He thought of the great Tower of Sorcery where once he had been Master. Here the first taint of bitterness soured his mood. The place he most desired to see again, the place where his greatest treasures were stored, where he had collected the most remarkable library of magical books in the history of the world… that place was barred to him, forever. It had been the one condition exacted by those ever-jealous gods, Solinari and Lunitari, before they would allow Nuitari to restore his favored devotee to life. Dalamar had accepted the condition-to refuse would have meant permanent, irrevocable death-and at the time had not even regarded it as a very burdensome restriction.

In the past weeks, however, he began to understand the full cost of that banishment. He remembered not only his own spell books left there, but the night-blue tomes scribed by Fistandantilus himself, and the black, hourglass – sigil volumes that were the legacy of his Shalafi, Raistlin Majere. All those wonderful books were gone to him. Many contained enchantments unique in the history of Krynn, enchantments that were lost not just to Dalamar but to the world. Perhaps someday he could reconstruct-

No… the dark elf's lip curled into a sneer of contempt as he mouthed the word. Those spells would never be restored, for the world did not deserve to receive his largesse.

Even as his bitterness settled into a dull anger, Dalamar shrugged away any inclination to despair. As his homeland was merely a place, his spell books were merely objects. He had his life back, and even without those spell books he knew how to put his magical power to use.

His thoughts had turned to another tower, the one place in Krynn that might house an equal, perhaps even greater, trove of magical lore. The Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest was the traditional center of magical study, the place where aspiring mages-including Dalamar himself, in a time lost to the far, far past-went to learn the arcane arts. The most talented of the mages were granted an opportunity to take the Test, with those who passed being awarded a robe in the color-red, black, or white-of the god who most favored the apprentice mage. There, at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth Forest, he had sworn allegiance to the Conclave, working on behalf of wizards of all three robes, spying upon, and eventually betraying, his Shalafi. Again he touched his chest, this time with a grimace-those five wounds now, and forever, the legacy of that betrayal.

Of course, the Tower of High Sorcery was not easy to find… unless it wanted one to find it. Dalamar had been more fortunate than most; in the past; when he had needed to go to the Tower, the path had opened before him. Indeed, though Wayreth Forest lay to the west of distant Qualinesti, the dark elf had entered that enchanted wood from places as distant as Ergoth and Solamnia. He saw no reason the path would not welcome him again, from here. So he had embarked, months ago, on a search for the Tower.

But, for the first time in his life, the Tower had refused to acknowledge him. After a long and fruitless search, he was now in the air, flying to visit a man he had never expected to see again. During the flight, he took note of the scope of devastation that had wracked that once pastoral land, the land the Qualinesti had lost to Beryl, the place where that massive green dragon had died. Villages were now blackened ruins, burned to ashes. Much of the forest was shattered, trees knocked down every which way, or languishing in a wilting that browned the leaves and left the stench of rot to rise through the air. Elven arrogance had been soundly punished, he observed with cool detachment. The devastation didn't affect Dalamar, except for a sense of mild regret that a once-pleasant destination no longer existed.

Finally he crossed the gorge of the White Rage River, and even the dispassionate dark elf was annoyed at the sight of the brown sludge that now passed for water in that formerly pristine canyon. More important, he was nearing his destination. His mere thought directed the phantom steed to descend, and soon Dalamar skimmed along barely above the height of the treetops. The ghostly flying horse followed the course of the river as it spilled from its rocky gorge to meander into the lowlands. The course grew wide, the water even more brackish and stagnant as it pooled in mudflats and eddies. Soon the elf recognized the tributary to the north, Solace Stream, and was moderately relieved to turn his magical steed up toward that unpolluted waterway.

Darken Wood lay to his left, but Dalamar ignored the attraction of those magical groves and mystical denizens. There was nothing for him there, neither any spell book nor colleague that could help him gain entry to the forest, or recover the mastery of his own spells. The dark wizard was acutely conscious of this weakness as he approached Solace, spotting the lofty crests of the great vallenwoods from many miles away.

Normally, Dalamar would have entered the town discreetly, seeking out Palin at some quiet and private place. However, the dark elf felt he was on an acutely urgent mission; each enchantment he cast that vanished from his memory was irretrievable forever, unless he gained access to the proper spell books. In light of that vulnerability, he opted for a more dramatic display of his power as a reminder to Palin, and anyone else who might be paying attention, that the black-robed wizard was still a force to be reckoned with.

He guided his phantom steed along Solace's main street, flying several dozen feet above the ground-well below the level of the tree-mounted houses, shops, and inns that were such a characteristic of the city of vallenwoods. It was still several hours until dinnertime, and that avenue, a curving route that meandered between the roots of the mighty trees, was fairly crowded by the standards of bucolic Solace. As soon as he dropped below the canopy of leaves, a watchman pointed up at him and shouted in alarm.

Dalamar smiled to hear gasps of fright from merchants and peddlers, shouts of surprise from shopping womenfolk, and cries of glee from a multitude of children. The children ran in a pack along the street, pointing up at him and shrieking in delight as the wizard slowed his eerie, vaporous steed. He flew across the town square then turned up the lane that would lead to Palin, leaving the band of youngsters behind with a sudden burst of speed.

He drew up to the great balcony surrounding the Inn of the Last Home, the structure located on the sturdy boughs of one of the greatest vallenwoods. Here the phantom steed came to rest, the misty apparition fading away gently to bring Dalamar's feet to rest upon the broad, sturdy planks.

"Hello, Dalamar."

It was a woman's voice, which carried not the slightest hint of welcome. Nevertheless, the dark elf smiled thinly as he turned around to see the speaker: a female with long straight hair, now white but still suggestive of vital, golden youth. He tilted forward, a formal bow that was only slightly mocking.

"Hello, Laura. I see that you are as beautiful, and gracious, as ever."

"What do you want? There is nothing for you here. Palin is through with magic-you, more than anyone, should know that!"

Dalamar sighed, having neither the energy nor the inclination for a confrontation with Palin's strong-willed sister.

"I need to talk to your brother. Can you tell me where he is? Or does such a conversation require advance approval from you?" he asked sharply.

She sniffed contemptuously and turned back to the side door of the inn from which she had emerged. "Wait here," she ordered, before she disappeared.

Dalamar scowled after her then turned his back. He rested his hands on the railing and breathed deeply, trying to get his bearings and relax. He could not allow himself to be agitated when he talked to Palin.