by Ed Greenwood
The elven mage shrugged. “I could easily destroy you. As a visible phantom you have little value other than as a spy or herald—one easily swept away by the right spells. As a whole man, however, you could be of service.”
“As a willing agent?” El asked, “Or as a dupe?”
The thin mouth of The Masked tightened still further. “I am not accustomed to overmuch impertinence even from rivals, man—let alone apprentices.”
Silence hung between them for a long moment. A very long moment.
Well, Mystra? That silent plea for guidance was instantly rewarded by a glimpse of Elminster nodding in this same room, as the masked elven mage demonstrated something. Well enough.
“Apprentices?” Elminster asked, a breath before his hesitation might become fatally overlong. “Would I be correct in discerning a most gracious offer … master?”
The Masked smiled. “You would. I take it you accept?”
“I do. I still have much to learn about magic, and in that learning I should like to be guided by someone I can respect.”
The elven mage said nothing, and lost his smile, but something about him seemed to radiate satisfaction as he turned away. “Certain exacting spells are necessary for your return to full and normal physical form,” he said over his shoulder, as he strode to a wall, touched it, and watched a stained and battered workbench float into view out of suddenly-revealed darkness behind the wall.
His hands darted here and there among the jars and vessels that littered it. “Remain still and quiet until I bid you stir again,” he ordered, turning around again with a mottled purple egg and a silver key in his hand. “The spells I am about to cast will not appear to have any effect; they will take hold about the sphere, and reach you only when I cause the field that now encloses you to vanish.”
Elminster nodded, and The Masked began to work magic, laying three small but completely unfamiliar enchantments upon the sphere before embarking on the first magic that El could guess the purpose of. Spheres like the one El was floating in seemed to be the form in which elven mages combined magics to work together upon a single target or focus.
The Masked calmly uttered a single unfamiliar word, and the sphere caught fire.
El wriggled just a little as the heat struck him. The elven sorcerer was already crafting another magic as the flames slowed, faltered, and then abruptly went out, leaving a single rope of smoke climbing into the darkness overhead.
When the Masked turned to face the sphere again, he crooked his finger like a harpist plucking a string, and the smoke abruptly bent toward him. He rotated that hand slowly, as if conducting invisible musicians, and the line of smoke snaked around the sphere, settling into the familiar curves of the helix.
El watched, fascinated, as the masked elf danced and swayed in the working of yet another magic—something that caused a faint music to arise out of nowhere and accompany the tall, graceful body as it swung this way and that.
“Nassabrath,” the Masked said suddenly, coming to a halt and kneeling. He drew his left hand, fingers uppermost and palm inwards, vertically down in front of his face as he did so. From the tip of each finger tiny lightnings flared.
They curled and spat toward the sphere with almost aimless sloth; as Elminster watched their slow progress, he called on Mystra once more.
A vision appeared in his mind, as bright and as sudden as if someone had snatched aside a curtain. He was standing naked in the forest, face lined with pain, and covered with scrapes and thorn-scratches. Or rather, he was almost naked: at his wrists and ankles were glowing manacles, attached to chains that rose into the air to fade into invisibility a few feet from his limbs. Their links blazed with the same tiny lightnings as were crawling toward the sphere that held him, right now. The Masked suddenly strode through the background of the scene, making an impatient beckoning gesture almost absently as he hurried on his way.
Elminster was jerked around by the chains and forced to follow his master. They went through the trees for quite some distance, stumbling and scraping along, until El fetched up against a jutting rock with bruising force. The elf left him there as he bent down to examine a certain plant, and the vision swept in to show Elminster laying his hand flat on the stone, whispering Mystra’s name, and concentrating on a particular symbol—an unfamiliar and complex character of shining golden curves that hung in El’s mind and caught fire, as if it was was being branded into his memory.
