Spellstorm

by Ed Greenwood

  “It’s hardly prudent to spurn my offer out of hand with such gratuitous and unfounded insults,” Maraunth Torr replied with a smile. “Being as I wield power enough to be able to harm those near and dear to you, and hamper your causes. To prefer to face threats rather than to accept bribes is hardly the act of a sane man, I must say.”

  “Aye, obviously ye must,” Elminster replied dryly. “Yet I’ve not been sane for these last thousand-some years, so thy point strays wide and leaves me unskewered. Manshoon yonder has been threatening me for more than a century—or rather, various of him have—yet here I still stand. That should tell thee something.”

  “I,” Maraunth Torr said a trifle coldly, “am not Manshoon.”

  “Aye,” El replied, almost purring out the words. “I’d noticed.”

  Maraunth Torr reddened around the temples, a blush that spread down the line of his jaw as it tightened.

  Ah, yes, that smarts. Ye very want to achieve as much as Manshoon, or at least assume half the mantle of his infamy. Smiling serenely at the glowering wizard, Elminster strolled on.

  To find Yusendre suddenly in front of him, gliding to a stop with a little smile and nod of greeting.

  “Bad form,” she commented, holding up her empty glass.

  “What’s bad form?” he asked politely, selecting a decanter, proffering it, and when she nodded acceptance, refilling her glass.

  “I know not what the scaled woman and Saer Torr said to you at first,” she replied, “but I know they both ended by uttering threats. They’re not accustomed to hiding their true feelings, so I or anyone who cares to can easily read their tone of voice, or facial expressions … proper little tyrants, the pair of them.”

  “Whereas you are a proper little—what?” El asked her lightly.

  “Would-be friend. Kindness and friendship achieve much more than fear, outright threat, and glowering menace.”

  “So, Yusendre, is this the ‘sleep with me, Elminster; my price is merely the Lost Spell’ gambit?” Malchor murmured, from where he’d drifted up behind her.

  She gave him a pleasant smile that held no hint of irritation. “Why not? Fun to play, even if it fails, hmm?” And turned her gaze back to Elminster, a clear promise in her eyes.

  “Thy beauty and thy spirit are both … admirable,” El replied, “yet I have known the beauty and spirit of the goddess I serve, and it has … tempered me, as a swordsmith tempers a blade, in matters of seduction.”

  Oooh, hearken to the man. I’ll just bet your blade is tempered! Alusair commented wickedly.

  I thought it a suitably arch comment, myself, El thought back at her, letting her feel his amusement.

  Around and between them, as decanters were emptied much faster than the cheese was disappearing, some of the guests were trading murmured threats, and others seemed to be tentatively trying to establish alliances.

  The male Elder of Nimbral seemed irritated. “Though we’ve been here but a short time,” he complained to Malchor Harpell, “this entire situation has, to me, the feel of a cage, wherein we who seek the Lost Spell are confined until one of us wins it—and is thereby handed the chance to slaughter the rest of us, his or her conveniently gathered rivals.”

  Malchor sighed. “Try not to say such things too freely, and impart ideas to those who just might try to make them reality. I’d rather not see dead bodies strewn everywhere around this nice old house. Just think what all of us gathered here in this room could achieve if we mustered all of our Art and worked together!”

  “That will never happen,” Skouloun said flatly. “Not even if any of us were crazed enough to want it to.”

  Malchor sighed a little sadly. “A realist, I see,” he said, staring at the Elder of Nimbral. “You and your kind always take all the fun out of things.”

  And he turned on his heel and strode away. In his wake, Skouloun sniffed disparagingly, shrugged, and then departed in the direction of the nearest decanter.

  Leaving Alastra Hathwinter, who’d been edging up behind Malchor, all alone in the suddenly vacated spot. She stared after Malchor longingly.

  Then she took a step after him, and another, started to gather speed—and then stopped abruptly, some of the color draining from her face.

  Elminster came to a stop beside her and murmured, “This would seem to me to be the time when a gallant old archmage would engage thee in gentle converse to soothe and restore thy heart.”

  Alastra sighed. “You’re most kind, Lord Elminster, but I doubt even the most golden tongue can restore me so easily.”

