Here it comes, Leciane thought, clenching her fists. She knew what the new highmage was about to say, knew why it had to be done. She didn’t expect that to make it any easier to bear.
“So passes the last highmage of sorcery’s glorious days,” Jorelia declared. Her voice was not that of an old woman but strong and deep, with an assurance none could miss. “Now it falls to us to guide the order into the night.”
The wizards glanced at one another, some raising eyebrows while others frowned. A few gave sage nods. Jorelia paused, waiting for their attention, then went on.
“For twenty-five centuries, the five Towers have stood,” she began. “Of all the realms that now span the world beyond these walls, only the forests of Silvanesti are older. We have stood fast through two Dragonwars. Through the rise and decline of Ergoth, the delving of Thorbardin, and the coming of the elves to Qualinesti, we have been here.
“Now, however, a new threat arises-a threat from the east, where men call themselves holy so they can hurt those who are not. The legions of the Lightbringer are coming, and they bring the strength of the mob with them. In Istar they march already, and soon in Ergoth and Solamnia as well. They will not rest until the Towers are empty or until they fall. We have chosen emptiness.”
Those mages who did not serve in the Conclave exclaimed in horror and disbelief as the highmage’s meaning sank in.
“Give over the Towers?” cried a sorceress in white, an elf maid named Maranthas. Her delicate features contorted. “They’re our homes!”
“Not any longer,” Jorelia replied, shaking her head. “Things have gone too far. They have never liked us in Istar, nor in Solamnia for that matter, but they were willing to suffer us. The actions of the renegade, this Andras, have changed that. Now they hate us, and blame us for what has happened in both Lattakay and the Lordcity. They will fight us-and no matter how valiantly we defend ourselves, they will triumph. We may be powerful, but the Church, with its priests and its knights, is mightier.”
“What, then?” sneered Orlock, a black-robed dwarf of the Daergar clan, tugging at his silver beard. “We just tuck tail, like rats or goblins? I am no craven, to hide when danger appears.”
Jorelia shook her head, looking over at Sheidow. A wisp of a man with an albino’s colorless skin and pink eyes, the new lord of the Black Robes shot a withering glance at the dwarf.
“We are not craven either,” he said. His voice was soft and gentle, but commanded everyone’s attention. “We do not flee because we fear death, but because we know it awaits us if we stay.”
Orlock still looked outraged, but said nothing more. Humbled, he melted back into the crowd. Another wizard-a Red Robe named Embreth-spoke amidst the muttering.
“Perhaps we should flee,” he said, “but what about the Art itself? There are many enchanted things in the Towers that will cause untold harm if they fall into the hands of our enemies. If we leave them behind and the commoners discover them … well, the gods know what will happen.”
“That is so,” Jorelia agreed. “We must take what we can carry with us, back here to Wayreth where we will be safe. The rest we will destroy.”
The murmurs stopped, turning into gasps. No archmage spoke lightly of destroying magical artifacts, and the Towers contained some of the most potent-among them the same dragon orbs the united sorcerers had crafted ages ago.
“It will take time to evacuate,” said Maranthas. “There is much work to be done. What if this attack comes before we are finished?”
Leciane bowed her head, her curls falling to hide her face. She had asked the same question, when she and Jorelia first discussed this.
The highmage sighed. There were worlds of sorrow in her voice. “Then,” she said, “we must bring down the Towers ourselves.”
Silence filled the hall. It roared in Leciane’s ears. Looking up, she saw the mages were glaring at one another again. That was no surprise-they were looking to lay blame. The White Robes were at fault because Marwort’s support of the Lightbringer had helped cement his power; the Black because Andras had been one of them; and the Red … because of her. In their eyes, she had failed-never mind that she had done all she could. If only she had done more, their reproachful looks said, this might not be happening now.
Jorelia’s voice rang out, stern and austere, filling the vast chamber. “Listen to me,” she said. “This is no time to turn on ourselves. None of us is guiltier than the others. We must work together, as we did during Takhisis’s reign, when darkness sought to overwhelm the world. This time, it is light that threatens us.
“Come, I beg of you,” she continued, spreading her arms. “If you will not stand as one for each other’s sake, then do it for the Art. For that is what is at stake here. If the Kingpriest has his way, magic will disappear from the world. If that is what you want, very well-but if you desire the Art’s survival, then join together now, and fight those who would upset the Balance of the world!”
For a long moment no one budged, the sorcerers still regarding one another with narrow eyes. Then, slowly, it happened. Embreth, the Red Robe, stepped away from his fellows to stand among the Black. A moment later Orlock did the same, walking over to the White.
One by one, the mages began to shift, mingling together, some clasping arms, White beside Black, Black next to Red, Red with White. Leciane marveled at the sight of the three robes united, a sight no one had beheld for a millennium. The Order might just survive, after all.
Smiling, she walked forward to join them, her brothers and sisters in the Art.
Daubas Mishakas, the maps called the maze of canyons and mesas at Dravinaar’s heart-the Tears of Mishakal. Some scholars believed it was because the goddess had wept over the parched land, and the waters had carved the rock. Others swore it had once been the site of her greatest temple, laid waste by ogres in ages all but forgotten. For the Dravinish, however, the place had a different name. Raqqa az Zarqa, they called it, in their native tongue. The Sun’s Anvil.
The Sea of Shifting Sands, the dune-swept desert that comprised most of the empire’s southern reaches, had been a hard enough passage, but it was nothing beside the Anvil.
The heat within the canyons was intolerable, rising from the golden stone of their walls during the day, and at night the cold was like to freeze a man’s blood. Little grew, save the occasional cactus or thorny bush, clinging high up on the cliffs, and the only animals seemed to be broad-hooded adders and hairy, jumping spiders the size of small dogs. Both were poisonous, and Cathan had lost two men and nearly a dozen horses as the journey wore on. Several knights had fallen sorely ill, wracked by fever from the sun pounding against their steel helms. Though it left them vulnerable, the men of the Divine Hammer rode bareheaded now and shook out their bedrolls when they made camp in the evening.
Cathan winced, mopping his brow with the hem of his tabard, and glared at the cloudless sky. Like most of the other men, his skin was red and peeling. He’d taken to the native custom of tying a cloth about his head to keep cool. He glanced over his shoulder at the train of knights, squires, and clerics who followed him-nigh five hundred men in all.
Some were singing a war hymn, a brooding song exhorting Kiri-Jolith and Paladine to fuel their strength in battle.
My blade grows slow, my arm doth tire,
My foes, so many, gather nigh.
O Horned One, to thee I cry
To sear them with thy vengeful fire.