‘The Lost Battles, three moons, Raistlin talking with a strange voice. None of this makes sense,’ Tanis muttered.
‘I don’t believe any of it!’ Riverwind said coldly. He shook out their furs, preparing to sleep.
Tanis was starting to follow his example when he saw Alhana creep from the shadows of the cave and come to stand next to Raistlin. Staring down at the sleeping mage, her hands twisted together.
‘Strong in magic!’ she whispered in a voice filled with fear. ‘My father!’
Tanis looked at her in sudden understanding.
‘You don’t think your father tried to use the orb?’
‘I am afraid,’ Alhana whispered, wringing her hands. ‘He said he alone could fight the evil and keep it from our land. He must have meant—’ Swiftly she bent down near Raistlin. ‘Wake him!’ she commanded, her black eyes flaring. ‘I must know! Wake him and make him tell me what the danger is!’
Caramon pulled her back, gently but firmly. Alhana glared at him, her beautiful face twisted in fear and rage, and it seemed for a moment as if she might strike him, but Tanis reached her side and caught hold of her hand.
‘Lady Alhana,’ he said calmly, ‘it would do no good to wake him. He has told us everything he knows. As for that other voice, he obviously remembers nothing about what it said.’
‘I’ve seen it happen to Raist before,’ Caramon said in low tones, ‘as if he becomes someone else. But it always leaves him exhausted and he never remembers.’
Alhana jerked her hand away from Tanis’s, her face resuming its cold, pure, marble stillness. She whirled and walked to the front of the cave. Catching hold of the blanket Riverwind had hung to hide the fire’s light, she nearly tore it down as she flung it aside and stalked outdoors.
‘I’ll stand first watch,’ Tanis told Caramon. ‘You get some sleep.’
‘I’ll stay up with Raist awhile,’ the big man said, spreading out his pallet next to his frail twin’s. Tanis followed Alhana outside.
The griffons slept soundly, their heads buried on the soft feathers of their necks, taloned front feet clutching the cliff edge securely. For a moment he could not find Alhana in the darkness, then he saw her, leaning against a huge boulder, weeping bitterly, her head buried in her arms.
The proud Silvanesti woman would never forgive him if he saw her weak and vulnerable. Tanis ducked back behind the blanket.
‘I’ll stand watch!’ he called out loudly before he walked outside again. Lifting the blanket, he saw, without seeming to, Alhana start up and wipe her hands hurriedly across her face. She turned her back to him, and he walked slowly toward her, giving her time to pull herself together.
‘The cave was stifling,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I could not bear it. I had to come out for a breath of air.’
‘I have first watch,’ Tanis said. He paused, then added, ‘You seem afraid your father might have tried to use this dragon orb. Surely he would know its history. If I remember what I know of your people, he was a magic-user.’
‘He knew where the orb came from,’ Alhana said, her voice quivering before she could regain control. ‘The young mage was right when he spoke of the Lost Battles and the destruction of the Towers. But he was wrong when he said the other three orbs were lost. One was brought to Silvanesti by my father for safe-keeping.’
‘What were the Lost Battles?’ Tanis asked, leaning on the rocks next to Alhana.
‘Is no lore at all kept in Qualinost?’ she returned, regarding Tanis with scorn. ‘What barbarians you have become since mingling with humans!’
‘Say the fault is my own,’ Tanis said, ‘that I did not pay enough heed to the Loremaster.’
Alhana glanced at him, suspecting him of being sarcastic. Seeing his serious face and not particularly wanting him to leave her alone, she decided to answer his question. ‘As Istar rose during the Age of Might to greater and greater glories, the Kingpriest of Istar and his clerics became increasingly jealous of the magic-users’ power. The clerics no longer saw the need for magic in the world, fearing it—of course—as something they could not control. Magic-users themselves, although respected, were never widely trusted, even those wearing the white robes. It was a simple matter for the priests to stir the people against the wizards. As times grew more and more evil, the priests placed the blame upon the magic-users. The Towers of High Sorcery, where the magicians must pass their final, grueling tests, were where the powers of the mages rested. The Towers became natural targets. Mobs attacked them, and it was as your young friend said: for only the second time in their history, the Robes came together to defend their last bastions of strength.’
‘But how could they be defeated?’ Tanis said incredulously.
‘Can you ask that, knowing what you do of your mage friend? Powerful he is, but he must have rest. Even the strongest must have time to renew their spells, recommit them to memory. Even the eldest of the order—wizards whose might has not been seen on Krynn since—had to sleep and spend hours reading their spellbooks. And then, too, as now, the number of magic-users was small. There are few who dare take the tests in the Towers of High Sorcery, knowing that to fail is to die.’
‘Failure means death?’ Tanis said softly.
‘Yes,’ Alhana replied. ‘Your friend is very brave, to have taken the Test so young. Very brave—or very ambitious. Didn’t he ever tell you?’
‘No,’ Tanis murmured. ‘He never speaks of it. But go on.’
Alhana shrugged. ‘When it became clear that the battle was hopeless, the wizards themselves destroyed two of the Towers. The blasts devastated the countryside for miles around. Only three remained—the Tower of Istar, the Tower of Palanthas, and the Tower of Wayreth. But the terrible destruction of the other two Towers scared the Kingpriest. He granted the wizards in the Towers of Istar and Palanthas safe passage from these cities if they left the Towers undamaged, for the wizards could have destroyed the two cities, as the Kingpriest well knew.
‘And so the mages traveled to the one Tower which was never threatened—the Tower of Wayreth in the Kharolis Mountains. To Wayreth they came to nurse their wounds and to nurture the small spark of magic still left in the world. Those spellbooks they could not take with them—for the number of books was vast and many were bound with spells of protection—were given to the great library at Palanthas, and there they still remain, according to the lore of my people.’
The silver moon had risen, its moonbeams graced their daughter with a beauty that took Tanis’s breath away, even as its coldness pierced his heart.
‘What do you know of a third moon?’ he asked, staring into the night sky, shivering. ‘A black moon...’
‘Little,’ Alhana replied. ‘The magic-user draws power from the moons: the White Robes from Solinari, the Red Robes from Lunitari. There is, according to lore, a moon that gives the Black Robes their power, but only they know its name or how to find it in the sky.’
Raistlin knew its name, Tanis thought, or at least that other voice knew it. But he did not speak this aloud.
‘How did your father get the dragon orb?’
‘My Father, Lorac, was an apprentice,’ Alhana replied softly, turning her face to the silver moon. ‘He traveled to the Tower of High Sorcery at Istar for the Tests, which he took and survived. It was there he first saw the dragon orb.’ She fell silent for a moment. ‘I am going to tell you what I have never told anyone, and what he has never told—except to me. I tell you only because you have a right to know what—what to expect.