6

Palanthas

I tell you, it was Raistlin!’

‘And I tell you, one more of your furry-elephant, teleporting-ring, plants-living-off-air stories and I’ll twist that hoopak around your neck!’ Flint snapped angrily.

‘It was too Raistlin,’ Tasslehoff retorted, but he said it under his breath as the two walked along the wide, gleaming streets of the beautiful city of Palanthas. The kender knew by long association just how far he could push the dwarf and Flint’s threshold for irritation was very low these days.

‘And don’t go bothering Laurana with your wild tales, either,’ Flint ordered, correctly guessing Tas’s intentions. ‘She has enough problems.’

‘But—’

The dwarf stopped and gazed grimly at the kender from beneath bushy white eyebrows.

‘Promise?’

Tas sighed. ‘Oh, all right.’

It wouldn’t have been so bad if he didn’t feel quite certain he had seen Raistlin! He and Flint were walking past the steps of the great library of Palanthas when the kender’s sharp eyes caught sight of a group of monks clustered around something lying on the steps. When Flint stopped for a moment to admire some particularly fine piece of dwarven-crafted stonework in a building opposite, Tas took advantage of the opportunity to creep silently up the stairs to see what was going on.

To his amazement, he saw a man that looked just like Raistlin—golden-colored metallic skin, red robes, and all— being lifted up off the stairs and carried inside the library. But by the time the excited kender ran across the street, grabbed Flint, and hauled the grumbling dwarf back again, the group was gone.

Tasslehoff even ran up to the door, banging on it and demanding entrance. But the Aesthetic who answered appeared so horrified at the thought of a kender coming into the great library that the scandalized dwarf hustled Tas off before the monk could open his mouth.

Promises being very nebulous things to kenders, Tas considered telling Laurana anyway, but then he thought of the elfmaid’s face as it had appeared lately, wan and drawn from grief, worry, and lack of sleep, and the soft-hearted kender decided maybe Flint was right. If it was Raistlin, he was probably here on some secret business of his own and wouldn’t thank them for dropping in on him uninvited. Still—

Heaving a sigh, the kender walked on, kicking stones with his feet and looking around the city once more. Palanthas was well-worth the look. The city had been fabled even during the Age of Might for its beauty and grace. There was no other city on Krynn that could compare to it—at least to human thought. Built on a circular pattern like a wheel, the center was, literally, the hub of the city. All the major official buildings were located here, and the great sweeping staircases and graceful columns were breathtaking in their grandeur. From this central circle, wide avenues led off in the directions of the eight major compass points. Paved with fitted stone (dwarven work, of course) and lined with trees whose leaves were like golden lace yearround, these avenues led to the seaport on the north and to the seven gates of the Old City Wall.

Even these gates were masterpieces of architecture, each one guarded by twin minarets whose graceful towers rose over three hundred feet into the air. The Old Wall itself was carved with intricate designs, telling the story of Palanthas during the Age of Dreams. Beyond Old City Wall lay New City. Carefully planned to conform to the original design, New City extended from Old City Wall in the same circular pattern with the same wide, tree-lined avenues. There were, however, no walls around New City. The Palanthians didn’t particularly like walls, (walls ruined the over-all design) and nothing in either Old or New City was ever built these days without first consulting the overall design, both within and without. Palanthas’s silhouette upon the horizon in the evening was as lovely to the eye as the city itself—with one exception.

Tas’s thoughts were rudely interrupted by a poke in the back from Flint.

‘What is the matter with you?’ the kender demanded, facing the dwarf.

‘Where are we?’ Flint asked surlily, hands on his hips.

‘Well, we’re . . .’ Tas looked around. ‘Uh . . .that is, I think we’re . . . then again, perhaps we’re not.’ He fixed Flint with a cold stare. ‘How did you get us lost?’

‘ME!’ The dwarf exploded. ‘You’re the guide! You’re the map-reader. You’re the kender who knows this city like he knows his own house!’

‘But I was thinking,’ Tas said loftily.

