by Ed Greenwood
Elminster turned back to the sideboard and its decanters for a replenishment, then turned slowly on one heel to survey the room and see if anyone else felt the need to have their glass filled.
Yonder, Alastra was talking to Malchor at last, the two Elders of Nimbral seemed to have reached a decision about something and were heading in El’s direction, and Calathlarra had just said something to Shaaan that had made Manshoon shake his head and depart their company briskly.
Also heading for … Elminster.
Uh-oh.
Yet when the vampire reached El, all he did was hold out an empty wineglass and ask politely, “Anything very red and very dry left?”
El found him something suitable among the gleaming glass forest of decanters, poured, and Manshoon nodded thanks.
By which time the two Elders of Nimbral were standing at their elbows, waiting politely. El proffered the decanter he was holding, but they shook their heads.
“I wanted to ask you about the Sundering,” Skouloun said calmly to El, and then glanced at Manshoon and added, “But perhaps now is not a good time.”
The vampire gave him a polite smile and said, “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. I’m not the power-hungry tyrant many seem to think me.”
“Oh?” Yusendre asked him calmly, as if doing so was no boldness at all. “What are you, then?”
Manshoon’s answering smile was silky. “One who plays a longer game, Lady. I’ve learned one lesson too many times over, now: spell-hurling and marching armies often mar the prizes being fought for. Why fight, when by the right manipulations—often such small things that I’ve learned by watching Elminster here, for centuries now—can bring about what is sought without all the bloodshed? Every death can mean a feud, and more enemies. I’ve already had to learn patience. Now I’m learning … slyness.”
“What, all over again?” Skouloun asked gently—and then unflinchingly endured the level, heavy gaze Manshoon gave him.
“Ask, then,” Elminster prompted the Nimbran, a bare instant after Manshoon shrugged, smiled, and relaxed.
“The Sundering,” Skouloun asked, “is it done? In your opinion.”
Elminster smiled. “Its consequences shall be with us henceforth, but the sorting of what is Toril unto Toril, and what is of Abeir to Abeir—that’s done, yes. The two worlds are now sundered, and the Era of Upheaval is ended. Or so Mystra tells me.”
“So who or what caused the Sundering?” Yusendre asked.
El shrugged. “Strife among the gods, some say, or displeasing the Overgod, or the death of Mystra, or merely that it was time; Abeir and Toril have comingled before and shall again. Thy guess is as good as mine.”
“Oh, come, come,” Skouloun objected. “We all know Chosen of Mystra like to speak cryptically and cloak themselves in an aura of mystery, in veneration of Our Lady of Mysteries, but surely—”
“I know more?” El smiled. “I know what Mystra tells me, and what I saw and heard myself when working with the Weave. Yet how much of that can I trust, really?”
“Mystra tells one wizard one thing,” Manshoon murmured, “and another mage another thing. As I know from personal experience.”
“Just as every god or goddess tells their Chosen what they want their Chosen to believe,” El added. “Seeking to manipulate them to act thus and so, and thereby gain power through the deeds, worldly strength, and numbers of their Chosen, these last few years. All of the fighting that raged across Faerûn—that yet rages, in many places—was no accident.”
“So who won?” Skouloun demanded.
Elminster shrugged. “Those deities we thought dead and gone, who have returned. The great dance among the gods continues, the intrigues and the fighting. Shar lost, this time around, for a great measure of order has been restored, and Mystra is goddess of magic, so there is still a Weave and not the great night of ongoing chaos Shar hungers to bring about.”
“You tell us nothing we do not already know, or have heard, or guessed,” Skouloun observed with a frown. “Do you intend to tell us nothing?”
The Sage of Shadowdale shrugged again. “We can talk for days, and I can tell ye many things, but certainties are few. All I can be sure of is that I and Storm and others worked to anchor and repair the Weave when Mystra was silent—”
“Dead,” Manshoon corrected. “Dead and gone.”
El shook his head. “Dead but not gone, only silent. For Mystra is the Weave, and throughout all of this, there was always a Weave, however weak and damaged and imperiled.”
“A metaphor,” the vampire said dismissively.
