The crowd was cheering wildly, now, and Sirene could tell from the noise that the steel coins were piling up in her little dish. She danced around, taking stock of the marks, deciding which deserved an extra smile or shimmy-and which she could afford to ignore. A few draconians in the near corner fell into the latter group. They weren't tipping, and one of them had pawed her leg so aggressively he left a mark. With a bump of her hip and a sneer, she knocked their table over on her next pass around the room.
"Make way for some paying customers, you louts," she said over her shoulder as she danced past.
The reptilian warriors leaped to their feet, ready to fight, but they were quickly pushed out of the way by a number of customers eager to claim their coveted spot so close to the stage. Two ships from Ergoth had docked that very afternoon and their crews had spilled ashore, eager for an evening's entertainment. They hadn't seen a woman in months, and their pockets bulged with money.
Sirene was pleased to see a band of these sailors claim the newly righted table, elbowing aside the outnumbered draconians. Sullenly, the reptilian warriors skulked to the bar in the back of the room.
Sirene slithered back up onto the stage, undulating, dropping yet another of the silky veils that barely served to conceal her charms. She knew that the males found her exotic looks attractive. The slender half-elf wondered how they would feel if they knew that this nubile wench they were drooling over was more than a hundred years old! For decades she had been dancing here at the Barnacle Bar, and she knew that her appearance hadn't aged more than a few years-to human eyes-during that whole stint.
Dancing was all she had, now, but it hadn't always been like this. Decades ago she had studied magic, worked hard over spell books and laboratory tables, developing an art that she intended to guide her toward a great future. That dream, like so many others, had been shattered in the wake of the Chaos War, with the departure of the gods. She had heard the talk of the moons coming back, but she had paid little attention. The teeming city was her life, and she had no time for ancient games of magic.
Now the music was building, the drummer and flute player giving it all they had. Sirene dipped and swirled across the stage, dropping the last veil to a chorus of cheers A steady rain of coins poured into her cup. Another minute to let the frenzy run its course, and then she would be done for the night.
She was striking a final pose, peering enticingly at a happy drunk sitting behind her, when she felt the summons. It came through the air, from far beyond this bar, this city, this desolate realm, thrumming in her heart, awakening passions in her belly that she thought were gone forever.
And it brought tears to her eyes.
She was in such a hurry that she left her tips on the stage, drawing an amazed look from Fairie, who was due to go on next. Sirene went straight to the little cubby that served as her dressing room, glaring so fiercely at the protesting innkeeper that he had to step aside. In her tiny cubicle, she pulled out a gown of black fabric, all that was left of her ancient robe. It would have to do, she knew-she wasn't going to wait around for a tailor shop to open in the morning.
Putting on the black robe, she vanished into the night.
He smelled puke-his own vomit-but didn't have the strength to roll over. After all the whiskey he had drunk, he should have slept through till mid-morning, yet he could see a pale hint of dawn along the horizon. For a time he simply lay there, head pounding, nostrils and whiskers clogged with the stink of his own bile.
Groaning, he at last pushed himself to his hands and knees, feeling the usual trembling in his limbs. Where in the Abyss was that bottle? He groped around until his hand closed around the familiar, smooth neck. Shaking it, he felt the weight of just a small amount, a few precious sips of bitter rotgut, sloshing around in the bottom.
Carefully he shifted around to a sitting position, expecting his guts to start heaving at any time. Yet, strangely, his stomach felt all right, and even the throbbing between his temples was fading rapidly.
Finally he stood halfway upright, leaning against one of the shacks that formed this secluded alley, the place where he had been drinking too much and sleeping it off for so many years. He raised the bottle, brought the mouth to his lips-
And then he glimpsed the moon.
Solinari was setting, full and white and even larger than normal because of its proximity to the horizon. He could see that white orb clearly, as he had since its return to Krynn some months ago, but now, for the first time, he sensed that it was calling him.
There was a second's pause as he looked at the bottle, then decisively, he cast it away. Slowly, carefully, he pushed himself to his feet, ready to lean on the shack for balance. But his legs were feeling strong, his breathing grew steady-he wasn't even drunk anymore!
His eyes fell upon the dirty brown rag of his garment, and he felt a crush of shame that brought tears to his eyes. Again, he looked to that moon, and made a silent plea for forgiveness.
The blessing of Solinari flowed around him, a shower of cool white light encircling, washing, and warming him.
By the time he started toward the end of the alley, he was fully awake, and his robe, though still tattered, was a gleaming, ivory white.
And so the smoke from the three globes fanned out across the world, serving as beacons of the gods of magic, seeking, searching, and finding those few magic users who had survived, who had lived through the long twilit years when their gods had been absent from the world. The vaporous tendrils spanned mountains, pierced the deepest jungle, and scoured the deserts. They reached deep into the ground, through caverns and dungeons, and penetrated to the upper vaults of the loftiest castles. Mostly the plumes flowed past, but every so often one found a latent coal, an ember of magic that was kindled to life, fanned into a renewed flame.
For more than four decades the followers of the three gods had known only a painful absence, gaping holes where the cherished part of their lives had cruelly stolen away. There was nothing to reward the faith and the skills of those lost souls-no power, no hope, no future.
Many of their number had died, as often as not in wretchedness and despair. Others had turned to wild magic, seduced so fully that they would never be called back. Indeed, there were many sorcerers who cowered and cringed under the Night of the Eye. They felt in that prominence of moonlight the presence of an enemy, an intractable and revitalized foe.
As to those whose magic was kindled, be it black, red, or white, they were awakened, they knew resurgent hope on the Night of the Eye And they turned their steps toward Wayreth Forest.
Chapter 22
The Bastion
Will this cursed night never end?" demanded Kalrakin, stalking through the largest room in the Tower, the Hall of Mages. The ceiling was lost in the vast black space, obscured by shadows; the sorcerer's words echoed as he threw back his head and shouted skyward. "Those moons taunt me, vex me. If they would but come closer, I would smite them all!"
Wild magic pulsed suddenly, a flash of light emanating from the white stone he perpetually held in his hand. In that blink of time, he teleported, coming to stand again in the banquet hall where he had first encountered the Master of the Tower. He found food on the table, as usual, but the wizard disdained the splendid feast, knocking over a pitcher of milk in contempt, tumbling a bowl of fruit so that apples and melons rolled across the floor.
"Come to the door, my lord. I see the pink of dawn in the east." Luthar called from the anteroom. "This night is ending, at last!"
"It is about time!" snapped Kalrakin. "And Luthar…?"