Like ravens circling, memories of the dreamscape came cawing back to him, screeching in his mind. He was a man who had set Lorac Caladon loose to wreak havoc upon the most beautiful kingdom in all of Krynn. No, he did not think he had come away unscarred. It was, after all, only that his scars did not immediately show.
Ladonna let the matter go. "Now tell me this, Dalamar Argent: Do you feel strong? Do you feel ready to walk abroad in the land, a wizard young in his power and growing stronger?"
Dalamar Argent. Twice she had named him so, and each time the naming had stung. "My lady," he said with all the considerable dignity an elf can summon, "my name used to be Dalamar Argent. It has not been since-" Since it was struck from the records in Silvanesti, making him a non-person. "It has not been since I went to live in Tarsis. My name is Dalamar Nightson."
As though the matter of his name were no concern of hers, she turned from him and crossed the room to the door. Before she opened it, she looked over her shoulder and said, "A servant has come and taken your clothing to be cleaned. You will find replacements in the chest, and your boots are beneath the bed. Rest a while now, but come into the Hall of Mages at the first hour after noon, Dalamar Nightson. You will be expected."
She said no more, and she did not actually trouble with the door. In the space between one breath and another, Ladonna vanished from the chamber, leaving behind only the scent of her perfume and the after-image of bejeweled fingers twinkling.
They met, only three, in the vast Hall of Mages; the Heads of the Orders convened in conference. Their voices echoed thinly, their every breath rustled around the walls up to the very ceiling. They met in perfect confidence that the secret matter they had come to discuss would remain just that, as secret in this room as though it remained unspoken, a secret in their breasts. Their secret, however, did not go unheard by others, though never would it be betrayed. Beneath the marble floor, far below in catacombs deep, lay the crypts, the last, longest home of mages who had, for years uncounted, come here to die or commanded their bodies be brought for entombment. In this hall, the dead observed what work the living did, and no one minded, for the dead were the best keepers of secrets.
Cold, white light shone down from the ceiling, motionless, allowing no shadow as it illuminated the vast hall. It spilled onto the twenty high-backed seats of polished wood, seventeen of those arranged in a semi-circle, three in crescent within that semi-circle. One chair, hewn of mighty granite, the gray shot through with veins of black, sat facing all. Firelight might waken the heart of the twenty mahogany chairs, bringing out the red gleams of polished wood. This light did not. Neither did it make the granite of the tallest, grandest chair in which would sit the Head of the Conclave of Wizards seem less cold than it was.
In this hall of chairs, the Heads of the Orders did not sit but ranged around pacing. The pale light made Par-Salian's robe seem like the dead-white of a funeral shroud, the black velvet of Ladonna's deep as moonless midnight, and like blood lately spilled the robe of Justarius, he who ruled the Order of the Red Robes. He went with a limping walk, for if some mages are not marked visibly by their Tests, others are.
"Ladonna, I've said it before, and I will again: You ask us to take a great risk by delaying our plan. The mage Dalamar has taken his Tests. By all accounts he's done well. What more do you want?"
Ladonna laughed, a low, throaty sound. Neither man mistook it for a sign of humor, this laughter like a growl. "Since when are you averse to risk, Justarius? Something new in the last hour?" His eyes narrowed, glinting with anger. She smiled, and this time not so fiercely. "I don't mind a risk, either, but I like a well-chosen one. Before we send the dark elf to Palanthas, I want him proven."
Justarius said nothing, still glaring. Into the silence, Par-Salian spoke.
"My lady," he said, "my lord. We waste time. We know what danger is brooding in Palanthas, and we have agreed what measure we will take against that. I am sure you agree, Justarius, that we dare not act precipitously. We must know that the tool we use in the Palanthas matter is strong and keen-edged. If we send the wrong man on our mission, we will not have a second chance to send another. Raistlin Majere grows stronger each day and, locked away in his tower-"
His tower. They winced, the lady of the dark robes and the lord of the red.
"Yes, his tower, though I like the sound of that no better than you do. What else to call it? He's shut himself up in there, no one who has tried to enter after him has gotten farther than his doorstep before dying, and not many of those have gotten even so far. Shall we pretend otherwise? No, we are all agreed that we must discover what he's up to, and we are agreed on the way we will do that, what tool we should employ. I say let Ladonna try out our tool. Let her use her dark elf in whatever cause she likes."
Justarius shook his head, his face clouded. He said nothing, not to disagree or agree.
Ladonna lowered her eyes, in courtesy veiling the gleam of triumph she knew must be shining there. Softly, she said, "Very well then, my lords. I thank you for your trust. I will do what I have planned, and I will let you know how well my plan turns out."
Regene of Schallsea stood in the doorway, her back to the jamb, her long legs crossed at the ankle. A studied pose, Dalamar thought as he looked up from the desk and the book he'd found lying there. A small book, this treatise on herb-craft was more of interest for the illustrations than for the outdated prescriptions in its text. Sunlight ran through her dark hair, spinning silver. She was the Regene of the forest, the hunting girl in leathers with her midnight hair bound back from her forehead by a white silk scarf. As he eyed her, so did Regene eye him. Neither found the other easy to read.
Dalamar flicked a faint mark of dust from the sleeve of his robe, smoothing the soft black wool, his fingers brushing the runes marked in silver embroidery on the hem. It was a finer robe than he'd ever worn, and the note he found folded upon the breast said it was a gift from Ladonna herself "to welcome you to the company of mages, Black Robe, Red Robe and White." Of softest wool, the robe sat comfortably on him, hanging from his shoulders as though the finest tailor in all Krynn had taken the measure of him in the night and swiftly sewn from moons rising to sun rising. The sleeve smoothed, he raised a brow, again eyeing his visitor.
"Aren't you concerned they might mistake you for a guest gone astray in that hunting gear?"
Blue eyes flashed, sharply bright. "No one mistakes me if I don't want them to, but you're right. Robes are the costume of the day here, and so robes I will wear." She raised her arms, graceful as a swan lifting in flight, and breathed a short phrase. The air around her sparkled, shimmering. Laughter rang in the chamber as she stood for the barest wink of time utterly disrobed-a glory of long alabaster limbs, rosy breasts and curving hips-then suddenly robed in flowing white, her hair again in two thick braids over her shoulders. She inclined her head. "Better?"
He looked at her, as though she were yet the alabaster woman, then shrugged. "As it pleases you."
"I've come," she said, "to show you the Tower, if you like. You are as welcome here now as the Master of the place himself. You might want to get to know it."
She'd come for more than that, he was certain. Her eyes were too keen, her expression too carefully guarded. She'd come to learn things about him. Whether she'd come in her own behalf or to satisfy the curiosity of others remained to be learned. Well enough. Let her look and watch. Let her try to see what she could uncover.