Dalamar The Dark

Chapter 16

Murmured greetings drifted after him as the Master of the Tower drew near the reception area, the voices of mages of all Orders bidding him good even. By these Dalamar knew him as Par-Salian. A tall human, thin with age, the Master did not quite come into the chamber. He stood upon the threshold of the passage leading out from the foretower and into the south tower. At sight of him, Dalamar rose, hands folded within the sleeves of his own dark robe. He had known humans of greater age than he, elders among their kind who were old at fifty years and nearly dead at eighty. His own ninety-eight years, the count of a young man among elves, astounded them, and in turn, their fleeting years appalled him. He did not feel this way in the presence of Par-Salian. He was old by human standards, but he had a strength of will that made strength of body seem like nothing but crude brawn. To this strength Dalamar responded, his heart, seldom moved to respect, warmed.

"Good evening, my lord," he said. He inclined his head to bow.

Par-Salian made no such gesture. He stood still a long moment, his blue eyes glinting with keen intelligence, his wrinkled face stony, betraying nothing of his assessment of this young dark elf standing before him. On the walls, the torches burned smokeless flames of magic. Shadows spun webs on the floor and the scent of sorcery hung on the air.

At last, "You've come to be tested."

Dalamar's belly clenched, fear and excitement both. "I have, my lord."

"With whom have you studied?"

Not even the least flush of shame would Dalamar permit. He held the Master's gaze and said, "For a little while, with the mages of Ylle Savath of Silvanost. For the rest of the time, I have been my own tutor."

Par-Salian raised a brow. "Indeed. And you know that not all mages come out from these Tests whole, few come out unmarked. Some are consumed by the magic they can't control, and those don't return from this Tower alive."

He said so coldly, with no glimmer of emotion in his eye. Firmly, head high, Dalamar answered in kind. "I know this, my lord, and I am here."

A soft breeze sighed through the chamber, drifting out from the south tower, scented of magic, of age and the beeswax of countless candles burned over countless years. Dalamar lifted his head to that scent, as though to the sound of a voice calling.

Par-Salian nodded as one who considers something. "I know some things about you, Dalamar Argent."

Dalamar stood in silence, forbearing to correct the Master of the Tower on the matter of his name.

"I know you had some part in the defense of Silvanesti." The White Robe smiled now, leanly. "It might have worked, your scheme of illusion."

"It did work, my lord," Dalamar said. "It worked for a time, and the Highlord was damaged."

"Damaged, and soon to have all the reinforcements she needed. But, you're right. It was not your magic that failed the kingdom. Something more did." Into Dalamar's questioning silence, he said, "The heart of your king did. He did not trust his people, and he did not trust his gods." His voice grew chill. "And you lost faith along with the king."

"No, my lord. In those gods of his"-again he inclined his head respectfully-"in those gods of yours, I never had much faith. I have found a god who guides me now, and in Nuitari I have placed all my faith."

In the silence stretching out between them, Dalamar knew himself weighed, knew himself considered, and felt all the corners of his heart scrutinized. He trembled-who could not under that gaze? — and he forced himself to stand, though his knees wanted to buckle. That he would never permit, not here, not now, never before this mage who held in his hand his chance to take the Tests of High Sorcery.

"Well enough, then." The Master of the Tower made a small, welcoming gesture, the kind meant to usher a guest into the hall. He stepped back, indicating that Dalamar should precede him into the south tower.

Hands clenched tightly, that clenching hidden in the wide sleeves of his robe, Dalamar took a step forward-one, one only-and all the world filled up with shouting, all that shouting pouring out from one throat: His own. A wild wind roared in his head, thundering and shrieking. He struggled, and then he stopped, willing himself to be still. In that moment he framed his will in words, the roaring in his head stopped, and the blackness engulfing him felt as normal and friendly as sleep.

To that blackness he gave himself, surrendering his will because that surrender was his will, trusting that he would find himself where he needed to be. Quietly, he fell… and then things were not so quiet.

Fire ran in Dalamar, coursing through his veins like lust and rage. Fire became his very blood, burning in rampage, the flames roaring in him with the sound of his own voice. This was the fire of magic, the fierce running power of Nuitari's sorcery tearing into him, out of him, a fire no one commanded but he.

See how the power flashes through him! Like lightning charging the sky! He will not be able to hold it… He will not be able to-

Dalamar stood on a foggy plain howling with glee, and his voice was the song of the wind wailing wild in the treetops, the high canopy of the Forest of Wayreth. His soul soared on that howling, magic running in him, leaping, laughing. He tamed the howling, brought it back inside himself, and let it out again, sending his voice out powerfully as though it were a thing that lived independently of him. On his voice flew all the chants he had learned in Silvamori, words of achingly beautiful simplicity, words that were useless without the music to carry them, a weaving of notes so complex no one could map it for another to follow.

