The Reign Of Istar (31 page)

“Who says?” “Highbulp's orders,” someone else explained. “Happy birthday, Highbulp,”
another said, wiping wine-muddied feet on his lord's trailing elk hide cloak. “Maybe Highbulp have some stew?”
Lady Drule suggested. “Got real nice set of stew dishes ...” “ 'Nough!” the Highbulp bellowed. "Off
Day through!

All over! Off Day off! Pack up!" Status quo restored, everyone scattered obediently to do his bidding. Everywhere in This Place, gully dwarves scurried about, splashing through
various depths of wine, stumbling over one another, packing up to leave. When the Highbulp
said this place was no longer This Place, it was time to head for another place.

“Where we go this time, Highbulp?” Lady Drule asked, stacking codpieces. “'Cross town,
maybe? Better neighborhood?”

When he didn't respond, she glanced around at him. He was standing very still, gazing off
into nothingness, his elk antlers towering above him.

“Highbulp?” Drule said. “Drip,” he whispered, seeming puzzled. Drule stared. “What?”
“Dest. .. des ... destiny,” he murmured. "Highbulp of Destiny. How 'bout that!“ ”Highbulp!“ Drule prodded him with a stick. He turned. ”Yes,
dear?“ ”Where we go from here?“ ”West,“ he said, his eyes aglow. ”Great migra ... mig ...

big move. Long way." Something in him said that, as of this day, nothing in the world would ever be quite the same again. Destiny was in motion and nothing now could
alter it. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did. Without the words or the concepts
to voice it, Gorge III had a feeling that the history of the entire world had just begun.

“Destiny,” he said, for anyone who wanted to hear. The Silken Threads Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman Part I The Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth is, at the best of times - such as now, with the
war's end - difficult to find. Guided by the powerful wizards of the Conclave, the tower
roams its enchanted forest, the wildest of the wild creatures within its boundaries. One
often sees young mages standing, hovering, on the outskirts of Wayreth Forest, their
breath coming fast, their skin pale, their hands nervously clenching. They stand
hesitating on the outskirts of their destiny. If they are bold and enter, the forest will
permit them. The tower will find them. Their fate will be determined.

That is now. But then, long ago, before the Cataclysm, few found the Tower of High Sorcery
at Wayreth. It prowled the forest only in the shadows of night, hiding from the light of
day. Wary of interlopers, the tower watched all who ventured within (and there were few)
with restive, suspicious eyes, prepared to pounce and destroy.

In the days right before the Cataclysm, the wizards of Ansalon were reviled and
persecuted, their lives forfeit to the holy zeal of the Kingpriest of Istar, who feared
their power, claimed it was not spiritual in nature.

And he was right to fear them. Long and bitter were the arguments within the Conclave, the
governing body of magic-users. The wizards could fight back, but in so doing, they were
afraid they would destroy the world. No, they reasoned, it was better to withdraw, hide in
the blessed shadows of their magic, and wait.

Wait.

*****

It was Yule, a strange Yule, the hottest Yule anyone in Ansalon could remember. Now we
know the heat was the wrath of the gods, beating down upon an unhallowed world. The people
thought it was merely an odd phenomenon; some blamed it on the gnomes.

On one particular night, the wind was still, as if the world had ceased to breathe. Sparks
jumped from the black fur of the cat to the black robe of its master. The smell of doom
was in the air, like the smell of thunder. On that night, a man entered Wayreth Forest and
began to walk, with unerring step, toward the Tower of High Sorcery.

No enchantment stopped him. The trees that would attack any other intruder shrank back,
bowed low in reverent homage. The birds hushed their teasing songs. The fierce predator
slunk furtively away. The man ignored it all, said no word, did not pause. Arriving at the
tower, he passed through the rune-covered walls as if they did not exist, alerted no
guard, roused no one's interest. He walked unhindered across the courtyard.

Several white- and red-robed wizards walked here, discussing, in low voices, the troubles
afflicting the outside world. The man strolled up to them, pushed his way between them.
They did not see him.

He entered the tower and began to climb the stairs that led to the large rooms at the very
top. Guest rooms and rooms for apprentice mages were located at the bottom. These were
empty this night. No guests had been permit ted in the tower for a long, long time. No
apprentices studied the arcane art. It was far too dangerous. Many apprentices had paid
for their devotion with their lives.

