Dalamar looked no different than he had years ago—wiser, perhaps, calmer and cooler. At ninety years of age, he had been just an apprentice magic-user, considered little more than a hot-blooded youth as far as the elves were concerned. Twenty-five years mattered no more to the long-lived elves than the passing of a day and night. Now well over one hundred, his cold, handsome face appeared no older than a human of thirty.
“The years have dealt kindly with you, Caramon,” Justarius continued. “The Inn of the Last Home, which you now own, is one of the most prosperous in Krynn. You are a hero—you and your lady wife both. Tika Majere is well and undoubtedly as beautiful as ever?”
“More,” Caramon replied huskily.
Justarius smiled. “You have five children, two daughters and three sons—”
A sliver of fear pricked Caramon’s contentment. No, he said to himself inwardly, they have no power over me now. He settled himself more solidly in his chair, like a soldier digging in for battle.
“The two eldest, Tanin and Sturm, are soldiers of renown”—Justarius spoke in a bland voice, as though chatting with a neighbor over the fence. Caramon wasn’t fooled, however, and kept his eyes closely on the wizard—“bidding fair to outdo their famous father and mother in deeds of valor on the field. But the third, the middle child, whose name is—” Justarius hesitated.
“Palin,” said Caramon, his brows lowering into a frown. Glancing at Dalamar, the big man saw the dark elf watching him intently with slanted, inscrutable eyes.
“Palin, yes.” Justarius paused, then said quietly, “It would seem he follows in the footsteps of his uncle.”
There. It was out. Of course, that’s why they had ordered him here. He had been expecting it, or something like it, for a long time now. Damn them!
Why couldn’t they leave him alone! He never would have come, if Palin hadn’t insisted. Breathing heavily, Caramon stared at Justarius, trying to read the man’s face. He might as well have been trying to read one of his son’s spellbooks.
Justarius, head of the Conclave of Wizards, was the most powerful magic-user in Krynn. The red-robed wizard sat in the great stone chair in the center of the semicircle of twenty-one chairs. An elderly man, his gray hair and lined face were the only outward signs of aging. The eyes were as shrewd, the body appeared as strong—except the crippled left leg—as when Caramon had first met the archmage twenty-five years ago.
Caramon’s gaze went to the mage’s left leg. Hidden . beneath the red robes, the man’s injury was noticeable only to those who had seen him walk.
Aware of Caramon’s scrutiny, Justarius’s hand went selfconsciously to rub his leg, then he stopped with a wry smile. Crippled Justarius may be, Caramon thought, chilled, but only in body. Not in mind or ambition. Twenty-five years ago, Justarius had been the leading spokesman only of his own order, the Red Robes, those wizards in Krynn who had turned their backs against both the evil and the good to walk their own path, that of neutrality. Now he ruled over all the wizards in the world, presumably—the White Robes, Red Robes, and the Black.
Since magic is the most potent force in a wizard’s life, he swears fealty to the conclave, no matter what private ambitions or desires he nurses within his own heart.
Most wizards, that is. Of course, there had been Raistlin . . .
Twenty-five years ago.
Par-Salian of the White Robes had been head of the conclave then.
Caramon felt memory’s hand clutch him more tightly still.
“I don’t see what my son has to do with any of this,” he said in an even, steady voice. “If you want to meet my boys, they are in that room you magicked us into after we arrived. I’m sure you can magic them in here anytime you want. So, now that we have concluded social pleasantries—By the way, where is Par-Salian?” Caramon demanded suddenly, his gaze going around the shadowy chamber, flicking over the empty chair next to Justarius.
“He retired as head of the conclave twenty-five years ago,” Justarius said gravely, “following the ... the incident in which you were involved.”
Caramon flushed, but said nothing. He thought he detected a slight smile on Dalamar’s delicate elven features.
“I took over as head of the conclave, and Dalamar was chosen to succeed Ladonna as head of the Order of Black Robes in return for his dangerous and valiant work during—”
“The incident.” Caramon growled. “Congratulations,” he said.
Dalamar’s lip curled in a sardonic smile. Justarius nodded, but it was obvious he was not to be distracted from the previous topic of discussion.
“I would be honored to meet your sons,” Justarius said coolly, “Palin in particular. I understand that the young man is desirous of becoming a mage someday.”
“He’s studying magic, if that’s what you mean,” Caramon said gruffly. “I don’t know how seriously he takes it, or if he plans to make it his livelihood, as you seem to imply. He and I have never discussed it—”
Dalamar snorted derisively at this, causing Justarius to lay his hand on the dark elf’s black-robed arm.
“Perhaps we have been mistaken in what we have heard of your son’s ambition, then?”
“Perhaps you have,” Caramon returned coolly. “Palin and I are close,” he added in a softer voice. “I’m certain he would have confided in me.”
“It is refreshing to see a man these days who is honest and open about his love for his sons, Caramon Majere,” began Justarius mildly.
“Bah!” Dalamar interrupted. “You might as well say it is refreshing to see a man with his eyes gouged out!” Snatching his arm from the old wizard’s grasp, he gestured at Caramon. “You were blind to your brother’s dark ambition for years, until it was almost too late. Now you turn sightless eyes to your own son—”
“My son is a good boy, as different from Raistlin as the silver moon is from the black! He has no such ambition! What would you know of him anyway, you... you outcast?” Caramon shouted, rising to his feet in anger. Though well over fifty, the big man had kept himself in relatively good condition through hard work and training his sons in the arts of battle. His hand went reflexively to his sword, forgetting as he did so, however, that in the Tower of High Sorcery he would be as helpless as a gully dwarf facing a dragon. “And speaking of dark ambition, you served your master well, didn’t you, Dalamar? Raistlin taught you a lot, perhaps more than we know—”
“And I bear the mark of his hand upon my flesh still!” Dalamar cried, rising to his feet in turn. Ripping his black robes open at the neck, he bared his breast. Five wounds, like the marks of five fingers, were visible on the dark elf’s smooth skin. A thin trickle of blood trailed down each, glistening in the cold light of the Chamber of Wizards. “For twenty-five years, I’ve lived with this pain....”
“And what of my pain?” Caramon asked in a low voice, feeling memory’s hand dig sharp nails into his soul. “Why have you brought me here? To cause my wounds to open and bleed as well as your own!”
“Gentlemen, please,” said Justarius softly. “Dalamar, control yourself. Caramon, please sit down. Remember, you two owe your lives to each other. This establishes a bond between you that should be respected.”
The old man’s voice penetrated the shouts that still echoed in t he vast chamber, its cool authority silencing Caramon and calming Dalamar.
Clasping his torn robes together with his hand, the dark elf resumed his seat next to Justarius.
Caramon, too, sat down, ashamed and chagrined. He had sworn that he would not let this happen, that these people would have no power to shake him.