In the scene, Elminster’s bare body changed, arching away from the rock as it flowed into the smooth, full curves of a woman, a form he’d worn before in Mystra’s service. “Elmara,” he’d been then, and it was Elmara who stepped away from the stone, chains gone, and began a swift casting even as The Masked straightened up and spun around, his face sharp with astonishment and fear. That face that promptly vanished in the bolt of emerald fire Elmara flung through it. The green flames flowed and splashed through his head, and the scene was gone.
El found himself shaking his head to clear his dazed vision. Through the sudden glimmer of tears, he saw the lightnings, back in the here and now, touch the sphere around him at last, and awaken it to fresh fire.
He tried to recall the symbol he’d seen, and it swept back into his mind in all its intricate glory. Well enough; touch stone and think of that while calling aloud of Mystra, and he would wear a woman’s shape again—a changing that would be enough to break the bindings this treacherous elven sorcerer was going to lay upon him now. The Masked—a proud elf with a thin, cold voice that he’d heard before, he was sure … but where?
El shrugged. Even if he learned who wore the mask, what then? Learning a face and a name meant little when you knew little or nothing of the character behind them. To a Cormanthan born and bred the identity of The Masked might well be a secret as valuable as it was deadly; to Elminster, it was simply something he didn’t know yet.
He suspected his very unfamiliarity with the realm was his chief value to this elven mage, and he resolved to reveal as little as possible of his own true powers and nature, belittling even his experience with the kiira. Who was to say what an overwhelmed human mind could even comprehend of its stored memories, let alone retain after the gem was gone?
“Look into my eyes,” The Masked commanded crisply. El looked up in time to see one long-fingered hand make an imperious gesture. There was a flash of light from all around, and a high singing sound, as the sphere burst into a sheet of golden sparks.
For an instant El felt as if he was falling—and then there was a sickening surging feeling, as if eels were wriggling through his innards, as the sparks streamed into the midst of his misty form.
Fire followed, and the wracking pain of being caught squarely in the raging, blistering heat of hot flame. Elminster threw back his head and shouted—a sound that echoed back off the high vaulting above as he fell in earnest this time, dropping several feet before he was rudely caught up in a tangle of webs.
The webs were spells spinning themselves down and around him from the smoky helix. He was caught in their coils, their substance melting into his skin and pouring into his nose and mouth, choking him. He gagged, writhed, and tried to vomit, throat shuddering spasmodically. Then it was over, and he was on his knees on cold flagstones, the masked elven sorcerer standing on air not far away, looking down at him with a superior smile.
“Arise,” the Masked said coldly. El decided to test things right now. Acting dazed, he hid his face in his hands and groaned, but did not try to get up.
“Elminster!” the elf snapped, but El shook his head, murmuring something wordless. Abruptly he felt a burning sensation in his head, like heat flowing down his neck and shoulders, and an irresistable tugging began, making all of his limbs leap and tremble. He could fight this, El thought, and resist for some time, but it was best to seem entirely in thrall, so he hastened to his feet, to stand as The Masked posed him: upright but with both arms extended, offering his wrists as if for binding.
The elven sorcerer met El
minster’s gaze with eyes that were very level and very dark, and El suddenly found his limbs being pulled again. He surrendered utterly this time, and the elf made him wave his arms wide, point downwards, and then slap himself across the face, hard, once with each hand.
It hurt, and as El shook his numbed hands and felt his lips with his tongue where his teeth had rattled under the blows, The Masked smiled again. “Your body seems to work well. Come.”
El’s limbs were suddenly free to move as he willed. He set aside any urge to strike back, and followed humbly, head bent. A heavy feeling of being watched rode his shoulders, but he didn’t bother to look up and back to find the floating eye he knew would be there.
The Masked touched the featureless wall of the spell chamber and an oval doorway suddenly opened in it. The elf turned on its threshold to look his new apprentice up and down and allowed himself a slow, cold smile of triumph.
El decided to act as if it was a smile of welcome, and tremulously matched it. The elven mage shook his head wryly at that and turned away, crooking one hand in a beckoning gesture.
Rolling his eyes inwardly but careful to keep his face looking both dazed and eager, Elminster hastened to follow. Thanks be to Mystra, this was going to be a long apprenticeship.