‘What with?’ Flint roared.

‘I was thinking deep thoughts,’ Tas said in wounded tones.

‘I—oh, never mind,’ Flint grumbled and began to peer up and down the street. He didn’t quite like the looks of things.

‘This certainly does seem strange,’ Tas said cheerfully, echoing the dwarf’s thoughts. ‘It’s so empty—not at all like the other streets of Palanthas.’ He stared longingly down the rows of silent empty buildings. ‘I wonder—’

‘No,’ said Flint. ‘Absolutely not. We’re going back the way we came—’

‘Oh, come on!’ Tas said, heading down the deserted street.

‘Just a little ways, to see what’s down here. You know Laurana told us to look around, inspect the forti—forta—the whatch-ma-call-its.’

‘Fortifications,’ muttered Flint, stumping reluctantly along after the kender. ‘And there aren’t any around here, you doorknob. This is the center of the city! She meant the walls around the outside of the city.’

‘There aren’t any walls around the outside of the city,’ Tas said triumphantly. ‘Not around New City, anyway. And if it’s the center, why is it deserted? I think we should find out.’

Flint snorted. The kender was beginning to make sense—a fact which caused the dwarf to shake his head and wonder if maybe he shouldn’t lie down somewhere out of the sun.

The two walked for several minutes in silence, traveling deeper and deeper into the heart of the city. To one side, only a few blocks away, rose the palatial mansion of the Lord of Palanthas. They could see its towering spires from here. But ahead of them, nothing was visible. It was all lost in shadow . . ..

Tas glanced into windows and stuck his nose into doorways of the buildings they passed. He and Flint proceeded clear to the end of the block before the kender spoke.

‘You know, Flint,’ Tas said uneasily, ‘these buildings are all empty.’

‘Abandoned,’ said Flint in hushed tones. The dwarf laid his hand on his battle-axe, he started nervously at the sound of Tas’s shrill voice.

‘There’s a queer feeling about this place,’ Tas said, edging closer to the dwarf. ‘I’m not afraid, mind you—’

‘I am,’ said Flint emphatically. ‘Let’s get out of here!’

Tas looked up at the tall buildings on either side of them. They were well kept. Apparently the Palanthians were so proud of their city that they even spent money keeping up vacant buildings. There were shops and dwellings of all kinds, obviously structurally sound. The streets were clean and free from litter and garbage. But it was all deserted. This had once been a prosperous area, the kender thought. Right in the heart of the city. Why wasn’t it now? Why had everyone left? It gave him an ‘eerie’ feeling and there were not many things in Krynn that gave kender ‘eerie’ feelings.

‘There aren’t even any rats!’ Flint muttered. Taking hold of Tas’s arm, he tugged at the kender. ‘We’ve seen enough.’

‘Oh, come on,’ Tas said. Pulling his arm away, he fought down the strange eerie sensation and—straightening his small shoulders—started off down the sidewalk once more. He hadn’t gone three feet when he realized he was alone. Stopping in exasperation, he looked back. The dwarf was standing on the sidewalk, glowering at him.

‘I only want to go as far as that grove of trees at the end of the street,’ Tas said, pointing. ‘Look—it’s just an ordinary grove of ordinary oak trees. Probably a park or something. Maybe we could have lunch—’

‘I don’t like this place!’ Flint said stubbornly. ‘It reminds me of . . . of . . . Darken Wood—that place where Raistlin spoke to the spooks.’

‘Oh, you’re the only spook here!’ Tas said irritably, determined to ignore the fact that it reminded him of the same thing. ‘It’s broad daylight. We’re in the center of a city, for the love of Reorx—’

‘Then why is it freezing cold?’

‘It’s winter!’ the kender shouted, waving his arms. He hushed immediately, staring around in alarm at the weird way his words echoed through the silent streets. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked in a loud whisper.

Flint drew a deep breath. Scowling, he gripped his battle-axe and marched down the street toward the kender, casting a wary eye at the buildings as though at any moment a spectre might leap out at him.

