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“I do,” said Razor restlessly. “I am called, and I will heed the call. But not without my master. We stand together, he and I.”

The dragon spread his wings and soared off the rock, leaping straight up in order to clear the towering trees. He flew south, toward Qualinesti. Tasslehoff picked himself up and collected all his pouches.

“I hope you know where we are, Burrfoot,” said Conundrum in grim and accusing tones.

“No, I don’t,” said Tasslehoff cheerfully. “I don’t recognize any of this.” He added, with a heartfelt sigh of relief, “We’re lost, Goldmoon. Most definitely lost.”

“They know the way,” said Goldmoon, looking down on the upturned faces of the dead.

Palin and Dalamar stood on the lowest floor of the Tower, staring intently into the darkness that lay thick and heavy beneath the cypress trees. Thick and heavy and empty. The roving, restless dead had vanished.

“We could leave now,” Palin suggested.

He stood by the window, hands folded in his robes, for the Tower was chill and dank in the early morning and he was cold. Dalamar had mentioned something about mulled wine and a fire in the library, but although warmth for body and belly sounded good, neither man left to go in search of it.

“We could leave now, while the dead are not here to harass us. We could both leave.”

“Yes,” said Dalamar, standing, his hands in the sleeves of his robes, staring out the window. “We could leave.” He cast a sidelong glance at Palin. “Or rather, you could leave, if you want. Search for the kender.”

“You could leave, too,” Palin returned. “Nothing’s holding you here anymore.” A sudden thought came to him. “Or perhaps since the dead have departed, so has your magic.”

Dalamar smiled a dark smile. “You sound almost hopeful, Majere.”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that,” Palin returned, nettled, although something deep inside him muttered that perhaps he had very much meant it like that. Here am I, a middle-aged man, a spellcaster of considerable power and renown. I have not lost my abilities, as I had once feared. The dead have been stealing my magic. Yet, in the presence of Dalamar, I feel young and inferior and inadequate, as when I first came to the Tower to take my Test. Worse, perhaps, for youth by its nature is filled with confidence. I am constantly striving to prove my worth to Dalamar and always falling short of the mark.

And why should I? Palin demanded of himself. What does it matter what this dark elf thinks of me? Dalamar will never trust me, never respect me. Not because of anything I am, but because of what I am not. I am not my uncle. I am not Raistlin.

“I could leave, but I will not,” Dalamar stated, his delicate brows drawing together as he continued to stare into the empty darkness. He shivered and withdrew more snuggly into his robes. “My thumbs prick. My hackles rise. There is a Presence here, Palin. I have felt it all this past night. A breath on the back of my neck. A whisper in my ear. The sound of distant laughter. An Immortal Presence, Majere.”

Palin was uncomfortable. “That girl and her talk of her One God has gotten to you, my friend. That and an overactive imagination and the fact that you don’t eat enough to keep my wife’s canary bird alive.”

Palin wished immediately he had not mentioned his wife, wished he had not thought about Usha. I should leave the Tower now if for no other reason than to return home. Usha will be worried about me. If she had heard of the attack on the Citadel of Light, perhaps she thinks I am dead.

“Let her think me dead,” he said softly. “She will find more peace in the thought that I am dead than she knew when I was alive. If she thinks me dead, she will forgive me for hurting her. Her memories of me will be fond ones. . . .”

“Quit mumbling to yourself, Majere, and look outside. The dead have returned!”

Where before there had been stillness and quiet, the darkness was once again alive—alive with the dead. The restless spirits were back, roaming among the trees, prowling about the Tower, staring at it with eyes that were hungry and burning with desire.

Palin gave a sudden, hoarse cry and sprang to the window.

He hit it with his hands so hard that he very nearly broke the glass.

“What?” Dalamar was alarmed. “What is it?”

“Laurana!” Palin gasped. He stared searchingly out into the shifting river of souls. “Laurana! I saw her! I swear! Look! Out there! No . . . She’s gone. . . .”

Pushing away from the window, he walked resolutely toward the spellbound door.

Dalamar sprang after him, laid a wresting hand on his arm. “Majere, this is madness—”

Palin shook him off. “I’m going out there. I have to find her.”

“No, Palin.” Dalamar stood in front of him, grasped hold of him tightly, fingers digging into the flesh of Palin’s arms. “You don’t want to find her. Believe me, Majere. She won’t be Laurana. She won’t be the Laurana you knew. She’ll be . . . like the others.”

“My father wasn’t!” Palin retorted angrily, struggling to free himself. Who would have thought the emaciated elf could be so strong? “He tried to warn me—”

“He wasn’t, at first,” Dalamar said. “But he is now. He can’t help himself. I know. I’ve used them. They have served me for years.”

He paused, still retaining his grip on Palin, watching him warily. Palin shook off Dalamar’s grip. “Let go of me. I’m not going anywhere.” Rubbing his arms, he returned to stand staring out the window.

“Are you certain it was Laurana?” Dalamar asked after a moment’s silence.

“I am not certain of anything anymore.” Palin was chilled through, worried, frustrated. “So much for your blasted hackles—”

“—we’ve come to the wrong place,” a high, shrill voice cried plaintively from out of the darkness. “You don’t want to go there, Goldmoon. Trust me. I know my Towers of High Sorcery, and this is not the right one.”

“I seek the wizard, Dalamar!” another voice called. “If he is within, let him please open the doors of the Tower to me.”

“I don’t know how or why,” Palin exclaimed, peering in astonishment through the glass, “but there’s Tasslehoff, and he has brought Goldmoon with him.”

“The other way round, from the sounds of it,” Dalamar remarked, as he removed the magical spell from the door.

Tasslehoff continued to argue, as they stood outside the door of the Tower, that this was the wrong Tower. Goldmoon wanted Dalamar’s Tower, the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, and she could see quite obviously that this was not Palanthas. Therefore, she had the wrong Tower.

“You’re not going to find anyone inside there,” Tasslehoff was beginning to sound desperate. “You won’t find Dalamar or Palin either, for that matter. Not that there’s any reason to think Palin would be here,”

he added hastily. “I haven’t seen Palin in the longest time. Not since Beryl attacked the Citadel of Light. He went one way, and I went another. He had the magical Device of Time Journeying with him, except that he lost it. He tossed bits of it at the draconians. The device is lost, destroyed. No sign of it anywhere. So don’t go looking for it, because you won’t find it—”

“Dalamar,” came Goldmoon’s voice. “Please let me in!”

“I keep telling you,” Tasslehoff argued, “Dalamar’s not— Oh, hullo, Dalamar.” The kender tried very hard to sound astonished. “What are you doing here in this strange Tower?” Tasslehoff winked several times and motioned with his head at Goldmoon.

“Welcome, Goldmoon, Healer, Priestess of Mishakal,” said Dalamar in gracious tones, using her old title. “I am honored by your visit.”

Ushering her into his dwelling with elven courtesy, Dalamar whispered a soft aside, “Majere! Don’t let the kender get away!”