by Ed Greenwood
Elminster sighed, shook his head, and tried to get to his feet. He made it as far as his hands and knees before he felt the crawling sensation again. He pitched forward onto his face, scrabbling at the rocks with bleeding fingers.
Stay down and go this way.
So much for wandering. El sighed-it came out as a hoarse gurgle-and started to crawl. A ball of fire roared across the sky, and the ground shook again.
He was standing on the wind-scoured battlements of a castle that no longer existed, watching something in the snow-covered garden below stir and suddenly rise, throwing off a thick cloak of ice, and reaching out a scaly claw-
Into a dark, dim hall where skeletons sat slumped in tall, arch-backed chairs, wan glows flickering about their bone fingers as the enchantments in the rings they wore finally died, letting loose spells that had been cast before Alaundo had been born…
The probing force in his mind faltered, and he was back in Avernus again. An angry mental roar echoed through him: By the searing fires? Your mind is … Utter chaos.
El found himself grinning fiercely, and tried to send a firm, clear thought back at the wandering sentience within him.
Of course, I am a wizard.
A wordless slap came back at him out of the darkness of his own mind. It sent Elminster tumbling in a wet flow of what might have been tears or blood. He found himself screaming, or trying to, and shaking a head he did not have-
Desperately, in the innermost cloak of comfort he'd fled into, he turned over a rock close to his heart and warmed his hand, just for a moment, on the silver fire lurking beneath.
Then, calm once more, he rose within the velvet darkness of his mind and went on, parting veils until he saw the blood-red sky of Avernus once more. Near the distant horizon streaked another ball of flame.
What did you-? The fire-you used Mystra's fire! Give it to me!
Crawling, Elminster kept silent, trying to get over the ridge before the awful compulsion to turn and look back at Nergal's glaring face overwhelmed him.
The outcast devil stood with arms folded and eyes like flames. His tentacles rose above him, trembling to strike. Yield to me, man! The voice roared in his mind. Show me how you call on the silver fire!
El crawled on, blind to Avernus once again as he struggled to think of all-cloaking darkness, of nights spent stumbling along dark forest trails, of moments lost wandering in wet, dripping tombs…
There was brightness behind him, and shrieking cacophony. Nergal was coming, clawing through El's memories, tearing aside one after another until he unearthed what he sought in the dark, labyrinthine caverns of a wizard cursed to forget all too little.
Banners aflame, in a battle under bright sunlight long ago …
Elminster snatching aside rocks, turning them over to reveal fire beneath-the fire of smoking dragon's blood, spilled moments before in a spell duel that-
No. Not that remembrance! The silver fire, you pullng worm!
Silver fire. Spilling through his fingers, amid tears, on another battlefield with a dying elf woman in his arms. Her head fallen back and her magnificent throat working, as silver fire spilled forth from her like glowing smoke, drifting down, running from her fingertips to blaze and gutter in the grass around them both…
Yes! More! Snow me silver fire in use!
Silver fire, raging, roaring up hungrily…
Yes! Snow me more! Show me!
Silver flames whirling past a hundred disbelieving faces, screaming skulls as eyes melted and sizzled away and flames consumed all… hands reaching vainly for aid amid the roaring fire… slender, long-nailed, graceful Fingers closing on nothing…
A slaying? Using mystra's fire? Snow me!
Though I hate to lose anything of my beloved, I can live without her remembrance of Orlugrym, aye….
Snow me, wizard! Show me!
Whirling, snarling helices of silver flame around a thousand turrets and tumbling dragons and one grim and regal female face…
[mental chaos clearing]
She passed in a swirl of skirts.
The Red Wizard smiled. Like an eager shadow, he stepped out from behind the pillar. The Simbul might be half a world away, but this apprentice of hers would do. Oh, yes….
Again he felt that soft sighing in his mind. A fluttering, almost a caress-not like any probe or mind-smiting spell he'd ever felt. No, this was altogether something else. Something that felt… satisfied. It was withdrawing, now, fading away.
A probe, sent by this lone, hurrying lass in the dark gown? Surely not.
She'd never paused or shown sign of wariness… or any awareness of what was around her. She strode away from him along the narrow passage, brow furrowed in thought, hugging herself as she hastened. Doubtless on some self-important mission.
Not one to match his. Steal something from the private quarters of the Witch-Queen of Aglarond. Well, why not the gown right off an apprentice's body?