  Together they gazed across the room at the reason for her sudden stop—and despair. Malchor Harpell was now talking to both Manshoon and Shaaan, who were facing out into the room watchfully. That little group was a decidedly less than safe place for a Harper to be.

  The lass, El thought at Alusair a little bleakly, is smitten.

  With you, old buzzard?

  Nay. Oh, she’s in awe of me, and reveres me a little—a founder of the Harpers, and all that. But she’s hopelessly in love with Malchor. Methinks she doesn’t really want the Lost Spell so much as she wants yonder former elder pillar of the Harpells kept safe. And, of course, she wants no foes of the Harpers to gain possession of the Lost Spell.

  A platter heaped with wants, then. I wonder how many she’ll be able to halfway fulfill?

  El smiled a little grimly. Well, Luse, given this company, precious few to none, I’d say.

  Alusair sent him a wordless mind surge of resigned agreement.

  Elminster bent his head close to Alastra’s and murmured, “Tell me now, as one Harper to another: what can ye tell me of our host, the Lord Halaunt?”

  Alastra gave him a look of surprise, then smiled and replied, “He’s a rather unsavory individual who for years has been covertly hiring various less-than-law-abiding adventuring bands, often in Sembia, to further his ends—and damage the property and dealings of his rivals among the nobility.”

  “A noble who resorts to bullyblades to make his will real,” El concluded.

  “Precisely. Yet he’s no loner; he and Manshoon collaborated on swindling a wealthy Sembian merchant family eight summers back. Mlorgathyn of Selgaunt, a dealer in fine wines, scents, and sauces.”

  “Interesting,” El replied, wondering how well Manshoon knew Halaunt, and, for that matter, Oldspires.

  He let his gaze wander to Manshoon’s face, and his longtime rival felt or sensed the weight of his regard, looked his way, and when their eyes met, gave him a soft, dangerous “I’ll get you someday” smile.

  Elminster chuckled aloud.

  Oh, yes, this was going to get bad.

  Very bad. And very soon.

  MYRMEEN AND MIRT had worked miracles. Scores of candles flickered overhead in the great hanging maerifasturs, fires crackled merrily in all three of the feast hall’s great fireplaces, and the tables were covered with fine linens, old but gleaming silver, and a handsome feast, on abundant platters, of a quality and variety that outshone many a noble’s best.

  Despite himself, and the many feasts he had attended in his long, long life, Elminster was impressed. He couldn’t mindspeak either Myrmeen or Mirt without working a spell, as unlike the ghost of the princess, they weren’t bound up in the Weave, so he would have to wait until he could speak to them alone to convey his gratitude. He owed them—boy, did he owe them. If this was the standard they were setting …

  He shook his head, which prompted Tabra, who’d literally backed him into a corner with relentless small talk because she obviously wanted to ask him something, to inquire, “What in particular of what I’ve just said do you disagree with, Lord Elminster?”

  “A stray thought,” he replied soothingly, “nothing more.”

  “Ah,” she responded. “So I may ask you something?”

  He gave her a smile and his full attention. “Ask away.”

  “Thank you. You are aware I was Ioulaum’s last apprentice?”

  El nodded.

  “
And that in an effort to pry certain spells out of me, the Netherese of Thultanthar captured and enslaved me?”

  “They sought Ioulaum’s Longevity, no doubt,” El offered.

  Tabra gave him a sharp look. “Do you seek it, too?”

  Elminster shook his head. “Nay,” he replied. “For some years I’ve not wanted to live much longer, to say nothing of forever.”

  “It was Telamont Tanthul who did this to me,” Tabra hissed. “I hate him, and all those who served him. I’m told you destroyed him with ease—how? Tell me, how?”

  “The Weave,” El told her.

  She gave him a look of disgust, but he protested, “Nay, misunderstand me not! I’m not being clever and taunting you with flippant glibness, denying you what you seek as a weapon against the Thultanthans you hunt; I’m seeking to tell you it’s no spell, nor combination of spells, that you can learn from me and use.”

