Nancy Berberick - Dalamar The Dark

"Come," Lady Kesela said, not looking at him, not imagining he wouldn't follow. "Attend me."

He did, resenting her tone but showing no sign of that. He had borne more and worse in exchange for her teaching and judged it a good bargain. Sunlight shone, glinting from Kesela's midnight hair as they set out through the city.

The scent of herbs and flowers perfumed the air. Stone arches of magnificent craft swept over the boulevard, and from their crowns flowering plants cascaded, decorating the stone that decorated the street. Incense drifted out from minor temples, and always the song of worship drifted through the streets in voices so pure they rang like bells. Istar, the jewel of Krynn, swirled all around them in sight and scent and sound. A choir of voices rose up as though upon wings, soaring out from a temple as the two dark-robed mages passed by.

"Elven voices," Dalamar said, moving aside to let a silken lady pass where, otherwise, she'd have to have had to step into the gutter. She smelled of exotic perfumes, complex notes of scent mingled like the woven notes of song. "My lady, I heard it in the taproom at the inn that they are gathering a choir at the Great Temple of Paladine made all of elves, for the purity of their voices. The Kingpriest, they say, will have no others than elves in all the choirs of all the temples."

"You mean," she said drily, "of all the temples dedicated to the gods of Good. What elf would serve in the temples where they worshiped the gods of Neutrality or those of Evil?"

Dalamar smiled into her narrow-eyed jibe. No elf would but those who made the hard choice, the aching choice to walk the shadowed paths outside of Silvanesti. You are dead to us! The cry was the same, heard by every elf who wore the red robes or the black. You are dead to us! Dead to them, but wakened to gods no elf of Silvanesti dared hear.

Through the swirling city they went, past the markets and across the wide, sunny verandas where pretty girls sold flowers from their carts, while jugglers tossed balls and pins for the laughter of children. Lords and ladies rode by in gilded carriages, and thin-cheeked urchins dashed in and out between the horses of the guards trotting beside, shouting for boon. Now and then a hand reached out from a carriage window, gloved and spilling coins. The children shrieked and laughed and praised the generosity of the one who had not deigned to even glance out the window.

By the time they left the city proper and came within sight of the Tower's Guardian Forest, fresh breezes filled the air, smelling of loam and leaves. The shadow of the wood stretched out, reaching like long fingers. Kesela hung back a proper distance to allow her apprentice to go before her. Dalamar leading, they stepped into the shadow and took the first path, a narrow ribbon winding away into the trees. Sunlight spilled down through the branches, dappling the shade, and all the while they walked in and out of light and shadow, through bright patches and dark, until they came to a tall iron fence whose highly wrought gates stood open, as in invitation. No Tower of High Sorcery stood beyond the fence, no building of any kind, only woodland stretching as far as they could see.

Dalamar stepped ahead of his teacher, shifting the scrollcase from beneath his arm to his hand as he passed through the gateway. They did not take three steps past the gate before they found themselves in a wide, cobbled courtyard with a tall tower rising up in the center, its turrets soaring beyond the treetops. People went back and forth in that courtyard, men and women in robes of red and robes of white who had not appeared to be there before. Singly, in pairs, in small groups, they went about their business, talking or in silence. None seemed to notice the visitors, but even as Dalamar thought so, a Red-robed mage appeared at Kesela's elbow, a dwarf who bowed and said, "My lady, you are expected."

The dwarf touched her arm, lightly to guide. "Come with me, you and your apprentice. Quarters have been prepared where you can refresh yourselves while the Master of the Tower is advised of your coming."

No more than that did he say or do, for in the instant, Kesela and Dalamar no longer stood in the courtyard outside the Tower of High Sorcery.

Kesela staggered, dizzied by the sudden change of venue. White in the face, cold-sweating, she gripped the back of a large, cushioned chair for balance. "Wretched dwarf! If he were a mage of mine, I'd break all his fingers for that miscast spell-" She stopped, swallowing hard, sick at her stomach.

Quickly Dalamar poured a glass of water from the crystal carafe on the table beside that plush chair. "Easy, my lady. Take a breath, then sip this."

With trembling hand, she took the glass and raised it to her lips, water slopping over the edge. She swallowed once and then again. Color began to return to her cheeks, reluctantly. "Watch me turn that dwarf into a cockroach next time I see him," she muttered.

Dalamar took the glass and filled it again. Scowling, she accepted it and sank into the chair, breathing deeply, her stomach settling from the wrench of the poorly cast transport spell. She looked around at the chair and the table and the crystal, at the chamber itself, well-appointed and spacious. Tapestries hung on the walls, silks dressed the stone casements of the three windows. In the windowless wall, a fire crackled in a wide hearth. Her expression softened, her anger abated. If they did not transport very well here, they did keep comfortable chambers in which to await the Master of the Tower.

"Someday," she said, idly, as though speaking of a thing that held little consequence, "someday, Dalamar, you might come here again, alone to take your Tests of High Sorcery."

Someday, perhaps, maybe. Those were the words she always attached to any talk of his Tests. She believed him held to her, enthralled by the chance of gaining more knowledge the longer he stayed. She believed so, but he did not. He would leave when he knew himself ready. Made suddenly restless by her suggestion, Dalamar walked around the room, looking out of windows to the courtyard below and the forest in the distance. Voices drifted past the oaken door, mages coming and going. He listened, but he could not make out what was being said, though some of those voices sounded so close he was sure the speakers stood not a foot away outside the room.

"What do you hear?" Kesela asked. She didn't rise, but she leaned forward, curious.

Dalamar shook his head. "I hear voices, but no words."

A door opened, perhaps across the corridor. Someone bade another to enter and, in a clear tone, said, "Touch nothing. Take nothing, and leave all as you see it. I will return."

A tingle of excitement skittered along Dalamar's neck. No one had warned him or Lady Kesela in this way. The guest chamber and all in it seemed to be utterly at their disposal. What lay in that room across the corridor that required such a warning? Breath held, he listened for more and heard only the sound of retreating footfalls, soft and shuffling as though the walker were very old.

Kesela gestured. When Dalamar was sure no one stood in the corridor, he opened the door, just a crack. Golden light spilled in from bracketed torches flaring outside each of the dozen doors on the corridor. Tapestries hung upon the walls, brightly woven scenes of Krynn's history. Here, the building of Thorbardin, there the raising of the Tower of the Stars in Silvanost, farther along the corridor the broadest, tallest of the hangings depicted the anointing of the Kingpriest of Istar. The scent of magic drifted on the air- dried rose petals, bitter valerian root, woodsy oils, and the unpleasantness of things long dead. The Tower was, no doubt, suffused with such perfume, but this drifting felt fresh, as though someone whose hands are ever filled with the tools of magic had only a moment before walked by. Across the hall, the door of the chamber exactly opposite theirs stood open, just a crack. A thin light showed at the space between the door and the threshold-not firelight, not ruddy at all, but pale and swirling, as though it wanted to change to another color.