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and found her slowly standing up from behind a heavy column that had shielded
    her from the worst ofthe blast.
     
    “Ilsevele-?”
     
    “I’m fine,” she said. She stared at the hall, her face grim. “Sehanine, have mercy. So many have fallen here. Nothing to do now but see if we can do anything for the wounded.”
     
    Araevin nodded, but first he paced over the remains of the iron circle. He picked up a single twisted piece of metal in his fist. Where are the high mages? he wondered silently. Have they fallen as well? Then, with a sigh, he let the debris clatter to the floor, and turned to help with the injured.

CHAPTER 2
    15Alturiak, theYear of Lightning Storms
     
    As the dim sunrise glimmered in the tower’s window slits, Araevin gathered with the surviving mages of Reilloch Domayr in the conservatory. The great hall was in no condition to host a meeting of the circle. He left Ilsevele to lead the Tower guards in scouring the grounds for any enemies who might have been left behind by their comrades’ escape. The conservatory was a large, high-ceilinged hall that occupied the entire upper floor of the gatehouse. It was floored with gleaming old oak, and its paneled walls were finished with dark cherry carved in sylvan scenes. The place was used as a recital hall by the bards and music students who drifted through Tower Reilloch. Araevin had attended many recitals there, but had little gift for music himself. He found five mages waiting for him there.
     
    “Welcome, Araevin,” said the Loremaster Quastarte. He was a sun elf of great age, his eyes dark with wisdom in his young-old face, his hair so thin and white it seemed like a nimbus flowing down his shoulders. “We are all here, then.”
    “We are all that remains?” Araevin asked, astonished.
    He glanced around the room, unable to keep himself from looking to see if he had perhaps missed one of his colleagues. Beside Araevin, there had been eight others who held the rank of mage. But only five of Araevin’s colleagues were there: Quastarte, the wood elf sorcerer known as Eaglewind, the diviner Yesvellde Shaerim, the half-elf battle -mage Jorildyn, and the young abjurer Faelindel.
    “I know that Earelde fell,” Araevin continued, “but where are 011eile and Starsong?”
    “Both slain in their Reverie. The invaders broke into their chambers before the alarm was raised,” Quastarte said.
    “diesel seldarie,” Araevin said softly. “The Seldarine preserve us. There is no end to the sorrow of this day.” He bowed his head, hesitating before asking his next question. “The high mages?”
    “We have not found Philaerin yet,” said Quastarte, “but the fact that he was not seen in the battle and has not appeared since leads me to fear the worst. He was not in his chambers.”
    The others nodded in agreement. If Philaerin lived, he would have defended the Tower.
    “Kileontheal lives, but she is grievously wounded,” Yesvelde said. Yesvelde was a moon elf, with long dark hair and a distant, ethereal manner to her. She carried a sleek cat in her arms, her familiar Versei. Araevin felt thea quick gray shadow of Whyllwyst flicker across his heart, but made himself focus on Yesvelde’s words. “She was struck senseless by a spell of insanity during the fight outside the great hall, a few minutes after issuing her call to the circle. She fled the battle, hurling spells at imaginary foes in the tower halls until she exhausted her power.” The illusionist sighed. “I had no means to undo the enchantment afflicting her, so I directed the guards to confine her in her quarters and keep her under constant care until we can find a healer for her.”
    “Aeramma Durothil is dead,” said Eaglewind. He was a grave and quiet fellow for a wood elf, more at home in the solitude of the forest than in the company of his peers. Araevin sometimes suspected that he was a sylvan creature of some sort who simply wore the shape of a wood elf for the convenience of the