"Happy birthday, Highbulp," another said, wiping wine-muddied feet on his lord's trailing elk hide cloak.

"Maybe Highbulp have some stew?" Lady Drule suggested. "Got real nice set of stew dishes ..."

" 'Nough!" the Highbulp bellowed. "Off Day through!

All over! Off Day off! Pack up!"

Status quo restored, everyone scattered obediently to do his bidding. Everywhere in This Place, gully dwarves scurried about, splashing through various depths of wine, stumbling over one another, packing up to leave. When the Highbulp said this place was no longer This Place, it was time to head for another place.

"Where we go this time, Highbulp?" Lady Drule asked, stacking codpieces. "'Cross town, maybe? Betterneighborhood?"

When he didn't respond, she glanced around at him. He was standing very still, gazing off into nothingness, his elk antlers towering above him.

"Highbulp?" Drule said.

"Drip," he whispered, seeming puzzled.

Drule stared. "What?"

"Dest. .. des ... destiny," he murmured. "Highbulp of Destiny. How 'bout that!"

"Highbulp!" Drule prodded him with a stick.

He turned. "Yes, dear?"

"Where we go from here?"

"West," he said, his eyes aglow. "Great migra ... mig ...

big move. Long way."

Something in him said that, as of this day, nothing in the world would ever be quite the same again. Destiny was in motion and nothing now could alter it. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did. Without the words or the concepts to voice it, Gorge III had a feeling that the history of the entire world had just begun.

"Destiny," he said, for anyone who wanted to hear.

The Silken Threads Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman Part I The Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth is, at the best of times - such as now, with the war's end - difficult to find.

Guided by the powerful wizards of the Conclave, the tower roams its enchanted forest, the wildest of the wild creatures within its boundaries. One often sees young mages standing, hovering, on the outskirts of Wayreth Forest, their breath coming fast, their skin pale, their hands nervously clenching. They stand hesitating on the outskirts of their destiny. If they are bold and enter, the forest will permit them. The tower will find them. Their fate will be determined.

That is now. But then, long ago, before the Cataclysm, few found the Tower of High Sorcery at Wayreth. It prowled the forest only in the shadows of night, hiding from the light of day. Wary of interlopers, the tower watched all who ventured within (and there were few) with restive, suspicious eyes, prepared to pounce and destroy.

In the days right before the Cataclysm, the wizards of Ansalon were reviled and persecuted, their lives forfeit to the holy zeal of the Kingpriest of Istar, who feared their power, claimed it was not spiritual in nature.

And he was right to fear them. Long and bitter were the arguments within the Conclave, the governing body of magic-users. The wizards could fight back, but in so doing, they were afraid they would destroy the world.

No, they reasoned, it was better to withdraw, hide in the blessed shadows of their magic, and wait.

Wait.

It was Yule, a strange Yule, the hottest Yule anyonein Ansalon could remember. Now we know the heat was the wrath of the G.o.ds, beating down upon an unhallowed world. The people thought it was merely an odd phenomenon; some blamed it on the gnomes.

On one particular night, the wind was still, as if the world had ceased to breathe. Sparks jumped from the black fur of the cat to the black robe of its master. The smell of doom was in the air, like the smell of thunder.

On that night, a man entered Wayreth Forest and began to walk, with unerring step, toward the Tower of High Sorcery.

No enchantment stopped him. The trees that would attack any other intruder shrank back, bowed low in reverent homage. The birds hushed their teasing songs.

The fierce predator slunk furtively away. The man ignored it all, said no word, did not pause. Arriving at the tower, he pa.s.sed through the rune-covered walls as if they did not exist, alerted no guard, roused no one's interest. He walked unhindered across the courtyard.

Several white- and red-robed wizards walked here, discussing, in low voices, the troubles afflicting the outside world. The man strolled up to them, pushed his way between them. They did not see him.

He entered the tower and began to climb the stairs that led to the large rooms at the very top. Guest rooms and rooms for apprentice mages were located at the bottom. These were empty this night. No guests had been permit ted in the tower for a long, long time. No apprentices studied the arcane art. It was far too dangerous.

Many apprentices had paid for their devotion with their lives.

The rooms at the top of the tower were inhabited by the most powerful wizards, the members of the Conclave.

Seven black-robed mages ruled the evil magic of night, seven white-robed mages ruled the good magic of day, and seven red-robed mages ruled the in-between magic of twilight. The man went straight to one room, located at the very top of the tower, and entered.

