He couldn’t go yet, though; he wouldn’t be traveling alone. So he stood, arms folded, and waited.
The other wizards were far away, withdrawn from the world and weakened by attrition; they would not be able to hinder him. The dark gods were impaired too, their power damaged by the loss of nearly all their followers. Once Beldinas destroyed Istar, the gods of light would be left feeble as well; the Balance would be restored, but in the process no one would remain to oppose him. And even if someone did, if the gods somehow managed to foil him, his spirit would endure, bound to the world. One day, someone would find the spellbook he had sent with the Twice-Born-and through that unfortunate soul, he would enter the world again. He had spent decades devising this plan. Nothing could stop him-not even Paladine’s burning hammer, and what it would wreak upon the world today.
The laboratory had two doors, one on either end. Now they opened at the same time, revealing two figures caked in dust. One was tall and dark, well-muscled and still bearing the armor and sword he had wielded that morning in the Arena. The other was mousy and stooped, his spectacles smudged, his hands stained with ink. Fistandantilus nodded to both, beckoning with a wizened hand.
“Good,” he said. “You are both just in time.”
The doors swung shut. The gladiator and the scribe, the two men he had picked to aid him in the trials to come, glanced at each other, each sizing up the other, wondering why the other was here. Then, following the Dark One’s command, they strode forward, stopping just outside the ring of silver dust.
“Pheragas,” Fistandantilus said to the gladiator, the slave he had bought to be his protector in the times ahead. “Did you find victory on the sands today?”
The man glared, his eyes filled with grief. He had lost many friends today. The world he’d known, all the people who had cheered for him, fought beside him or against him, all were dead already, or soon would be. He had left them to their fates, at the Dark One’s behest. He hated Fistandantilus with every iota of his being.
The Dark One shrugged, untroubled, and looked to Denubis. “And you, Revered Son. It took some coaxing, but you came. That was wise of you.”
Denubis only blinked, stupefied. He put a shaking hand to his head.
A distant boom sounded as a large part of the Temple crumbled above. The crash should have rocked the room, but the magic wards held. The black iron chandelier hanging overhead didn’t even budge. Fistandantilus nodded his head.
“Time to go,” he said. “Step into the circle.”
They did as they were told, careful not to disturb the silver powder. Each reached out, jerkily, and laid a hand on one of the wizard’s shoulders. Fistandantilus began to weave his hands through the air, chanting spidery words as he drew the magic down from the black moon. The air rippled, and a wall of silver light sprang up from the circle, shimmering with power. Images began to form upon the glowing wall, like figures cast by Midrathi shadow-sculptors: forests and mountaintops, deserts and oceans, cities and caverns, each dissolving into the next. Dragons winged across a twilit sky; men fought ogres on a barren plain; copper-skinned lizard men stalked elves through a festering swamp. This was Krynn’s history, stretching over countless centuries before the first Kingpriest to thousands of years into the future. The stones beneath Fistandantilus’s feet sang as space and time opened to him.
The wizard looked to Denubis and Pheragas. Both stood rigid, transfixed by the mystery of what was happening. He smiled within the shadows of his hood.
“Farewell, Istar,” he murmured.
A whirling vortex opened above him. He looked up into it, focusing his thoughts. The shifting images resolved into a dark room, dust-mantled and cobwebbed with age. With a sigh, he released the magic. The silver ring blazed.
Half a second later, the wards flickered and faded and disappeared. With a horrible crash, the laboratory exploded and caved in. But the three were already gone, wizard and gladiator and scribe, flowing away on the river of time.
Beldinas Pilofiro, Kingpriest of Istar, stood alone within the Sacred Chamber, bathed in his own light. He did not feel the earth shake, nor did he hear the thunder of the collapsing Temple or the anguished screams of his followers. The world did not exist for him, not now: There was only the rite he was about to conduct. It would take all his strength to force the gods to listen, to make them obey. But his will was strong, his purpose pure. They would judge him thus.
The silvery glow around him grew sun-bright as he walked to the head of the chapel. A strange feeling passed over him. His gaze shifted to the satin curtains hanging behind the altar. Was there someone hiding behind them?
The feeling passed, and he shook his head. Another of the dark gods’ tricks, no doubt, meant to rob him of his faith. Too late-there was nothing they could do to stop him now.
He did not kneel, but stared down at the altar’s blank, gleaming surface. Delving deep, he summoned all the power from the well of his soul. The power ran up into him, coursing through his body like the waters of a spring-swollen river, ready to burst its banks. He braced himself, holding the power in check. The time would come to release it, but first he had to make his greatest decree. His chin rose, and he began to speak.
“Paladine,” he declared. His tone was not one of humility; that was for weak men. He spoke the god’s name almost as an equal… “Paladine, you see the evil that surrounds me! You have been witness to the calamities that have been the scourge of Krynn these past days. You know that this evil is directed against me, personally, because I am the only one resolved to fight against it! Surely you must see now that this doctrine of balance will never work!”
He paused, then, feeling a presence in the room-a presence he knew well. He’d felt it many times before, when he drew on his powers … whether to heal the sick or destroy his enemies. The god’s presence was unmistakable. It hovered now above the altar, unseen but unmistakably there. He fought back a sudden flash of awe, the urge to prostrate himself. When he spoke again, his voice was soft as a flute-not pleading, but soothing, as one might address a child.
“I understand, of course. You had to espouse this doctrine in the old days, when you were beleaguered. But you have me now, your right arm, your true representative upon Krynn. With our combined strength, I can sweep evil from the world! Destroy the ogre races! Bring the wayward humans into line! Find new homelands far away for the dwarves, kender, and gnomes, those races not of your creation. And even the elves will know the light that has eluded them, all these years. The last tower of the wizards will fall, as will the last churches of those who do not honor your grace. Dragons of silver and gold shall fill the skies once more… not to fight the minions of darkness, but to spread my will across Krynn!”
He raised his voice again, building to a crescendo. The force above the throne writhed, the platinum dragon coiling invisibly as he exerted his strength upon it. It would obey him. It had done so before. His power had made armies lay down their swords, burned demons to ashes, brought life back to the dead. Paladine resisted, but Beldinas could feel the god’s resolve falter before his blazing light.
“I will rule in glory,” he trumpeted, spreading his arms wide, “creating an age to rival even the fabled Age of Dreams! You gave this and more to Huma, Paladine, who was nothing but a renegade knight of low birth! I demand that you give me, too, the power to drive away the shadows of evil that darken this land!”