“No. If Mystra had been utterly destroyed, her essence—her body, in mortal terms—scattered, the Weave would have collapsed and all the old ways of wielding magic with it. We came close to that.”
Manshoon shrugged. “The collapse, and the danger it posed to mages like myself, I foresaw, which was why I decided to watch and not join in the fray. Being in the thick of a battle when one goes mad and one’s spells go wild forever is no recipe for survival. Yet if that fool Telamont Tanthul had succeeded in seizing the energies of both the wards of Candlekeep and the mythal of Myth Drannor, I would have acted.”
“By gibbering as you reeled around randomly?” Skouloun asked. “Or something more decisive?”
“If I’d gone mad,” Manshoon told him coldly, “the other Manshoons that yet sleep would have awakened, and read the brief missives I’d left them, and would have attacked.”
“Attacked whom?” Yusendre demanded.
“Whoever was trying to reshape the Weave and pass it to Shar,” Manshoon snapped. “And I suspect there were other powerful wielders of the Art awaiting that same moment. Do not think Tanthul or anyone else would have had more than a breath or two to gloat.”
“There were others,” El agreed. “Two stepped forth. Larloch was tempted out of his own watching and biding by the power available to him—and the Srinshee then struck out at him. Leaving the Weave in my hands, so I could use it against Tanthul.”
“I always wondered if mages told war stories that were essentially different than those spouted by us coarse rogues and warriors, when they got together,” Mirt observed from behind them, “but I guess not. Lords and Ladies of the Art, the next trio of dishes have been served. Please resume your seats at table, for the fare won’t remain hot and at its best forever.”
All over the vast room, other guests were doing just that, though El noticed one thing amid all the movement, which made him smile grimly: the moment after Lord Halaunt tensed and grimaced—despite his shielding, Alusair could still feel attempts to invade her mind, and the sensations were less than pleasant—Calathlarra reeled and almost fell, clawing involuntarily at the nearest arm for support. It belonged to Maraunth Torr, and he hastily pulled away, leaving her staggering.
As the aged Runemaster regained her balance, seething, Elminster bit back a sigh of relief. What Mystra had taught him had not only protected the mind of Alusair within the ravaged mind of Lord Halaunt from someone trying to take over their host, it had, it seemed, delivered the gentlest of mind slaps to the would-be mental conqueror. Hopefully it would prevent Calathlarra from trying again.
So that was one doom avoided. So long as he and the Weave held, none of these Lost Spell–hungry archmages would be able to speak with Halaunt’s voice and so establish authority over everyone gathered here. And no one would at a stroke learn where the Lost Spell and all Halaunt’s other magic was, and precisely how to use it. Which meant everyone else here might just live a little longer …
Myrmeen slipped past El then, and he turned and matched strides with her, holding up his decanter as if asking her about it. What he really asked was, “Did ye see Calathlarra, just now?”
The Cormyrean warrior nodded. “Someone stung her inside her head, by the looks of it.”
“They did,” El agreed. “Have ye noticed anyone else acting as she did?”
Myrmeen shook her head. “No. If others caught such blows to their minds
, I couldn’t tell so from their faces.”
“All faces are masks,” El told her gently.
“I was born a day or even two before yestereve,” Myrmeen reminded him wryly. “And have had many dealings with Vangey for … too long to count the years. Though thankfully, not with any of our esteemed guests before. Nest of vipers. Now, unless you want a kitchen fire to enliven the proceedings still further, I must get back in there now. So try not to start any big spell battles just yet; I wouldn’t want to miss that sort of fun.”
“Indeed,” El agreed gravely, and turned back toward the great feast table.
He was in time to see Lord Halaunt, in the act of sitting down in his highbacked chair at the end of the table while discussing something with Tabra, waver and then fall the rest of the way into his seat, face momentarily gone tight and pained.
Quickly, El tried to look around at every guest, in hopes of seeing which one was feeling a mind slap. There! Manshoon was shuddering in his seat and wincing. It seemed the longer game involved a step taken forward right now …
The platters ranged down the table were steaming, and the aromas arising from them made his mouth water.
