The white one was the largest of them all.
Though it was invisible to the vast population of Krynn, Dalamar watched the black moon as it crested the eastern horizon. The cold, lightless presence filled his heart with sublime power-power that focused, and expanded through the smooth orb of glass he held in his hands. It was past sunset on the Night of the Eye.
Within that globe, black smoke churned and swirled, angrily pressing against the shell of its prison, desperately striving for release, while all around Dalamar was a vast gulf of space, with the steep slopes of the mountain falling away from him. He had teleported here by himself, impatient for the magic, and knowing that the women would soon follow.
"Not long… soon you will have the world," he whispered, caressing his creation, the churning sphere of black smoke.
He looked up to the heavens. Solinari, the white moon, was high in the dome of the night sky, the brightest object up there. Red Lunitari chased her alabaster cousin. The black, with its faster orbit, would soon close the gap, and indeed pass the other two before the dawn.
Dalamar felt a small rush of pleasure at the knowledge that he alone could actually see the black disk of Nuitari.
To Jenna and Coryn, it would be but a dark space against the backdrop of stars. To a Black Robe, however, it was the very pulse of life itself. Nuitari had the fastest cycle of all the moons, and though it was far behind the others now, by the middle of the night, it would arrive at zenith with Solinari and Lunitari.
And at that midnight, the Night of the Eye would reign over the world.
Suddenly impatient, the dark elf again gazed at the firmament. He stood at the very crest of Worldsmont, crown of the High Kharolis and the loftiest summit on all of Ansalon. Even in the midst of summer, the air was cold, the night breeze-while gentle-carrying a bite of late autumn. Yet Dalamar felt no discomfort; tonight, magic would warm them all.
He saw Jenna climbing toward him, coming along one of the ridges draping away from the summit. Carrying her orb of red smoke, she made her way steadily along a bank of snow, kicking her steps in the frozen slush as she ascended. In minutes she had joined the dark elf at the summit.
She did not meet the eyes of the other wizard, not at first. Instead she faced the east, head tilted back so that the red light of her moon washed across her face, bringing a bloody brightness to the smooth folds of her robe. "She is beautiful, is she not?" she asked reverently, after a time.
"Yes-though hers is a cold beauty," Dalamar said. "I feel the majesty of my own moon, burning hot as it courses through my veins."
"Where is Coryn-have you seen her yet?" asked the Red Robe.
"No. But I'm not surprised-she will arrive lower on the mountain than either of us."
"Of course," Jenna agreed. Since each of the two of them had been to this mountaintop before, they had been able to teleport unerringly. Coryn, however, had been forced to rely on the coordinates provided by her fellow wizards. For safety's sake, they had directed her to a broad, flat shoulder, where there was little chance of a miscalculation that might send her tumbling down the slope.
"There she is," noted the enchantress, pointing down the west ridge.
Dalamar saw the speck of whiteness, Coryn's robe, moving with painstaking slowness along the snaking crest. He cast a glance at the sky, worried. "She'd better hurry."
"Don't worry. She wouldn't dare let herself be late," Jenna replied.
Indeed, as the moons drew toward the zenith, they could see the young wizard increase her gait, stepping from rock to rock with lengthening and stronger strides, holding her large glass sphere cradled in her hands. She arrived at the summit with minutes to spare.
Plans had been made, the spells memorized and rehearsed during the long afternoon. Now, there didn't seem to be anything more to say. The trio of wizards simply stood and stared, as the three moons drew into very close proximity at the very zenith of the sky. The three gods of magic embraced the world, their power flowed, and the Night of the Eye was upon them.
Jenna began the casting. She held her globe high over her head and addressed the heavens. "Praise to Lunitari the Red. May the blood of life ever reflect your vitality and power."
As still as a statue, she maintained her pose while Dalamar hoisted his own orb.
"Hail to Nuitari the Black. May the perfection of your immaculate darkness ever shroud yourself from danger and threat."
Then he, too, held still, as Coryn raised her pale sphere.
"Honor Solinari the White," she chanted. "May the purity of your essence bring balm to the very body of the world."
They turned in unison so that they were facing each other. On silent cue, they cast down their spheres onto the rock at the very summit of Worldsmont, the glass shattering simultaneously in a smoky explosion.
Wind whipped their robes. Dalamar blinked back the dust and smoke that stung his eyes, felt needles of icy wind lashing his face and his bare hands and arms. He kept his balance, staring upward, feeling as though he stood at the base of a cyclone. Howling noise surrounded them, colored vapors exploded, and rose boiling toward the sky. The tumult only grew, surrounding and enveloping them, but without menace.
The three pillars of smoke coiled together, rushing upward as if striving for the moons themselves. A hurricane gale now lashed at the wizards, but they remained in place, fixed like statues. The column of vapors suddenly whirled apart, high overhead. The smoke of each color diffused into tendrils, dozens or more of each of the three colors blasting across the sky with meteoric speed, trailing plumes of red, black, or white, flying to the far corners of Ansalon.
Chapter 21
Awakenings
The dwarfs eyelids snapped open. He could feel the chains on his wrists, recognized the pangs of malnutrition in his belly, and knew each scar the lash had scored into his back. These were echoes of suffering, insignificant details from a wasted, vanished time in his life. His empty sockets-his eyes had been torn out by the torturer's tongs twenty years ago-gaped vacantly, but a word of magic brought him a new eye, floating beside him, studying the surroundings, noting every detail of the filthy, wretched dungeon.
Now, tonight, for the first time in more than forty years, he remembered where he was-more important, who he was. That identity was a picture in clear, sharp focus, a stark contrast to the confused and tortured ramblings that had teased and tormented him for so many sunless years. That interval was over, banished into the past with the rest of his suffering.
Another simple spell snapped the manacles; the shattered metal brackets fell to the floor with a clang. He strode to the door of the cell, ready for more magic, yet the ancient door yielded to a simple push-it had not even been locked! He sneered at this proof that his captors had grown complacent. They would pay for their folly.
His arcane eye guided him down the dungeon hall and around the corner to the chamber where the two turnkeys gambled and were sharing a bottle of dwarf spirits. The magic of the spell showed him the room a split second before he came into view. One of the turnkeys, a grizzled Theiwar dwarf with a wildly bristling beard, looked up in surprise.
"Hey!" he barked. "Mad Willi's loose-did you forget to lock his chains?"
"Me?" snapped his counterpart. "I ain't been down there fer days!"
"Well, lock him up-I'll watch the cards."
"Like the Abyss, you will! Let the blind old fart find his own way back!"
"I am not Mad Willi," the former prisoner said calmly. Both dwarves gaped at him-they had been on the job for decades, and had never heard a rational statement out of the old wretch. The Theiwar reacted first, lunging for a short sword hanging from the wall. He died before he touched the hilt, his heart stopped by a terrible word of power.