Dragons of a New Age

23 The Calm Before the Storm

“I’ve reached my decision, Majere.” The individual called the Shadow Sorcerer spoke barely above a whisper. The sorcerer was dressed in the same black robe Palin had seen him in when they first met nearly three decades ago. It wasn’t worn or faded, and it never showed signs of dirt. It was always clean, and it always entirely cloaked the features of the person who wore it. His silver metallic mask revealed no emotion.

Palin had given up wondering just who the sorcerer was, or whether the individual in question was male or female. The Shadow Sorcerer had proven an apt ally and an able researcher, and Palin, in all these years, had not pried. His Uncle Raistlin had been secretive enough, and if the Shadow Sorcerer still desired anonymity, Palin wasn’t about to argue. Sorcerers were often a mysterious lot, wrapping themselves in peculiarities. Palin, on the other hand, was usually open about everything. Dealing in secrets was not his customary practice.

“It was not an easy decision,” the Shadow Sorcerer continued.

“And it is not to release any information about our discovery,” Palin sadly guessed. Palin’s eyes were intense and sparkling, and there was only a hint of wrinkles on his face, despite his age. Usha liked to tell him they were worry lines, and he agreed with her. He worried often enough. His skin was quite tanned, as he made it a point to venture outside several times a day—even if only to meditate.

“You are perceptive, Palin,” the Shadow Sorcerer said. “Though I must admit I was unsure of my decision until yesterday. But you are correct. I’m siding with the Master. The secret stays with us.”

“I saw this coming. I could have guessed the outcome.” Palin walked away from the long ebonwood table, at which sat the Shadow Sorcerer and the Master of the Tower.

“I truly considered your stance,” Palin heard the Shadow Sorcerer say. “But it is not a prudent course at this time.”

When will it be prudent? Palin wondered. When I am too old to care or when it no longer matters?

Palin drew in a deep breath and stared out the window, the highest one in the Tower of Wayreth. At least Ansalon had rediscovered magic through sorcery. Palin was teaching magic at his Academy of Sorcery near Solace. Still, he wanted to do more. He hoped that either he or Goldmoon’s heroes would stumble across some chink in the dragons’ armor that would render all the anxiety unnecessary.

The sorcerers had been scrying into Malys’s realm. There was one particularly large mountaintop that drew Palin’s attention. It sat between Flotsam and Farholm, and spiky rock fingers seemed to ring it like a crown. He stared at it now and wondered what manner of beings were making their way there. He’d observed a parade of goblins winding their way to the top about a month ago. He wanted to investigate, but so far his companions had urged caution. “Watch from a distance,” the Master said. It was wise advice, he was forced to agree.

“In your heart you knew there could be no other decision,” the Shadow Sorcerer continued, interrupting Palin’s thoughts. “We’ve studied this area for nearly two months now. This Red has transformed the very land, something not even the gods would have done. All the magical items we control or can get our hands on must be kept at our disposal—and ours alone—in case we are threatened by her or by any other of the dragon overlords. We will use the items wisely. We can’t vouch for how others would use them.”

“I will abide by this Conclave’s vote,” Palin said. But privately he thought it almost presumptuous that only three wizards could dare to decide something so important.

“But realize that if we discovered the secret of destroying magical items to fuel powerful spells, it is possible other sorcerers will also,” Palin felt compelled to add.

“Doubtful, Majere,” the Shadow Sorcerer said. “None are as strong as we are, or as experienced.”

“Unfortunately, a great many of the young believe the study of magic is a hopeless endeavor,” the Master of the Tower added. “The new order of magic will need time to flourish.”

Not all the young believe that, Palin mused, thinking of his own sorcerer son, Ulin, at the Academy. “We may not have time,” he said, to no one in particular.

He had been able to see Malys only once while scrying. Palin had watched as she silently skimmed over the trees, coming in from the west. But he hadn’t seen her since, not for nearly two months. Her absence, her invisibility, bothered him. It teased the hairs on the nape of his neck and drew him to his crystal ball. It kept him up all hours, and it kept him away from his wife. He’d spent so little time with Usha lately. How long would she be so understanding?

“Where is the Red?” he asked aloud.

“Maybe she’s elsewhere, taking over some other country,” the Shadow Sorcerer suggested.

Palin ran his slender fingers through his long, graying hair and yawned. “I don’t think so. My divinations tell me she’s still in her realm. What is she up to?”

He was achingly tired. He’d been pushing himself hard, staying up well into the early morning hours, sleeping very little, while poring over his Uncle Raistlin’s tomes, looking for clues to power, hints at something that might be used against the dragons, some grain of knowledge about magic that had previously escaped him. His companions tended to keep the same hours, but not always, and they were sensible enough to retire to bed before being forced to cast minor magical spells to keep themselves from nodding off.

“I think she’s probably just curious. Why kill us, when she can study us, learn from us?” The Shadow Sorcerer leaned forward intently. “Learn our weaknesses, the shortcomings of humankind. Perhaps she listens to us even now.”

“Perhaps,” Palin said. “We should leave.”

“And go where, Majere?”

“To the Northern Wastes. Goldmoon sent some people there to meet me.”

“Yes, I recall,” the Master said. “They were to look for you at the Lonely Refuge.”

“We must go to the Wastes.”