El resolved to eat heartily and well. For if things went bad within these walls, who knew when his next meal might come? And what it would be like?
He’d come a long, long way from the rat pies of his youth in Hastarl, but along that journey had been countless bad situations. “Bad” as in bloodshed and dark unfolding consequences.
And he couldn’t shake the feeling that those sort of dark moments lay ahead, here in Oldspires. Very bad, and very soon.
THE CANDLES RANGED down the table were burning low, and everyone was full. Only the bowls of nuts and fruits were still being touched, between sips from wineglasses that had been filled and refilled again many times. There had been three clearings of the table now, and El was beginning to wonder if Mirt and Myrmeen had smuggled a small army of cooks into the kitchens, and were determined to empty the manor larders at one go. Another guest—Skouloun of Nimbral—had reeled in his seat between the undoming of the roast bustard and the serving of the woodwing hash, but Mystra was still standing vigilant guard over the mind of Lord Halaunt. It would be amusing to see who else tried to assail the old noble; El’s money was on Maraunth Torr, but probably not in front of everyone. The man would have to be a dullard not to have noticed at least one of the attempts, to conclude that there was some sort of protection he had to breach and overcome, and he would want to be alone for some elaborate spellcastings.
Around the table, there’d been a fair bit of verbal fencing as to who should be trusted with the Lost Spell, assuming the various would-be purchasers made Lord Halaunt the same or almost the same monetary offer. Who was worthy to wield such a mighty magic—and who clearly was not?
And how could Elminster be considered a worthy judge, given his past history with more than a few of the guests?
El smiled. He’d fought Manshoon and Shaaan more than once, separately; Alastra was his former apprentice, and he and Malchor, though they’d never been close, had been friends for a long time now …
He was still smiling when Maraunth Torr picked up one of the spoons set for his place at the table, examined its workmanship idly, and asked it, “And why shouldn’t every guest here in this hall arise in unison and smite Elminster and Halaunt both, and just take the Lost Spell?”
“Because if anything befalls me,” Lord Halaunt said softly, “none of you will ever get it.”
“And because if ye try,” Elminster added, affecting an almost jovial manner, “ye’ll discover just what lengths a Chosen of Mystra who doesn’t much care how much longer he lives will go to, to slay wielders of the Art who don’t much deserve to go on infesting Faerûn much longer. I’ve had years upon years of dallying in Cormyr to prepare more traps than ye’ll ever find—scores of them in this house alone.”
His last seven words were an utter falsehood, but more than one guest up and down that long table winced, obviously believing him.
“However,” Manshoon remarked pleasantly, “let us suppose you haven’t prepared any traps at all, and are doing what you usually do, Elminster Aumar: improvising as you go, bluffing and hinting and threatening … when you almost have to be just as helpless at the Art in this place as the rest of us.”
There was an almost tangible easing, up and down the table, a relaxing.
El matched his longtime rival’s pleasant drawl, and his eyes were merry rather than glaring out death, as he replied, “Well, of course ye could suppose that. It is rather a gamble, if ye go too far—being as ye hazard thy life. Most of us only get one life, so it’s precious to us. Ye, of course, can afford to risk everything—because if ye perish, it’s not the end … is it?”
The wary tension was back, hanging as heavy in the room as if the relief of a moment earlier had never happened.
Manshoon shrugged. “You seem to belittle the fact that when I die, Sage of Shadowdale, I die. My next self lacks the memories of what my last one did; everything is lost and wasted.”
“Save that those ye slew are still dead, and the effects of the things ye did still mar Faerûn, and all the memories ye’ve stored in gems and put with thy clones are not lost,” El replied calmly. “Wherefore I weep not overmuch on thy account.”
Manshoon regarded him balefully. “Did you ever?”
“Weep? No. Thy choices were thy follies. I betimes reflected sadly on those ye made, yes. Ye could have been so much more.”
Manshoon shrugged. “I’m not done yet, old man. Just as you aren’t done misjudging me. I am no longer the man you saw rise to lordship in Zhentil Keep.”