The room was elegantly furnished, neat, and ordered, for the wizard was rigid in his habits. Spellbooks, bound in black, were arranged in alphabetical order. Each stood in its correct place on the bookshelves, and each was dusted daily. Scrolls, in their polished cases, glistened in honeycomb compartments. Magical items - rings and wands and such - were stowed away in black-lacquered boxes, every one labeled clearly as to its contents.

The wizard sat at work at a desk of ebony, its finish reflecting the warm yellow glow of an oil lamp suspended from the ceiling above his head. He was at work upon a scroll, his brow furrowed with concentration, his lips silently forming the magical words his pen, dipped in lamb's blood, traced upon the parchment. He did not hear his guest's arrival.

The doors to the wizards' rooms in the tower have no locks upon them. Every wizard is respectful of another's privacy, respectful of personal possessions. Thus the visitor could enter unimpeded, had no need to wait until a bolt was thrown, a lock unlocked - not that there existed any lock that could have stopped him. He stood on the threshold, gazing at the wizard in silence, waiting, respectfully, untilthe mage completed his work upon the scroll.

At last the wizard sighed, pa.s.sed a hand that trembled from the reaction to his concentrated effort through his long, iron-gray hair, and lifted his head. His eyes widened; his hand sank nervelessly to the tabletop. He stared, then blinked, thinking the apparition might vanish.

It did not. The man, clad all in black, from the satin- lined cowl to the velvet hem that trailed the stone floor, remained standing in the doorway.

The wizard rose, slowly, to his feet.

"Approach, Akar," said the man in the doorway.

The wizard did so, limbs weak, heart fluttering, though Akar had never before known fear of anything on Krynn.

He was in his forties, tall and well built. The iron-gray hair, long and luxuriant, framed a face tight-lipped, resolute, unforgiving, unyielding. He went down on his knees awkwardly; never in his life had Akar bowed to any man.

"Master," he said humbly, spreading wide his hands to indicate he was open to receive any command, obey any summons. He kept his head lowered, did not look up. He tried to, but his heart failed him. "I am honored."

The man standing before him made a gentle motion with his hand and the door shut behind him. Another motion, a whispered word, and the door disappeared. A solid wall stood in its place. The wizard saw this obliquely, out of the comer of his eye, and a chill shook him. The two were locked in this room together, with no way out, except death.

"Akar," said the man. "Look at me."

Akar raised his head, slowly, reluctantly. His stomach clenched, his lungs felt paralyzed, and sweat was cold on his body. He gritted his teeth against the cry that welled up in his throat.

A white face, disembodied within the shadows of the black cowl, hung over Akar. The face was round, with heavy lidded eyes and full lips, and it was cold, as cold as stone that hangs suspended in the vast void of s.p.a.ce, far from the warmth of any sun.

"Speak my name, Akar," commanded the man. "Speak it as you speak it when you summon my power to enhance yours."

"Nuitari!" gasped Akar. "Nuitari! G.o.d of the black moon!"

The pallid face glowed with a ghastly, unholy light. A pale, translucent hand reached out of the darkness.

"Give me your left palm."

Akar raised his left hand, wondering, as he did so, that he had the power to move it.

Nuitari clasped hold of Akar, the G.o.d's pale, delicate fingers closing over the human's tanned, strong hand.

Akar could no longer swallow his screams. Pain wrenched strangled cries from him. The chill that flowed through his body was like the burning of ice on wet flesh.

Yet his hand did not move, he did not wrench it from that dread touch, much as he longed to do so. He remained on his knees, gazing up at the G.o.d, though his limbs twisted with the agony.

The heavy-lidded eyes flashed; the full lips smiled.

Nuitari let loose his grasp suddenly. Akar clutched hischilling, burning hand, saw five livid marks - the fingers of the G.o.d - upon the skin.

"My mark will be the sign and symbol of our discussion," said Nuitari. "That you may know, should you by chance ever doubt, that I have spoken to you."

"If I would ever know doubt, it would only be to doubt my own worthiness of such an honor," said Akar, staring at the imprints on his flesh. He looked again at Nuitari. "How may I serve my lord?"

"Rise, be seated. We have much to discuss and we should be comfortable."

Akar rose to his feet, stiffly, awkwardly, and returned to his desk, trying to keep from wringing his wounded hand.

He knew what was expected of him, despite his suffering, and conjured up a chair for his guest, a chair that was made of night, held together by stars. This done, he stood humbly until his guest had seated himself, then Akar sank behind the desk, glad to be able to sit before he fell. He kept his hand hidden in the folds of his robes, bit his lips now and then as sharp flames of ice flickered over his skin.

