The shouts grew louder, and the wizards could hear people running in panicked haste down the corridor. Someone started beating on their door, then others joined in, raining blows on the wood. The wizards began to call out for their leaders, some yelling for Par-Salian, others for Ladonna or Justarius.
Angry at such unseemly behavior, Par-Salian rose to his feet, stalked across the room and flung open the door. He was startled to find the hall was dark. The magical lights that generally illuminated all the passageways in the Tower had apparently failed. Seeing some in the crowd carrying candles or lanterns, Par-Salian felt a sense of foreboding.
“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded sternly, glowering at the crowd of wizards milling around in the hallway. “Cease this tumult at once!”
The wizards crowding the darkened hallway fell silent, but only for a moment.
“Tell him,” said one.
“Yes, tell him!” urged another.
“Tell me what?”
Several began to speak at once. Par-Salian quieted them with an impatient gesture and searched around in the darkness for someone to be the spokesperson.
“Antimodes!” Par-Salian said, sighting his friend. “Tell me what is going on.”
The crowd parted to allow Antimodes to make his way to the front. Antimodes was an older wizard, highly respected and well liked. He came from a well-to-do family and was wealthy in his own right. He was passionate about advancing the cause of magic in the world, and many young mages had benefited from his generosity. A businessman, Antimodes was known to be level-headed and practical, and at the sight of his face, which was pale, strained, Par-Salian felt his heart sink.
“Have you looked outside, my friend?” Antimodes asked. He spoke in a low voice, but the crowd was straining to hear. They immediately caught hold of his words and repeated them.
“Look outside! Yes, look outside!”
“Silence!” Par-Salian ordered, and again the crowd hushed, though not completely. Many grumbled and muttered in a low, rumbling undercurrent of fear.
“You should look outside,” said Antimodes gravely. “See for yourselves. And witness this.” He lifted his hand, pointed a finger and spoke words of magic. “Sula vigis dolibix!”
“Are you mad?” Par-Salian cried, alarmed, expecting to see fiery traces burst from his friend’s hands. But nothing happened. The words to the spell fell to the floor like dead leaves.
Antimodes sighed. “The last time that spell failed me, my friend, I was sixteen years old and thinking about a girl, not my magic.”
“Par-Salian!” Ladonna called in a shaking voice. “You must see this!”
She was leaning on the window ledge, perilously close to falling out, her back arched, her head craned to stare into the heavens. “The stars shine. The night is cloudless. But …”
She turned toward him, her face pale. “The moons are gone!”
“And so is The Forest of Wayreth,” Justarius reported grimly, gazing out past Ladonna’s shoulder.
“We have lost the magic!” a woman wailed from the hall. Her terrified cry threw everyone into a panic.
“Are you witless gully dwarves to behave so?” Par-Salian thundered. “Everyone, go to your rooms. We must keep calm, figure out what is going on. Monitors, I want the halls cleared at once.”
The shouting ceased, but people continued to mill around aimlessly. Antimodes set the example by leaving for his chambers and taking friends and pupils with him. He glanced back at Par-Salian, who shook his head and sighed.
The Monitors in their red robes began moving through the crowd, urging people to do as the head of the Conclave decreed. Par-Salian waited in the doorway until he saw the hall starting to clear. Most would not go to their rooms. They would flock to the common areas to speculate and work themselves into a frenzy.
Par-Salian shut the door and turned to face his fellows, who were both standing at the window, gazing searchingly into the heavens in the desperate hope that they were mistaken. Perhaps an errant cloud had drifted across the moons, or they had miscalculated the time and the moons were late rising. But the evidence of the vanished forest was horrifying and could not be denied.
As Par-Salian gazed across the bleak and barren landscape of treeless, rolling hills, he tried to cast a spell, a simple cantrip. He knew the moment he spoke the words, which came out as gibberish, that the magic would fail.
“What do we do?” Ladonna asked in hollow tones.
“We must pray to the gods—”
“They will not answer you,” said a voice from the darkness.
A wizard dressed in black robes stood in the center of the room.
“Who are you?” Par-Salian demanded.
The wizard drew back his hood. Golden skin glistened in the firelight. Eyes with pupils the shape of hourglasses regarded them dispassionately.
“Raistlin Majere,” said Justarius, his tone harsh.
Raistlin inclined his head in acknowledgment.
“This is your doing!” Ladonna said angrily.
Raistlin gave a sardonic smile. “While I find it flattering that you think I have the power to make the moons disappear, madam, I must disabuse you of that notion. I did not cause the moons to vanish. Nor did I take away the magic. What you fear is true. Your magic is gone. The gods of the moons have been rendered impotent.”
“Then how did you travel here, if not by magic?” Par-Salian said, glowering.
Raistlin bowed to him. “An astute observation, Master of the Conclave. I said your magic was gone. My magic is not.” “And where does your magic come from, then?” “My god. My Queen,” Raistlin said quietly, “Takhisis.” “Traitor!” Ladonna cried.
She took hold of one of the pendants she wore around her neck and tore a piece of fur from her collar. “Ast kiranann kair Gardurm …” She faltered, then began again. “Ast kianann kair—”
“Useless,” Justarius said bitterly.
“I am not the traitor,” said Raistlin. “I am not the one who betrayed your plot to enter the temple and seal the Foundation Stone to the Dark Queen. If it were not for me, you would all be dead now. The Nightlord and his pilgrims are there now, waiting for you.”
“Who was it, then?” Ladonna demanded, glowering.
“The walls have ears,” said Raistlin softly.
Ladonna crossed her arms over her chest and began to restlessly pace the room. Justarius remained by the window, staring out into the night.
“Did you come here to gloat over us?” Par-Salian asked abruptly.
Raistlin’s eyes narrowed. “You chose me as your ‘sword,’ Master of the Conclave. And all know that a sword cuts both ways. If your sword has caused you to bleed, that is your own fault. But to answer your question, sir, no, I did not come here to gloat.”
He jabbed a finger toward the window. “The Forest of Wayreth is gone. This moment, a death knight called Soth and his undead warriors are riding toward this Tower. Nothing stands in their way. And when they get here, nothing will stop them from tearing down these walls and slaughtering everyone inside.”
“Solinari save us!” Par-Salian murmured.
“Solinari fights to save himself,” said Raistlin. “Takhisis brought new gods to this world, Gods of the Gray, she calls them. She plans to depose our gods and seize control of the magic, which she will then dole out to her favorites. Such as myself.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Justarius harshly.
“Believe your eyes, then,” said Raistlin. “How are you going to fight Lord Soth? His magic is potent, and it does not come from the moons. It springs from the curse the gods cast upon him. He can blast holes in these walls with a gesture of his hand. He can summon corpses from their graves. He has only to speak a single word, and people will drop dead. The terror of his coming is so great that even the bravest will not be able to withstand it. You will cower behind these walls, waiting to die. Praying to die.”