‘Tisn’t winter,’ the dwarf muttered out of the comer of his mouth. ‘Except around here.’

‘It won’t be spring for weeks,’ Tas returned, glad to have something to argue about and keep his mind off the strange things his stomach was doing—twisting into knots and the like.

But Flint refused to quarrel—a bad sign. Silently, the two crept down the empty street until they reached the end of the block. Here the buildings ended abruptly in a grove of trees. As Tas had said, it seemed just an ordinary grove of oak trees— although they were certainly the tallest oaks either the dwarf or the kender had seen in long years of exploring Krynn.

But as the two approached, they felt the strange chilling sensation become stronger until it was worse than any cold they had ever experienced, even the cold of the glacier in Ice Wall. It was worse because it came from within and it made no sense! Why should it be so cold in just this part of the city? The sun was shining. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. But soon their fingers were numb and stiff. Flint could no longer hold his battleaxe and was forced to put it back in its holder with shaking hands. Tas’s teeth chattered, he had lost all feeling in his pointed ears, and he shivered violently.

‘L-let’s g-get out-t of h-here . . .’ stammered the dwarf through blue lips.

‘W-we’re j-just s-standing in a sh-shadow of a building.’ Tas nearly bit his tongue. ‘W-when we g-get in the s-s-sunshine, it’ll war-warm up.’

‘No f-fire on K-K-Krynn will w-warm t-this!’ Flint snapped visciously, stomping on the ground to get the circulation started in his feet.

‘J-just a f-few m-more f-feet. . . .’ Tas kept going along gamely, even though his knees knocked together. But he went alone. Turning around, he saw that Flint seemed paralyzed, unable to move. His head was bowed, his beard quivered.

I should go back, Tas thought, but he couldn’t. The curiosity that did more than anything in the world to reduce the kender population kept drawing him forward.

Tas came to the edge of the grove of oak trees and—here— his heart almost failed him. Kender are normally immune to the sensation of fear, so only a kender could have come even this far. But now Tas found himself a prey to the most unreasoning terror he had ever experienced. And whatever was caus ing it was located within that grove of oak trees.

They’re ordinary trees, Tas said to himself, shivering. I’ve talked to spectres in Darken Wood. I’ve faced three or four dragons. I broke a dragon orb. Just an ordinary grove of trees. I was prisoner in a wizard’s castle. I saw a demon from the Abyss. Just a grove of ordinary trees.

Slowly, talking to himself, Tasslehoff inched his way through the oak trees. He didn’t go far, not even past the row of trees that formed the outer perimeter of the grove, because now he could see into the heart of the grove.

Tasslehoff gulped, turned, and ran.

At the sight of the kender running back toward him, Flint knew it was All Over. Something Awful was going to crash out of that grove of trees. The dwarf whirled so rapidly he tripped over his feet and fell sprawling to the pavement. Running up to him, Tas grabbed Flint’s belt and pulled him up. Then the two dashed madly down the street, the dwarf running for his very life. He could almost hear gigantic footsteps thudding along behind him. He did not dare turn around. Visions of a slobbering monster drove him on until his heart seemed about to burst from his body. Finally they reached the end of the street.

It was warm. The sun shone.

They could hear the voices of real live people drifting from the crowded streets beyond. Flint stopped, exhausted, gasping for breath. Glancing fearfully back down the street, he was surprised to see it was still empty.

‘What was it?’ he managed to ask when he could speak past the thudding of his heart.

The kender’s face was pale as death. ‘A-a t-tower . . .’ Tas gulped, puffing.

Flint’s eyes opened wide. ‘A tower?’ the dwarf repeated. ‘I ran all that way—nearly killing myself—and I was running from a tower! I don’t suppose’— Flint’s bushy eyebrows came together alarmingly—’that the tower was chasing you?’

‘N-no,’ Tas admitted. ‘It-it just stood there. But it was the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen in my life,’ the kender avowed solemnly, shuddering.

