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Aware of Caramon's scrutiny, Justarius's hand went self-
consciously to rub his leg, then he stopped with a wry smile.
Crippled Justarius may be, Caramon thought, chilled. But only in
body. Not in mind or ambition. Twenty-five years ago, Justarius
had been the leading spokesman only of his own Order, the Red
Robes, those wizards in Krynn who had turned their backs upon
both the Evil and the Good to walk their own path, that of
Neutrality. Now he was Head of the Conclave of Wizards, ruling
over all the wizards in the world, presumably-the White Robes,
Red Robes, and the Black. Since magic is the most potent force in
a wizard's life, he swears fealty to the Conclave, no matter what
private ambitions or desires he nurses within his own heart.
Most wizards, that is. Of course, there had been his twin
Raistlin . . .
Twenty-five years ago.
Par-Salian of the White Robes had been Head of the Conclave
then. . . . Caramon felt memory's hand clutch him more tightly
still.
"I don't see what my son has to do with any of this," he said in
an even, steady voice. "If you want to meet my boys, they are in
that room you magicked us into after we arrived. I'm sure you can
magic them in here anytime you want. So, now that we have
concluded social pleasantries- By the way, where is Par-Salian?"
Caramon demanded suddenly, his gaze going around the shadowy
chamber, flicking over the empty chairs next to Justarius
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