The rooms at the top of the tower were inhabited by the most powerful wizards, the members
of the Conclave. Seven black-robed mages ruled the evil magic of night, seven white-robed
mages ruled the good magic of day, and seven red-robed mages ruled the in-between magic of
twilight. The man went straight to one room, located at the very top of the tower, and
entered.

The room was elegantly furnished, neat, and ordered for the wizard was rigid in his habits. Spellbooks, bound in black, were arranged in
alphabetical order. Each stood in its correct place on the bookshelves, and each was
dusted daily. Scrolls, in their polished cases, glistened in honeycomb compartments.
Magical items - rings and wands and such - were stowed away in black-lacquered boxes,
every one labeled clearly as to its contents.

The wizard sat at work at a desk of ebony, its finish reflecting the warm yellow glow of
an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling above his head. He was at work upon a scroll, his
brow furrowed with concentration, his lips silently forming the magical words his pen,
dipped in lamb's blood, traced upon the parchment. He did not hear his guest's arrival.

The doors to the wizards' rooms in the tower have no locks upon them. Every wizard is
respectful of another's privacy, respectful of personal possessions. Thus the visitor
could enter unimpeded, had no need to wait until a bolt was thrown, a lock unlocked - not
that there existed any lock that could have stopped him. He stood on the threshold, gazing
at the wizard in silence, waiting, respectfully, until the mage completed his work upon
the scroll.

At last the wizard sighed, passed a hand that trembled from the reaction to his
concentrated effort through his long, iron-gray hair, and lifted his head. His eyes
widened; his hand sank nervelessly to the tabletop. He stared, then blinked, thinking the
apparition might vanish.

It did not. The man, clad all in black, from the satin- lined cowl to the velvet hem that
trailed the stone floor, remained standing in the doorway.

The wizard rose, slowly, to his feet. “Approach, Akar,” said the man in the doorway. The
wizard did so, limbs weak, heart fluttering, though Akar had never before known fear of anything on Krynn. He was in his forties, tall and
well built. The iron-gray hair, long and luxuriant, framed a face tight-lipped, resolute,
unforgiving, unyielding. He went down on his knees awkwardly; never in his life had Akar
bowed to any man.

“Master,” he said humbly, spreading wide his hands to indicate he was open to receive any
command, obey any summons. He kept his head lowered, did not look up. He tried to, but his
heart failed him. “I am honored.”

The man standing before him made a gentle motion with his hand and the door shut behind
him. Another motion, a whispered word, and the door disappeared. A solid wall stood in its
place. The wizard saw this obliquely, out of the comer of his eye, and a chill shook him.
The two were locked in this room together, with no way out, except death.

“Akar,” said the man. “Look at me.”

Akar raised his head, slowly, reluctantly. His stomach clenched, his lungs felt paralyzed,
and sweat was cold on his body. He gritted his teeth against the cry that welled up in his
throat.

A white face, disembodied within the shadows of the black cowl, hung over Akar. The face
was round, with heavy lidded eyes and full lips, and it was cold, as cold as stone that
hangs suspended in the vast void of space, far from the warmth of any sun.

“Speak my name, Akar,” commanded the man. “Speak it as you speak it when you summon my
power to enhance yours.”

“Nuitari!” gasped Akar. “Nuitari! God of the black moon!”

The pallid face glowed with a ghastly, unholy light. A pale, translucent hand reached out
of the darkness.

“Give me your left palm.”

Akar raised his left hand, wondering, as he did so, that he had the power to move it.

Nuitari clasped hold of Akar, the god's pale, delicate fingers closing over the human's
tanned, strong hand.

Akar could no longer swallow his screams. Pain wrenched strangled cries from him. The
chill that flowed through his body was like the burning of ice on wet flesh. Yet his hand
did not move, he did not wrench it from that dread touch, much as he longed to do so. He
remained on his knees, gazing up at the god, though his limbs twisted with the agony.

The heavy-lidded eyes flashed; the full lips smiled. Nuitari let loose his grasp suddenly.
Akar clutched his chilling, burning hand, saw five livid marks - the fingers of the god -
upon the skin.

