“It was during the—oh, I say, here’s someone who can tell the story far better than I,” Lord Amothus said, looking up in relief as the door opened. “It isn’t a story I enjoy relating, to be perfectly honest.”
“Astinus of the Library of Palanthas,” announced the herald.
To Laurana’s astonishment, every man in the room rose respectfully to his feet—even the great generals and noblemen. All this, she thought, for a librarian? Then, to her even greater astonishment, the Lord of Palanthas and all his generals and all the nobles bowed as the historian entered. Laurana bowed, too, out of confused courtesy. As a member of the royal house of Qualinesti, she was not supposed to bow before anyone on Krynn unless it be her own father, Speaker of the Suns. But when she straightened and studied this man, she felt suddenly that bowing to him had been most fitting and proper.
Astinus entered with an ease and assurance that led her to believe he would stand unabashed in the presence of all the royalty on Krynn and the heavens as well. He seemed middle-aged, but there was an ageless quality about him. His face might have been chiseled out of the marble of Palanthas itself and, at first, Laurana was repelled by the cold, passionless quality of that face. Then she saw that the man’s dark eyes literally blazed with life—as though lit from within by the fire of a thousand souls.
“You are late, Astinus,” Lord Amothus said pleasantly, though with a marked respect. He and his generals all remained standing until the historian had seated himself, Laurana noticed, as did even the Knights of Solamnia. Almost overcome with an unaccustomed awe, she sank into her seat at the huge, round table covered with maps, which stood in the center of the great room.
“I had business to attend to,” Astinus replied in a voice that might have sounded from a bottomless well.
“I heard you were troubled by a strange occurrence.” The Lord of Palanthas flushed in embarrassment. “I really must apologize. We have no idea how the young man came to be found in such an appalling condition upon your stairs. If only you had let us know! We could have removed the body without fuss—”
“It was no trouble,” Astinus said abruptly, glancing at Laurana. “The matter has been properly dealt with. All is now at an end.”
“But... uh ... what about the ... uh ... remains?” Lord Amothus asked hesitantly. “I know how painful this must be, but there are certain health proclamations that the Senate has passed and I’d like to be sure all has been attended to . . .”
“Perhaps I should leave,” Laurana said coldly, rising to her feet, “until this conversation has ended.”
“What? Leave?” The Lord of Palanthas stared at her vaguely. “You’ve only just come—”
“I believe our conversation is distressing to the elven princess,” Astinus remarked. “The elves—as you remember, my lord—have a great reverence for life. Death is not discussed in this callous fashion among them.”
“Oh, my heavens!” Lord Amothus flushed deeply, rising and taking her hand. “I do beg your pardon, my dear. Absolutely abominable of me— Please forgive me and be seated again. Some wine for the princess—” Amothus hailed a servant, who filled Laurana’s glass.
“You were discussing the Towers of High Sorcery as I entered. What do you know of the Towers?” Astinus asked, his eyes staring into Laurana’s soul.
Shivering at that penetrating gaze, she gulped a sip of wine, sorry now that she had mentioned it. “Really,” she said faintly, “perhaps we should turn to business. I’m certain the generals are anxious to return to their troops and I—”
“What do you know of the Towers?” Astinus repeated.
“I-uh-not much,” Laurana faltered, feeling as if she were back in school being confronted by her tutor. “I had a friend— that is, an acquaintance—who took the Tests at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, but he is—”
“Raistlin of Solace, I believe,” Astinus said imperturbably.
“Why, yes!” Laurana answered, startled. “How—”
“I am a historian, young woman. It is my business to know,” Astinus replied. “I will tell you the history of the Tower of Palanthas. Do not consider it a waste of time, Lauralanthalasa, for its history is bound up in your destiny.” Ignoring her shocked look, he gestured to one of the generals. “You, there, open that curtain. You are shutting out the best view in the city, as I believe the princess remarked before I entered. This, then, is the story of the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas.
“My tale must begin with what became known—in hindsight—as the Lost Battles. During the Age of Might, when the Kingpriest of Istar began jumping at shadows, he gave his fears a name—magic-users! He feared them, he feared their vast power. He did not understand it, and so it became a threat to him.
“It was easy to arouse the populace against the magic-users. Although widely respected, they were never trusted— primarily because they allowed among their ranks representatives of all three powers in the universe—the White Robes of Good, the Red Robes of Neutrality, and the Black Robes of Evil. For they understood—as the Kingpriest did not—that the universe swings in balance among these three and that to disturb the balance is to invite destruction.
“And so the people rose against the magic-users. The five Towers of High Sorcery were prime targets, naturally, for it was in these Towers that the powers of the Order were most concentrated. And it was in these Towers that the young mages came to take the Tests—those who dared. For the Trials are arduous and—worse—hazardous. Indeed, failure means one thing: death!”
“Death?” repeated Laurana, incredulously. Then Raistlin—”
“Risked his life to take the Test. And he nearly paid the price. That is neither here nor there, however. Because of this deadly penalty for failure, dark rumors were spread about the Towers of High Sorcery. In vain the magic-users sought to explain that these were only centers of learning and that each young mage risking his life did so willingly, understanding the purpose behind it. Here, too, in the Towers, the mages kept their spellbooks and their scrolls, their implements of magic. But no one believed them. Stories of strange rites and rituals and sacrifices spread among the people, fostered by the Kingpriest and his clerics for their own ends.
“And the day came when the populace rose against the magic-users. And for only the second time in the history of the Order, the Robes came together. The first time was during the creation of the dragon orbs, which contained the essences of good and evil, bound together by neutrality. After that, they went their separate ways. Now, allied by a common threat, they came together once more to protect their own.
“The magicians themselves destroyed two of the Towers, rather than let the mobs invade them and meddle with that which was beyond their understanding. The destruction of these two Towers laid waste to the countryside around them and frightened the Kingpriest—for there was a Tower of High Sorcery located in Istar and one in Palanthas. As for the third, in the Forest of Wayreth, few cared what became of it, for it was far from any center of civilization.
“And so the Kingpriest approached the magic-users with a show of piety. If they would leave the two Towers standing, he would let them withdraw in peace, removing their books and scrolls and magical implements to the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. Sorrowfully the magic-users accepted his offer.”
“But why didn’t they fight?” Laurana interrupted. “I’ve seen Raistlin and... and Fizban when they’re angry! I can’t imagine what truly powerful wizards must be like!”
“Ah, but stop and consider this, Laurana. Your young friend—Raistlin—grew exhausted casting even a few relatively minor spells. And once a spell is cast, it is gone from his memory forever unless he reads his spellbook and studies it once more. This is true of even the highest level mages. It is how the gods protect us from those who might otherwise become too powerful and aspire to godhood itself. Wizards must sleep, they must be able to concentrate, and they must spend time in daily study. How could they withstand besieging mobs? And, too, how could they destroy their own people?