Hand of Fire

by Ed Greenwood

  Mirt stared stonily back at her and snapped, “She may approach—on her knees, mind, and begging for mercy.”

  “Yes, Lord,” Asper breathed, bowing her head hastily. “I shall impart your will to her.”

  She kissed the rug before his boots and backed away from him on her knees, clear across the room to the archway and through its curtain. Once safely unseen by visiting Athkatlan swindlers, she rose with the suppleness of a snake and a wide grin on her face to find Laeral stifling a giggle.

  The Lady Mage of Waterdeep gave her a quick, wordless hug and dropped to her own knees. Pinching the inside of her nose high up with two long-nailed fingers so that tears of pain came to her eyes, she let them run artistically down her cheeks, dropped a look of despair across her face, and commenced her own long crawl through the curtain and across the gigantic snowcat-fur rug.

  “Mercy, Lord Mirt,” she whimpered, lifting her tear-stained face at about the halfway-point of her journey. “Please! You must give me more time to pay, I beg of you! Khelben sends word that he, too, will come to you on his knees if that is your wish and that you must understand that he wants me to do everything I can to please you! Everything!”

  Paraster Montheir stared open-mouthed at the most powerful woman in Waterdeep crawling along on the furs with her tear-glistening face raised pleadingly to the moneylender, but Mirt barely glanced at her.

  “Aye, aye,” he growled, “Khelben knows my weakness for pretty lasses. Tell him—after I’ve finished with ye—that he seeks to buy my patience but succeeds only in trying it. Now, plead as if ye really meant it! Grind thyself into my floor, kiss my boots, and keep on kissing them until I give ye leave to cease!”

  “Oh, most gracious of men, flower of mercy,” Laeral wept, “your kindness warms me! I’m unworthy to kiss your boots and the feet within them, but please allow me to do so! Command me as your slave! Oh, Mirt, all Waterdeep lives and breathes because of your deeds and coins and wisdom, and I’m so ashamed at my failure to repay in time! Just a few days more, perhaps a tenday, and—”

  “Start licking,” Mirt growled, watching the grandly clad woman snaking her way forward. Hurriedly Laeral threw herself across the remaining expanse of furs to the toes of his worn, flopping seaboots and lavished kisses upon them, her shapely behind in the air.

  All the color had gone out of Paraster Montheir’s face, leaving it the color of an old, dirty seal tusk. Mirt looked up at him and then back at the woman at his feet, frowned thoughtfully, and grunted, “Well, now, perhaps there is a way ye and Khelben could hurl magics to aid me in a little matter. Keep licking, wench! I gave ye no command to stop, did I?”

  “Mirt,” the Athkatlan wine-merchant stammered hastily, “I’ve changed my mind. You’ll have your money in full later in the day, plus double interest for the tenday arrears. I’ll send it to you here, in the hands of my banker’s trusties, forthwith! Ah—”

  The old moneylender rose, no trace of a grin on his face, and snapped, “Be still and speak not” to the Lady Mage at his feet. He pointed at Montheir and growled, “I accept, in gold coins of a minting, weight, and condition as would be accepted by a guildmaster of this city. Wait to send the coin-carriers until sundown.”

  He took something that had been hanging on the quillons of a scabbarded sword low on the wall behind his desk into his hand, and Montheir saw that it was a whip. Mirt lashed the palm of his own hand thoughtfully, looked down at the backside of the silently kneeling Lady Mage, then lifted his gaze to the Athkatlan again and added, “Ye see, I’ll probably be busy until then.”

  Paraster Montheir swallowed, nodded hastily, and was still nodding with a sickly grin coming and going on his face when Mirt barked, “Asper! To me! Hasten, no need to crawl!”

  The lithe, leather-clad lass raced into view through the archway and came to a halt with hands at her sides, as alert and straight-backed-rigid as any Palace guard standing to attention.

  “Conduct our valued friend Master Montheir to the gates with all courtesy,” Mirt commanded her.

  “At once, my Lord!” she breathed and made her turn toward the Athkatlan merchant almost a leap of eagerness. “This way, honored merchant,” she urged, indicating the door with a flourish as if he’d never seen it before, bowing low, then leaping to open it for him.

