fearing the pounding would never stop.

When the last block in the last wall fell, Bastion's magical essence turned on itself, as if one last battle between the orders of magic remained. The mortar fiends sank their razor-sharp teeth into each other in a hideous feeding frenzy until all but one were devoured.

Inside the protective shell, Guerrand waited to emerge until after that last bloated fiend exploded from its gorging. Only a handful of whole red blocks of granite remained in his wing. Numb, Bastion's high defender stared at the rubble for many moments. A hollow wind sounded in the distant corners of this plane that had known no breeze. Guerrand raised a feeble, dust- and blood-covered hand in a spell.

Dimu sagistara.

One of the blocks jerked from the rubble and rose shakily above the others. His muscles shook from the effort, but Guerrand held the block aloft by sheer dint of will until his failing energy couldn't be denied. Acknowledging the futility of the gesture, Bastion's high defender directed the block to fall again. The stronghold built with the energy of a thousand mages could not be rebuilt by one.

The full Conclave of twenty-one mages never failed to inspire reverence among its members. They gathered only rarely in the cold and cheerless Hall of Mages, the vast chamber in the base of Wayreth's south s?wer. Par-Salian of the White Robes, Head of the Conclave of Wizards, sat upon a great carved throne in a semicircle of stone chairs. To his right, as always, sat LaDonna, Mistress of the Black Robes. The six stone crairs next to her were filled with wizards clothed all IT black, their hoods pulled low over their faces. To Par-Salian's left sat Justarius of the Red Robes, his six red members of the Conclave beside him. The remaining white representatives finished the circle.

Never a lighthearted affair, the gathering this day was unusually grim. All twenty-one members were feeling the effects of the magical essence they'd lost with Bastion's destruction. The stronghold they had united to create was rubble on a distant plane. Bastion had collapsed under the wrathful hands of the gods of magic.

Par-Salian spoke from his chair in the center of the dais. "Fellow mages," the venerable white-haired wizard said, "we gather again under dark circumstances. However, I submit to you that while Bastion was destroyed, it did not fail."

Par-Salian's announcement fell like drops of water into a still pond, causing ripples of movement and sound through the vast and shadowed chamber.

"We-not just the guardians, but all twenty-one of us-failed Bastion and the mages we represent." Par- Salian's icy blue gaze swept over the wizards on either side of him.

The heads of the three defenders of Bastion-Guerrand of the Red Robes, Dagamier of the Black Robes, and Ezius of the White Robes-dipped noticeably lower. Noting that, Par-Salian held up a pale, wrinkled hand to silence the restless gathering.

"Bastion's collapse was caused not by incompetence," he insisted, his voice sharp, "but by arrogance." There were more angry murmurs, and a number of the Black Robes threw back their hoods and raised up in their stone seats. Sadness was reflected in the faces of most of the red and white-robed mages.

"I would finish!" Par-Salian snapped. His anger rolled around the hall like thunder. After a moment, the Black Robes reluctantly dropped back in their seats, still frowning. "This fractious meeting proves my point. All of us had more pride in our orders than in the thing that unites us: our Art. Magic is our first loyalty, no matter who we serve or what color robes we wear." His white head shook ruefully. "We forgot that when designing Bastion in three distinct and separate wings." The head of the Conclave was disrupted anew by voices.

Dark-haired LaDonna rose from her seat and waved an arm like an ominous raven's wing. "Silence!" The head of the black order spoke so seldom during the Conclave that everyone fell quiet in surprise. La Donna's black eyes pierced those of her order. "We Black Robes were the greatest culprits in this," she said bitterly.

Our own wing was a model of disunity. While that reflects our natures, it worked in opposition to the purpose of Bastion."

"We share the blame equally," insisted Justarius, with a firm shake of his salt-and-pepper head. "And from it shall we learn equally."

'That is the point of this Conclave," Par-Salian interrupted with a relieved sigh. "It was not enough to give a part of our magic to Bastion's mortar." Par-Salian paused deliberately, letting his words penetrate the disparate temperaments of the Conclave.

Then, very slowly, the Head of the Conclave let a hopeful smile spread across his lined face, to encourage the healing of Krynn's wizards. "All is not lost, brother mages," he said at length. "The Council of Three has decided to rebuild Bastion. This time, however, it shal represent the cooperative effort of all three orders of magic. One structure designed by all three, inhabited by a representative of all three. Next to the entry of our failure, Astinus the historian will record a new account

of cooperation between our orders."

Silence descended while the Conclave absorbed the decree.

"Are you seeking new candidates for the defender positions?" asked a member of the Red Robes.

Justarius cleared his throat. "I can't speak for the white and black orders, but-"

"If it pleases the Council," Ezius of the White Robes said anxiously, "I would like to keep the post I have held since Bastion was first raised." He touched a hand to his bandaged head. "These will be off shortly, and I'm told I'll be fully recovered."

"Duly noted," said Par-Salian with a nod.

"As for the Red Robes…" Justarius turned his thick, raised eyebrows to face Bastion's high defender. "What say you, Guerrand DiThon?"

Guerrand stood self-consciously and bowed to the Conclave as custom dictated. He spoke without guilt or guile. "Acting as Bastion's high defender has been the greatest experience and honor of my life," he said. "That is why I must relinquish the position. There is another more deserving and desirous of the post." His gaze crossed the room to the young mage of the Black Robes. Dagamier's face spread into a grateful smile that few there recalled ever having seen from her.

Justarius leaned forward in his chair, wincing at the pressure on his lame leg. "You would not be saying this out of a feeling of failure?"

"No, Justarius." Guerrand's denial was genuine. "You have made me see the error of that thinking. In truth, I believe my magical skills are needed more in my homeland." He bowed his head in respect. "Of course, I submit myself to the will of the Council of Three in this decision."

The Council briefly conferred quietly. All three heads nodded as they leaned apart. "Your request to be replaced is approved," announced Justarius.

LaDonna's gaze fell upon Dagamier, though she spoke to Guerrand. "Your suggestion for replacement is well taken, but it requires further discussion." The young wizardess's head bowed respectfully to the mistress of her order.

"What of the renegade who set in motion the destruction of Bastion?" demanded a black wizard from the depths of his drawn hood.

"Lyim Rhistadt is dead," exclaimed Ezius of the White Robes. "No one could have survived the destruction inside Bastion."

"No body was found," Dagamier pointed out softly.

Par-Salian frowned. "If he is alive, Lyim Rhistadt will be dealt with in the manner of all renegades." The head of the Conclave pushed himself up from his stone throne. "This special Conclave is adjourned. We will gather again at the usual time in a fortnight, when Solinari is in High Sanction. Until then, I counsel you all to consider your part in the construction of the new Bastion."