Moonlight touched the trees of Cormanthor, and in the remote distance, somewhere off to the north, a wolf howled.
There was an answering bark from the trees very nearby, but the naked, shivering elf who was crawling aimlessly down a tangled slope did not seem to hear it. She slipped partway down, and plunged most of the rest of the way on her face. Her hair was a muddy mass, and her limbs glistened darkly in a dozen places in the pale blue light, where they were wet with blood.
The wolf padded out onto the mossy rocks at the top of the slope and stood looking down, eyes agleam. Such easy prey. He trotted down the incline by the easiest way, not bothering to hurry; the panting, mumbling woman at the bottom wasn’t going anywhere.
As he loped nearer she even rolled over to present her breast and throat to his jaws, and lay back bathed in moonlight, gasping out something wordless. The wolf paused, momentarily suspicious of such fearlessness, and then gathered himself to spring. There’d be plenty of time to sniff around warily for others of her kind after her throat was torn out.
A forest spider who’d been creeping cautiously along above the sobbing elf for some time drew back at the sight of the wolf. Perhaps it could gain two blood-meals this night, rather than just one.
The wolf sprang.
Symrustar Auglamyr never saw the single blue-white star that blazed into being above her parted lips. Nor did she hear the startled, chopped-off yelp as it emptied into the jaws of the wolf, nor the silent disintegration that followed.
A few hairs from the wolf’s tail were all that was left of it; they drifted down to settle across her thighs as something unseen said, “Poor proud one. By magic bent. Let you be by magic restored.”
A circle of stars spun up from the ground then to flash around Symrustar in a blue-white ring. The spider recoiled from their light and waited. Light meant fire, and sure, sizzling death.
When the whirling ring had faded and only the moonlight remained, the spider moved down the tree again, creeping swiftly now, in little runs and jumps and dodges. Its hunger was exceeded only by its rage when it reached the flattened leaves where the elf-she had rolled, and found her gone. Gone without a trace, and the wolf too. The bewildered spider searched the area for some time and then wandered off into the woods by moonlight, sighing as loudly and gustily as any lost elf—or human.
Humans, now; humans were fat, and full of blood and juices. Long-dimmed memories stirred in the spider, and it climbed a tree in eager haste. Humans dwelt in that direction, a long way off, and—
The head of the giant snake shot forward, its jaws snapped once, and the spider was gone. It never even had time to worry about choosing the wrong tree.
PART
III
MYTHAL
SEVENTEEN
APPRENTICED AGAIN
For some years Elminster served the elf known only as The Masked as apprentice. Despite the cruel nature of the high sorcerer, and the spell chains that bound the human in servitude, a respect grew between master and man. It was respect that ignored the differences between them, and the betrayal and battle that both knew lay ahead.
ANTARN THE SAGE
FROM THE HIGH HISTORY OF FAERÛNIAN ARCHMAGES
MIGHTY
PUBLISHED CIRCA THE YEAR OF THE STAFF
There came a spring day twenty years after the first greening season Elminster had known in service to The Masked, when a golden, shining symbol surfaced in the Athalantan’s mind, a symbol he’d almost forgotten. It troubled him; as it revolved slowly inside his head, other long-buried memories stirred. Mystra, he heard his own voice calling, and a gaze fell upon him—her gaze. He could not see her, but he could feel the awesome weight of her regard: deep and warm and terrible, more mighty than the most furious glare of the Master, and more loving than … than …
Nacacia.
He looked down at Nacacia from where he hung in the great glowing spell web they’d spent all morning crafting together, and their gazes met. Her eyes were dark and liquid and very large, and there was longing in them as she looked up at him. Soundlessly, trembling, her lips shaped his name.
It was all she dared do. El fought down a sudden urge to lash out at the masked sorcerer, who was floating with his back to them not far away, weaving spells of his own, and gave her a wink before he quickly turned his head away. The Master delved too much into both their minds to hide their mutual fondness from him. Already the mysterious elven mage had taken to making Nacacia slap his human apprentice, otherwise keep well away from Elminster, and speak harshly when she spoke to the Athalantan at all.