He sings. He sings. He must have learned this from the Kagonesti in Silvamori…

Dalamar thought he would say, Yes, I have learned this from a Kagonesti, from a wizardess there whose power lay in the music of her untamed soul, and this magic is so like to the Wild Magic you all fear that the difference is hard to see. I see it, though! I do, for I have learned well this magic others have scorned… He thought he would say that, but he didn't have words for other than speaking the shape of his magic and all the spells he loved as though they were his own heart and his own soul.

He flung forth fireballs, and he caught them and quenched them in his hands. Every spell he knew, he cast- those learned in Silvanost of House Mystic, in Silvamori, gleaned from the dusty tomes in the library at Tarsis, and those precious spells stolen in secret from the tutors hidden in his little cave. He cast them, and he gave no thought to whether the casting would drain him of strength, even of life. How, when the casting of spells and the weaving of magic was all he'd ever wanted to do. In all his life he wanted nothing more than this. If he died of this, what better way to die? He laughed, and he wept, and both these things were expressions of his joy, of his power and the utter certainty that he could go on and on, spending himself in magic until the world was woven up in his spells.

With word and song and gesture, Dalamar drew wonders from the earth, and he pulled down terrors from the sky. He conjured a misty world where there was no sky and no earth existed. There, he walked among shadow-beings and ghosts. He stood beside dryads in their glens and spoke with centaurs from the darkest part of Darken Wood. Demons came to stand before him, creatures with two heads or nine eyes, beings whose breath was a fume of acid, whose breast held no heart but only the empty place where a heart should have beat; horned beings, fanged beings, creatures with wings as leathery as any dragon's. They called him lord and came bowing and pleading for a chance to serve him. These creatures he brought to him, summoning them with magic and the force of his unbending will, and he sent them away again, but not before he gained from each the promise to return at his command. Thus he bound creatures to himself that would have terrified others to see.

In rapture, he summoned the ghost of a Dragon Highlord, and that one he laughed at, for she was Phair Caron and she wept and wailed at his feet, blood pouring from the empty sockets where her eyes should have been, her fingers wet with that blood. He turned from her, still laughing, and now he saw that he was not standing upon the foggy plain but in a street with tall buildings rising up all around him, with smooth pavement beneath his feet and the sweet scent of gardens in the air-

"I am in Silvanost!" Dalamar took a long slow breath. His head ached with memories of conflicting dreams, some sweet, others nightmares. "I am in Silvanost. Or-or am I in Tarsis? No, no, not there. I am at the Tower."

"Tarsis?" The tall human woman beside him smiled, though that smile at best was never more than a sneer. Her dark robe glittered in the shining day, sewn with diamonds and hemmed in rubies. Her black hair, piled high in a crown of braids, shimmered with ropes of pearls.

"Regene," he said, thinking he stood again with the White Robe who liked so well to change her shape.

"Who?" said the woman, frowning. "Don't you recognize me, Dalamar Argent? Or have you been too long in the taverns, sitting in shadows and drinking your pale elven wine?"

He did recognize her, even as she asked the question, he did recognize her. "My lady," he said, to Kesela of the Black Robes.

She laughed, a low, throaty sound. "Well, now that you've got me straight, look around and get yourself straight. You're not in Tarsis, of all places! And we're certainly not at the Tower yet, but we're close. It's yonder, far into the woods. Look, you can see the trees of the Guardian Forest." She snorted her disdain. "Though it looks more like a Warding Woodland to me. I suppose the city has grown so big around it that it seems diminished."

Dalamar looked around him. Behind, he caught a glimpse of shining houses. Roofs supported domes of glass so that the inhabitants need not suffer without their gardens in winter but could tend them in warmth all year round. He was in Istar! And, after all, where else would he be? He was in Istar with Lady Kesela, she whose name turned the blood of brave men to water, whose reputation for ruthlessness was the shame of her father, a Solamnic Knight, and the delight of the dark gods she worshiped. They had come here on the wings of magic, bearing scrolls of ancient work and beauty to give to the Master of the Tower of High Sorcery, this wizardess of fearsome repute and he, her apprentice. This gift they brought with little fanfare, for if it was not a secret, still it was not something they would trumpet through the city. The Kingpriest had already declared the worship of the dark gods unwelcome in his city. Talk ran all around Krynn that he would soon declare it outlawed and then turn his eye toward those who worshiped the gods of Neutrality.

