His words carried quite clearly. The other initiates turned to stare. The upper lip of one of the elves curled in a sneer.
Raistlin felt the hot blood flood his face. "Hush, Caramon!" he rebuked, his voice quivering with anger. "You are shaming us both!"
Caramon shut his mouth, bit his lip.
Raistlin deliberately turned his back on his twin. He could not fathom why the conclave had insisted on Caramon's being a part of his brother's testing.
"Unless they plan on aggravating me to death," Raistlin muttered to himself.
He tried to ignore Caramon's presence, concentrating on banishing his own nervous fears. There was no reason he should be afraid. He had studied his spellbook, he knew it inside out, could have recited his spells backward while standing on his head, if that was what the judges might require. He had proven that he could work his magic under pressure. He would not fall apart, nor would his spell fall apart, in tense situations.
He need not be concerned about his abilities to perform magic during the Test. Nor was he particularly worried about the intangible portions of the Test, the part wherein the mage learns more about himself. Introspective from birth, Raistlin was confident that he knew all there was to know about his own inner workings.
For him, the Test would be a mere formality.
Raistlin relaxed, discovered that he was actually looking forward to the Test. His worries eased, he spent the time waiting for the judges to arrive in studying the fabled Tower of Wayreth.
"I will see it often in the future," he said to himself and envisioned traveling the unseen pathways, tending herbs in the garden, studying in the great library.
The tower at Wayreth was in actuality two towers, constructed of polished black obsidian. The main towers were surrounded by a wall in the shape of an equilateral triangle, with three smaller towers located at each of the angles. The wall surrounded the garden, where grew many varieties of herbs used not only for spell components, but also for healing and cooking.
The tops of the walls had no battlements, for the tower was protected by strong magicks. The forest would not permit the entry of anyone unless he had been invited by the conclave. If an enemy did, by some mischance, manage to stumble into the forest, the magical creatures roaming within would deal with the foe.
There was need for such precautions. Long ago there had been five Towers of High Sorcery, centers for magic on Ansalon. During the rise of Istar, the Kingpriest, who secretly feared magic and the power of wizards, outlawed magic. He caused mobs to rise against the wizards, hoping to eradicate them.
The wizards might have fought back, and some advocated the use of force, but the conclave deemed such drastic action unwise. Defending themselves would result in tragic loss of life on both sides. The Kingpriest and his followers wanted bloody conflict. Then they could point an accusing finger at the wizards and say, "We were right! They are a menace and should be destroyed!"
The conclave made a bargain with the Kingpriest. The wizards would abandon their towers, retreat to a single tower located in Wayreth. Here they would continue to study unmolested. The Kingpriest, though disappointed that the wizards chose not to fight, agreed. He had already taken control of the Tower of High Sorcery at Istar, and now he looked forward to gaining the exquisitely lovely tower in Palanthas. He planned to make it a temple to his greatness.
As he entered the tower to claim it, a black-robed wizard, purportedly insane, leapt from one of the tower's upper windows. The wizard impaled himself upon the sharp barbs of the iron fence below. With his dying breath, he cast a curse upon the tower, saying that none should inhabit it except the Master of Past and Present.
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.