“Well, thank all the gods for that,” Alastra commented, draining her glass. “The ambition and vandalously frenetic strivings of all those magelings you sent rushing to their dooms got to be more than tiresome, after a while.”
Manshoon gave her a cold sneer.
That made her chuckle. “Still? Still the oh-so-menacing hauteur? How many times have the Zhentarim reached out to conquer or despoil—and failed? Tell me, Manshoon of the Zhentarim, exactly what have you achieved, with all the years you’ve had, to feel oh-so-superior about?”
Manshoon’s sneer turned to a cold, malevolent stare. “More, little minx, than you shall ever know, or have the wits and mastery of the Art to appreciate.”
Alastra chuckled again. “That the best crushing rejoinder you can muster?” She turned away, but not before Manshoon—and Elminster, and everyone else seated nearby—saw the merry contempt in her eyes.
Little minx, El thought, amused. And then found himself wondering when the last occasion was when he’d seen a big minx. Truly, the world changed whenever his back was turned, these days …
Another contest of sneers and biting sarcasm erupted from just beyond Manshoon, among the two Elders of Nimbral, Calathlarra, and Shaaan.
This, Alusair’s voice said in Elminster’s head, grows tiresome, and more than tiresome. The more they drink, the more their true hostile and repulsive natures are revealed. It’s high time these arrogant, so-certain-they-know-it-all archmages got a little … unsettled.
Lass, Elminster inquired almost sternly, what’re ye up to?
Oh, a-haunting I shall go, Alusair sang impishly. And none of your admonitions, Old Mage. I am, after all, a ghost—and I do believe it’s time to reveal my true hostile and repulsive nature.
Heh. Be careful, Luse, El told her fondly, watching Lord Halaunt quietly depart his seat and head for the door that led to the kitchen, and a certain capacious cupboard in the butlery, beyond. Don’t burn the place down with all of us in it, now!
Oooh, El, don’t give me ideas!
Luse!
Folk who’ve had a scare are sometimes more biddable, the princess replied, from behind Halaunt’s unreadable face. This just might help.
El sent a mental snort her way, and sat back to enjoy the fun. He did not have long to wait.
And she was doin
g what he’d intended. No accord could possibly hold if grudges were uneased, fury unspoken, and everything bottled up and simmering behind polite masks, as happened at too many courts across Faerûn. All of the petty grievances and irritants had to be aired, before the real getting to know others, and finding common ground with them, could begin.
The feast hall darkened abruptly as candles winked out in the maerifasturs overhead, the flames dying as if starved for air. The diners looked up, frowning, and Elminster was careful to join in this visible unease—as various of the unused chairs ranged neatly against the tapestried walls all around the room started to move by themselves, and the fire in one of the fireplaces went from orange flames to bright green ones in a flickering instant.
Manshoon and Maraunth Torr both flung looks of withering scorn at El, who feigned innocent dumbfoundedness as he gazed back at them, held up empty hands, and shrugged. Judging by their expressions, that cut no ice, but their attention wavered when a loud and mournful sigh seemed to emanate from the air above the table—and rushed down the length of it ere it faded.
Then Maraunth Torr reared his head back in haste as a lit candle seemed to leap from its perch overhead, descend swiftly toward the table, and then swoop up again, pursuing the sigh and passing right under the wizard’s nose.
“Parlor tricks, Aumar?” Shaaan spat, as she and Calathlarra tendered almost identical expressions of cold reproof. Their faces contrasted with the wry smile now decorating Tabra’s features. She, at least, was enjoying this.
“Enough,” the Runemaster snapped, standing up to lash out with a swift and mighty dispelling enchantment that should have seared all magic in at least half of the room—and through and beyond its walls in that direction for quite some distance.
What it did instead was make brief flowers of magical radiance blossom and then burst in a cluster in midair as a discordant tune of jangled harp-strings resounded—and everything became a thin plume of pink smoke, drifting away to one side in a sudden hurry.
Calathlarra glared at it as if she’d been personally betrayed, but the smoke seemed unperturbed. Yusendre and Manshoon, seated on either side of the Runemaster, looked up at her warily, undoubtedly wondering what she’d do next.
