“No, they felt they had to accept the Kingpriest’s offer. Even the Black Robes, who cared little for the populace, saw that they must be defeated and that magic itself might be lost from the world. They withdrew from the Tower of High Sorcery at Istar—and almost immediately the Kingpriest moved in to occupy it. Then they abandoned the Tower here, in Palanthas. And the story of this Tower is a terrible one.”
Astinus, who had been relating this without expression in his voice, suddenly grew solemn, his face darkening.
“Well I remember that day,” he said, speaking more to himself than to those around the table. “They brought their books and scrolls to me, to be kept in my library. For there were many, many books and scrolls in the Tower, more than the magic-users could carry to Wayreth. They knew I would guard them and treasure them. Many of the spellbooks were ancient and could no longer be read, since they had been bound with spells of protection—spells to which the Key... had been lost. The Key...”
Astinus fell silent, pondering. Then, with a sigh, as if brushing away dark thoughts, he continued.
“The people of Palanthas gathered around the Tower as the highest of the Order—the Wizard of the White Robes—closed the Tower’s slender gates of gold and locked them with a silver key. The Lord of Palanthas watched him eagerly. All knew the Lord intended to move into the Tower, as his mentor—the Kingpriest of Istar—had done. His eyes lingered greedily on the Tower, for legends of the wonders within—both fair and evil—had spread throughout the land.”
“Of all the beautiful buildings in Palanthas,” murmured Lord Amothus, “the Tower of High Sorcery was said to be the most splendid. And now...”
“What happened?” asked Laurana, feeling chilled as the darkness of night crept through the room, wishing someone would summon the servants to light the candles.
“The Wizard started to hand the silver key to the Lord,” continued Astinus in a deep, sad voice. “Suddenly, one of the Black Robes appeared in a window in the upper stories. As the people stared at him in horror, he shouted, ‘The gates will remain closed and the halls empty until the day comes when the master of both the past and the present returns with power!’ Then the evil mage leaped out, hurling himself down upon the gates. And as the barbs of silver and of gold pierced the black robes, he cast a curse upon the Tower. His blood stained the ground, the silver and golden gates withered and twisted and turned to black. The shimmering tower of white and red faded to ice gray stone, its black minarets crumbled.
“The Lord and the people fled in terror and, to this day, no one dares approach the Tower of Palanthas. Not even kender"—Astinus smiled briefly—“who fear nothing in this world. The curse is so powerful it keeps away all mortals—”
“Until the master of past and present returns,” Laurana murmured.
“Bah! The man was mad.” Lord Amothus sniffed. “No man is master of past and present—unless it be you, Astinus.”
“I am not master!” Astinus said in such hollow, ringing tones that everyone in the room stared at him. “I remember the past, I record the present. I do not seek to dominate either!”
“Mad, like I said.” The Lord shrugged. “And now we are forced to endure an eyesore like the Tower because no one can stand to live around it or get close enough to tear it down.”
“I think to tear it down would be a shame,” Laurana said softly, gazing at the Tower through the window. “It belongs here. . . .”
“Indeed it does, young woman,” Astinus replied, regarding her strangely.
Night’s shadows had deepened as Astinus talked. Soon the Tower was shrouded in darkness while lights sparkled in the rest of the city. Palanthas seemed to be trying to out—glitter the stars, thought Laurana, but a round patch of blackness will remain always in its center.
“How sad and how tragic,” she murmured, feeling that she must say something, since Astinus was staring straight at her. “And that—that dark thing I saw fluttering, pinned to the fence—” She stopped in horror.
“Mad, mad,” repeated Lord Amothus gloomily. “Yes, that is what’s left of the body, so we suppose. No one has been able to get close enough to find out.”
Laurana shuddered. Putting her hands to her aching head, she knew that this grim story would haunt her for nights, and she wished she’d never heard it. Bound up in her destiny! Angrily she put the thought out of her mind. It didn’t matter. She didn’t have time for this. Her destiny looked bleak enough without adding nightmarish nursery tales.
As if reading her thoughts, Astinus suddenly rose to his feet and called for more light.
“For,” he said coldly, staring at Laurana, “the past is lost. Your future is your own. And we have a great deal of work to do before morning.”
Commander of the knights of Solamnia stood, “First, I must read a communique I received from Lord Gunthar only a few hours ago.” The Lord of Palanthas withdrew a scroll from the folds of his finely woven, woolen robes and spread it on the table, smoothing it carefully with his hands. Leaning his head back, he peered at it, obviously trying to bring it into focus.
Laurana—feeling certain that this must be in reply to a message of her own she had prompted Lord Amothus to send to Lord Gunthar two days earlier—bit her lip in impatience.
“It’s creased,” Lord Amothus said in apology. “The griffons the elven lords have so kindly loaned us"—he bowed to Laurana, who bowed back, suppressing the urge to rip the message from his hand—"cannot be taught to carry these scrolls without rumpling them. Ah, now I can make it out. ‘Lord Gunthar to Amothus, Lord of Palanthas. Greetings.’ Charming man. Lord Gunthar.” The Lord looked up. “He was here only last year, during Spring Dawning festival—which, by the way, takes place in three weeks, my dear. Perhaps you would grace our festivities—”
“I would be pleased to, lord, if any of us are here in three weeks,” Laurana said, clenching her hands tightly beneath the table in an effort to remain calm.
Lord Amothus blinked, then smiled indulgently. “Certainly. The dragonarmies. Well, to continue reading. ‘I am truly grieved to hear of the loss of so many of our Knighthood. Let us find comfort in the knowledge that they died victorious, fighting this great evil that darkens our lands. I feel an even greater personal grief in the loss of three of our finest leaders: Derek Crownguard, Knight of the Rose, Alfred MarKenin, Knight of the Sword, and Sturm Brightblade, Knight of the Crown.” The Lord turned to Laurana. “Brightblade. He was your close friend, I believe, my dear?”
“Yes, my lord,” Laurana murmured, lowering her head, letting her golden hair fall forward to hide the anguish in her eyes. It had been only a short time since they had buried Sturm in the Chamber of Paladine beneath the ruins of the High Clerist’s Tower. The pain of his loss still ached.
“Continue reading, Amothus,” Astinus commanded coldly. “I cannot afford to take too much time from my studies.”
“Certainly, Astinus,” the Lord said, flushing. He began to read again hurriedly. “This tragedy leaves the knights in unusual circumstances. First, the Knighthood is now made up of— as I understand—primarily Knights of the Crown—the lowest order of knights. This means that—while all have passed their tests and won their shields—they are, however, young and inexperienced. For most, this was their first battle. It also leaves us without any suitable commanders since—according to the Measure—there must be a representative from each of the three Orders of Knights in command.’ ”