Voices rose and fell, singing and chattering, laughing and shouting, Istar talking to itself. All around them the city streets flowed with people-darting kender, dwarves out of Thorbardin, elves from Silvanesti, humans from the Solamnic Plain, from Khur and Nordmaar. Mages went among them, and clerics of all kinds, though it wasn't but a moment before Dalamar's eye picked out the truth of what rumor had been saying. There were more clerics and mages wearing white robes than red, and hardly any black robes at all. The more precious this gift they bore, for the Master of Tower had no mind to purge his libraries of texts because some king who thought himself the arbiter of Krynn's religion had no sense of balance and proportion. And, it would not be doubted, in exchange for this scroll, Lady Kesela would come away with something of value, a charm, a talisman, the favor of the Master of the Tower. She did not give from graciousness.

"Come," Lady Kesela said, not looking at him, not imagining he wouldn't follow. "Attend me."

He did, resenting her tone but showing no sign of that. He had borne more and worse in exchange for her teaching and judged it a good bargain. Sunlight shone, glinting from Kesela's midnight hair as they set out through the city.

The scent of herbs and flowers perfumed the air. Stone arches of magnificent craft swept over the boulevard, and from their crowns flowering plants cascaded, decorating the stone that decorated the street. Incense drifted out from minor temples, and always the song of worship drifted through the streets in voices so pure they rang like bells. Istar, the jewel of Krynn, swirled all around them in sight and scent and sound. A choir of voices rose up as though upon wings, soaring out from a temple as the two dark-robed mages passed by.

"Elven voices," Dalamar said, moving aside to let a silken lady pass where, otherwise, she'd have to have had to step into the gutter. She smelled of exotic perfumes, complex notes of scent mingled like the woven notes of song. "My lady, I heard it in the taproom at the inn that they are gathering a choir at the Great Temple of Paladine made all of elves, for the purity of their voices. The Kingpriest, they say, will have no others than elves in all the choirs of all the temples."

"You mean," she said drily, "of all the temples dedicated to the gods of Good. What elf would serve in the temples where they worshiped the gods of Neutrality or those of Evil?"

Dalamar smiled into her narrow-eyed jibe. No elf would but those who made the hard choice, the aching choice to walk the shadowed paths outside of Silvanesti. You are dead to us! The cry was the same, heard by every elf who wore the red robes or the black. You are dead to us! Dead to them, but wakened to gods no elf of Silvanesti dared hear.

Through the swirling city they went, past the markets and across the wide, sunny verandas where pretty girls sold flowers from their carts, while jugglers tossed balls and pins for the laughter of children. Lords and ladies rode by in gilded carriages, and thin-cheeked urchins dashed in and out between the horses of the guards trotting beside, shouting for boon. Now and then a hand reached out from a carriage window, gloved and spilling coins. The children shrieked and laughed and praised the generosity of the one who had not deigned to even glance out the window.

By the time they left the city proper and came within sight of the Tower's Guardian Forest, fresh breezes filled the air, smelling of loam and leaves. The shadow of the wood stretched out, reaching like long fingers. Kesela hung back a proper distance to allow her apprentice to go before her. Dalamar leading, they stepped into the shadow and took the first path, a narrow ribbon winding away into the trees. Sunlight spilled down through the branches, dappling the shade, and all the while they walked in and out of light and shadow, through bright patches and dark, until they came to a tall iron fence whose highly wrought gates stood open, as in invitation. No Tower of High Sorcery stood beyond the fence, no building of any kind, only woodland stretching as far as they could see.

Dalamar stepped ahead of his teacher, shifting the scrollcase from beneath his arm to his hand as he passed through the gateway. They did not take three steps past the gate before they found themselves in a wide, cobbled courtyard with a tall tower rising up in the center, its turrets soaring beyond the treetops. People went back and forth in that courtyard, men and women in robes of red and robes of white who had not appeared to be there before. Singly, in pairs, in small groups, they went about their business, talking or in silence. None seemed to notice the visitors, but even as Dalamar thought so, a Red-robed mage appeared at Kesela's elbow, a dwarf who bowed and said, "My lady, you are expected."

The dwarf touched her arm, lightly to guide. "Come with me, you and your apprentice. Quarters have been prepared where you can refresh yourselves while the Master of the Tower is advised of your coming."

No more than that did he say or do, for in the instant, Kesela and Dalamar no longer stood in the courtyard outside the Tower of High Sorcery.

Kesela staggered, dizzied by the sudden change of venue. White in the face, cold-sweating, she gripped the back of a large, cushioned chair for balance. "Wretched dwarf! If he were a mage of mine, I'd break all his fingers for that miscast spell-" She stopped, swallowing hard, sick at her stomach.

