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that one of our order performed this monstrous act?”
    “I am afraid so,” Justarius said quietly. “A Black Robe named Dracart in conjunction with a cleric of Takhisis and a red dragon devised the spells. You must take swift action, Par-Salian. That is why I came here in all haste tonight. You must dissolve the Conclave, denounce the Black Robes, cast them out of the Tower, and forbid them from ever coming here again.”
    Par-Salian said nothing. His right fist unclenched, clenched again. He stared into the fire.
    “We are already suspect in the eyes of the world,” Justarius said. “If people find out that a wizard was complicit in this heinous act, they would rise against us! This could well destroy us.”
    Still, Par-Salian was silent.
    “Sir,” said Justarius, his voice hardening, “the god Nuitari was involved in this. He had to be. He sided with his mother, Takhisis, years ago, which means that as head of the Black Robes, Ladonna must be involved, as well.”
    “You don’t know that for certain,” said Par-Salian sternly. “You have no proof.”
    He and Ladonna had been lovers, back in the past, back in their youth, back in the days when passion overthrows reason. Justarius was aware of their history and he was careful not mention it, but Par-Salian knew his friend was thinking it.
    “None of us have seen Ladonna or her followers for over a year,” Justarius continued. “Our gods, Solinari and Lunitari, have made no secret of the fact that they were dismayed and angered when Nuitaribroke with them to serve his mother. We must face facts, sir. The Three Cousins are estranged. Our sacred brotherhood of wizards, the ties that bind us—white, black, and red—are severed. Already, Ladonna and her Black Robes may be poised to launch an assault against the Tower—”
    “No!” Par-Salian said, slamming his fist on the arm of the chair, spilling the wine.
    Par-Salian, with his long, white beard and quiet demeanor, was sometimes taken for a weak and benign old man, even by those who knew him best. The head of the Conclave had not attained his high position through lack of fire in his blood and belly, however. The heat of that fire could be astonishing.
    “I will not dissolve the Conclave! I do not for one moment believe that Ladonna was involved in this crime. Nor do I blame Nuitari—”
    Justarius frowned. “A Black Robe, Dracart, was seen in the act.” “What of it?” Par-Salian glowered at his friend. “He may have been a renegade—”
    “He was,” said a voice.
    Justarius twisted around in his chair. When he saw who had spoken, he cast an accusing glance at Par-Salian.
    “I did not know you had company,” Justarius said coldly.
    “I did not know myself,” said Par-Salian. “You should have made yourself known, Ladonna. It is rude to eavesdrop, especially on friends.”
    “I had to make certain you still
were
my friends,” she said.
    A human woman in her middle-years, Ladonna scorned to try to conceal her age, as did some, using the artifices of nature and magic to bring plump youth to wrinkled cheeks. She wore her long, thick, gray hair as proudly as a queen wears a crown, coifing her hair in elaborate styles. Her black robes were generally made of the finest velvet, soft and sumptuous, and decorated with runes stitched in gold and silver thread.
    But when she emerged from the shadowed corner where she had been secretly watching, the two men were shocked by the change in her appearance. Ladonna was haggard, pale, and seemed to have aged years. Her long, gray hair straggled out from two hastily plaitedbraids that hung down her back. Her elegant, black robes were dirty and bedraggled, tattered and frayed. She looked exhausted, almost to the point of collapsing.
    Par-Salian hurriedly brought forth a chair and poured her a goblet of wine. She drank it gratefully. Her dark eyes went to Justarius.
    “You are very quick to judge me, sir,” she said acidly.
    “The last time I saw you,