the same old man, but he was no longer alone. A half-circle of
stone chairs sat around him – twenty-one to be exact. The
white-robed old man sat in the center. To his left were three
indistinct figures, whether male or female, human or some
other race, it was difficult to tell. Their hoods were pulled low
over their faces. They were dressed in red robes. To their left sat
six figures, clothed all in black. One chair among them was
empty. On the old man’s right sat four more red-robed figures,
and – to their right, six dressed all in white. Lady Crysania lay
on the floor before them, her body on a white pallet, covered
with white linen.
Of all the Conclave, only the old man’s face was visible.
“Good evening,” Tasslehoff said, bowing and backing up and
bowing and backing up until he bumped into Caramon. “Who
are these people?” the kender whispered loudly. “And what are
they doing in our bedroom?”
“The old man in the center is Par-Salian,” Caramon said
softly. “And we’re not in a bedroom. This is the central hall, the
Hall of Mages or some such thing. You better wake up the gully
dwarf.”
“Bupu!” Tas kicked the snoring dwarf with his foot.
“Gulphphunger spawn,” she snarled, rolling over, her eyes
tightly closed. “Go way. Me sleep.”
“Bupu!” Tas was desperate; the old man’s eyes seemed to go
right through him. “Hey, wake up. Dinner.”
“Dinner!” Opening her eyes, Bupu jumped to her feet. Glanc-
ing around eagerly, she caught sight of the twenty robed fig-
ures, sitting silently, their hooded faces invisible.
Bupu let out a scream like a tortured rabbit. With a convul-
sive leap, she threw herself at Caramon and wrapped her arms
around his ankle in a deathlike grip. Aware of the glittering
eyes watching him, Caramon tried to shake her loose, but it
was impossible. She clung to him like a leech, shivering, peer-
ing at the mages in terror. Finally, Caramon gave up.
The old man’s face creased in what might have been a smile.
Tas saw Caramon look down self-consciously at his smelly
clothes. He saw the big man finger his unshaven jowls and run
a hand through his tangled hair. Embarrassed, he flushed
uncomfortably. Then his expression hardened. When he spoke,
it was with simple dignity.
“Par-Salian,” Caramon said, the words booming out too
loudly in the vast, shadowy hall, “do you remember me?”
“I remember you, warrior,” said the mage. His voice was
soft, yet it carried in the chamber. A dying whisper would have
carried in that chamber.
He said nothing more. None of the other mages spoke. Cara-
mon shifted uncomfortably. Finally he gestured at Lady Crysa-
nia. “I have brought her here, hoping you could help her. Can
you? Will she be all right?”
“Whether she will be all right or not is not in our hands,” Par-
Salian answered. “It is beyond our skill to care for her. In order
to protect her from the spell the death knight cast upon her – a
spell that surely would have meant her death – Paladine heard
her last prayer and sent her soul to dwell in his peaceful
realms.”
Caramon’s head bowed. “It’s my fault,” he said huskily. “I-I
failed her. I might have been able -”
“To protect her?” Par-Salian shook his head. “No, warrior,
you could not have protected her from the Knight of the Black
Rose. You would have lost your own life trying. Is that not
true, kender?”
Tas, suddenly finding the gaze of the old man’s blue eyes
upon him felt tingling sparks shoot through his body. “Y-Yes,”
he stammered. “I-I saw him – it.” Tasslehoff shuddered.
“This from one who knows no fear,” Par-Salian said mildly.
“No, warrior, do not blame yourself. And do not give up hope
for her. Though we ourselves cannot restore her soul to her
body, we know of those who can. But, first, tell me why Lady
Crysania sought us out. For we know she was searching for the
Forest of Wayreth.”
“I’m not sure,” Caramon mumbled.
“She came because of Raistlin,” Tas chimed in helpfully. But
his voice sounded shrill and discordant in the hall. The name