‘That would be the Tower of High Sorcery,’ the Lord of Palanthas told Laurana that evening as they sat in the map room of the beautiful palace on the hill overlooking the city. ‘No wonder your little friend was terrified. I’m surprised he got as far as the Shoikan Oak Grove.’

‘He’s a kender,’ Laurana replied, smiling.

‘Ah, yes. Well, that explains it. Now that’s something I hadn’t considered, you know. Hiring kender to do the work around the Tower. We have to pay the most outrageous prices to get men to go into those buildings once a year and keep them in good repair. But then’—the Lord appeared downcast—’I don’t suppose the townspeople would be at all pleased to see a sizeable number of kender in the city.’

Amothus, Lord of Palanthas, padded across the polished marble floor of the map room, his hands clasped behind his robes of state. Laurana walked next to him, trying to keep from tripping over the hem of the long, flowing gown the Palanthians had insisted she wear. They had been quite charming about the dress, offering it as a gift. But she knew they were horrified to see a Princess of the Qualinesti parading around in blood-stained, battle-scarred armor. Laurana had no choice but to accept it; she could not afford to offend the Palanthians whom she was counting on for help. But she felt naked and fragile and defenseless without her sword at her side and the steel around her body.

And she knew that the generals of the Palanthian army, the temporary commanders of the Solamnic knights, and the other nobles—advisors from the City Senate—were the ones making her feel fragile and defenseless. All of them reminded her with every look that she was—to them—a woman playing at being a soldier. All right, she had done well. She had fought her little war and she had won. Now—back to the kitchen . . .

‘What is the Tower of High Sorcery?’ Laurana asked abruptly. She had learned after a week of negotiating with the Lord of Palanthas that—although an intelligent man—his thoughts tended to wander into unexplored regions and he needed constant guidance to keep to the central topic.

‘Oh, yes. Well, you can see it from the window here, if you really want to—’ The Lord seemed reluctant.

‘I would like to see it,’ Laurana said coolly.

Shrugging, Lord Amothus veered from his course and led Laurana to a window she had already noticed because it was covered with thick curtains. The curtains over the other windows of the room were open, revealing a breathtaking view of the city in whatever direction one looked.

‘Yes, this is the reason I keep these shut,’ the Lord said with a sigh in answer to Laurana’s question. ‘A pity, too. This was once the most magnificent view in the city, according to the old records. But that was before the Tower was cursed—’

The Lord drew the curtains aside with a trembling hand, his face dark with sorrow. Startled at such emotion, Laurana looked out curiously, then drew in a breath. The sun was sinking behind the snow-capped mountains, streaking the sky with red and purple. The vibrant colors shimmered in the pure white buildings of Palanthas as the rare, translucent marble from which they were built caught the dying light. Laurana had never imagined such beauty could exist in the world of humans. It rivaled her beloved homeland of Qualinesti.

Then her eyes were drawn to a darkness within the shimmering pearl radiance. A single tower rose up to the sky. It was tall; even though the palace was perched on a hill, the top of the Tower was only slightly below her line of sight. Made of black marble, it stood out in distinct contrast to the white marble of the city around it. Minarets must have once graced its gleaming surface, she saw, though these were now crumbling and broken. Dark windows, like empty eyesockets, stared sightlessly into the world. A fence surrounded it. The fence, too, was black and, on the gate of the fence, Laurana saw something fluttering. For a moment she thought it was a huge bird, trapped there, for it seemed alive. But just as she was about to call the Lord’s attention to it, he shut the curtains with a shiver.

‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized. ‘I can’t stand it. Shocking. And to think we’ve lived with that for centuries . . .’

‘I don’t think it’s so terrible,’ Laurana said earnestly, her mind’s eye remembering the view of the Tower and the city around it. ‘The Tower . . . seems right somehow. Your city is very beautiful, but sometimes it’s such a cold, perfect beauty that I don’t notice it anymore.’ Looking out the other windows, Laurana was once more as enchanted with the view as she had been when she first entered Palanthas. ‘But after seeing that— that flaw in your city, it makes the beauty stand out in my mind . . . if you understand. . . .’

