"Now, perhaps, it wants us to leave," suggested Luthar.

The gaunt sorcerer shook his head and ran his fingers through the long tangle of his beard, turning a slow circle as he inspected the dining hall. "I care not what it wants. I am here, I like it here, and I intend to stay. Now, come with me," he said abruptly.

As usual, Luthar had to trot to keep up with Kalrakin's long-legged stride. They made their way to the great central stairway and headed up, the taller sorcerer taking the steps three at a time, while the shorter mage huffed and hurried behind. Passing the scattered remnants of plate mail he had earlier wrecked, the wild magic user returned to the stubborn door that had resisted his most potent casting.

"You dare to taunt me?" he declared softly, addressing that door. He did not expect a reply, but Luthar's words had pointed him toward a truth: There was some being listening, observing, watching him. The Tower was indeed a sentient presence who was testing him-and with this realization, the tall mage had determined a course of action.

Kalrakin kept his eyes on the locked room as he reached his gloved hand behind his back and pushed open the door to another chamber. Only then did he spin around and stalk into that room, one of several small art galleries that he and Luthar had discovered weeks earlier, upon their first explorations of the Tower. The sorcerer waved his hand, and light flared from the crystal chandelier overhead, illuminating a large, irregular chamber that was dominated by a life-sized statue of three humans, a trio standing back to back in the center.

Executed by a talented sculptor out of three shades of marble, the statues depicted archetypes of the three schools of godly magic-or perhaps, the three deities ruling those orders. One image carved in pure white displayed an elderly man, wrinkled and slightly stooped in posture, leaning on a knobby staff. His eyes were kindly, his smile beneficent, and if his flowing beard and hair bespoke great age, his visage had a benign aspect that, when he had first glimpsed this statue, Kalrakin found it patently absurd.

Next to him was the likeness of another man, cut from stone of ebony black. This was a younger wizard, smoothfaced and short-haired, with penetrating eyes. The third image was female, carved from some exotic version of marble that was nearly blood-red in color; the sorceress was of indeterminate age, stern-faced, and slender, and her hands were raised slightly, reaching outward in a gesture of encompassing embrace.

"Artifacts of the distant past," Kalrakin sneered aloud. He leaned back and crowed toward the ceiling. "Pathetic symbols of a time gone by-but they are part of you still, are they not?"

He glared at the trio of statues and raised his hands toward the female figure in red marble. Intertwining his thumbs, the gaunt sorcerer roared, making an animalistic sound of fury. With a sharp gesture he broke his grip and whipped his arms apart-and in that instant the statue shattered, scattering shards of crimson stone across the wooden floor of the gallery.

Kalrakin stood still, every sense quivering. He heard it first as a groan, a sound of nearly physical pain, followed by the faintest of tremors. The floorboards rippled slightly under his feet. "Feel the force of my displeasure!" he shouted to the ceiling, his voice exultant. "And know that there is no limit to the pain I can inflict!"

With sharp, brutal gestures, he then wove a spell of wild magic around the white and then the black statues, leaving them likewise destroyed. Shards of rock in three colors now littered the floor of the gallery, and the suffering of the Tower became tangible. The floor shivered more violently; an elaborately jeweled lamp, with a surface of carved turquoise, trembled atop its marble pedestal. With a flip of his hand, Kalrakin caused that precious treasure to slide from its perch; it fell and broke against the hard floor.

The sorcerer breathed hard, snorting like a bull through his massive beak of a nose. He glared at a shelf of crystal vases then turned to scrutinize a painting of exceptional age, depicting an elven patriarch from beyond the Age of Heroes. He toyed with the thought of further mayhem. But perhaps his point had been made.

With a growl, he exited the room, glaring across the hall at the doorway that taunted him.

"Do you dare to tempt me into further retribution?" he asked, his voice rising. Once more he rooted his feet to the stone floor-and felt the wild magic surge. Curling his hand into a fist, still clutching the Irda Stone, he aimed his strongest blow at the wizard-locked door, expended the full force of his magic in one mighty hammer strike.

This time the force rebounded against him so hard that he was hurled against the wall; his skull rang as he bit down, hard, on his own tongue. He was utterly unconscious by the time his insensate body hit the floor.

The pale, cringing Luthar crept into the hallway, and with a deep sigh, and a small snort of disgust, slumped down next to Kalrakin, to wait.

Shadows in the Wild

Settle down, Dora!" Coryn snapped. Confronted by a familiar, stubborn glare, she whacked the mule across the snout and repeated her command. Turning more docile, the shaggy animal fell into pace behind Diva and Dolly until once again the three mules shuffled patiently along, following Coryn, who was following Jenna.

As Coryn had been following Jenna for more than three weeks, now. They were somewhere in the western half of what used to be called Qualinesti, Coryn was pretty sure. That much she had gleaned from Jenna's conversations with innkeepers, knightly patrols, and the occasional traveler they encountered. As to why they were here or where they were headed, Coryn had no idea.

Coryn had learned, quickly, about the mules: how to feed, load, unload, lead, and occasionally prod them to greater urgency. She worked hard, ate as well as Jenna did, and still had no idea why her grandmother had sent her to visit this unusual, and admittedly intriguing, woman. Certainly she had seen more of the world in these past three months than in the whole of her previous sixteen years. But there must be more to it than that.

At night, rolled in her bedroll near the fire, Cory would pretend to sleep. Through slitted eyelids, she would watch as Jenna went through mysterious routines. Often these involved reading-the girl knew that one of the mule's saddlebags bulged with books, more books than she had ever seen before. The older woman was very protective of these tomes, so Coryn had never been able to see inside them, but she stole compelling glimpses of the red leather covers, with their shiny binding and silver filigree inscriptions. She suspected the volumes were similar to Umma's little book, the one hidden under her mattress. Once she had asked Jenna about them, only to be told-curtly-to collect more firewood for the evening's cooking.

When Jenna read at night, she did so by the light of a medallion, one of the many pieces of jewelry that she wore on slender chains around her neck. Cory was fascinated by the nature of that illumination, brighter and more steady than any lamp. On one very still night, she had heard the woman whisper a strange word as she touched the medallion. It was one of the word's from Umma's book; of that Coryn had been certain!

That had been only yesterday, and now another long day of forest-track was behind them.

"Down there, in that hollow. We'll camp there tonight," Jenna announced, gesturing to a narrow trail descending steeply away from the winding forest track. "I remember a nice clearing near the stream. And nobody will be able to see us from the road. Take the mules down there and wait for me-I want to have a look around and make sure of our safety."