“Just for Goldmoon’s wishful heroes, Majere?” the Shadow Sorcerer’s soft voice was laced with doubt. “Do you truly think they can accomplish anything? What can they do that we can’t? And what can you do, what can any of us do, to help them?”

Palin stepped back from the window and returned to his seat at the head of the long table. He rested his elbows on the tabletop, steepled his fingers, and glanced down. His troubled reflection was mirrored in the polished dark wood.

“Everyone looks at the world differently, my friend,” Palin finally returned. “They might see something we haven’t, discover something we’ve overlooked. They’re not like us—entrenched in a tower going through musty, old books and guessing what the dragons will do next. Besides, Goldmoon has faith in them. And I have faith in her.”

“We will summon ourselves there, then,” the Master said. “And we will do our best to help them.”

“But I won’t be going,” the Shadow Sorcerer said. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps one individual—not entrenched in a massive tower—can see the Red. If she is indeed, as we suspect, the most powerful and dangerous of the dragon overlords, someone needs to watch her, discover her plans.”

“It could be risky,” Palin warned.

“I know that.”

“You’ll rejoin us?” the Master asked.

“Of course. I’ll find you in the Northern Wastes.”

“Good luck to you,” Palin said as he rose from the table and rotated his head, working a crick out of his neck. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He strode from the room and climbed one more set of stairs, throwing back a heavy wooden door and climbing out onto the roof.

He inhaled deeply and gazed about, then padded near the edge. The air was still and warm. He closed his eyes and tilted his chin toward the sun, focusing his energy. Several moments passed, his breathing slowed, and he felt a soft breeze play over his skin.

“Goldmoon,” he whispered.

“It has been too long since we talked,” replied a wispy image.

Goldmoon hovered several feet in front of him, her feet floating in the air off the edge of the parapet. She was nearly translucent, but Palin could make out her flawless face and starlike eyes. Her golden hair slowly writhed in the breeze created by magic.

“We will be going to the Wastes late tonight to await your champions,” he began. “The Lonely Refuge is—”

“The haft?” the image interrupted.

“Has been retrieved,” Palin added. “After I meet your champions, I will go into Palanthas with them. Goldmoon, do you think your plan will work?”

“The new heroes are made of sturdy stuff,” she answered. “As is the lance. But they can’t set things aright on Krynn by themselves.”

“But they are a beginning...” Palin finished.

Then the breeze picked up and blew the image away.

Later that night Palin put away his uncle’s books, returned to the Academy and found Usha. She was diligently painting a scene she’d remembered from her childhood. A dense forest of oak and pine was taking shape, and next to the largest tree stood an incredibly handsome man of indeterminate age, an Irda that Usha called the Protector. The man had raised her, taken care of her, and sent her away when the rest of the Irda deemed it time for her to rejoin her own people. If he hadn’t sent her away, she would have died with the Irda on their idyllic island when the Graygem exploded.

Usha had been toiling over the painting for a few weeks, and it was nearly finished, one of her best.

“It’s beautiful,” Palin said, coming up silently behind her.

“But it doesn’t do him justice,” she said. “His eyes. They burned with hope. They laughed at me when I did something foolish. They scolded me when I was wrong. And they cried when I left. His eyes spoke to me. I just can’t capture that.”

“Maybe he wouldn’t have wanted you to,” Palin offered. “Maybe the meaning of his eyes was for you alone, and not for whoever admires his image hanging on a wall. The painting is beautiful. Exquisite.”

Usha had started painting after the children were grown, and after Palin started spending an increasing amount of time studying the dragons and Raistlin’s notes. She had to have something to occupy herself, and that something now decorated several walls in the Academy. She’d improved with each painting, teaching herself subtle techniques to shade and highlight and add texture. There were paintings of Ulin and Linsha, friends she and Palin had met, fantastical creatures they’d witnessed, and sunsets viewed from Solace. This was the only one she’d attempted of an Irda.

“Beautiful, maybe. But I still don’t think it does him justice.” Backing away from the easel, she swirled the brush in a mug of water, shook it clean, and set it gingerly on a tray. “He was a wonderful man.”

“More wonderful for sending you to me.” Palin took her hands and pulled her close. He kissed her gently.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispered. “I haven’t seen you for days, locked in that room with those men.”

“We’ve been...”

“I know, the dragons.”

“We’ll be heading for the Northern Wastes tomorrow,” he said, looking to her hopefully.

She sighed heavily. “We?”

“It might not be safe. When we find a means to combat the dragons, we will become targets.”

Usha pursed her lips. “Can you tell me that any place is truly safe, Palin Majere?”

Palin scowled.

“Well, can you?”

“Some places are safer than others,” he said tersely. Palin drew her toward the stairs. “I need to know you are looking after the Academy. I need to know you are here. I continue to have dreams about the Blue. Now I am finally going to his realm.”

“Maybe if you see Khellendros in the flesh and scales, you’ll quit dreaming about him,” she said with a chuckle.

Palin pursed his lips. “The Blue is nearly as powerful as the Red.”

She edged up the stairs ahead of him. “Maybe I could paint him,” she mused. “I have lots of blue paint.”

When they reached the landing, he paused before an oak door. “I have talked you into staying, haven’t I?”

She shook her head “yes” and said, “I can talk you into something, Palin Majere.”

Usha smiled slyly, opened the door, and gently tugged him inside.