All of a sudden she realized the chairs were occupied, not by people, but by empty, yet animated robes. The three sections were divided between the red, black, and white robes. The three different-colored robes filled the seats, turned and moved as if engaged in lively discourse, empty sleeves gesturing.
And then the hoods of those robes-with empty holes where the faces should be-all turned toward Coryn. They watched her intently, expectantly. She felt a momentary panic-what was she supposed to do now?
That is when the three moons came into view, rising with impossible speed until they loomed over her. Even the black one was visible, because it was actually darker than the darkness yawning above. The white was brilliant, the red like a spot of fresh blood, and all were full, round, and nearing zenith.
She heard a groan, coming from across the room, beyond the chairs. She made her way around the ring of ghostly robes, ignoring the gestures, the pantomimes urging her to stay. Instead she crossed to the far wall of the room. A spot of light attracted her and when she drew near, she saw that this was not a door, but more of a passage right through the wall of the room. She drew nearer and gasped as she recognized the familiar interior of Umma's little hut.
She stopped, pressing her hand to her mouth, stifling a sob of dismay.
Umma lay in her bed, wasted and frail. Her eyes were bright with fever; sweat streaked her brow. She turned her face back and forth, and her eyes were vacant, unseeing. A violent chill wracked her skeletal body, and she coughed and gagged, straining for each wheezing breath.
"Umma!" cried the girl, starting forward. The gap in the wall shimmered; there lay a free passageway that would take her away from the Tower, take her home, to this place where she was desperately needed.
"Wait!"
A command came from behind her, pulling her around. She saw the Master there, the white-bearded visage coming toward her slowly, holding up a restraining hand. He leaned on his staff but shuffled forward urgently.
"But she needs me!" she said. "I have to go to her."
"You don't understand," replied the Master of the Tower. "The Test reveals many truths, to you and about you. And this is the part that may doom you!"
"How?"
"You have felt the power, the magic, as you have wandered these past hours, have you not? And here, in the Hall of Mages, you saw the wizards of the Conclave all turning to you-honoring you, attending you, seeking your wisdom?"
"Y-yes. I saw that, sensed it."
"This has never happened before," the Master declared. "That one so young, so unprepared, has nearly emerged from the Test in a position, not just of learning, but of power, command, and influence! All this magic, the accolades of your fellow wizards, all will be yours if you but finish the Test!"
"While this hole in the wall you see before you, this escape from the Tower, is a cruel deception. For if you leave now, if you go to your grandmother and turn your back on the Conclave, your powers will be wiped away. You will have renounced the magic, renounced the world, and gone back to your miserable little village in the Icereach to live out your years. Until you, too, die as an old woman on a wretched pallet in a pathetic hut!"
"It is not a miserable village!" Coryn snapped, furious. "And you have no right to stop me! It is the place that made me what I am-the place where I belong!"
"No… I have no right," said the old man with a feeble shake of his head. "But I thought that you should know the very real stakes involved."
"My grandmother is truly ill?" she asked, knowing it to be the truth.
"Oh, most certainly. Probably dying-the Test does not deceive in these matters."
"Then I must go to her."
"The choice," said the Master of the Tower, "is yours."
Coryn nodded. She thought of the flight spell, of the tower of wonders, and the wizards of the Conclave. But she knew where she belonged. Her shoulders slumped under the weight of her decision, but there was only one thing she could do. She stepped forward, through the opening in the wall, and reached out to soothe Umma's fevered brow.
But Umma was no longer there. Instead, Coryn stood in a hallway-the same place where she had started the Test, she realized. There was a table beside her that had not been there hours-days? — earlier, when she had begun. Three objects rested there: a clear bottle containing a blood-red liquid, a small book of midnight black, and a slender wand of white.
She was obliged to take these things, she understood, and so she picked up the bottle first. But where to put it?
Only then did she realize that she no longer wore her travel-worn shirt and torn leather leggings. With a sense of awe, she looked down, felt the smooth, plush material against her skin, a cloth caress that felt wonderful all around her.
She was wearing a robe that was perfectly, immaculately white.
Chapter 18
A Slow Death
Dalamar's eyes watered, and though he tried he couldn't seem to draw a breath. He could just die here… that would be the easiest thing to do. He had been tricked, fooled, and defeated by a creature so much older, so much more powerful than himself. It was fitting rebuke, for the arrogance he had shown in recklessly entering the lair. By Nuitari, he didn't deserve to live!
Jenna, he guessed, was all but dead. Certainly she would lose her leg even if, somehow, she managed to cling to life. The dark elf groaned and leaned his head back against the unforgiving rock. He closed his eyes, with the events that had doomed them replaying themselves in the lightless shade of his mind.
He saw the dragon approaching, the reptilian head swiveling this way and that, jaws opening to flash teeth that were as long as swords. The dark elf was trapped, helpless, and terrified. He was appalled by the dragon's size-so much greater than the serpent he and Jenna had expected. This green was a very ancient wyrm, a monster that had somehow survived the Cataclysm, the War of the Lance, the Dragon Purge, and the War of Souls. Surely it had been alive during Huma's time and had survived the sundering of the elven nations thousands of years before! It was a beast from the lost ages of Krynn, and the two wizards and their magic were but feeble opponents.
Invisibility was useless, of course-the creature's sensitive nostrils would locate him more surely than its eyes. But deception? Drawing a breath, biting back his choking and coughing, Dalamar had lain on his back and summoned a spell of illusion. He whispered the words and then rolled over, directing the magic toward the far side of this cavern of doom.
Sorcery had shimmered for a moment, and then the spell took effect, in the form of a perfect image of Dalamar himself, black robe swirling as he stumbled back against the cavern wall. Dalamar added the illusion of a falling stone to his spell. The rock broke free under his perfect phantasm's "touch," dropping to the floor with a sharp crack, a sound that brought the dragon's head whipping around with a startled hiss. Those green jaws gaped wide, and then a roar filled the cavern to overflowing, breaking stones loose from the ceiling and rumbling the very bedrock underfoot.
In the face of that horrific sound, the illusory Dalamar had turned and fled, sprinting away as if under the influence of haste magic. The illusion was good, the dark elf knew- even the stink of his fear lingered in the air, so that even the dragon's nostrils affirmed the quarry, which was fleeing fast. With a roar, the dragon pounced after, great talons rattling on the stone floor.
The illusion of the black wizard disappeared into a narrow side cavern as the dragon lunged after. The sinuous forequarters vanished, followed by the long body, powerful rear claws gouging grooves into the stone floor. In just a few seconds, the phantom Dalamar was but a vanished memory, and so too the dragon, even its sinuous tail gone from the great cavern.