CHAPTER 12

The Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth had been, for centuries, the last outpost of magic upon the continent of Ansalon. Here the mages had been driven, when the Kingpriest ordered them from the other Towers. Here they had come, leaving the Tower in Istar, now under the waters of the Blood Sea, leaving the accursed and blackened Tower in Palanthas.

The Tower in Wayreth was an imposing structure, an unnerving sight. The outer walls formed an equilateral triangle. A small tower stood at each angle of the perfect geometric shape. In the center stood the two main towers, slanted slightly, twisting just a little, enough to make the viewer blink and say to himself—aren't those crooked?

The walls were built of black stone. Polished to a high gloss, it shone brilliantly in the sunlight and, in the night, reflected the light of two moons and mirrored the darkness of the third. Runes were carved upon the surface of the stone, runes of power and strength, shielding and warding; runes that bound the stones to each other; runes that bound the stones to the ground. The tops of the walls were smooth. There were no battlements for soldiers to man. There was no need.

Far from any centers of civilization, the Tower at Wayreth was surrounded by its magic wood. None could enter who did not belong, none came to it without invitation. And so the mages protected their last bastion of strength, guarding it well from the outside world.

Yet, the Tower was not lifeless. Ambitious apprentice magicusers came from all over the world to take the rigorous—and sometimes fatal—Test. Wizards of high standing arrived daily, continuing their studies, meeting, discussing, conducting dangerous and delicate experiments. To these, the Tower was open day and night. They could come and go as they chose—Black Robes, Red Robes, White Robes.

Though far apart in philosophies—in their ways of viewing and of living with the world—all the Robes met in peace in the Tower.Arguments were tolerated only as they served to advance the Art. Fighting of any sort was prohibited—the penalty was swift, terrible death.

The Art. It was the one thing that united them all. It was their first loyalty—no matter who they were, whom they served, what color robes they wore. The young magic-users who faced death calmly when they agreed to take the Test understood this. The ancient wizards who came here to breathe their last and be entombed within the familiar walls understood this. The Art—Magic. It was parent, lover, spouse, child. It was soil, fire, air, water. It was life. It was death. It was beyond death.

Par-Salian thought of all this as he stood within his chambers in the northernmost of the two tall towers, watching Caramon and his small retinue advance toward the gates.

As Caramon remembered the past, so, too, did Par-Salian. Some wondered if it was with regret.

No, he said silently, watching Caramon come up the path, his battlesword clanking against his flabby thighs. I do not regret the past. I was given a terrible choice and I made it.

Who questions the gods? They demanded a sword. I found one. And—like all swords—it was two-edged.

Caramon and his group had arrived at the outer gate. There were no guards. A tiny silver bell rang in Par-Salian's quarters.

The old mage raised his hand. The gates swung open.

It was twilight when they entered the outer gates of the Tower of High Sorcery. Tas glanced around, startled. It had been morning only moments ago. Or at least it seemed like it had been morning! Looking up, he could see red rays streaking across the sky, gleaming eerily off the polished stone walls of the Tower.

Tas shook his head. "How does anyone tell time around here?" he asked himself. He stood in a vast courtyard bounded by the outer walls and the inner two towers. The courtyard was stark and barren. Paved with gray flagstone, it looked cold and unlovely. No flowers grew, no trees broke the unrelieved monotony of the gray stone. And it was empty, Tas noticed in disappointment. There was absolutely no one around, no one in sight.

Or was there? Tas caught a glimpse of movement out of the corner of his eye, a flutter of white. Turning quickly, however, he was amazed to see it was gone! No one was there. And then, he saw, out of the corner of the other eye, a face and a hand and a red robed sleeve. He looked at it directly—and it was gone! Suddenly, Tas had the impression he was surrounded by people, coming and going, talking, or just sitting and staring, even sleeping! Yet—the courtyard was still silent, still empty.

"These must be mages taking the Test!" Tas said in awe. "Raistlin told me they traveled all over, but I never imagined anything like this! I wonder if they can see me? Do you suppose I could touch one, Caramon, if I—Caramon?"

Tas blinked. Caramon was gone! Bupu was gone! The whiterobed figures and Lady Crysania were gone. He was alone!

Not for long. There was a flash of yellow light, a most horrible smell, and a black-robed mage stood towering before him. The mage extended a hand, a woman's hand.

"You have been summoned."

Tas gulped. Slowly, he held out his hand. The woman's fingers closed over his wrist. He shivered at their cold touch. "Perhaps I'm going to be magicked!"he saidto himself hopefully.

