It had been a while since she had used this weapon. But the wood felt smooth and supple in her hand, and the string was steady and taut. Without hesitation she drew the string back to her cheek, took aim, and let the arrow fly.

At the same time, the old words of wild magic sprang to her lips, and she cast the spell that had served her so well on so many hunts. The arrow split into three identical missiles, and Cory quickly blew a strong gust of wind to guide them home. The three arrows diverged as they flew, one heading straight ahead, while the others arced outward and around.

Something, perhaps the soft twang of the bowstring, drew Kalrakin's attention. He turned, eyes wide, and raised the stone in Coryn's direction. He was grinning. Sorcery flared-a blast that knocked one of the hurtling arrows out of the air. He cackled and raised the stone higher.

That is when the other two arrows took him, one in each side, puncturing each of his lungs, driving inward until both steel arrowheads-they weren't strictly magical, but Umma herself had sharpened them for hours-lodged in his heart. With an expression of astonishment, he looked down at the blood that was starting to stain his filthy tunic.

Kalrakin staggered backward. The stone fell from his nerveless fingers, rolled across the floor, and came to rest against a stone heap.

And then the dark elf was upon him, the sharp knife doing its bloody work.

Conclave

The Red, White, and Black Robes all took their places in the Hall of Mages, sitting apart from each other in their stone chairs. There were twenty-one of these chairs, though only sixteen of them were occupied. The silence in the dark, lofty hall remained vast, broken only by the soft rustle of a robe or an occasional, whispered phrase between members of an order.

The ringed chairs were arranged as always, facing the center, with three wide gaps marking the boundary between orders. Jenna sat in the center of the Red Robe section, with her four surviving colleagues, two to each side. Dalamar and Coryn were in the center of their respective orders. Counting the three Heads of the Orders, there were five Black Robes, five Red, and six White-counting the weak but determined Adramis-present.

Coryn felt acutely aware of her youth. She was the youngest mage in this august gathering. But she had much of which to be proud, she reminded herself. She had come all the way from the Ice Folk village of Two Forks to pass the Test. Along with Jenna and Dalamar, she had made the sphere of glass and filled it with smoke, then sent that crucial signal out across the world, awakening her order, summoning them here to retake the Tower. And she had shot the arrow that finally brought down their greatest foe.

This was the greatest conclave of magical power the world had seen in many decades. Though the white moon had set, Solinari seemed to rest a comforting hand upon her shoulder. Lunitari was low in the west, and Nuitari was coming up in the east. Godly magic, once again, soothed the world.

Coryn well understood the portent of this night.

And finally, in a moment of pure clarity, she knew what she had to do.

She listened with an expression of grave solemnity as Jenna welcomed all of the members of the orders to the Tower, gave thanks to them all, and to their trio of gods, that they had been able to respond to the summons issued by the three wizards on the Night of the Eye.

"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."