Quickly Dalamar poured a glass of water from the crystal carafe on the table beside that plush chair. "Easy, my lady. Take a breath, then sip this."

With trembling hand, she took the glass and raised it to her lips, water slopping over the edge. She swallowed once and then again. Color began to return to her cheeks, reluctantly. "Watch me turn that dwarf into a cockroach next time I see him," she muttered.

Dalamar took the glass and filled it again. Scowling, she accepted it and sank into the chair, breathing deeply, her stomach settling from the wrench of the poorly cast transport spell. She looked around at the chair and the table and the crystal, at the chamber itself, well-appointed and spacious. Tapestries hung on the walls, silks dressed the stone casements of the three windows. In the windowless wall, a fire crackled in a wide hearth. Her expression softened, her anger abated. If they did not transport very well here, they did keep comfortable chambers in which to await the Master of the Tower.

"Someday," she said, idly, as though speaking of a thing that held little consequence, "someday, Dalamar, you might come here again, alone to take your Tests of High Sorcery."

Someday, perhaps, maybe. Those were the words she always attached to any talk of his Tests. She believed him held to her, enthralled by the chance of gaining more knowledge the longer he stayed. She believed so, but he did not. He would leave when he knew himself ready. Made suddenly restless by her suggestion, Dalamar walked around the room, looking out of windows to the courtyard below and the forest in the distance. Voices drifted past the oaken door, mages coming and going. He listened, but he could not make out what was being said, though some of those voices sounded so close he was sure the speakers stood not a foot away outside the room.

"What do you hear?" Kesela asked. She didn't rise, but she leaned forward, curious.

Dalamar shook his head. "I hear voices, but no words."

A door opened, perhaps across the corridor. Someone bade another to enter and, in a clear tone, said, "Touch nothing. Take nothing, and leave all as you see it. I will return."

A tingle of excitement skittered along Dalamar's neck. No one had warned him or Lady Kesela in this way. The guest chamber and all in it seemed to be utterly at their disposal. What lay in that room across the corridor that required such a warning? Breath held, he listened for more and heard only the sound of retreating footfalls, soft and shuffling as though the walker were very old.

Kesela gestured. When Dalamar was sure no one stood in the corridor, he opened the door, just a crack. Golden light spilled in from bracketed torches flaring outside each of the dozen doors on the corridor. Tapestries hung upon the walls, brightly woven scenes of Krynn's history. Here, the building of Thorbardin, there the raising of the Tower of the Stars in Silvanost, farther along the corridor the broadest, tallest of the hangings depicted the anointing of the Kingpriest of Istar. The scent of magic drifted on the air- dried rose petals, bitter valerian root, woodsy oils, and the unpleasantness of things long dead. The Tower was, no doubt, suffused with such perfume, but this drifting felt fresh, as though someone whose hands are ever filled with the tools of magic had only a moment before walked by. Across the hall, the door of the chamber exactly opposite theirs stood open, just a crack. A thin light showed at the space between the door and the threshold-not firelight, not ruddy at all, but pale and swirling, as though it wanted to change to another color.

"Ah," said Lady Kesela, suddenly at his elbow. "Now that's curious."

Soft, a piteous sound, a voice moaned, "Save me."

The voice came from the room across the corridor, and now Dalamar sensed a thing he had not before-an aura hung on the air, and all around that room opposite, a shimmering, tingling charge of magic. Someone in that room had recently spent himself in mage-craft. Dalamar's heart skipped a beat. Someone had lately taken his Test!

"Save me! Oh, disaster is near!"

With no other word, Kesela pushed past Dalamar, who tried to stop her. "No!" he whispered. "My lady, don't!"

Kesela shook him off, and the voice moaned louder now, pleading for help, begging for aid and warning of disaster.

"My lady!" Greatly daring, Dalamar leaped, taking hold of her sleeve. "Listen to me," he whispered harshly. The green light flared, sending shadows swirling across the flagged stone floor in frantic patterns. "Whoever is in there is reeking of magic, and I think he's just taken his Test-or perhaps he is still taking it. You don't know what's going on in there, what magic is in play. You could cost a mage his life if you interfere with his Test."

She looked at him, staring coldly. The jewels sewn into her robe ran in the torchlight, and her face seemed made of marble. "There is no Test going on, Dalamar. What makes you think so? There is only magic, something in play, some artifact engaged. I would see."

"Oh, have pity! Do not leave me here! Save me!"

She would see, and if that voice were the voice of a mage who had overreached in magic, engaged some artifact or spell, she would not hesitate to pluck the book from his table, the talisman from his hand.