“My mark will be the sign and symbol of our discussion,” said Nuitari. “That you may know,
should you by chance ever doubt, that I have spoken to you.”

“If I would ever know doubt, it would only be to doubt my own worthiness of such an
honor,” said Akar, staring at the imprints on his flesh. He looked again at Nuitari. “How
may I serve my lord?”

“Rise, be seated. We have much to discuss and we should be comfortable.”

Akar rose to his feet, stiffly, awkwardly, and returned to his desk, trying to keep from
wringing his wounded hand. He knew what was expected of him, despite his suffering, and
conjured up a chair for his guest, a chair that was made of night, held together by stars.
This done, he stood humbly until his guest had seated himself, then Akar sank behind the
desk, glad to be able to sit before he fell. He kept his hand hidden in the folds of his
robes, bit his lips now and then as sharp flames of ice flickered over his skin.

“The gods are angry, Akar,” said Nuitari, the heavy- lidded eyes watching the flickering
light of the oil lamp hanging above him. “The scales of balance have tipped, threatening
the world and all who live upon it. Krynn's destruction has been foreseen. In order to
prevent that end, the gods have determined to take drastic measures to restore the
balance. Within a fortnight, Akar, the gods will cast down from the heavens a mountain of
fire. It will strike Ansalon and split it asunder. The mountain will fall upon the Temple
of the Kingpriest and drive it far, far beneath the ground. Rivers of blood will wash over
the temple, and the waters of the sea will drown it forever. This doom the gods intend,
unless mankind repents, which, between you and me, Akar” - Nuitari smiled - “I do not see
him doing.”

Akar no longer felt the pain in his hand. “I thank you for the warning, Master, and I will
carry it to the other members of the Conclave. We will take such steps as are necessary to
protect ourselves - ”

Nuitari raised his pallid hand, made a gesture as if to brush away the inconsequential.
“Such is not your concern, Akar. My brother, Solinari, and my sister, Lunitari, both walk
the halls of magic, bearing the same message. You have no need to fear. Nor,” he added
softly, “do you have any need to become involved. I have another, more important task for
you.”

“Yes, Master!” Akar sat forward eagerly. “Tomorrow night, the gods will come to Ansalon to remove those clerics who have remained true to their faith, those who have not been swayed
by the corrupt tenets of the Kingpriest. At this time, the Lost Citadel will reappear, the
true clerics will enter, and a bridge will form, leading from this world into worlds
beyond. All true clerics may cross that bridge and will be sent to other realms far from
this. Do you understand, Akar?”

“I do, Master,” said Akar, somewhat hesitantly, “but what has this to do with me? I have
little use for clerics, especially those who serve the god Paladine and his ilk. And there
are none left alive who serve Her Dark Majesty. The Kingpriest saw to that with his
edicts. The dark clerics were among the first to face his inquisitors, the first to feel
the hot fires of the so-called 'purging' flames.”

“None left alive. Did you never wonder about that, Akar?”

Akar shrugged. “As I said, Master, I have little use for clerics. Takhisis, Queen of
Darkness, was long since banished from the world. I could only assume that she was unable
to come to the aid of those who called out her name to save them from fiery death.”

“My mother remembers those who serve her, Akar,” said Nuitari. “Likewise, Akar, she
remembers those who fail her.”

Akar flinched as the pain in his hand flared through his blood. He gnawed his lip and cast
down his eyes.

“I beg forgiveness, Master. How may I serve our queen?”

“On the night when the bridge forms, good and true clerics will cross from this plane to
the next. It will be possible, at that particular moment, for the souls of the dark
clerics who wait in the Abyss to cross as well.”

“Those who have perished serving the Dark Queen in this world will be able to return to
it?”

“As all good and true clerics leave it. And thus, after the fall of the fiery mountain,
there will be no clerics left in Krynn except those belonging to Her Dark Majesty.”

Akar raised his eyebrows. “Truly an interesting plan, Master, and one that surely will aid
Takhisis in her return to this world. But what has this to do with me? Forgive my speaking
plainly, but it is the son I serve, not the mother. My loyalties lie to magic alone, as do
yours.”

Nuitari appeared flattered by this answer. His smile widened, and he inclined his head. “I am doing a favor for my mother. And the wizard who
serves the mother will find rich reward from the son.”