"The G.o.ds are angry, Akar," said Nuitari, the heavy- lidded eyes watching the flickering light of the oil lamp hanging above him. "The scales of balance have tipped, threatening the world and all who live upon it. Krynn's destruction has been foreseen. In order to prevent that end, the G.o.ds have determined to take drastic measures to restore the balance. Within a fortnight, Akar, the G.o.ds will cast down from the heavens a mountain of fire. It will strike Ansalon and split it asunder. The mountain will fall upon the Temple of the Kingpriest and drive it far, far beneath the ground. Rivers of blood will wash over the temple, and the waters of the sea will drown it forever.

This doom the G.o.ds intend, unless mankind repents, which, between you and me, Akar" - Nuitari smiled - "I do not see him doing."

Akar no longer felt the pain in his hand. "I thank you for the warning, Master, and I will carry it to the other members of the Conclave. We will take such steps as are necessary to protect ourselves - "

Nuitari raised his pallid hand, made a gesture as if to brush away the inconsequential. "Such is not your concern, Akar. My brother, Solinari, and my sister, Lunitari, both walk the halls of magic, bearing the same message. You have no need to fear. Nor," he added softly, "do you have any need to become involved. I have another, more important task for you."

"Yes, Master!" Akar sat forward eagerly.

"Tomorrow night, the G.o.ds will come to Ansalon to remove those clerics who have remained true to their faith, those who have not been swayed by the corrupt tenets of the Kingpriest. At this time, the Lost Citadel will reappear, the true clerics will enter, and a bridge will form, leading from this world into worlds beyond. All true clerics may cross that bridge and will be sent to other realms far from this. Do you understand, Akar?"

"I do, Master," said Akar, somewhat hesitantly, "but what has this to do with me? I have little use for clerics, especially those who serve the G.o.d Paladine and his ilk.

And there are none left alive who serve Her Dark Majesty.

The Kingpriest saw to that with his edicts. The dark clericswere among the first to face his inquisitors, the first to feel the hot fires of the so-called 'purging' flames."

"None left alive. Did you never wonder about that, Akar?"

Akar shrugged. "As I said, Master, I have little use for clerics. Takhisis, Queen of Darkness, was long since banished from the world. I could only a.s.sume that she was unable to come to the aid of those who called out her name to save them from fiery death."

"My mother remembers those who serve her, Akar,"

said Nuitari. "Likewise, Akar, she remembers those who fail her."

Akar flinched as the pain in his hand flared through his blood. He gnawed his lip and cast down his eyes.

"I beg forgiveness, Master. How may I serve our queen?"

"On the night when the bridge forms, good and true clerics will cross from this plane to the next. It will be possible, at that particular moment, for the souls of the dark clerics who wait in the Abyss to cross as well."

"Those who have perished serving the Dark Queen in this world will be able to return to it?"

"As all good and true clerics leave it. And thus, after the fall of the fiery mountain, there will be no clerics left in Krynn except those belonging to Her Dark Majesty."

Akar raised his eyebrows. "Truly an interesting plan, Master, and one that surely will aid Takhisis in her return to this world. But what has this to do with me? Forgive my speaking plainly, but it is the son I serve, not the mother.

My loyalties lie to magic alone, as do yours."

Nuitari appeared flattered by this answer. His smile widened, and he inclined his head. "I am doing a favor for my mother. And the wizard who serves the mother will find rich reward from the son."

"Ah!" Akar breathed softly, settled back in his chair.

"What reward, Master?"

"Power. You will become the most powerful wizard on Krynn, now and in the future. Even the great Fistandantilus - ".

"My teacher," Akar muttered, paling at the name.

"The great Fistandantilus will be forced to bow to your might."

"Fistandantilus?" Akar stared. "I will be his master?

How is that possible?"

"With the G.o.ds, all things are possible."

Akar continued to look dubious. "I know the tremendous power of this mighty wizard. It is a power that might well rival that of a G.o.d."

Nuitari frowned, and the black robes stirred. "So he fancies himself. This Fistandantilus has displeased my mother. Even now he is in the Temple of the Kingpriest seeking to usurp the Dark Queen. He aspires to heights far above him. He must be stopped."

"What must I do, Master?"

"If the blood of a good and true person is spilled in anger upon the bridge, the door to the Abyss will open and the dark clerics may return."

"How am I to find the Lost Citadel, Master? None know its location. It exists only in the planes of magic.

None have seen it since the beginning of time!" Nuitari pointed. "The lines upon your hand."