It was obvious from the bemused expression on the Lord’s face that he did not understand. Laurana sighed, though she caught herself glancing at the drawn curtains with a strange fascination. ‘How did the Tower come to be cursed?’ she asked instead.

‘It was during the—oh, I say, here’s someone who can tell the story far better than I,’ Lord Amothus said, looking up in relief as the door opened. ‘It isn’t a story I enjoy relating, to be perfectly honest.’

‘Astinus of the Library of Palanthas,’ announced the herald.

To Laurana’s astonishment, every man in the room rose respectfully to his feet—even the great generals and noblemen. All this, she thought, for a librarian? Then, to her even greater astonishment, the Lord of Palanthas and all his generals and all the nobles bowed as the historian entered. Laurana bowed, too, out of confused courtesy. As a member of the royal house of Qualinesti, she was not supposed to bow before anyone on Krynn unless it be her own father, Speaker of the Suns. But when she straightened and studied this man, she felt suddenly that bowing to him had been most fitting and proper.

Astinus entered with an ease and assurance that led her to believe he would stand unabashed in the presence of all the royalty on Krynn and the heavens as well. He seemed middleaged, but there was an ageless quality about him. His face might have been chiseled out of the marble of Palanthas itself and, at first, Laurana was repelled by the cold, passionless quality of that face. Then she saw that the man’s dark eyes literally blazed with life—as though lit from within by the fire of a thousand souls.

‘You are late, Astinus,’ Lord Amothus said pleasantly, though with a marked respect. He and his generals all remained standing until the historian had seated himself, Laurana noticed, as did even the Knights of Solamnia. Almost overcome with an unaccustomed awe, she sank into her seat at the huge, round table covered with maps, which stood in the center of the great room.

‘I had business to attend to,’ Astinus replied in a voice that might have sounded from a bottomless well.

‘I heard you were troubled by a strange occurrence.’ The Lord of Palanthas flushed in embarrassment. ‘I really must apologize. We have no idea how the young man came to be found in such an appalling condition upon your stairs. If only you had let us know! We could have removed the body without fuss—’

‘It was no trouble,’ Astinus said abruptly, glancing at Laurana. ‘The matter has been properly dealt with. All is now at an end.’

‘But . . . uh . . . what about the . . . uh . . . remains?’ Lord Amothus asked hesitantly. ‘I know how painful this must be, but there are certain health proclamations that the Senate has passed and I’d like to be sure all has been attended to . . .’

‘Perhaps I should leave,’ Laurana said coldly, rising to her feet, ‘until this conversation has ended.’

‘What? Leave?’ The Lord of Palanthas stared at her vaguely. ‘You’ve only just come—’

‘I believe our conversation is distressing to the elven princess,’ Astinus remarked. ‘The elves—as you remember, my lord—have a great reverence for life. Death is not discussed in this callous fashion among them.’

‘Oh, my heavens!’ Lord Amothus flushed deeply, rising and taking her hand. ‘I do beg your pardon, my dear. Absolutely abominable of me. Please forgive me and be seated again. Some wine for the princess—’ Amothus hailed a servant, who filled Laurana’s glass.

‘You were discussing the Towers of High Sorcery as I entered. What do you know of the Towers?’ Astinus asked, his eyes staring into Laurana’s soul.

Shivering at that penetrating gaze, she gulped a sip of wine, sorry now that she had mentioned it. ‘Really,’ she said faintly, ‘perhaps we should turn to business. I’m certain the generals are anxious to return to their troops and I—’

‘What do you know of the Towers?’ Astinus repeated.

‘I-uh-not much,’ Laurana faltered, feeling as if she were back in school being confronted by her tutor. ‘I had a friend— that is, an acquaintance—who took the Tests at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, but he is—’

‘Raistlin of Solace, I believe,’ Astinus said imperturbably.

