their spellbooks and other paraphernalia to the Tower of High
Sorcery, hidden deep within the magical Forest of Wayreth. It
was when they abandoned this Tower that the curse had been
cast upon it. The Shoikan Grove had grown to guard it from all
comers until – as foretold – “the master of past and present
shall return with power.”
And the master had returned. Now he sat in the ancient labo-
ratory, crouched over the stone table that had been dragged,
long ago, from the bottom of the sea. Carved with runes that
ward off all enchantments, it was kept free of any outside influ-
ences that might affect the mage’s work. The table’s surface was
ground smooth and polished to an almost mirrorlike finish.
Dalamar could see the nightblue bindings of the spellbooks that
sat upon it reflected in the candlelight.
Scattered about on its surface were other objects, too –
objects hideous and curious, horrible and lovely: the mage’s
spell components. It was on these Raistlin was working now,
scanning a spellbook, murmuring soft words as he crushed
something between his delicate fingers, letting it trickle into a
phial he held.
“Shalafi,” Dalamar said quietly, using the elven word for
“master.”
Raistlin looked up.
Dalamar felt the stare of those golden eyes pierce his heart
with an indefinable pain. A shiver of fear swept over the dark
elf, the words, He knows! seethed in his brain. But none of this
emotion was outwardly visible. The dark elf’s handsome fea-
tures remained fixed, unchanged, cool. His eyes returned Raist-
lin’s gaze steadily. His hands remained folded within his robes
as was proper.
So dangerous was this job that – when They had deemed it
necessary to plant a spy inside the mage’s household – They
had asked for volunteers, none of them willing to take respon-
sibility for cold-bloodedly commanding anyone to accept this
deadly assignment. Dalamar had stepped forward immedi-
ately.
Magic was Dalamar’s only home. Originally from
Silvanesti, he now neither claimed nor was claimed by that
noble race of elves. Born to a low caste, he had been taught
only the most rudimentary of the magical arts, higher learning
being for those of royal blood. But Dalamar had tasted the
power, and it became his obsession. Secretly he worked, study-
ing the forbidden, learning wonders reserved for only the high-
ranking elven mages. The dark arts impressed him most, and
thus, when he was discovered wearing the Black Robes that no
true elf could even bear to look upon, Dalamar was cast out of
his home and his nation. And he became known as a “dark elf,”
one who is outside of the light. This suited Dalamar well for,
early on, he had learned that there is power in darkness.
And so Dalamar had accepted the assignment. When asked
to give his reasons why he would willingly risk his life perform-
ing this task, he had answered coldly, “I would risk my soul for
the chance to study with the greatest and most powerful of our
order who has ever lived!”
“You may well be doing just that,” a sad voice had answered
him.
The memory of that voice returned to Dalamar at odd
moments, generally in the darkness of the night – which was so
very dark inside the Tower. It returned to him now. Dalamar
forced it out of his mind.
“What is it?” Raistlin asked gently.
The mage always spoke gently and softly, sometimes not
even raising his voice above a whisper. Dalamar had seen fear-
ful storms rage in this chamber. The blazing lightning and
crashing thunder had left him partially deaf for days. He had
been present when the mage summoned creatures from the
planes above and below to do his bidding; their screams and
wails and curses still sounded in his dreams at night. Yet,
through it all, he had never heard Raistlin raise his voice.
Always that soft, sibilant whisper penetrated the chaos and
brought it under control.
“Events are transpiring in the outside world, Shalafi, that
demand your attention.”
“Indeed?” Raistlin looked down again, absorbed in- his work.
“Lady Crysania -”
Raistlin’s hooded head lifted quickly. Dalamar, reminded