The courtyard, the black stone walls, the red streaks of sunlight, the gray flagstone, all began to dissolve around Tas, running down the edges of his vision like a rain-soaked painting. Thoroughly delighted, the kender felt the woman's black robes wrap around him. She tucked them up around his chin . . ..

When Tasslehoff came to his senses, he was lying on a very hard, very cold, stone floor. Next to him, Bupu snored blissfully. Caramon was sitting up, shaking his head, trying to clear away the cobwebs.

"Ouch." Tas rubbed the back of his neck. "Funny kind of accommodations, Caramon," he grumbled, getting to his feet. "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," ParSalian 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 redrobed 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.

"You see the mark of his hand upon me," Dalamar hissed. "Even now, the pain is almost more than I can bear." The young elf paused, then added through clenched teeth. "He said to give you his regards, Par-Salian!"

The great mage's head bent. The hand rising to support it shook as with a palsy. He seemed old, feeble, weary. For a moment, the mage sat with his eyes covered, then he raised his head and looked intently at Dalamar.

"So—our worst fears are realized." Par-Salian's eyes narrowed questioningly. "He knows, then, that we sent you—”

"To spy on him?" Dalamar laughed, bitterly."Yes, he knows!" The dark elf spit the words. "He's known all along. He's been using me—using all of us—to further his own ends."

"I find this all very difficult to believe," stated the red-robed mage in a mild voice. "We all admit that young Raistlin is certainly powerful, but I find this talk of challenging a goddess quite ridiculous . . . quite ridiculous indeed."

There were murmured assents from both halves of the semicircle.

"Oh, do you?" Dalamar asked, and there was a lethal softness in his voice. "Then, let me tell you fools that you have no idea of the meaning of the word power. Not as it relates to him! You cannot begin to fathom the depths of his power or to soar the heights! I can! I have seen"—for a moment Dalamar paused, his voice lost its anger and was filled with wonder—"I have seen such things as none of you have dared imagine! I have walked the realms of dreams with my eyes open! I have seen beauty to make the heart burst with pain.I have descended into nightmares—I have witnessed horrors"—he shuddered—"horrors so nameless and terrible that I begged to be struck dead rather than look upon them!" Dalamar glanced around the semi-circle, gathering them all together with his flashing, dark-eyed gaze. "And all these wonders he summoned, he created, he brought to life with his magic."

There was no sound, no one moved.

"You are wise to be afraid, Great One," Dalamar's voice sank to a whisper. "But no matter how great your fear, you do not fear him enough. Oh, yes, he lacks power to cross that dread threshold. But that power he goes to find. Even as we speak, he is preparing himself for the long journey. Upon my return tomorrow, he will leave."

Par-Salian raised his head. "Your return?" he asked, shocked. "But he knows you for what you are—a spy, sent by us, the Conclave, his fellows." The great mage's glance went to the chair that stood empty amidst the Black Robes, then he rose to his feet. "No, young Dalamar. You are very courageous, but I cannot allow you to return to what would undoubtedly he tortured death at his hands."

"You cannot stop me," Dalamar said, and there was no emotion in his voice. "I said before—I would give my soul to study with such as he. And now, though it costs me my life, I will stay with him. He expects me back. He leaves me in charge of the Tower of High Sorcery in his absence."

"He leaves you to guard?" the red-robed mage said dubiously. "You, who have betrayed him?"

"He knows me," Dalamar said bitterly. "He knows he has ensnared me. He has stung my body and sucked my soul dry, yet I will return to the web. Nor will I be the first." Dalamar motioned down at the still, white form lying on the pallet before him. Then, half-turning, the dark elf glanced at Caramon. "Will I, brother?" he said with a sneer.

At last, Caramon seemed driven to action. Angrily shaking Bupu loose from his foot, the warrior took a step forward, both the kender and the gully dwarf crowding close behind him.

"Who is this?" Caramon demanded, scowling at the dark elf. "What's going on? Who are you talking about?"

Before Par-Salian could answer, Dalamar turned to face the big warrior.

"I am called Dalamar," the dark elf said coldly. "And I speak of your twin brother, Raistlin. He is my master. I am his apprentice. I am, in addition, a spy, sent by this august company you see before you to report on the doings of your brother."

Caramon did not answer. He may not have even heard. His eyes—wide with horror—were fixed on the dark elf's chest. Following Caramon's gaze, Tas saw five burned and bloody holes in Dalamar's flesh. The kender swallowed, feeling suddenly queasy.

"Yes, your brother's hand did this,” Dalamar remarked, guessing Caramon's thoughts. Smiling grimly, the dark elf gripped the torn edges of his black robes with his hand and pulled them together, hiding the wounds. "It is no matter," he muttered, "it was no more than I deserved."