Orlugrym smiled a velvety smile. She was pretty, this one. He could have some fun first.
He held up one hand and murmured a different spell than the one he'd been planning to use. Ahead of him, the apprentice stiffened and froze, the skirts of her gown whispering to a halt.
"Turn," he told her softly as he stepped forward, "and offer yourself to me."
Emerald-green eyes held amazement and fear as they met his. He tensed for a scream or a snapped spell, but she regarded him mutely for a moment, her eyes very large, before swallowing visibly and gliding forward. She lifted her face to him as she came, and her trembling fingers went to the laces of her bodice.
"Y-yes," she whispered, as they came together. "Yesss."
Orlugrym's smile tightened as she swayed back at her hips and pulled away the dark cloth, thrusting her bared breasts at him. His eyes fell to her soft skin-only to find it ablaze with shimmering silver. Silver that was suddenly blinding.
He staggered back, and found himself looking into a face that was melting and flowing, into… wild hair writhing like a basket of snakes… blazing eyes he knew-all Red Wizards knew.
"Why, Orlugrym, so inconstant?" the Simbul asked gently, not a trace of mockery in her voice. "You were so sure of your intent a moment ago, your mind empty of all schemes beyond this bold foray. Be bold, then: Embrace me. Something few of your ilk can boast of doing. Come."
Orlugrym trembled as he stared full into the face of his doom. Slender arms spread to encircle his own. Deadly lips parted as they moved to meet his, murmuring, "All you need do in life, Orlugrym, if you'd cling to it, is hold onto yourself-if, that is, you know who you are."
Their breasts brushed together-and his world became roaring, rushing flames of searing silver, flowing up and over all. Orlugrym's last memory was of her lips, floating disembodied amid the silver fire, and advancing to meet his, parted and eager…
El sighed. It had been Alassra's memory, shared with him, and never his own-but to lose it and know it was gone still hurt. It fled from his mind, now, leaving him no longer knowing just what it had been. He'd felt such dazed emptiness before, long ago, and where was that recollection?
Ah, here. Archdevil, enjoy the show.
Silver flames and drifting darkness, like cloaks tumbled by lazy waves from which the sun had fled …
What?
Elminster could feel the amazement in Nergal's voice… no, bafflement.
Bafflement. Aye, give him bafflement, over matters of magic and silver fire and Mystra herself… Mystra, now: three snippets of divine memory that had leaked into his own mind in a moment of shared passion. Memories of Khelben and of silver fire.
Roaring, ravening silver…
Yes. Silver fire! The mysteries of the silver fire! Yield to me, Elminster Aumar! Reveal all!
Darkness drifted away like the great black billowing robes of the Lord Mage of Waterdeep, windblown in his wake. He soared like an ungainly carrion crow over the spires, turrets, and rooftops of that proud city. His salt-and-pepper beard curled in the wind of his journeying. His dar
k eyes were as hard as dagger points as he searched for another flash of the magic misused below….
Shrugging, he plummeted like a vengeful arrow at a familiar turret below: Blackstaff Tower. There Laeral waited, her eyes holding that sparkle that was for him alone….
Come another night, years later…
Khelben and Laeral lay abed in Waterdeep, talking quietly in each other's arms of the day's deeds and plans to come. They looked up at summer stars overhead. The Lord Mage of Waterdeep had few conceits; one was the domed ceiling of their bedchamber. It twinkled with a thousand stars, mirroring the clear night sky overhead even when fog, snow, or cloud hid the real sky from view.
They both were restless tonight. Itches and tinglings sprang up in their bodies and shifted about, roiling inside them. Khelben frowned after a particularly violent surge of discomfort. They snarled in irritation, scratching furiously.
"Much power is moving this night," he said, staring about in the darkness. "Mystra's power-or Art that affects her, at least. What d'ye make of it?"
"Something is happening to our Lady, I am sure," Laeral said. "Look at us." She caught his hand and held it up between them. In the darkness, both bare arms glowed with a ghostly blue radiance. As they watched, it seemed to pulse, grow brighter, fade again, and then grow. The stirrings within them matched its changes.
"Should we try to speak to the Lady?"
Khelben was rarely indecisive, but he was puzzled and unsure now. His lady shook her head, long hair stirring and curling about her shoulders of its own accord, moved by the awakening An within her.
