"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."
His gaze went to Caramon, seemed to strike right to the big man's heart and set him trembling.
"You have each come at the appointed time by invitation to undergo tests of your skills and your talent, your creativity, your thought processes, and, most importantly, the testing of yourself. What are your limits? How far can you push beyond those limits? What are your flaws? How might those flaws impede your abilities? Uncomfortable questions, but questions we each must answer, for only when we know ourselves-faults and strengths alike-will we have access to the full potential that is within us."
The initiates stood silent and circumspect, nervous and awed and anxious to begin.
Par-Salian smiled. "Don't worry. I know how eager you are, and therefore I will not indulge in long speeches. Again I want to bid you welcome and to extend my blessing. I ask that Solinari be with you this day."
He lifted his hands. The initiates bowed their heads. Par-Salian resumed his seat.
The head of the Order of Red Robes stood up, moved briskly on to the business at hand.
"When your name is called, step forward and accompany one of the judges, who will take you to the area where the testing will begin. I am certain you are all familiar with the criteria of the testing, but the conclave requires me to read it to you now, so that none can later claim he or she entered into this unknowingly. I remind you that these are guidelines only. Each Test is specially designed for the individual initiate and may include all or only a part of what the guidelines call for.
" 'There shall be at least three tests of the initiate's knowledge of magic and its use. The Test shall require the casting of all of the spells known to the initiate, at least three tests that cannot be solved by magic alone, and at least one combat against an opponent who is higher in rank than the initiate.' Do you have any questions?"
Not one of the initiates did; the questions were locked in each person's heart. Caramon had a great many questions, but he was too awed to be able to ask them.
"Then," said the Red Robe, "I ask that Lunitari walk with you."
He sat back down.
The head of the Order of Black Robes rose to her feet. "I ask that Nuitari walk with you." Unfurling a scroll, she began to read off names.
As each name was called, the initiate stepped forward, to be met by one of the members of the conclave. The initiate was led in silence and with the utmost solemnity into the shadows of the hall, then vanished.
One by one, each of the initiates departed until only one, Raistlin Majere, remained.
Raistlin stood stoically, with outward calm, as the numbers of his fellows dwindled around him. But his hands, inside his sleeves where they could not be seen, clenched to fists. The irrational fear came to him that perhaps there had been some mistake, that he was not supposed to be here. Perhaps they had changed their minds and would send him off. Or perhaps his loutish brother had done something to offend them, and Raistlin would be dismissed in shame and ignominy.
The Black Robe finished reading the names, shut the scroll with a snap, and still Raistlin stood in the Hall of Mages, except that now he stood alone. He maintained his rigid pose, waited to hear his fate.
Par-Salian rose to his feet, came forward to meet the young man. "Raistlin Majere, we have left you to the last because of the unusual circumstances. You have brought an escort."
"I was requested to do so, Great One," Raistlin said, the words coming in a whisper from his dry mouth. Clearing his throat, he said, more forcefully, "This is my twin brother, Caramon."
"Welcome, Caramon Majere," said Par-Salian. His blue eyes, in their maze of wrinkles, peered deep into Caramon's soul.
Caramon mumbled something that no one heard and subsided into unhappy silence.
"I wanted to explain to you why we requested the presence of your brother," Par-Salian continued, shifting his astute gaze back to Raistlin. "We want to assure you that you are not unique, nor have we singled you out. We do this in the case of all twins who come to the testing. We have discovered that twins have an extremely close bond, closer than most siblings, almost as if the two were in reality one being split in twain. Of course, in most cases, both twins take up the study of magic, both having a talent for it. You are unusual in this respect, Raistlin, in that you alone show a talent for the art. Have you ever had any interest in magic, Caramon?"