by Ed Greenwood
Suddenly he was staring at Iymbryl Alastrarra, standing smiling at him in the deep shade under the shadowtops. The face wavered, and became his own—and then shivered again, and was once more the heir of House Alastrarra, emerald eyes under the white hair all Alastrarran heirs had, or quickly acquired. The vision changed again, showing him a rather familiar lanky, raven-haired youth with a hawk-sharp nose and blue eyes, naked above a bathing pool—a body that flowed and sank into the similarly nude body of an elf, all slender hairless sleekness. By its face, Iymbryl. Right; the gem wanted him to change.
With an inward sigh, Elminster called on the powers of the gem to summon up the likeness of Iymbryl. A peculiar surging feeling washed over him, and he was Iymbryl, in hopes and memories and … he looked down at his hands—the rather battered hands of a man who’d lived and fought hard, recently—and willed them to become the long, slim, blue-white, smooth hands that had crawled so laboriously up his arms to touch his cheek, not long ago.
And the hands dwindled, twisted, and … became slim, and delicate, and blue-white in hue. He wiggled them experimentally, and they tingled.
El drew in a deep, shuddering breath, called Iymbryl’s face firmly to mind, and willed his body to change. A slow, creeping feeling rose in him, in his back and up his spine. He shivered involuntarily, and grunted in disgust. The visions fell away and he was blinking around at the unchanging, patient trunks of shadowtops that had stood here for centuries.
He looked down. His clothes were hanging from him; he was smaller and slimmer, his smooth skin now blue-white. He was a moon elf. He was Iymbryl Alastrarra.
That had been useful enough. Now was there a teleport or homecalling spell in the gem, perhaps, that could take him right to Cormanthor? He slid into the whirling memories once more, seeking. It was like rushing through a busy battlefield peering for just one familiar face among all the hacking, rushing swordsmen … no, it didn’t seem that there was. El sighed, shook himself, and looked at the ever-present trees. His clothes flapped loosely as he turned, and that reminded him of his saddlebag.
Looking around for it, he suddenly recalled that he’d left it somewhere back in the dell of countless ferns and even more hobgoblins. El shrugged and turned to walk south and east. If the ruukha didn’t tear it apart or scatter the contents completely, he’d be able to find it later with a spell; not that he expected to have the leisure for that sort of thing again this year. Nor, perhaps, next season, either. He shrugged again; if that was what service to Mystra meant—well, others endured far worse.
Wearing the shape of an elf would certainly get him into the city of Cormanthor with more ease than he’d taste if he charged in as a human. Elminster sniffed the air; to an elven nose, the woods smelled … stronger; his nose took in, or noticed, many more scents. Hmm. Best to think on such things while moving. He set off through the trees, touching the gem on his forehead once to be sure his shifting hadn’t loosened or harmed it.
Upon his touch, the kiira made him aware of two things: only braggarts displayed House lore-gems openly—a simple calling on the stone would hide it; and now that he wore Iymbryl’s shape, the memories in the gem still awaited him, but no longer overwhelmed.
He hid the kiira first, and then turned to the doorway in his mind that streamed with the vivid lights and colors of waiting memories. This time, they seemed like a sluggish stream through which he waded, going where he desired, and letting the rest slide past. El sought through them for the most recent remembrances of Cormanthor, and for the first time saw its soaring spires, the fluted balconies of homes built in the hearts of living trees, the ornate, free-floating lanterns that drifted about the city, and the bridges that soared from tree to tree, crisscrossing the air. Those spans were arched, and some of them curved as they went. None of them had side railings. El swallowed; it would take some time before he’d feel comfortable strolling along such bold contrivances.
Who ruled this city? The Coronal, the gem showed him—someone chosen rather than born to the office. An “old wise one” and chief judge in all disputes, it seemed, who held sway not only over Cormanthor the city, but its entire deep woods realm. The office carried magical powers, and the current Coronal was one Eltargrim Irithyl—old and overly kindly, in Iymbryl’s view, though the Alastrarran heir knew that some of the older, prouder families held far poorer views of their ruler.
