It was a strange-looking structure of a style seen nowhere else on Krynn. Surrounded by triangular walls, it consisted of a pair of obsidian cones, raised from the earth’s bones by forces of forgotten power. Narrow slits of windows broke up its black, gleaming surface. It had no battlements, no turrets. Hidden by the forest and protected by the power of sorcery, it had no need of mortal sentries. Within dwelt the mightiest wizards in an Ansalon: men and women whose power in the Art knew no equal. Even Fistandantilus the Old, the legendary archmage called the Dark One by his fellow Black Robes, kept apartments at the Tower, though-to general relief none had seen him there in centuries. There was no place in all of Krynn more alive with magic.
Leciane do Cirica stared up at the two towers, reaching up toward the stars like the claws of the great dragons that once had filled Ansalon’s skies. Solinari, round and bright, made the northern tower gleam with silver light. Lunitari, also full, made the southern one seem dipped in blood. Nuitari was up there somewhere too, Leciane knew, but she could not see it. She was no Black Robe, but rather wore the Red of those who walked the path between light and shadow.
The night wind gusted, cold enough to make her shiver. Around the Tower the forest remained green, but the tang of winter was in the air. It blew back her hood, momentarily uncovering a dusky face that had been breathtakingly beautiful when she was a girl. Even now, with her fortieth year behind her, she made most women half her age seem plain. The lines around her eyes and mouth, the threads of silver that crept through her long black curls, only accentuated her loveliness. Her green eyes sparkled with equal parts amusement and annoyance as she grabbed for her hood and pulled it down over her face again.
She had been at Losarcum’s Tower when the summons found her. She had residences both there and at Daltigoth, where she had taken the Test to become a full-blooded wizard.
The message had come not as words written on parchment or vellum but rather as a pair of disembodied lips, which had appeared before her and bidden her come at once to Wayreth.
She had obeyed, and now she was here, the mouth still floating in the air beside her. It was hard to tell but she thought it had a smug look to it.
“Well?” she asked. “No one to meet us?”
The pointed tip of a tongue poked out, running over the ruby lips. “Be patient,” the mouth said. “The Conclave are in discussion now. They will call you soon.”
She scowled. The Conclave, the rulers of High Sorcery, consisted of the orders’ strongest wizards, its most influential. A powerful sorceress in her own right, Leciane hoped one day to ascend to their ranks. For now, though, she was as bound to do their bidding as any neophyte fresh from his Test. Still, that didn’t keep her from glowering at the twin spires.
She’d spent a great deal of energy getting here, using the Art to speed her travel. Now, to be kept waiting…
The mouth twitched, then curled into a grin full of pointed teeth. At the same time, the air around Leciane shivered, shimmered with silver sparks. They fell upon her, cold where they touched her dark skin. She didn’t flinch at them, or at the sinking in her stomach as the spell took hold. This wasn’t the first time someone had cast a teleportation spell on her.
“Go, then;” said the magical lips, still smiling. “The Conclave welcomes you, Your Excellency.”
Excellency? Leciane thought, glancing at the lips. The lips chuckled, then disappeared.
With a silver flash and a shimmer of noise, so did she.
*****
The Hall of Mages was a vast, dark chamber in the heart of the South Tower, its full dimensions lost amid shadows. No lamps or candles lit it; only a dim, blue-white glimmer in its midst. Darkness hid its walls, ceiling, and much of the floor. Neither did the hall have any doors. The only way in was by magic, and powerful wards kept out all but the Conclave and those they allowed to enter. Once, an ambitious Black Robe had tried to force his way past those wards. Sometimes, it was said, the echo of his howls could still be heard through the Tower’s halls.
In the room’s midst, at the edges of the pool of light, a half-circle of chairs stood atop a raised platform. There were twenty one in all-seven each for the followers of the three moons. Wizards sat in each of them, clad in hooded robes, their faces drenched in shadow.
On the left, seven dressed in the White of Solinari-two of them elves from ancient Silvanesti, the rest human. On the right, an equal number of Black Robes, serving Nuitari, among them a gray-bearded Daergar dwarf. Between the two groups were seven of Lunitari’s Red Robes, all of them human. In their midst, the only one among the Conclave who did not wear a hood, sat Highmage Vincil, the leader of all Krynn’s sorcerers.
He was an Ergothian of more than sixty summers, his skin as dark as polished mahogany. His head was smooth-shaven, save for a white ponytail at the back, and his beard was long and shovel-shaped. He steepled his fingers, saying nothing as he gazed down from his seat. His gray eyes might been hewn of granite.
Leciane stood before him, unafraid. She had known Vincil before he became highmage, even before the Red Robes had invited him to join their delegation on the Conclave. She had been his apprentice, both before and after her Test. She had also been his lover. All that was in the past, ten years and more, but they had remained friends since.
She raised her eyebrows, arms folded across her chest.
“What do you mean, ‘excellency’?”
The archmages glanced at one another, stirring slightly. She looked to either side.
Neither the Black Robes nor the White seemed happy. Ysarl, the most-powerful of the evil mages-Fistandantilus did not serve on the Conclave, fortunately-let out a snort, his wizened features contorting. Jorelia, on the side of good, shot the aged Black Robe an imperious look.
Vincil ignored them, his gaze never leaving Leciane. “Marwort is dead,” he said.
Leciane knew she should have felt sadness at that news, but she did not. Indeed, if anything, she felt relief. Marwort the Illustrious had been a sore spot among the three orders. A White Robe of no small power, he had served in the imperial court of Istar for some forty years. At first; he had proved a capable emissary, but as the years passed he had come to side more and more with the Kingpriest against the wishes of the Conclave-particularly since the empire’s current ruler, the one they called Lightbringer, took the throne. Given the Lightbringer’s rejection of the Doctrine of Balance and his quest to destroy all evil in the world, the Black Robes understandably had come to loathe Marwort.
The Red Robes had been no more comfortable, for the place of those who followed the neutral path was uncertain in Istar these days. Even many who wore the White had been disenchanted with Marwort, a creature they could not control. When a Conclave appointed an ambassador, though, it was for life, so the archmages had had little choice but to wait for Marwort to die-something he had stubbornly refused to do. Until now.
It had been quick, Vincil said. A blood vessel in his brain had burst while he slept. That made it clear the Black Robes hadn’t finally carried out their threats to have Marwort killed. They would not have made it so painless-not when the regime he’d supported made a point of burning every dark-robed mage it could find. The White Robes had claimed his body, entombed it beneath the Tower in the Lordcity, not far from the Temple where he had served for so long. The Conclave, meanwhile, had convened to begin the important step of naming a replacement.
Leciane smiled, imagining what those “discussions” must have been like. Each order wanted the new ambassador to be one of their own: the Black Robes as an act of defiance, the White Robes for amelioration, and the Red as, perhaps, a bit of both. In the end, the White Robes would not accept a Black Robe ambassador to the Great Temple of Paladine, and the Black would not allow another White to take Marwort’s place, so Red was the compromise. Nobody was happy, to be certain-Ysarl’s grumbling and Jorelia’s glare made that much clear-but it was the only course that wouldn’t crack the orders’ tenuous solidarity.