  Tabra frowned, and El added swiftly, “Aye, the Weave underlies all arcane spells, but what I meant was this … what befell me when the Blue Fire came was near madness, a loss of control; when I used the Art, unless other minds stabilized mine, I lost my mind. Every time.”

  Tabra’s eyes narrowed as she stared into Elminster’s own, trying to judge if he told the truth.

  “Not for good,” El told her, “but for long periods of witlessness. As all magic of the Weave weakened and went wild, I fought to mend the Weave, and learned it more deeply and in detail—because I dared not work spells—than I ever had before. By the time Mystra returned and commanded me once more, I was a Weavemaster. The Weavemaster; the one known, as the Srinshee was perhaps the only being to understand it more fully. When I struck down Telamont, he was … overextended, but ablaze with gathered power; he had just directed a magic all the arcanists who obeyed him had contributed to, he had drained many enchanted items into himself, and he was seeking to harness the mythal of Myth Drannor, all in obedience to Shar. The Weave was unstable, and if I’d tried to look at him through it, I’d have been blinded—his gathered power was that great.”

  “So how—? How mighty are you?”

  “As an archmage, hurling spells, not his equal. He had greater magic at his call, by far. His weaknesses were arrogant overconfidence, and years of overmuch reliance on the obedience of underlings without having to face all the betrayals, difficulties, and wide variety of experiences that tutored me.”

  “He was inexperienced, measured against you.”

  “Aye. Yet if we’d stood against each other and traded spell after spell, he’d have bested me. I was worn down, and he was fresh and empowered. I think we both knew it.”

  “And so?”

  “And so I used no spell, but the Weave. The magics he unleashed at me it drank, and became that much more spellfire, fueling what I was directing the Weave to do. He empowered what I did to him.”

  “So can you teach me this?”

  El shook his head. “Ye could learn it the same way I did, through long work with the Weave—if Mystra allowed thee, which is unlikely; the details of what I did are fading from my mind fast, which suggests she’s taking it from me because she trusts no mortal to carry it. And the Weave is Mystra, and Mystra is the Weave; each Mystra changes the Weave to make it her own, and this one has changed it since her return, to guard against what was done to her to bring on the Spellplague.”

  He sighed. “More than that, the Weave is no longer as unstable, as awash with freed and dangerous power, as it was that day—and I and all who serve Mystra are trying to keep it from ever being so imperiled, so on the verge of utter collapse, as it was then. Nor would ye face a foe so bloated with excess arcane energy that ye could turn against him. I say again: I did not defeat the Most High of Thultanthar in a spell duel. There was no duel. I slapped him down with the Weave, in a way he did not believe I or anyone had the ability to harness, and so he had no defense against it that he could craft in time.”

  “And if you had failed?”

  “Both the Srinshee and Larloch could have done it, and would have done it. Thy former master could probably have done it, too, but I know not if he could have grasped how to wield the Weave swiftly enough to stop Telamont ere the Most High carried out its destruction, as Shar had commanded. Ioulaum, last I knew, was … lost in his own contemplations.”

  Tabra nodded sadly. “You describe him aptly. And I thank you for your candor. You have not the weapon I seek.”

  Elminster nodded. “And I hope never to have it again. The risk to us all, to the Art we all use, is too great.”

  “So,” Tabra said slowly, “in this place, here and now, where magic won’t obey us, you can’t use the Weave in its place.”

  El looked back at her gravely, and said nothing.

  They regarded each other in silence for a long moment, among the chatter up and down the room, ere Tabra observed quietly, “You’re not the prancing mighty spellhurler most think you at all. You are as … misunderstood as my looks now make me misjudged.”

  El gave her a wry smile. “Don’t tell, now! I’m in disguise! And that same prancing mask I wear achieves much for me.”

  Tabra crooked an eyebrow. The effect was grotesque, thanks to her misshapen face. “More conquests? Females yielding to you?”

  Elminster rolled his eyes. “That’s far more part of the pose than it is reality. I meant I further Mystra’s aims by playing the wise old fool so I am feared, and folk do what they think best to turn aside my wrath or my meddlings—and such doings are often the very deeds I hope they will do.”

  “I believe,” Tabra said dryly, “I’d like a drink now. And some food to hold it down with.”