Those proud old Houses, in particular the Starym and Echorn, held much of the real power in Cormanthor, and considered themselves the embodiment and guardians of “true” elven character. In their view, a “true” elf was …
Elminster broke off that thought as the idea reminded him uncomfortably of what he’d just done. He’d had no choice—unless he’d been a man utterly without mercy. Yet should he have touched the gem at all, since he’d pledged his service to Mystra?
He came to an abrupt halt beside a particularly gigantic shadowtop, drew in a deep breath, and called aloud, “Mystra?”
Then he added in a whisper, “Lady, hear me. Please.”
Into his mind he brought his most striking memory of Myrjala, laughing in aroused delight as they soared through the air together, and of the subtle changes in her eyes that betrayed her divinity as her passion rose … seizing on that image, he held it, breathed her name again, and bent his will to calling on her.
There came a coldness at the edges of his mind—a thrilling, verge-of-a-shiver tingling—and he asked, “Lady, is this right for me to do? Have I … your blessing?”
A surge of loving warmth rolled into his mind, bringing with it a scene of Ornthalas Alastrarra, standing in a fair, sun-dappled chamber whose pillars were living, flower-bedecked trees. The view was out of the eyes of someone approaching the heir—and when they’d drawn very close to the elf, who was looking slightly puzzled, the viewer’s hand rose into the image, reaching for an unseen forehead, above.
The eyes of Ornthalas sharpened in astonishment, and the viewer moved closer, and closer still. To … kiss? Touch noses? No, to touch foreheads, of course. The eyes of Ornthalas, so close and wide, wavered like a reflection in water disrupted by ripples. When the disturbance passed, the face had become that of the kindly old Coronal, and the viewpoint drew back from him to show Elminster himself, bowing. Somehow, El knew that he was invoking the Coronal’s protection against those of the People who were horrified to discover that a human had penetrated into the very heart of their city, wearing the shape of an elf they knew. An elf he might well have murd—
A sudden wash of warning fire blazed across his mind, sweeping the visions away, and Elminster found himself under the trees, being spun around—by Mystra’s grace, he supposed—to face … something that was sweeping around roots and gliding among the trees like a large and eager snake. Something that hissed bubblingly and tirelessly as it came, whispering what might have been words. Whispering … snatches of spell incantations? The body of this strange beast or conjured apparition was sometimes translucent and always indistinct, unfocused. It veered toward him with a triumphant chuckle, raking the empty air with dozens of claws as it came. It was clearly seeking him.
Was this some elven guardian? Or some fell beast-lich kept alive by ancient magic? Whatever its nature, its intent was clear, and those claws looked deadly enough.
El almost retreated, but the thing was so fascinating to watch—one part of it awkward but tirelessly slithering, the other an endless swirling of what looked like the torn, tattered remnants of spells. Eyes in plenty swam and circled in that shifting and reforming body. It had to be a thing of magic. Mystra would take care of it, surely. After all, she was goddess of magic, and he was her Ch—
Claws stabbed out, and though they fell far short of striking, they left in their wake an eerie tingling. His mind felt a little numbed; he couldn’t seem to focus his will on his spells.
What spells did he have left, anyway?
Oh, Mystra. He couldn’t remember.
As those claws swept at him again, closer now, sudd
en panic blazed up in his mind like a bright bolt of fire. Run! El turned and darted away through the trees, stumbling as shorter legs than he was used to carried along a body that was far lighter than it should be. Gods, but elves could run fast!
He could sprint with ease around and around this slithering whatever-it-was. On impulse he dodged back toward the way he’d come. The monster followed.
He turned around again, risking the time to cast a simple dispel. Almost the last magic of any consequence he had, though the gem seemed to hold much more. A beast so chaotic, so made of tumbling magics, would surely fall apart at the touch of …
His magic blazed forth. The many-clawed, slithering thing flickered once, shook itself, and kept coming.
