Who was this mysterious master? No one could say. Certainly it was not the Kingpriest. As he watched, horrified, the tower altered in appearance, becoming so hideous in aspect that those looking at it were constrained to cover their eyes. Even then, those who saw it were forever haunted by the dreadful sight.
The Kingpriest sent for powerful clerics to try to lift the curse. Surrounded by the Shoikan Grove, a forest of fear, the tower was guarded by the dark god Nuitari, who paid no attention to prayers uttered to any god except himself. The clerics of Paladine came, but they ran whimpering from the site. The clerics of Mishakal tried to enter. They barely escaped with their lives.
When the gods cast down the fiery mountain on Ansalon, the Cataclysm sent Istar to the bottom of the Blood Sea. Quakes broke the continent of Ansalon, ripping it apart, forming new seas, creating new mountain ranges. The city of Palanthas shook on its foundations, houses and buildings toppled. Yet not a leaf in the Shoikan Grove so much as shivered.
Dark, silent, empty, the tower waited for its master, whoever that may be.
Raistlin pondered the history of the towers. In his mind, he was already walking the halls of the Tower of Wayreth, an accepted and revered wizard, when an unseen bell chimed seven times.
The seven initiates, who had been walking in the garden, visiting with each other, or standing apart, reciting their spells to themselves, came to a halt. All talking ceased.
Some faces paled in fear, others flushed in excitement. The elves, priding themselves on showing no emotion before humans, appeared nonchalant, bored.
"What's that?" Caramon asked, hoarse with nervousness.
"It is time, my brother," Raistlin said.
"Raist, please." Caramon began.
Seeing the expression on his brother's face-the narrowed eyes, the frowning brows, the hard, firm set of the lips-Caramon swallowed his final plea.
A disembodied hand appeared, floating above the roses in the center of the garden.
"Oh, shit!" Caramon breathed. His hand closed convulsively over the hilt of his sword, but he did not need his brother's warning glance to understand that he should not draw any weapon on these grounds. He doubted if he could have found the strength to do so.
The hand beckoned. The initiates drew their hoods over their heads, placed their hands in the sleeves of their robes, and silently walked in the direction the hand indicated, heading for a small tower located between the two larger towers.
Raistlin and his brother, who had been the last to arrive, brought up the rear of the line.
The hand pointed at the door in the foremost tower, a door whose knocker was the head of a dragon. No one was required to knock to gain entry. The door opened silently as they approached.
One by one, each of the initiates filed inside. Leaving the sunlit garden, they entered a darkness so thick that all were temporarily blinded. Those in front halted, uncertain where to go, afraid to go anywhere that they could not see. Those coming behind them bunched up inside the doorway. Caramon, entering last, blundered into all of them.
"Sorry. Excuse me. I didn't see-" "Silence."
The darkness spoke. The initiates obeyed. Caramon was silent, too, or tried to be. His leather creaked, his sword rattled, his boots clattered. His stentorian breathing echoed throughout the chamber.
"Turn to your left and walk toward the light," ordered the voice that was as disembodied as the hand.
The initiates did as commanded. A light appeared, and they moved toward it with quiet, shuffling steps, Caramon tromping along loudly behind.
A small corridor of stone, lit by torches whose pale fire burned steadily, gave no warmth and made no smoke, opened into a vast hall.
"The Hall of Mages," Raistlin whispered, digging his nails into the flesh of his arms, using the pain to contain his excitement.
The others shared his awe, his elation. The elves dropped their stoic masks. Their eyes shone, their lips parted in wonder. Each one of the initiates had dreamed of this moment, dreamed of standing in the Hall of Mages, a place forbidden, a place most people on Krynn would never see.
"No matter what happens, this is worth it," Raistlin said silently.
Only Caramon remained unaffected, except by fear. He hung his head, refused to look to left or right, as if hoping that if he did not look, it would all go away.
The chamber walls were obsidian, shaped smooth by magic. The ceiling was lost in shadow. No pillars supported it.
Light shone, white light that illuminated twenty-one stone chairs, arranged in a semicircle. Seven of the chairs bore black cushions, seven of them red cushions, and seven white cushions.
Here was the meeting place of the Conclave of Wizards. A single chair stood in the center of the semicircle. This chair was slightly larger than the rest. Here sat the head of the conclave. The cushion on the chair was white.
At first glance, the chairs were empty.
At second glance, they were not. Wizards occupied them, men and women of different races, wearing the different colors suitable to their orders.
Caramon gasped and lurched unsteadily on his feet. Raistlin's hand closed viciously over his twin's arm, probably hurting his brother as much as it supported him.
Caramon was having a very bad time of it. He had never taken either magic or his brother's gift for magic seriously. To him, magic was coins dribbling from the nose, bunnies popping up unexpectedly, giant kender. Even that spell had impressed Caramon only moderately. When it came down to it, the kender had not really turned into a giant at all. It was only illusion, trickery. Trickery and magic had been all muddled up in Caramon's mind.
This was not trickery. What he witnessed was a raw display of power, intended to impress and intimidate. Caramon continued to fear for his brother. If he could have, he would have snatched Raistlin from that place and fled. But somewhere in the depths of Caramon's mind, he was finally beginning to understand the high stakes for which his brother gambled, stakes high enough that it might be worth betting his life.
The wizard in the center chair rose to his feet.
"That is Par-Salian, head of the conclave," Raistlin whispered to his brother, hoping to save Caramon from yet another gaffe. "Be polite!"
The initiates bowed respectfully, Caramon along with the rest.
"Greetings," said Par-Salian in a kind and welcoming tone.
The great archmage was in his early sixties at the time, though his long white hair, wispy white beard, and his stooped shoulders made him look older. He had never been robust, had always preferred study to action. He worked constantly to develop new spells, refine and enhance old ones. He was eager for magical artifacts as a child is eager for sugarplums. His apprentices spent much of their time traveling the continent in search of artifacts and scrolls or in tracking down rumors of such.
Par-Salian was also a keen observer and participant in the politics of Ansalon, unlike many wizards who held themselves above the trivial, everyday dealings of an ignorant populace. The head of the conclave had contacts in every single government of any importance on Ansalon. Antimodes was not Par-Salian's only source of information. He kept most of his knowledge secret and to himself, unless it benefited his plans to do otherwise.
Though few knew the full extent of his influence in Ansalon, an aura of wisdom and power surrounded Par-Salian with an almost visible halo of white light, shining so brightly that the two Silvanesti elves, who held most humans in the same regard as other races held kender, bowed low to him and then bowed again.
"Greetings, initiates," Par-Salian repeated, "and guest."