of course, that he was staying not out of affection or guilt; rather, he was taking care of her because he needed her. He still needed her.
Her injuries were wrenching. Her right leg had been broken in several places, the bone poking through the skin of her thigh in an ugly, bloody wound. The bleeding alone should have killed her within the first few hours, except that Dalamar had stanched the wound with a crude bandage torn from his own robe. Something else was terribly wrong; she had no appetite, and the one time that the elf had insisted she eat a little dry cheese, she had violently thrown it back up, spasms of pain wracking her torso until she lost consciousness.
While lost in oblivion, Jenna's nearly comatose slumber was visited by a dream. She saw a vivid image of the red moon, knew that Lunitari was climbing high into the skies, outside and above this place-just inside the cave-and she heard the soft, musical voice of her goddess calling to her.
"I am here, Mistress," Jenna felt herself whisper, though her lips, her tongue, seemed utterly paralyzed.
"You must go on, my daughter," came the message from the red goddess. "You have made your way past death and mystery; you are close to your goal. You must not relinquish that goal to the one in black."
"But… Mistress… I fear you are wrong. I have failed," the wizard confessed, tear
s burning in her eyes. "I am broken…"
"Listen, Daughter of the Red Moon!" Lunitari's voice was the lash of a whip, a dousing of chill water. The force of Lunitari's disappointment left Jenna shaking. "You must enter the Tower, and you must gather a Conclave. And then you must lead the Three Robes into the future… For you, Jenna of Palanthas, you shall become Head of the Conclave!"
Jenna couldn't argue with such a powerful will, even if she had wanted to. Instead, she quietly agreed, reaching upward in her dream toward that elusive crimson circle in the sky. She felt the goddess embrace her, warm her, bless her…
And she slept deeply.
Dalamar stalked out of the cave and into the woods, keeping the entrance to the underground shelter where Jenna slumbered just barely in his sight. He felt tied down by the wounded woman, and his frustration drove him to walk angrily through the lofty forest. She was a weak creature, no help to him in her state-in fact, a considerable liability.
His thoughts turned, of their own volition, to memories of his Shalafi. When Raistlin Majere had been burdened by the presence of a wounded woman, the cleric Crysania, he had not allowed that to hold him back. He had gone on to face his ultimate challenge, leaving behind his suffering ally. She had been key to his early success, but when he no longer needed her, he cast her aside, knowing her presence only hampered him and held him back.
But Raistlin had been prepared to make his final battle alone, and that was an important difference. Dalamar knew he couldn't reach the Tower on his own. He needed help, and right now, Jenna was the best candidate.
He was certain this cave was the path to Wayreth Forest, but now that path was blocked to them, and they needed to find another way. But Jenna would not be able to move for a long time given her leg wound; he wasn't even certain, given her strange stomach pain, she would recover at all.
Why hadn't the forest welcomed them, shown them the path? Why had the Tower made itself known to a mere slip of a country girl like Coryn?
Wizard's Conclave Page 17
