Douglas Niles - Wizards' Conclave

“Aye—like a splash of cold water, that was. Woke me from quite a restless sleep,” said Willim the Black, the eyeless dwarf’s voice a raspy chuckle. Then his voice turned menacing enough to send a chill through Coryn. “Took only time fer a bit o’ retribution—don’t ya know what I mean? —before I was out o’ T’orbardin and on the road’t’ Wayreth.”

One by one the others acknowledged the importance of the summons. Two of the surviving elves—white-robed Adramis and a slender, even gaunt-looking female who wore the red robe—had come from among the diaspora of Qualinesti, the scattered refugees who had been driven from their homeland in small groups and now sought sanctuary wherever they could find it in the world. These two Qualinesti mourned Aenell, whose body had been found near Kalrakin’s. Her chair was empty for the Conclave.

Another, a white-robed elderly male from Silvanesti named Suwannis, had journeyed all the way from the borders of his own native land. His voice choked as he recounted the plague of minotaurs enslaving and slaying those of his people who remained. Coryn felt a shiver of sadness, realizing that the most ancient peoples on all the world were now left without a homeland.

There were two human Black Robes who were sisters—elderly women of stooped posture and skeletally slender hands. But their voices were strong and steady as they coolly acknowledged Dalamar as their leader; his black smoke had awakened them both on the Night of the Eye. In a relatively easy journey, they had teleported to the edge of Wayreth Forest at the exact same instant from their widely separated homes in Sanction and Caergoth.

One was the beautiful, young, black-robed woman Sirene. Coryn had thought she wasn’t much older than her, until Jenna had whispered to her that Sirene was a half-elf, and already well over a hundred years old.

One by one the sixteen wizards recounted their origins, with a succinct declaration of homeland and a description of their journey to the Tower. There were elves and humans and besides the cackling Willim the Black from “T’orbardin"—a second dwarf from the Khalkist Mountains.

“We are gathered here to restore the orders of magic to their proper stature upon the world of Krynn,” Jenna announced as soon as the roster of introductions was completed. She stood up, leaning on her staff, and stalked with a firm stride into the center of the circle. There she pivoted slowly, allowing her eyes to meet the gaze of each of the other fifteen seated wizards.

“There is much work to be done. Our tower has suffered grievously, and we are the ones who must make this place right once more. It will be work that will last for years, possibly a lifetime. Undoubtedly it will become the labor of the next generation of wizards. But it is work that must begin.”

“Aye, it will begin,” exclaimed Suwannis and Rasilyss in unison. The other wizards echoed those words, like a prayer.

Jenna continued. “Our procedure must, in a sense, be unique in that the first matter of any Conclave is a vote of confidence in the Head of the Conclave, so that she—or he—may lead the Conclave in matters of wisdom and practicality.”

The Red Robe let another stern look sweep around the ring of faces. “But we all know that the most recent Conclave was many years ago, held in the absence of our gods, and was viewed by all as the last that would be held in the history of the world. Our last head, Palin Majere, dispersed the orders of magic at that time, and withdrew from the practice of magic in his own life. There was no expectation that the gods, and their magic, would ever return.”

“So we have no official head of the Conclave. This, we understand,” Willim the Black snorted impatiently. “Let us choose one, then. Obviously, the matter falls between yourself—the Red Lady of Palanthas,” he cackled with a leer, “and our own admirable head, Dalamar the Dark. Make your speeches, and we shall decide with the spell of consensus, as always.”

“Wait.”

Coryn spoke up. The rest of the wizards looked at her in shock, mixed with suspicion on the faces of the Black Robes, skepticism writ in the expressions of the Reds, and pride in the visages of her own order—even from old elf Suwannis, who sat back with a satisfied, even smug, smile.

“There are three heads of the orders here,” Coryn announced. “Three of us who cast the spell of awakening on the Night of the Eye. And I make my bid, not as an equal to the esteemed masters of the Red and Black Robes"—she nodded coolly in the directions of her two counterparts, both of whom were watching her with their own mixed, wary emotions—"but as the one who brings the most promise to leading the orders into the new age.”

“But—you’re still a child!” Jenna finally found her voice, with an edge of anger. “You have only known the power of godly magic for a matter of weeks! True, you accomplished much in that time, but the Head of the Conclave must be one who has studied for years, has dedicated a lifetime to the pursuit of magic!”

“Tell me, where is that written?” The Red Robe was condescending to her, and Coryn’s temper flared. “I am no longer a child. I am Mistress of the White Robes. I have passed the Test in the Tower of High Sorcery—”

“As have we all!” Dalamar interjected sharply, the robe falling away from his scarred face. Seated to his right, Coryn had a view of the half of his face that had suffered the worst; it looked grotesque, yet oddly compelling.

“— and, indeed,” she continued calmly, as if she had not been interrupted, “I emerged from that ordeal stronger than when I began. That, alone, you may all take as a sign of my worthiness. I have stood beside the two of you, mighty wizards both, and cast my own spells of might and power. I studied in my own way before the Test, and I continue to study; but the spells I needed during battle came to me when I needed them, even without study.

“Remember,” she concluded, taking the time to meet every pair of eyes in the room. “I am the one who first learned the secret of the Tower’s corruption, and it was that revelation that brought us here—first to cleanse the Tower, and then to gather in Conclave. I have seen the hostility and division between the Red Robes and the Black, firsthand, traveling with Jenna and Dalamar.” She stared at the two of them, who eyed her stonily. “It is fitting that I should preside over the healing that will occupy us all, as Jenna states, for the foreseeable years.”

“Hmm. The lass has a point,” declared Rasilyss from the Red Robe section, her aged eyes sparkling. Jenna cast her a sharp look, but she didn’t withdraw the comment.

“A point, but it is moot.”

This was a new voice, a man’s, and he spoke not unkindly.

Coryn whirled in surprise. The man came from the shadows around the edge of the hall. As he approached the circle, Coryn saw that he wore a red robe. He was tall, bearing himself with immense dignity as he pulled back the red hood so that all could see his handsome face. Murmurs of recognition, even awe, arose from the older members of the Conclave.

His eyes fell upon Coryn, and she noted the great depth of wisdom there. But she was not intimidated, nor would she be so easily denied.

“Why is it moot?” she shot back, trying to keep her tone even. “Why shouldn’t I become Head of the Conclave?”

“Perhaps none more deserving. But that, too, is beside the point.”

“Who are you anyway, old stranger?” snapped the young enchantress. But she had gone too far, and the others gasped at her disrespect.

“This would appear to be Justarius, one of the most renowned of the Red Robes. Once Head of the Conclave, himself,” Jenna said. She smiled slightly, a wry look. “Though we older and more experienced mages happen to know that Justarius, like Par-Salian, is long dead.”