Caramon turned away, his face so pale Tas slipped his hand in the big man's hand, fearing he might collapse. Dalamar regarded Caramon with scorn.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "Didn't you believe him capable of this'?" The dark elf shook his head in disbelief, his eyes swept the assemblage before him. "No, you are like the rest of them. Fools . . . all of you, fools!"

The mages murmured together, some voices angry, some fearful, most questioning. Finally, Par-Salian raised his hand for silence.

"Tell us, Dalamar, what he plans. Unless, of course, he has forbidden you to speak of it." There was a note of irony in the mage's voice that the dark elf did not miss.

"No," Dalamar smiled grimly. "I know his plans. Enough of them, that is. He even asked that I be certain and report them to you accurately."

There were muttered words and snorts of derision at this. But Par-Salian only looked more concerned, if that were possible. "Continue," he said, almost without voice.

Dalamar drew a breath.

"He journeys back in time, to the days just prior to the Cataclysm, when the great Fistandantilus was at the height of his power. It is my Shalafi 's intention to meet this great mage, to study with him, and to recover those works of Fistandantilus we know were lost during the Cataclysm. For my Shalafi believes, from what he has read in the spellbooks he took from the Great Library at Palanthas, that Fistandantilus learned how to cross the threshold that exists between god and men. Thus, the great wizard was able to prolong his life after the Cataclysm to fight the Dwarven Wars. Thus, he was able to survive the terrible explosion that devastated the lands of Dergoth. Thus, was he able to live until he found a new receptacle for his soul."

"I don't understand any of this! Tell me what's going on!" Caramon demanded, striding forward angrily. "Or I'll tear this place down around your miserable heads! Who is this Fistandantilus? What does he have to do with my brother?"

"Shhh," Tas said, glancing apprehensively at the mages.

"We understand, kenderken," Par-Salian said, smiling at Tas gently. "We understand his anger and his sorrow. And he is right—we owe him an explanation." The old mage sighed. "Perhaps what I did was wrong. And yet—did I have a choice? Where would we be today if I had not made the decision I made?"

Tas saw Par-Salian turn to look at the mages who sat on either side of him, and suddenly the kender realized ParSalian's answer was for them as much as for Caramon. Many had cast back their hoods and Tas could see their faces now. Anger marked the faces of those wearing the black robes, sadness and fear were reflected in the pale faces of those wearing white. Of the red robes, one man in particular caught Tas's attention, mainly because his face was smooth, impassive, yet the eyes were dark and stirring. It was the mage who had doubted Raistlin's power. It seemed to Tas that it was to this man in particular that Par-Salian directed his words.

"Over seven years ago, Paladine appeared to me." ParSalian's eyes stared into the shadows. "The great god warned me that a time of terror was going to engulf the world. The Queen of Darkness had awakened the evil dragons and was planning to wage war upon the people in an effort to conquer them. 'One among your Order you will choose to help fight this evil,' Paladine told me. 'Choose well, for this person shall be as a sword to cleave the darkness. You may tell him nothing of what the future holds, for by his decisions, and the decisions of others, will your world stand or fall forever into eternal night.' "

Par-Salian was interrupted by angry voices, coming particularly from those wearing the black robes. Par-Salian glanced at them, his eyes flashing. Within that moment, Tas saw revealed the power and authority that lay within the feeble old mage.

"Yes, perhaps I should have brought the matter before the Conclave," Par-Salian said, his voice sharp. "But I believed then—as I believe now—that it was my decision alone. I knew well the hours that the Conclave would spend bickering, I knew well none of you would agree! I made my decision. Do any of you challenge my right to do so?"

Tas held his breath, feeling Par-Salian's anger roll around the hall like thunder. The Black Robes sank back into their stone seats, muttering. Par-Salian was silent for a moment, then his eyes went back to Caramon, and their stern glance softened.

"I chose Raistlin," he said.

Caramon scowled. "Why?" he demanded.

"I had my reasons," Par-Salian said gently. "Some of them I cannot explain to you, not even now. But I can tell you this— he was born with the gift. And that is most important. The magic dwells deep within your brother. Did you know that, from the first day Raistlin attended school, his own master held him in fear and awe. How does one teach a pupil who knows more than the teacher? And combined with the gift of magic is intelligence. Raistlin's mind is never at rest. It seeks knowledge, demands answers. And he is courageous—perhaps more courageous than you are, warrior. He fights pain every day of his life. He has faced death more than once and defeated it. He fears nothing—neither the darkness nor the light. And his soul . . ." Par-Salian paused. "His soul burns with ambition, the desire for power, the desire for more knowledge. I knew that nothing, not even the fear of death itself, would stop him from attaining his goals. And I knew that the goals he sought to attain might well benefit the world, even if he, himself, should choose to turn his back upon it."

