“You’d think they could at least magic up beds. And if they want a fellow to take a nap, why don’t they just say so instead of sending—oh—”
Hearing Tas’s voice break off in a strange sort of gurgle, Caramon glanced up quickly.
They were not alone.
“I know this place,” Caramon whispered.
They were in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. It was so wide that its perimeter was lost in shadow, so high that its ceiling was obscured in shadow. No pillars supported it, no lights lit it. Yet light there was, though none could name its source. It was a pale light, white—not yellow. Cold and cheerless, it gave no warmth.
The last time Caramon had been in this chamber, the light shone upon one old man, dressed in white robes, sitting by himself in a great stone chair. This time, the light shone upon 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. Glancing around eagerly, she caught sight of the twenty robed figures, sitting silently, their hooded faces invisible.
Bupu let out a scream like a tortured rabbit. With a convulsive 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, peering 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. Caramon shifted uncomfortably. Finally he gestured at Lady Crysania. “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 rang out eerily. Par-Salian frowned, Caramon turned to glare at him. The mages’ hooded heads shifted slightly, as if they were glancing at each other, their robes rustled softly. Tas gulped and fell silent.
“Raistlin,” the name hissed softly from Par-Salian’s lips. He stared at Caramon intently. “What does a cleric of good have to do with your brother? Why did she undertake this perilous journey for his sake?”
Caramon shook his head, unwilling or unable to talk.
“You know of his evil?” Par-Salian pursued sternly.
Caramon stubbornly refused to answer, his gaze was fixed on the stone floor.
“I know—” Tas began, but Par-Salian made a slight movement with his hand and the kender hushed.
“You know that now we believe he intends to conquer the world?” Par-Salian continued, his relentless words hitting Caramon like darts. Tas could see the big man flinch. “Along with your half-sister, Kitiara—or the Dark Lady, as she is known among her troops—Raistlin has begun to amass armies. He has dragons, flying citadels. And in addition we know—”
A sneering voice rang through the hall. “You know nothing, Great One. You are a fool!”
The words fell like drops of water into a still pond, causing ripples of movement to spread among the mages. Startled, Tas turned, searching for the source of the strange voice, and saw, behind him, a figure emerging from the shadows. Its black robes rustled as it walked past them to face Par-Salian. At that moment, the figure removed its hood.
Tas felt Caramon stiffen. “What is it?” the kender whispered, unable to see.
“A dark elf!” Caramon muttered.
“Really?” Tas said, his eyes brightening. “You know, in all the years I’ve lived on Krynn, I’ve never seen a dark elf.” The kender started forward only to be caught by the collar of his tunic.
Tas squawked in irritation, as Caramon dragged him back, but neither Par-Salian nor the black-robed figure appeared to notice the interruption.
“I think you should explain yourself, Dalamar,” Par-Salian said quietly. “Why am I a fool?”
“Conquer the world!” Dalamar sneered. “He does not plan to conquer the world! The world means nothing to him. He could have the world tomorrow, tonight, if he wanted it!”
“Then what does he want?” This question came from a red-robed mage seated near Par-Salian.
Tas, peering out around Caramon’s arm, saw the delicate, cruel features of the dark elf relax in a smile—a smile that made the kender shiver.
“He wants to become a god,” Dalamar answered softly. “He will challenge the Queen of Darkness herself. That is his plan.”
The mages said nothing, they did not move, but their silence seemed to stir among them like shifting currents of air as they stared at Dalamar with glittering, unblinking eyes.
Then Par-Salian sighed. “I think you overestimate him.”
There was a ripping, rending sound, the sound of cloth being torn apart. Tas saw the dark elf’s arms jerk, tearing open the fabric of his robes.
“Is this overestimating him?” Dalamar cried.
The mages leaned forward, a gasp whispered through the vast hall like a chill wind. Tas struggled to see, but Caramon’s hand held him fast. Irritably, Tas glanced up at Caramon’s face. Wasn’t he curious? But Caramon appeared totally unmoved.