The cave was set in a small hill in a heavily forested area.
Gerard had the impression that they were not in some isolated patch of wilderness but close to a community. He could hear on the distant breeze the sound of the bell flowers elves liked to plant around the windows of their dwellings, flowers whose blossoms rang musically when the wind’s breath touched them.
He could also smell the scent of fresh-baked bread. Glancing in the direction of the rising sun, he confirmed that they had traveled due west during the night. If he was not actually in the city of Qualinost, he must be very close by.
The human entered the cavern. Two of the elves followed, one of them carrying the squirming kender trussed up in his sack, the other walking behind Gerard, prodding him in the back with a sword. The other elves who had accompanied them did not enter the cave but vanished into the woods, taking the pony and the Knight’s horse with them. Gerard hesitated a moment before stepping into the cave. The elf shoved him in the back and he stumbled forward.
A dark, narrow passage opened up into a smallish chamber lit by a flame floating on a bowl of sweet-smelling oil. The elf carrying the kender dropped the sack to the floor, where the kender began to squeak and squeal and wriggle inside the sack. The elf gave the sack a nudge with his foot, told the kender to be silent; they would let him out in good time, and then only if he behaved himself. The elf guarding Gerard prodded him again in the back.
“On your knees, swine,” said the elf.
Gerard sank to his knees and lifted his head. Now he had a good view of the human’s face, for he could look up into it. The man in the cloak looked down grimly at Gerard.
“Palin Majere,” said Gerard with a sigh of relief. “I have come a long way in search of you.”
Palin brought the torch close. “Gerard uth Mondar. I thought that was you. But since when did you become a Knight of Neraka? You had best explain and quickly.” He frowned. “As you know, I have no love for that accursed Knighthood.”
“Yes, sir.” Gerard glanced uncertainly at the elves. “Do they speak the human language, sir?”
“And Dwarvish and Common,” Palin answered. “I can order them to kill you in any number of languages. I say again, explain yourself. You have one minute.”
“Very well, sir,” Gerard replied. “I wear this armor of necessity, not by choice. I bear important news for you and, finding out from your sister Laura that you were in Qualinesti, I disguised myself as one of the enemy so that I could safely reach you.”
“What news?” Palin asked. He had not removed the dark hood, but spoke from its shadowy depths. Gerard could not see his face. His voice was deep and stem and cold.
Gerard thought of what people in Solace were saying about Palin Majere these days. He was changed since the Academy had been destroyed. He had changed and not for the better. He had veered off the sunlit road to walk a dark path, a path his uncle Raistlin had walked before him.
“Sir,” said Gerard, “your honored father is dead.”
Palin said nothing. His expression did not alter.
“He did not suffer,” the Knight hastened to assure Palin. “Death took your father swiftly. He walked out the door of the Inn, looked into the sunset, spoke your mother’s name, pressed his hand over his heart, and fell. I was with him when he died. He was at peace, in no pain. We held his funeral the next day. He was laid to rest at your mother’s side.”
“Did he say anything?” Palin asked at last.
“He made a request of me, which I will tell you about in due time.”
Palin regarded Gerard in silence for long moments. Then he said, “And how is everything else in Solace?”
“Sir?” Gerard was astonished, appalled.
The kender in the sack gave a wail, but no one paid any attention.
“Did you not hear—?” Gerard began.
“My father is dead. I heard,” Palin replied. He threw back his cowl, regarded Gerard with an unwavering gaze. “He was an old man. He missed my mother. Death is a part of life. Some might say”—his voice hardened—“the best part.”
Gerard stared. He had last seen Palin Majere a few months ago, when he had attended the funeral of his mother, Tika. Palin had not remained in Solace long. He had left almost immediately on yet another search for ancient magical artifacts. With the Academy destroyed, Solace held nothing for Palin anymore. And with rumors running rife that wizards all over the world were losing their magical powers, people guessed that Palin was no different. It seemed, so they whispered, that life held nothing more for him. His marriage was not the happiest. He had grown careless, reckless of his safety, especially if the slightest chance offered of obtaining a magical artifact from the Fourth Age. For these artifacts had not lost their power and such power could be leeched by a skilled wizard.
Gerard had thought Palin looked unwell at the funeral. This trip had done nothing to improve the mage’s health. If anything, he was more gaunt, more pallid, his manner more restive, his gaze furtive, distrustful.
Gerard knew a great deal about Palin. Caramon had been fond of talking about his only surviving son, and he had been a topic of conversation at almost every breakfast.
Palin Majere, the youngest son of Caramon and Tika, had been a promising young mage when the gods left Krynn, taking magic with them. Although he grieved the loss of the godly magic, Palin had not given up, as did so many wizards of his generation. He had brought together mages from allover Ansalon in an effort to learn to use the magic he believed remained in the world, wild magic that was of the world itself. Such magic had been part of the world before the coming of the gods, and, so he had supposed, would remain in the world even after the departure of the gods. His efforts had been successful. He had established the Academy of Sorcery in Solace, a center of learning for magic. The Academy had grown and prospered. He had used his skills to fight the great dragons and was renowned throughout Abanasinia as a hero.
Then the tapestry of his life had begun to unravel.
Extraordinarily sensitive to the wild magic, he had been among the first, two years ago, to notice that its powers were starting to weaken. At first, Palin thought this might be nothing more than a symptom of advancing age. He was past fifty, after all. But then his students began to report similar problems. Even the young were finding spell-casting more difficult. Obviously age was not a factor.
The spells would work, but they required more and more effort on the part of the magic-user to cast them. Palin compared it once to putting a jar over a lighted candle. The flame will bum only so long as there is air trapped within the jar. When the air is gone, the flame will falter, flicker, and die.
Was magic finite, as some were saying? Could it dry up like a pond in the desert? Palin didn’t think so. The magic was there. He could feel it, see it. But it was as if the desert pond was being drunk dry by a vast multitude.
Who or what was draining the magic? Palin suspected the great dragons. He was forced to change his mind when the great green dragon Beryl grew more threatening, became more aggressive, sent her armies to seize more territory. Qualinesti spies reported that this was happening because the dragon was feeling her own magical powers on the decrease. Beryl had long sought to find the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. The magical forest had kept the Tower hidden from her and from the Knights of the Thorn who had been searching for it. Her need for the Tower and its magic became more urgent. Angry and uneasy, she began to extend her reach over as much of Abanasinia as was possible without drawing down on herself the wrath of her cousin Malys.