But this was a Test. Dalamar knew it. In his bones, he knew. In his blood where magic sang, he knew. Within that chamber someone was taking his Tests of High Sorcery and, to mages, there was no more sacred rite.

"Save me!" Like a ghost's moan, that cry wound through the corridor. The light leaking from beneath the door changed to softest green now, like sunlight shining through aspen leaves. "Do not leave me here!"

Kesela grasped the doorknob, and Dalamar reached to grab her. She turned, her eyes cold with rage of a kind he had never seen on her. Fear ran icy in his belly. She saw it, and she laughed. The wizardess shouted a word of magic, and into her hand sprang a ball of fire, pulsing, glowing. Dalamar felt the heat of it, and he heard a roaring like the forgeman's furnace as Kesela flung the fire, cursing.

Heart racing, he ducked, and he fell hard to his knees, the fire roaring overhead. Mad! The woman must have gone mad! Only a word was needed to shape his own magic, and in the breathing of it he had in hand, like a shining spear, a bolt of lightning so powerful it might have been plucked from the storm. Coldly, permitting himself no anger, allowing her all her own, he struck out, flinging that bolt. Kesela screamed as the bolt struck her full in the chest. Burning flesh sizzled, the stench of burning hair filled the corridor. Kesela slumped to the floor, her eyes wide, her mouth twitching around words she could not manage. She choked, and blood poured out from her mouth, spilling down her chin, her neck, dimming the diamonds sewn into her black robe.

"Save me! Oh, save me!"

The light beneath the door pulsed now, deeply green. Its energy clawed at Dalamar, raising up the hair on his neck, on his arms. Above him, the door that had been a little ajar opened fully.

"Save me! Disaster is near! Don't leave me!"

Green light poured out from the chamber, then went suddenly still and dark. Footfalls sounded softly, and a young elf dressed in white robes came out of the room, a chamber so small it might have been a closet. He had a thing in his hand, something small and round. Torchlight glinted from it as from crystal. One beam of that light struck Dalamar in the eye, and he did not flinch. With great clarity he saw a vision of whirlwind madness, a nightmare of screaming and killing, of trees dying, of woodlands withering. He saw Silvanesti crumble, the towers of Silvanost- even the Tower of the Stars itself! — melt like wax, while a green miasma replaced the air and poisoned all that breathed it. Beasts ran mad, elves died screaming, each man and woman and child of them flung into the pit of his own worst nightmare. All this he saw before the light winked out and the elf-mage slipped silently down the corridor like a thief cloaked in shadows. Once the thief turned, a furtive glance over his shoulder, and every nerve in Dalamar's body screamed as he recognized him-Lorac Caladon of Silvanesti.

What plague did Lorac carry out of the Tower of High Sorcery? What devastation did he bring now to the Sylvan Land? These things Dalamar wondered, but not so painfully as he wondered one other thing.

"Ah, gods," Dalamar groaned, "why did I let him go?"

For the same reason, whispered a dark and true voice deep in his heart, for the same reason you stopped Lady Kesela from intruding upon a Test. For the magic you love more than anything else.

A dark shape, huddled and bleeding, Kesela moved, but only a little. Her breath a groaning, she moved again, wrenching herself over onto her back. Her eyes glared, two hard stones. Her mouth was a red gash like a wound in her white, white face.

"Apprentice," she groaned. Hatred filled the corridor, stinking on the air. Her hand twitched a little.

She's dying, Dalamar thought, but he didn't trouble himself long or hard about it. She deserved that, a wizardess who sought to interfere with a Test. He groaned, though, as she did, and not for her death or for any pain he himself felt. Dalamar groaned, the sound echoing along the corridor, winding up to the high stone ceiling, for a truth he hated and must acknowledge. He had sent Lorac Caladon out into the world, back from his Test and into Silvanesti, with an artifact of magic that would tear the Sylvan Land to ruin. And he would not have done otherwise.

He could not have.

"So much would I give up for magic," he whispered. "Even this chance to stop a plague from overtaking my homeland."

Kesela's hand twitched again, her eyes shone with dire glee. "More than that, Dalamar Argent," she groaned. "More than that…"

Hissing filled the corridor, like steam escaping a lidded kettle, like snakes. Down from the ceiling, out from the corners and the shadows lurking, came a red tide running, red as fire, red as blood. The leading edge of it touched them both at the same time, and the corridor filled with screaming. Her screaming. His screaming as the flesh melted from his bones; his bones burst and spilled out their marrow.

Screaming, he died in agony and in fire. Screaming, he died.