"Well? Which way is it?"

I'm sorry, Guerrand. I flew far and wide, but all I saw was a few mountains and more trees. Can I get back into the mirror now? This forest is eerie.

Guerrand held up the mirror wordlessly and didn't even watch as the sea gull slipped inside, afraid he might be tempted to follow. He'd already spent two hair-raising nights in the pitch-black woods and was not anxious for a third. Zagarus's news made him downright angry. What was the point of making the damned thing so difficult to find?

Guerrand forced himself to review his options. He had no food left and would have to begin foraging if he didn't find the tower soon. Zagarus was an excellent scout; if the gull said they were nowhere near the tower, Guerrand knew they weren't.

The young man was contemplating finding his way back to the coast to return to Thonvil with his tail between his legs, when he heard a new sound, very faint and melodic. Singing, perhaps? He looked around, trying to fix the direction, and saw a trail he hadn't noticed before.

Not knowing what else to do, Guerrand shouldered his pack and followed the sound to a clearing. To his surprise, he found a crystal fountain, more than a bit incongruous in the forest setting. The crystal carving of a unicorn spouted cool, clear water from its upturned horn. From its mouth came the lilting voice Guerrand had followed through the woods.

Guerrand strode carefully around the fountain, admiring it cautiously. Suddenly the unicorn spoke to him. "Follow the sun," it said in its singsong voice.

"Me?" Guerrand jumped back, startled. He circled around again, looking for signs of a spell on the statue.

"Follow the sun," said the unicorn again.

Guerrand found his voice. "But the sun moves," he objected.

The unicorn simply repeated its message a third time.

With no better plan, Guerrand did as the figure bade, until at sundown he literally stumbled into a clearing where twin towers pierced the forest roof. He'd had no clue the towers or the clearing were ahead until he stood at the gold and silver gates, so masterfully crafted they looked as thin as a cobweb.

Though the sky was dark, Guerrand could see that the Tower of High Sorcery actually consisted of two towers of polished black obsidian. The spires were enclosed in a wall-shaped equilateral triangle, with a small guard tower at each point of the triangle. There were no battlements on the obsidian walls. Guerrand presumed wizards had little use for earthly protection.

He felt weak with awe as he strode slowly through the delicate gates, eyes looking everywhere at once. He was only distantly aware that the flagstone courtyard led to a small foretower between the twin columns. A door flew back. Though no one appeared, he instinctively knew he was expected to step inside the foretower.

Sitting in the entry chamber, Guerrand could scarcely believe he was there. He felt like he'd already passed some minor, though important, test. By showing him the way to the tower, the forest itself had deemed him worthy to seek an audience. Now if he could only quell his nerves enough to express his ambitions to the venerable mages to whom he would soon speak.

He wished he could talk over his fears with someone, even Zagarus, but he dared not. If he gave the bird half a chance to speak, Zagarus would undoubtedly push Guerrand to let him out to poke his beak around the Tower of High Sorcery. That was a bad idea, under the best of circumstances.

Guerrand had seen little of the inside of the tower. The foretower in which he waited with three other hopefuls was a simple, dimly lit, circular room. Three doors led from the room at equidistant points in the circle. He sat in a curved row of chairs that faced the door through which he'd arrived, between the two doors whose destinations he could only guess at.

Actually, Guerrand could do better than guess. No one had used the door to his left, but the other two mages with whom he sat had already gone through the door to his right for their interviews with the heads of the orders of magic and returned to their seats; a third was still inside.

Guerrand's sweaty palms unconsciously squeezed the armrests of his chair. He considered the others in the room, too nervous to ask them any questions. Sitting in the darkest shadows between the left and front doors was a man whose gently pointed ears revealed his elven heritage, though his huddled pose made it difficult to determine his years. Guessing the age of long-lived elves was a pretty pointless exercise, anyway.

He looked to the other person in the room, a handsome young human man with perfectly chiseled features, who was sitting two chairs down from Guerrand. Dressed in an elaborate, flowing costume with slashed and puffed sleeves, multicolored breeches, and a cap with a huge feather plume, the flamboyant man had a casual, almost insolent posture. His long legs were sprawled before him, arms folded over his chest, eyes closed in sleep. Guerrand envied both his good looks and relaxed attitude.

Suddenly the man's eyes flew open, and he caught Guerrand staring. Blushing furiously, Guerrand looked away. To his surprise, the other man merely smiled and extended his hand over the chairs that separated them.

"Lyim Rhistadt," he said in a loud voice, pronouncing the last syllable with an odd, hard sch sound.

Guerrand cringed at the abrupt noise, but lifted his hand. "Guerrand DiThon," he whispered back. Lyim pumped his hand furiously with a firm grip. Guerrand gave in to his curiosity. "Say, what goes on in there?" he asked the man with a nod toward the door to their right.

Lyim shrugged. "That's the Hall of Mages. The interview is a snap, really. You meet the Council of Three- they're the heads of the orders-and you declare an ali-"

Suddenly the door in question burst open, and the fourth hopeful mage, a dark-skinned elf, emerged. To everyone's surprise he passed the chairs and fled through the front door with one frightened look over his shoulder.

"Step forward, Guerrand DiThon."

Guerrand's eyes jerked from the sight of the fleeing mage to the door through which his own name had just been called. With a nervous glance at Lyim, Guerrand drew in a deep breath and pushed himself from his seat. He could feel beads of sweat springing from his forehead. "It's a snap," Lyim called after him again, though Guerrand could barely hear over the pounding of his heart.

Stepping through the doorway, Guerrand stood in a vast chamber carved of obsidian. He suspected it, too, was round, like the foretower, though much, much larger, since the walls and ceiling were beyond his sight, obscured in shadow. The room was lit by a pale white light, cold, cheerless, and yet there were no torches or candles. Guerrand stopped without intending to and shivered.

He could see no one, and yet he knew he was not alone. The Council of Three were there, Lyim had told him. Guerrand waited, too frightened to call to them, even had he known their names.

"Be seated," a voice said at long last. Puzzled, Guerrand looked around and was surprised to find that a heavy, carved, oaken chair stood beside him. He slipped into it quickly, as if it could conceal him.

"You wish to become a mage."

It was not a question, and yet Guerrand felt compelled to answer the unseen man's soft, aged voice. Yes. It has always been my heart's desire."

"I sense other desires there," put in another voice from the darkness, a woman's sultry tones that made Guerrand long to see its owner.

He squinted into the darkness. "Would it be too impertinent to ask that I be allowed to see those who question me?"

"Impertinent, yes," said yet another man's voice, younger and robust with unspoken humor. "But not unreasonable."

Abruptly those present in the chamber revealed themselves. Guerrand was certain the light had not increased or crept farther into the shadows, and yet he could now see a semicircle of mostly empty chairs; a quick count revealed twenty-one. Seated in the very center, in a great throne of carved stone, was an extremely distinguished though frail-looking man. He had piercing blue eyes and long, gray-white hair, beard, and mustache that nearly matched his white robe.