  El chuckled. “Me, too. Nobly saving the world is such thirsty work.”

  CHAPTER 7

  A Feast to Die For

  THE FEAST UNFOLDED STIFFLY AT FIRST, WITH AWKWARD SILENCES and diners turning to begin conversing and then thinking better of it and holding silence. Yet a smilingly silent Myrmeen and a sweating Mirt—Manshoon had recognized him in an instant and given him a hard glare, but had said not a word—served forth the food as serenely as if there were no uncomfortable atmosphere at all. The viands proved superb and Lord Halaunt’s wine cellar strong, and as food and wine took effect, the diners relaxed, chatter and even laughter arose, and Alusair was moved to mindmurmur to El, Convivial at last. I thought we’d never get there.

  When the first three dishes were done, Mirt had suggested everyone rise and partake of wine and chat while the table was cleared and fresh dishes were prepared—and wonder of wonders, all of these powerful, superior mages had obeyed as meekly as nuns acquiescing to something they secretly agreed with and looked forward to.

  El hastened to make sure glasses were filled and everyone who wanted a cheese tart had one, and by then the mingling was in full swing again, Lord Halaunt’s chattering guests strolling around the feast hall. It was a grand, soaring room, much larger than the Red Receiving Room where they’d first gathered, with three tall bay windows looking south into Lord Halaunt’s woods. Each window commanded its own alcove, and if you turned away from the views, you beheld faded stag-hunting tapestries hanging everywhere that didn’t have a window or a fireplace and huge rising stone chimney.

  Elminster found himself facing the patriarch of the Harpells of Longsaddle, who favored him with the easy smile of a friend or trusted colleague.

  “Retired from serving Mystra to serve yon old coot?” Malchor murmured. “Don’t believe it. None of us do. You aren’t really expecting anyone to swallow that line, are you?”

  El grinned. “Frankly, no.” Then he added very quietly, “Yet ye’ve no idea how tired I am of riding to the rescue of realm after realm, again and again. I’ve so much reading to get caught up on.”

  Malchor nodded. “A condition I am not unfamiliar with. Well, may this ride end in victory for you.”

  “Ye’re not really after the spell, are ye?” El asked.

  Malchor smiled. “No. I’m more after making sure certain individua
ls don’t get it—and live to use it on the rest of us.”

  And he saluted Elminster with his goblet and strolled away. Alastra turned and abandoned a conversation to follow the senior Harpell, drifting in his wake.

  “How touching,” a voice that held an edge of steel commented from nearby. “Young and lost in love. I was like that, once. And gave myself to matchmaking, to make all my friends happy, one after another. Not all of those matches lasted.”

  It was Calathlarra. Elminster managed not to look disbelieving, but she wasn’t fooled. “Oh, yes,” she said, giving him a very direct look. “I was young and devoted to serving others once. A long time ago.” She sounded almost wistful.

  El gazed at her and tried to imagine Calathlarra as young and generous and self-sacrificingly helpful.

  He failed.

  “So, Chosen of Mystra,” she said challengingly, “is the Art truly useless to us here? Won’t it work at all?”

  Elminster sighed. “Oh, it’ll work, I daresay. It just won’t do what ye intend it to do. A casting ye’ve worked a thousand times before will cause something utterly surprising and unintended, not what ye want it to. Perhaps deadly to all, perhaps so subtle ye’ll have to search to see what the magic wrought. I think.”

  “You ‘think’? You’re not certain?”

  “As I get older,” El replied, “I find certainty increasingly elusive. Don’t ye?”

  “No,” Calathlarra replied flatly. “As the years pass, I eliminate more of my foes, and their schemes and strivings die with them, so certainty—for me—rises. And one certainty looms steadily nearer and clearer: the certainty of death. Whenever I deal it, I simplify matters, and certainty grows. Admit it, Elminster Aumar: the most convenient enemies are those who’ve become but memories. Destroyed, and therefore done.”

  “And are ye planning any such simplifications, in the near future?”

  “Planning? No. Yet I find myself increasingly fond of certainty,” Calathlarra purred, giving him a mirthless smile as she started to drift away. “Cold certainty.”