  Swallowing again, Paraster Montheir nodded hastily to Mirt, turned, and waved at Asper to precede him.

  She bowed to him again and did so, slowing to offer him her arm on the broad rough-slab stairs that descended into the forehall past rows of figureheads and bowsprit filigrees salvaged from wrecks in the dangerous coastal seas just north of Waterdeep.

  At about the sixth step down, Asper murmured, “If you’ll allow me to say this, Master Montheir, you are a very brave man.”

  The Athkatlan looked at her sharply, seeking any hint of sarcasm or perhaps pleading or admiration, but her eyes were downcast and her face unreadable.

  Paraster made no immediate reply, but when they reached the bottom of the stair and a sharp singing in the air around him announced the passage of his shielding magics out through a stronger, invisible enchantment, he murmured in a low voice, “He won’t really whip the Lady Mage of Waterdeep, will he?”

  “Oh, yes,” Asper replied, slowing and turning to look at him with eyes that were large and grave. “In fact, Khelben insists on it.”

  “The Blackstaff? He does?”

  “Oh, yes,” Asper told him, not loosening the clasp of their linked arms as they walked on. “Laws are laws, and a bond is a bond. Let me show you something.”

  Laden servants were hastening back and forth across the forehall between the pantry and a shuttered larder where wagons left deliveries. Asper reached out her free hand to a passing maidservant. “Maerilee—show this honored merchant your back.”

  Maerilee nodded, undid a bodice-lacing atop one of her shoulders, turned away, and let her garment fall to her waist. Across shoulder blades and a deep-corded back, Montheir found himself gazing upon a webwork of deep white and purple scars.

  The servant looked at Asper, who nodded, and Maerilee bowed her head and went on her way. “She displeased my lord,” Asper told the Athkatlan softly, “over a debt.”

  Paraster Montheir said nothing and remained silent as she conducted him out through the great entry doors of the mansion, but he nodded to her as he would to an equal as they parted on the broad top step of the outside stairs.

  He looked back once as he joined his guards and shuddered as he saw the wench in leathers wave casually to the two gargoyles—if that’s what they were; great stone beasts with wings and claws and tusks—perched atop the doorposts, receiving their solemn salutes in return.

  Asper seemed to speak to someone else as she turned to go in, someone ghostly, whose feminine head and shoulders seemed solid enough but who trailed away to nothingness well above the ground. The doors of Mirt’s Mansion closed softly, and Paraster Montheir found himself listening to a high wail of pain coming from somewhere within that old, ramshackle, fortresslike house.

  Asper smiled and shook her head as she shot the last bolt and turned back toward the stairs. The problem with watchghosts like Ieiridauna was that they loved dramatics. That cry of pain sounded more like a large and enthusiastic wildcat in heat than a woman in pain.

  On the other hand, perhaps ’twas overly harsh to criticize another’s acting. Laeral had been so overblown as to be about as convincing as a slap-puppet play—though it had worked, hadn’t it?—and if things had gone on much longer, a certain lass who rejoiced in the name of Asper couldn’t have avoided bursting into wild, helpless laughter. Shaking her head, she retraced her steps to Mirt’s office.

  This was an occasion when a little untruth served everyone well. There was no need for Paraster Montheir of Athkatla to learn that Maerilee Goodfellow had received her spectacular scars in pirate slavery in the Nelanther or how much Mirt had paid for her freedom when she’d caught his eye. There was no need for a lot of merchants i
n bustling Waterdeep to learn a lot of things. When bound by carefully guided ignorance, they led—in Asper’s opinion, at least, and she’d seen much of both ignorant and wise merchants and the few traders whose forebearers had done so well at making coins that they’d become the city’s nobles—better lives. The truly wise were rare gems, but a few scraps of wisdom tended to make men dangerous.

  Wherefore Waterdeep was a groaning, overladen cart heaped high with danger. As Asper smiled ruefully to herself and strolled back into the office, Mirt was growling, “Just what sort of attack could lay low one of ye Seven? Not something I’d want to be in the same kingdom as, I’m thinking.…”

  Laeral nodded to Asper over the rim of a huge goblet that sparkled with deep blue Sossal snow wine. The Lady Mage was sitting with her booted feet up on Mirt’s desk enjoying a good reward for her playacting whilst the Old Wolf prowled the room, barking questions at her.