Par-Salian paused. When he spoke, it was with sorrow. "But first he had to take the Test."

"You should have foreseen the outcome," the red-robed mage said, speaking in the same mild tone. "We all knew he was waiting, biding his time . . .."

"I had no choice!" Par-Salian snapped, his blue eyes flashing. "Our time was running out. The world's time was running out. The young man had to take the Test and assimilate what he had learned. I could delay no longer."

Caramon stared from one to the other. "You knew Raist was in some kind of danger when you brought him here?"

"There is always danger," Par-Salian answered. "The Test is designed to weed out those who might be harmful to themselves, to the Order, to the innocents in the world." He put his hand to his head, rubbing his brows. "Remember, too, that the Test is designed to teach as well. We hoped to teach your brother compassion to temper his selfish ambition, we hoped to teach him mercy, pity. And, it was, perhaps, in my eagerness to teach that I made a mistake. I forgot Fistandantilus."

"Fistandantilus?" Caramon said in confusion. "What do you mean—forgot him? From what you've said, that old mage is dead."

"Dead? No." Par-Salian's face darkened. "The blast that killed thousands in the Dwarven Wars and laid waste a land that is still devastated and barren did not kill Fistandantilus. His magic was powerful enough to defeat death itself. He moved to another plane of existence, a plane far from here, yet not far enough.Constantly he watched, biding his time, searching for a body to accept his soul. And he found that body—your brother's."

Caramon listened in tense silence, his face deathly white. Out of the corner of his eye, Tas saw Bupu start edging backward. He grabbed her hand and held onto her tightly, keeping the terrified gully dwarf from turning and fleeing headlong out of the hall.

"Who knows what deal the two made during the Test? None of us, probably." Par-Salian smiled slightly. "I know this. Raistlin did superbly, yet his frail health was failing him. Perhaps he could have survived the final test—the confrontation with the dark elf—if Fistandantilus had not aided him. Perhaps not."

"Aided him? He saved his life?"

Par-Salian shrugged. "We know only this, warrior—it was not any of us who left your brother with that gold-tinted skin. The dark elf cast a fireball at him, and Raistlin survived. Impossible, of course—”

"Not for Fistandantilus," interrupted the red-robed mage.

"No," Par-Salian agreed sadly, "not for Fistandantilus. I wondered at the time, but I was not able to investigate. Events in the world were rushing to a climax. Your brother was himself when he came out of the Test. More frail, of course, but that was only to be expected. And I was right"—Par-Salian cast a swift, triumphant glance around the semi-circle—"he was strong in his magic! Who else could have gained power over a dragon orb without years of study?"

"Of course," the red-robed mage said, "he had help from one who'd had years of study."

Par-Salian frowned and did not answer.

"Let me get this straight," Caramon said, glowering at the white-robed mage. "This Fistandantilus . . . took over Raistlin's soul? He's the one that made Raistlin take the Black Robes."

"Your brother made his own choice," Par-Salian spoke sharply. "As did we all."

"I don't believe it!" Caramon shouted. "Raistlin didn't make this decision. You're lying—all of you! You tortured my brother, and then one of your old wizards claimed what was left of his body!" Caramon's words boomed through the chamber and sent the shadows dancing in alarm.

Tas saw Par-Salian regard the warrior grimly, and the kender cringed, waiting for the spell that would sizzle Caramon like a spitted chicken. It never came. The only sound was Caramon's ragged breathing.

"I'm going to get him back," Caramon said finally, tears gleaming in his eyes. "If he can go back in time to meet this old wizard, so can I. You can send me back. And when I find Fistandantilus, I'll kill him. Then Raist will be . . ." He choked back a sob, fighting for control. "He'll be Raist again. And he'll forget all this nonsense about challenging th-the Queen of Darkness and . . . becoming a god."

The semi-circle broke into chaos. Voices raised, clamboring in anger. "Impossible! He'll change history! You've gone too far, Par-Salian—”

The white-robed mage rose to his feet and, turning, stared at every mage in the semi-circle, his eyes going to each individually. Tas could sense the silent communication, swift and searing as lightning.

Caramon wiped his hand across his eyes, staring at the mages defiantly. Slowly, they all sank back into their seats. But Tas saw hands clench, he saw faces that were unconvinced, faces filled with anger. The red-robed mage stared at Par-Salian speculatively, one eyebrow raised. Then he, too, sat back. Par Salian cast a final, quick glance around the Conclave before he turned to face Caramon.

"We will consider your offer," Par-Salian said. "It might work. Certainly, it is not something he would expect—”

Dalamar began to laugh.