‘Why, yes!’ Laurana answered, startled. ‘How—’

‘I am a historian, young woman. It is my business to know,’ Astinus replied. ‘I will tell you the history of the Tower of Palanthas. Do not consider it a waste of time, Lauralanthalasa, for its history is bound up in your destiny.’ Ignoring her shocked look, he gestured to one of the generals. ‘You, there, open that curtain. You are shutting out the best view in the city, as I believe the princess remarked before I entered. This, then, is the story of the Tower of High Sorcery of Palanthas.

‘My tale must begin with what became known—in hindsight—as the Lost Battles. During the Age of Might, when the Kingpriest of Istar began jumping at shadows, he gave his fears a name—magic-users! He feared them, he feared their vast power. He did not understand it, and so it became a threat to him.

‘It was easy to arouse the populace against the magic-users. Although widely respected, they were never trusted— primarily because they allowed among their ranks representatives of all three powers in the universe—the White Robes of Good, the Red Robes of Neutrality, and the Black Robes of Evil. For they understood—as the Kingpriest did not—that the universe swings in balance among these three and that to disturb the balance is to invite destruction.

‘And so the people rose against the magic-users. The five Towers of High Sorcery were prime targets, naturally, for it was in these Towers that the powers of the Order were most concentrated. And it was in these Towers that the young mages came to take the Tests—those who dared. For the Trials are arduous and—worse—hazardous. Indeed, failure means one thing: death!’

‘Death?’ repeated Laurana, incredulously. Then Raistlin—’

‘Risked his life to take the Test. And he nearly paid the price. That is neither here nor there, however. Because of this deadly penalty for failure, dark rumors were spread about the Towers of High Sorcery. In vain the magic-users sought to explain that these were only centers of learning and that each young mage risking his life did so willingly, understanding the purpose behind it. Here, too, in the Towers, the mages kept their spellbooks and their scrolls, their implements of magic. But no one believed them. Stories of strange rites and rituals and sacrifices spread among the people, fostered by the Kingpriest and his clerics for their own ends.

‘And the day came when the populace rose against the magic-users. And for only the second time in the history of the Order, the Robes came together. The first time was during the creation of the dragon orbs, which contained the essences of good and evil, bound together by neutrality. After that, they went their separate ways. Now, allied by a common threat, they came together once more to protect their own.

‘The magicians themselves destroyed two of the Towers, rather than let the mobs invade them and meddle with that which was beyond their understanding. The destruction of these two Towers laid waste to the countryside around them and frightened the Kingpriest—for there was a Tower of High Sorcery located in Istar and one in Palanthas. As for the third, in the Forest of Wayreth, few cared what became of it, for it was far from any center of civilization.

‘And so the Kingpriest approached the magic-users with a show of piety. If they would leave the two Towers standing, he would let them withdraw in peace, removing their books and scrolls and magical implements to the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth. Sorrowfully the magic-users accepted his offer.’

‘But why didn’t they fight?’ Laurana interrupted. ‘I’ve seen Raistlin and . . . and Fizban when they’re angry! I can’t imagine what truly powerful wizards must be like!’

‘Ah, but stop and consider this, Laurana. Your young friend—Raistlin—grew exhausted casting even a few relatively minor spells. And once a spell is cast, it is gone from his memory forever unless he reads his spellbook and studies it once more. This is true of even the highest level mages. It is how the gods protect us from those who might otherwise become too powerful and aspire to godhood itself. Wizards must sleep, they must be able to concentrate, they must spend time in daily study. How could they withstand besieging mobs? And, too, how could they destroy their own people?

‘No, they felt they had to accept the Kingpriest’s offer. Even the Black Robes, who cared little for the populace, saw that they must be defeated and that magic itself might be lost from the world. They withdrew from the Tower of High Sorcery at Istar—and almost immediately the Kingpriest moved in to occupy it. Then they abandoned the Tower here, in Palanthas. And the story of this Tower is a terrible one.’

