Amber and Iron - Margaret Weis [47]
“There is always a first time for everything,” returned Dalamar caustically. “One hundred years ago, I would not have said that a god could steal away the world. Yet it happened.”
“Perhaps a sorcerer’s spell could destroy it,” suggested Coryn the White, the newest member of the Conclave. Although young, she was highly talented and reputed to be a great favorite of the god, Solinari.
Her fellow wizards, even those wearing the White Robes, regarded her with disapproval.
Sorcerers were those who used the wild magic that came from the world itself, not the godly magic from the heavens. Sorcerers had been practicing magic on Krynn during the gods’ absence. Sorcerers were not bound by the laws of High Sorcery but operated independently. In the days prior to the Second Cataclysm, such free agents would have been deemed renegades and hunted down by the members of all three Orders. Many members of this Conclave would have liked to have done that now but did not for several reasons: godly magic had only recently returned to Krynn, the wizards were still finding their way back to the old practices, their numbers were small and they were not yet well organized.
Mistress Jenna, as Head of the Conclave, advocated a policy of “live and let live,” and it was being followed for the most part. This did not mean, however, that wizards had friendly feelings for sorcerers. Quite the contrary.
Coryn the White had been a sorcerer who had only recently given up the wild magic for the more disciplined magic of the gods. She knew how the other mages felt regarding sorcerers, and she took a rather mischievous delight in teasing them. She was not teasing this time, however. She was deadly serious.
“Mistress Coryn has a point,” stated Jenna grudgingly. All the wizards regarded her in astonishment. A few Black Robes scowled and muttered.
“I have several sorcerers who are customers of mine,” Jenna continued. “I will contact them and urge them try their skills against these creatures. I do not hold out much hope that their luck will be any better than ours, however.”
“Hope!” a Red Robe repeated angrily. “Let us hope that these Beloved stomp the sorcerers into the ground! Do you realize what this would mean for us if a sorcerer could kill these heinous creatures and we could not? We would be the laughing stock of Ansalon! I say we keep knowledge of these Beloved to ourselves. Don’t tell the sorcerers.”
“Too late,” said a Black Robe grimly. “Now that the clerics know about it, they will be holding prayer services with the faithful rolling about on the ground in hysterics and priests flinging holy water on anything that moves. They’ll find a way to blame this on wizards. Wait and see if they don’t.”
“And that is the very reason we must establish guidelines for how we deal with the Beloved and make our position known to the public,” said Jenna. “Wizards must be seen to be working with everyone in order to find a solution to this mystery, even if that means joining forces with priests and sorcerers and mystics.”
“Thereby admitting that we can’t deal with it ourselves,” said a White Robe sourly. “What do you say, Mistress Coryn?”
“I agree with Mistress Jenna. We should be open and honest about these Beloved. The problems we wizards have faced in the past came about as a result of cloaking ourselves in mystery and secrecy.”
“Oh, I quite agree,” said Dalamar. “I say we throw open the doors of the Tower and invite the rabble to come spend the day. We can do demonstrations, set off fireballs and the like, and serve milk punch and cookies on the lawn.”
“Be sarcastic all you like, my friend,” Jenna returned coolly. “But that won’t make this terrible situation go away. Have you anything constructive to suggest, Master of the Black Robes?”
Dalamar was silent a moment, absently tracing a sigil on top of the table with a delicate fingers.
“What I find most intriguing