El ducked his head and started to run in earnest, sprinting through the trees, ducking around mossy rock outcrops and leaping over roots and suspicious-looking mushrooms. The hissing and burbling never ceased behind him.
The last prince of Athalantar felt a little chill as he realized how much faster it was than he’d thought it could be.
Well, he had one little weapon of magic left—a spell that sent a jet of flame leaping from the caster’s hand. It was a thing for starting fires or singeing beasts into retreating, not a battle magic, but …
El stepped behind a tree, caught his breath, and started to climb it. His new longer, slender fingers found fissures in the bark his human hands couldn’t have entered, and his lighter body clung to holds that could not have held Elminster the human. The hissing, slithering thing was close behind, now, as El reached a bough he judged large enough.
When the thing came around the tree, it seemed to sense him, looking up without hesitation. Elminster put his little jet of flame right into its many eyes, and swung back up out of the way of any leaps.
He expected a squalling and thrashing, or at least a recoiling—but the thing never hesitated, snapping at his hand right through the flame. If anything, it seemed larger and more vigorous, not harmed or in any sort of pain.
Claws cut the air in a whistling frenzy; El took one look and decided a higher branch would be prudent. He’d barely begun to climb when the tree quivered beneath him. The thing had slashed through bark and wood beneath as easily as it had cut the air, carving out a claw-hold. A single raking blow cut another as he watched, and without pause the thing hauled itself up the trunk to cut more. El watched in fascination; it was slashing its way up the tree as fast as an armored man could climb a rope!
It would reach him in a few breaths. In the meantime, it was right under him, and would have to take whatever he dropped on it. Not that he had anything left but a few odd spells not concerned with matters of war at all, nor time to learn what the gem could do.
It looked like he’d be jumping soon. On impulse he dodged around the trunk. The many-clawed thing followed rather clumsily, gouging its way around the curve of the tree. Good; he’d not have to worry about it scrambling across the trunk in time to catch him as he fell past. El went back to his former branch—a better perch—and held tight. When the thing clawed its way back into view around his side of the tree, he hurled a light spell right into its eyes.
Light blazed forth, and then faded instantly. The clawed thing never hesitated, and El’s eyes narrowed. Yes, it did seem even larger, and somehow more … solid.
As it climbed toward him, he cast a minor detection spell at it—to gain lore he did not need.
The spell reached it … and faded away, granting him none of the information it was supposed to. The clawed thing grew slightly larger.
It fed on spells! This thing must be a magekiller, something he’d heard of long ago, in his days with the Brave Blades adventuring band. Magekillers were creations of magic, wrought by rare, suppressed spells. Their purpose was to slay wizards who only knew one way to do battle—hurl spells at things.
His magic, no matter how desperate, could only make it stronger, not harm it. Slayer of Magelords and Chosen of Mystra he might be—but he was also unable to stop making mistakes, it seemed, one piled atop another with all-too-fervent energy.
Enough analysis; such thinking was a luxury for mages … and just now, he’d best forget about being a mage. He had only a few breaths left to experiment before he’d have to leap down, or die. Carefully El drew one of his belt daggers, and dropped it, point-first, into the many staring eyes of that hissing, burbling head.
It fell freely to the earth far below with a solid thump, leaving a shaft of dark emptiness in its wake right through the heart of the many-clawed thing. The magekiller shuddered and squalled, its tone high and fearful and furious, but somehow fainter than before.
Now it was done keening and was moving again, climbing after Elminster with murder in its eyes. The hole through it had gone, but the entire beast was visibly smaller. The last prince of Athalantar nodded calmly, planted one boot against the trunk below him, and kicked off.
The air whistled past him for a moment before his hands crashed through branchlets, snapping them in a swirling of leaves, and caught hold of the bough he’d aimed for. He clung there for a moment, hearing that urgent squalling sound ringing out again, close above, and then swung out and down, twisting to snatch at a lower branch.