  “My sister is not hiding from foes she fears or nursing wounds,” she replied calmly. “She’s doing what we so often must: reacting to being hit on the nose with a new ball she’s never seen before. She had no idea she needed to be juggling it among all the others we must keep in the air constantly, so she’s letting some lesser balls bounce by themselves for a day or two, while she learns what she must about the new one, to know best how to handle it.”

  “High Lady Alustriel will be delayed arriving in Waterdeep, I take it?” Asper asked swiftly, helping herself to the decanter of snow wine.

  “I’m afraid so. On the other hand, it will be days yet before Shandril reaches Waterdeep, even if her caravan has a clear run, and we know the maid from Highmoon has power enough to defend herself for a few days longer.”

  “More than enough, I’m thinking,” Mirt growled. “ ’Tis in my mind, Laeral m’gel, that spellfire in the hands of a youngling untutored in magic or by Mystra may become like a wind-driven forest fire: stronger as it goes on and soon out of control and needing mages working on all sides to prevent it overwhelming everyone. Each time Shan used it when I was with her, her confidence and power seemed to grow. Can her will and backbone keep pace with its flaring? I hate to say this, but I doubt it.”

  Laeral nodded grimly. “As do I, Old Wolf.” She took a long sip from her goblet and added, “I’m afraid you know too much about how magic works to be wrong in this hunch.”

  “Knowing my Lord,” Asper said fondly, as she put an arm around Mirt from behind, “I’m sure he’s hurled queries at you like a busy slinger hurling stones in battle and heard this from you already—but if ’tis not a deep, close secret, Laeral: what attack?”

  “While trying to enter some of the vaults of great magic deep beneath her palace in Silverymoon,” the Lady Mage replied, “Alustriel was beset by a storm of spells launched by lurking mages—a cabal of unfamiliar and strangely empowered wizards.”

  “She survived, so much I know. Did they gain access to the vaults?”

  “No, but they seemed able to take refuge in the Weave itself when she struck back at them.”

  “And reading the Weave, she learned what about them?”

  Amusement rose and danced in Laeral’s eyes. “You know all that you need to know—and more—about the Art, too, it seems. Well, then, my sister’s attackers seemed to be incorporeal, half-insane wizards who’d passed beyond life into unlife in some new and hitherto unknown way. ‘Mere memories of mages,’ she called them.”

  Asper rolled her eyes. “Haven’t we enough magic surging and drifting and scuttling around Faerûn, without something new to—”

  The watchghost began to scream in earnest, a great deafening bell-shrieking that roared up the stairs and swept toward them, making the stones of the old house around them shake and then the very air hum and wail.

  The scream that burst into the office shattered goblets and decanters into dust and hurled Asper, Mirt, and Laeral back against the walls like mere rags, surging up toward the ceiling, to wrestle there with something dark, startled, and suddenly visible.

  Once, Evaereol Rathrane had been alive. There was a dim and distant time when he’d known laughter, warm embraces, and proud achievements in Jethaere of the Towers. Jethaere—one of the first floating cities of Netheril, a refuge of the gentler mages who delighted in studying and perfecting magic, rather than using it as a great sword to cleave and reshape Toril a dozen times in a day.

  There had come the time when it darkened, as all things must. That darkness had been the Phaerimm. Against them some Jethaerren had fought and perished, and some had fled by many ways, down a myriad of twisting tunnels of hiding and transformation and flight. Some had died, some had turned into things they were loath now to leave the ranks of—or were trapped in the shapes of … and many, many had gone mad.

  Evaereol had spell-called a dragon as the darkness blossomed, then hid himself within one of the greatest magic items he’d ever crafted. His ploy had worked. Snatched up and carried off into a distant hoard, he’d escaped the Phaerimm … but been trapped in his own disguise for a time so mind-singingly long as to almost break him.

  He’d clung to his own name desperately, drifting in increasing despair, until the day came at last when someone’s misuse of the item that held him shattered it and its spells together and set him free.

  Long he’d drifted, a tattered wraith of spellstuff with whispering awareness and a burning will, until he chanced upon magic so strong that it was a blinding beacon.