The Masked seldom compelled Elminster to do anything. He seemed to be watching El and waiting for something. One of the things he watched for was any act of defiance, and he took open delight in punishing his human apprentice for all of them. Remembering some of those punishments, El shuddered involuntarily.
He risked another glance at Nacacia, and found that she was doing the same thing. Their eyes met almost guiltily, and they both hurriedly looked away. El set his teeth and started to climb the spell web away from her—anything to be moving, doing something.
Mystra, he thought silently, seeking to thrust away his vivid memory of Nacacia’s smiling face. Oh, Mystra, I need guidance … are all these passing years of my servitude part of your plan?
The world around him seemed to shimmer, and he was suddenly standing in a rocky meadow. It was the field in which he’d watched sheep, above Heldon, as a boy!
A breeze was blowing across it, and he was cold. Small wonder—he was also naked.
Lifting his head, he found himself staring at the sorceress he’d trained under for so long, years ago: Myrjala, she known as “Darkeyes.” The great dark eyes for which she was named seemed deeper and more alluring than ever as she reclined on the empty air above the blown grasses, regarding him. The winds did not touch her dark satin gown.
Myrjala had been Mystra. Elminster stretched out a hand to her, tentatively.
“Great Lady,” he almost whispered, “is it ye in truth—after all these years?”
“Of course,” the goddess said, her eyes dark pools of promise. “How is it that you doubt me?”
El almost shuddered under the sudden wash of shame that he felt. He went to his knees, dropping his eyes. “I—I am wrong to do so, and … well, it’s just that it’s been so long, and …”
“Not long to an elf,” Mystra said gently. “Are you beginning to learn patience at last, or are you truly desperate?”
Elminster looked up at her, eyes bright, as he found himself suddenly hovering on the edge of tears. “No!” he cried. “All I needed was this, to see ye, and know I’m doing what ye intend. I—I need guidance still.”
Mystra smiled at him. �
�At least you know you need it. Some never do, and crash happily through life, laying waste to all they can reach in Faerûn around them, whether they realize it or not.” She raised a hand, and her smile changed.
“Yet think on this, dearest of my Chosen: most folk of Faerûn never have such guidance, and still learn to stand on their own feet unaided, and follow their own ideas as their lives run, and make their own mistakes. You’ve certainly mastered that last talent.”
Elminster looked away, fighting back tears again, and Mystra laughed and touched his cheek. Warm fire seemed to race through him.
“Be not downhearted,” she murmured, as a mother does to a crying son, “for you are learning patience, and your shame is unfounded. Much though you fear you’ve forgotten me and strayed from the task I set you, I am well pleased.”
Her face changed, then, as Heldon darkened and faded around it, and became the face of Nacacia.
Elminster blinked at it, as it winked at him. He was back in the spell web, staring down at the real Nacacia once more. He drew in a deep, tremulous breath, smiled at her, and climbed on through the web. No matter what he did, however, his thoughts stayed on his fellow apprentice. He could see her face as clearly in his mind as his eyes had beheld it, moments ago. Sometimes he wondered how much of such mind-scenes the master could see, and what the elven sorcerer truly thought of his two apprentices.
Nacacia. Ah, leave my thoughts for a moment, leave me in peace! But no …
She was a half-elf, brought into the tower as a bright-eyed waif one night, huddled in the arms of The Masked. Elminster suspected he’d raided the village where she lived.
Bright and bubbly, possessed of a pranksome nature that The Masked harshly beat out of her with spanking spells and transformations into toads or earthworms, and a merry nature it seemed nothing he did could crush, Nacacia had swiftly grown into a beauty.
She had auburn hair that flowed down to the backs of her knees in a thick fall, and a surprisingly muscular back and shoulders; from where he’d been standing in the web above her, El had admired the deep, curving line of her spine. Her large eyes, smile and cheekbones bore the classic beauty of her elven blood, and her waist was so slim as to seem almost toylike.