It seemed he wasn’t much of a minstrels’ hero, either. Instead of the branch they were seeking, his hands found only leaves this time, and tore through them.
An instant later, the Chosen of Mystra hit the ground hard on his behind, rolled over into an unintentional backflip, and found his feet with an involuntary groan. His rear was going to be sore for days.
And his running was going to be an ungainly limp now. Elminster sighed as he watched the slithering thing racing back down the tree in a giddy spiral, to come and kill him.
If he used the lone spell he’d left ready, he’d be whisked back to the scepter … but that would leave him with all the walking through the woods to do over again, with this hissing monster and perhaps his mysterious follower lurking between him and Cormanthor.
He plucked up his dagger. He had another at his belt, a third sheathed up one sleeve, and one in each boot—but was that enough to do more than annoy this thing?
Spitting out a very human curse, the elf who was not Iymbryl Alastrarra stumbled southward, dagger in hand, wondering how far he could get before the magekiller caught up with him.
If he could only win himself time enough, perhaps there was something the gem could do …
Preoccupied with his haste and wild plans, Elminster almost ran right out over the edge of the cliff.
It was cloaked in bushes: the crumbling edge of an ancient rockface, where the land dropped away into a tree-filled gorge. A tiny rivulet chuckled over rocks far below. El looked along it and then back at the magekiller—which was coming for him as fast as ever, slithering around trees and their sprawling roots with its tireless claws raking the air.
The prince glanced along the lip of the cliff, and chose a tree that leaned a little way out into space, but seemed large and solid. He ran for it, one hand outspread to test it—and only the whispering warned him.
The magekiller could burst into a charge of astonishing speed when it desired to, it seemed. El looked back in time to see the foremost, lunging claws reaching for his head. He ducked, slipped on the loose stones, and made a desperate grab for a root as he went over the edge.
In a bruising clatter of rolling stones he swung against the cliff, slammed hard into it, and got his other hand onto the root, just as the long, serpentine body hissed past him into the gorge below.
There was a jutting rock some forty feet down, and the magekiller made a twisting grab for it. Claws squealed briefly on rock, trailing sparks, and then the jutting rock pulled free of its ancient berth and fell, its unwilling passenger flailing the air beneath it.
Together boulder and spectral beast crashed into the rocks below. They did not bounce or roll; only the dust they hurled up did that. El watched, eyes narrowed.
When the dust settled again, h
e saw what he’d been waiting for: a few claws, flailing away tirelessly around the edge of the boulder that had pinned the magekiller against the rocks.
So it was solid enough to slash with its claws, and to be pinned down by rocks—but all that harmed it was metal. Or more probably, just cold iron.
Elminster looked down at the crumbling cliff below him, sighed, and started trotting along it, looking for a way down.
About twenty paces along, the way found him. The ground under his boots muttered, like a man talking in his sleep, and slid sideways. El leaped frantically away from the gorge, and then slid helplessly down into it, bumping along atop a river of moving earth and rolling, bouncing rocks.
When he could see and hear again, he’d been coughing on dust for what seemed like hours, and he hurt all over.
He was back in his own form again. Had he lost the gem?
A quick touch reassured him that it was still there, and its powers were still waiting for him. He must have changed back without thinking, to get more reach and try to ride the moving rocks. Or something.
Elminster got up gingerly, winced at the pain of putting his weight squarely on a foot that seemed to have been hit by several hundred rolling stones during his unintentional journey, and started to pick his way along the rocky bottom of the gorge to where the magekiller had been.
It might, of course, have clawed its way through the rock to freedom by now. It might be waiting for him somewhere among all these rocks, very near. In that case, he’d just have to use that spell, and start off through this dangerous part of the woods all over again …
Then he saw it: a forest of spectral claws waving awkwardly around the edge of that massive boulder, in a tumbled forest of rocks ahead. He still—somehow—had his dagger in his hand, and he went to work cautiously, stabbing over the edge of the rocks at one claw and then another, watching them melt away like smoke under his blade.
