hand, the warmth of his body. Flushing uncomfortably, she
stepped back. Removing her hand from his grasp, she absently
rubbed it, as if it hurt.
“Farewell, Raistlin Majere,” she said, without meeting his
eyes.
“Farewell, Revered Daughter of Paladine,” he said.
The door opened and Dalamar stood within it, though Cry-
sania had not heard Raistlin summon the young apprentice.
Drawing her white hood up over her hair, Crysania turned
from Raistlin and walked through the door. Moving down the
gray, stone hallway, she could feel his golden eyes burning
through her robes. When she arrived at the narrow winding
staircase leading down, his voice reached her.
“Perhaps Paladine did not send you to stop me, Lady Crysa-
nia. Perhaps he sent you to help.”
Crysania paused and looked back. Raistlin was gone, the
gray hall was bleak and empty. Dalamar stood beside her in
silence, waiting.
Slowly, gathering the folds of her white robes in her hand so
that she did not trip, Crysania descended the stairs.
And kept on descending… down… down… into unend-
ing sleep.
CHAPTER 12
The Tower of High
Sorcery in Wayreth had been, for centuries, the last outpost of
magic upon the continent of Ansalon. Here the mages had been
driven, when the Kingpriest ordered them from the other Tow-
ers. Here they had come, leaving the Tower in Istar, now under
the waters of the Blood Sea, leaving the accursed and black-
ened Tower in Palanthas.
The Tower in Wayreth was an imposing structure, an
unnerving sight. The outer walls formed an equilateral trian-
gle. A small tower stood at each angle of the perfect geometric
shape. In the center stood the two main towers, slanted slightly,
twisting just a little, enough to make the viewer blink and say
to himself – aren’t those crooked?
The walls were built of black stone. Polished to a high gloss,
it shone brilliantly in the sunlight and, in the night, reflected
the light of two moons and mirrored the darkness of the third.
Runes were carved upon the surface of the stone, runes of
power and strength, shielding and warding; runes that bound
the stones to each other; runes that bound the stones to the
ground. The tops of the walls were smooth. There were no bat-
tlements for soldiers to man. There was no need.
Far from any centers of civilization, the Tower at Wayreth
was surrounded by its magic wood. None could enter who did
not belong, none came to it without invitation. And so the
mages protected their last bastion of strength, guarding it well
from the outside world.
Yet, the Tower was not lifeless. Ambitious apprentice magic-
users came from all over the world to take the rigorous – and
sometimes fatal – Test. Wizards of high standing arrived daily,
continuing their studies, meeting, discussing, conducting dan-
gerous and delicate experiments. To these, the Tower was open
day and night. They could come and go as they chose – Black
Robes, Red Robes, White Robes.
Though far apart in philosophies – in their ways of viewing
and of living with the world – all the Robes met in peace in the
Tower. Arguments were tolerated only as they served to
advance the Art. Fighting of any sort was prohibited – the pen-
alty was swift, terrible death.
The Art. It was the one thing that united them all. It was
their first loyalty – no matter who they were, whom they
served, what color robes they wore. The young magic-users
who faced death calmly when they agreed to take the Test
understood this. The ancient wizards who came here to breathe
their last and be entombed within the familiar walls understood
this. The Art – Magic. It was parent, lover, spouse, child. It
was soil, fire, air, water. It was life. It was death. It was beyond
death.
Par-Salian thought of all this as he stood within his chambers
in the northernmost of the two tall towers, watching Caramon
and his small retinue advance toward the gates.
As Caramon remembered the past, so, too, did Par-Salian.
Some wondered if it was with regret.
No, he said silently, watching Caramon come up the path,