Astinus, who had been relating this without expression in his voice, suddenly grew solemn, his face darkening.

‘Well I remember that day,’ he said, speaking more to himself than to those around the table. ‘They brought their books and scrolls to me, to be kept in my library. For there were many, many books and scrolls in the Tower, more than the magic-users could carry to Wayreth. They knew I would guard them and treasure them. Many of the spellbooks were ancient and could no longer be read, since they had been bound with spells of protection—spells to which the Key . . . had been lost. The Key . . .’

Astinus fell silent, pondering. Then, with a sigh, as if brushing away dark thoughts, he continued.

‘The people of Palanthas gathered around the Tower as the highest of the Order—the Wizard of the White Robes—closed the Tower’s slender gates of gold and locked them with a silver key. The Lord of Palanthas watched him eagerly. All knew the Lord intended to move into the Tower, as his mentor—the Kingpriest of Istar—had done. His eyes lingered greedily on the Tower, for legends of the wonders within—both fair and evil— had spread throughout the land.’

‘Of all the beautiful buildings in Palanthas,’ murmured Lord Amothus, ‘the Tower of High Sorcery was said to be the most splendid. And now. . . .’

‘What happened?’ asked Laurana, feeling chilled as the darkness of night crept through the room, wishing someone would summon the servants to light the candles.

‘The Wizard started to hand the silver key to the Lord,’ continued Astinus in a deep, sad voice. ‘Suddenly, one of the Black Robes appeared in a window in the upper stories. As the people stared at him in horror, he shouted, ‘The gates will remain closed and the halls empty until the day comes when the master of both the past and the present returns with power!’ Then the evil mage leaped out, hurling himself down upon the gates. And as the barbs of silver and of gold pierced the black robes, he cast a curse upon the Tower. His blood stained the ground, the silver and golden gates withered and twisted and turned to black. The shimmering tower of white and red faded to ice gray stone, its black minarets crumbled.

‘The Lord and the people fled in terror and, to this day, no one dares approach the Tower of Palanthas. Not even kender’—Astinus smiled briefly—’who fear nothing in this world. The curse is so powerful it keeps away all mortals—’

‘Until the master of past and present returns,’ Laurana murmured.

‘Bah! The man was mad.’ Lord Amothus sniffed. ‘No man is master of past and present—unless it be you, Astinus.’

‘I am not master!’ Astinus said in such hollow, ringing tones that everyone in the room stared at him. ‘I remember the past, I record the present. I do not seek to dominate either!’

‘Mad, like I said.’ The Lord shrugged. ‘And now we are forced to endure an eyesore like the Tower because no one can stand to live around it or get close enough to tear it down.’

‘I think to tear it down would be a shame,’ Laurana said softly, gazing at the Tower through the window. ‘It belongs here. . . .’

‘Indeed it does, young woman,’ Astinus replied, regarding her strangely.

Night’s shadows had deepened as Astinus talked. Soon the Tower was shrouded in darkness while lights sparkled in the rest of the city. Palanthas seemed to be trying to out-glitter the stars, thought Laurana, but a round patch of blackness will remain always in its center.

‘How sad and how tragic,’ she murmured, feeling that she must say something, since Astinus was staring straight at her. ‘And that—that dark thing I saw fluttering, pinned to the fence—’ She stopped in horror.

‘Mad, mad,’ repeated Lord Amothus gloomily. ‘Yes, that is what’s left of the body, so we suppose. No one has been able to get close enough to find out.’

Laurana shuddered. Putting her hands to her aching head, she knew that this grim story would haunt her for nights, and she wished she’d never heard it. Bound up in her destiny! Angrily she put the thought out of her mind. It didn’t matter. She didn’t have time for this. Her destiny looked bleak enough without adding nightmarish nursery tales.

As if reading her thoughts, Astinus suddenly rose to his feet and called for more light.

‘For,’ he said coldly, staring at Laurana, ‘the past is lost. Your future is your own. And we have a great deal of work to do before morning.’