  To it he crept, hunger growing, and so found Silverymoon and its palace where trapped magics of tome and item were strongest, with a human woman who seemed like a flame of living magic at its heart.

  Others of Rathrane’s kind had gathered there, too, to warm themselves in the spellglows and slowly grow stronger and more substantial. In the magics cast on stone and glass and air many Netherese mage-wraiths lurked, watching this Alustriel of Silverymoon.

  Evaereol Rathrane had not been bold when he dwelt in Jethaere, but the long, long waiting had changed something in him. He needed to act, to reach out—not to savage this woman of such achingly strong magic and drink her power, as his fellows sighed for, but to find more like her and ride the Weave that enwrapped her like a cloak wherever she went.

  So he held back from striking at her, mastering his hunger when his fellow mage-wraiths could not. He saw them ravaged and yet invigorated by her counterspells, and in the wake of their defeat he saw his own chance. Forthwith he rode the spell-link between Laeral and Alustriel. Another she-wizard of blinding power! This one seemingly as yet undetected by others of his kind, so his alone!

  When these mightiest of mortal mages translocated, the rush of exchanged energies gave Evaereol Rathrane power he could taste, lasting power that gave him more substance each time. This Laeral-she teleported often in her tower that blazed with an everpresent field of translocational magic, and every journey he took with her was a burst of ecstasy to Evaereol—real, lasting power.

  Soon he’d dare to do more than lurk and drain the discharges of wild spells and decaying magics. Soon, he would—

  Once, Ieiridauna Amalree had been alive. There was a dim and distant time when she’d lived and laughed in the lone, proud tower of the mages Nathra, her elf mother, and Phanturgost, her human father, and thought Waterdeep the greatest shining place on Toril. That had ended when the sorcerers who treacherously slew her parents after coming as guests to eveningfeast had struck her down, too, with so many spells as she fled clutching precious magics that the explosions had trapped her sentience in the Weave. It had been long years ere she was aware of herself again and longer before she could perceive and materialize once more in the tower where she’d died.

  It had become part of a large and rambling mansion in her lost years, the abode of a fat, shambling man who at first horrified and disgusted her. Then, ever so slowly, her feelings toward this Mirt had changed. It had begun after she became able to vocalize and show herself and seek to scare him as a “haunting,” knowing what she’d become. She succeeded on
ly in amusing him, then in awakening his pity. He sought to chat with her on long, lonely nights, and when she dared converse, he flirted with her, tried to befriend her, and asked what he could do to make her welcome and happy.

  “Ye could get out of my house!” she’d shrieked at him that first time, centuries of rage and grief overwhelming her. She had been taken with shame when he pursued her weeping and sought to learn of her life. So had his lady, the impish Asper, who even invited her into their shared bed, betimes sought to play games with her, and seldom forgot to tell her gossip and unfolding news upon her every return to what now even Ieiridauna was pleased to call “Mirt’s Mansion.”

  Other buildings, even in Waterdeep, had watchghosts, but Ieiridauna doubted many of them felt as happy as she.

  Now, upon the heels of that unpleasant Athkatlan’s visit, something dark and unseen had come into the house. Lurking near the Master and the Mistress and their friend, so subtle among the shielding magics that she’d not sensed it until it reached out, so silent and sinister …

  With a shriek of rage and fear that her happiness was to be snatched away from her once more, Ieiridauna hurled herself from the forehall up the stairs to the office, whelming the protective magics of the house around her like a cloak of magic, armor and weapon both against this dark intruder.

  He—somehow she knew it was a “he”—sought to drink spells, to gorge himself on the magic she’d freed to empower herself, but Ieiridauna spun bright fire out of the energies surging through her, feeding it to him, then calling it back to her like savage claws to rake him and shred him. It took but a few whirling, shrieking seconds to drive him howling away.…

  Moaning and whimpering to himself in spinning silence, Evaereol Rathrane drifted torn and ravaged across Waterdeep, helpless once more and hurting. Below him magic winked and flared, a field of glittering flames to his gaze. He gasped and let himself fall toward this well of so many magics, warring and flashing or slumbering on all sides. None of them so bright as the two ladies of the Weave, but one thing, at least, hadn’t changed since his dimly remembered days in Jethaere: If you came too close, bright flames still burned you.