"No," she said, "we might disturb her will at a dangerous time. She'll touch us, should she need us."
She pursed her lips and set her head on one side, thoughtful eyes on his. "But what if we reached to my sisters or to Elminster?"
Khelben shrugged. "Perhaps a good thing. Yet no doubt they feel what we do and know little more. Perhaps dangerous, if we are linked when the Lady calls on our power, or shifts power into us. I know not what to do… I have never felt this much-timult-of Art before."
"Nor I," Laeral agreed softly, and drew him to her in a tight embrace. They held each other under the stars like two lost children, snuggling against the cold, and waited. Sometimes waiting is all even archmages can do.
Silver fire dancing, in a little ring in the darkness above a tranquil pool, in a wood wherein no man has ever set foot…
Stop playing games with me, human! The rage in nergal's mind-voice overwhelmed the bewilderment. How is it that you show me memories that can’t possibly be your own?
Diabolic thoughts raced, dark and furious.
How can you even know such things?
Fear rang like cold steel from Nergal's coiling thoughts. A moment later the archdevil was plowing through Elminster's mind like a dragon intent on pouncing and slaying, heedless of the chaos he left. Archways cracked, and ceilings tumbled…
Tell me, wizard! Your tongue could lie, wherefore it's gone, but here you can't hide from me os deceive! Tell me!
All was bright lightning and red blood as Nergal came. El dimly knew he vomited blood out onto the stones he crawled over. The pain made his vision of the onrushing dragon pulse and fade, pulse and fade.
The pain. He hurled himself into it, sinking thankfully as if into cooling waters, plunging deep.
The dragon was coming for him, reaching out its talons, jaws gaping-
El tumbled deeper through his memories, screaming out nonsense words as if deranged, wrapping himself in armor made of his own screams-
Don't go mad on me, mage! Don't you dare go mad on me!
Elminster grinned to himself in the heart of his wild screams. I mustn't dare go mad, eh? Or what?
A blustering quip from another world came to him, like a bright glimmering. The Old Mage hugged it to himself as he tumbled deeper, the dragon thundering in pursuit:
Only one of us is going to leave this room alive, and it ain't going to be me!
Chapter Three
THE DAY THE MAGIC DIED
A flame danced and guttered above the kitchen table in Elminster's Tower in Shadowdale, between two mages who were frowning and trembling in concentration.
The flame fed on empty air. Vivid blue tinged with purple and sometimes green, it seemed about to flicker out despite all that the Simbul and Jhessail-both leaning forward over the table, sweat running down their cheeks and dripping from their chins-could do. The air almost crackled with risen magic between the queen of Aglarond and the far less mighty in Art lady Knight of Myth Drannor. Nearby, the Bard of Shadowdale sat calmly, staring into the scrying flame. Elminster's scribe, Lhaeo, watched from one corner of the room, a cooling pot of tea forgotten in his hands. He was unable to stifle a long sigh of relief when the lady bard brightened. Not taking her eyes from the dancing flame, Storm Silver-hand announced, "She-yes, it's Sharantyr, and she's laughing and chasing someone."
Jhessail frowned. "Laughing and-? Who would she be chasing about and laughing at?"
"Elminster," Lhaeo and the Simbul said flatly, together. Their faces wore identical, knowing expressions. At their tone. Jhessaii sputtered in amusement. That sent everyone in the room laughing-including a faint, ghostly giggle from the empty air between Storm and the Simbul: their spectral sister Sylune.
Storm lost contact amid the mirth. She spread her hands helplessly as the flame exploded into a drifting cloud of winking purple and blue sparks … which faded away to nothing. She shook her head, sighed, and sat back, rubbing her temples with weary fingers. "Well done, you two," she said, "considering how unreliable all Art has become …"
"We three,” the Simbul corrected. "Sylune provided the focus."
Storm smiled as she felt cool lips brush her cheek. "My thanks, Sister," she said to the empty air.
"Where are they?" Jhessail asked, leaning forward to push a decanter toward her.
The lady bard shrugged. "Somewhere south and west of us, more south, I think, probably Cormyr. Somewhere near mountains, in a castle or other fortified place."
The Simbul frowned. "The High Dale? Thunder Gap?"
Storm looked at her and frowned. "No, Sister. You must not risk yourself looking for them. Art could fail you at any time, and you could well attract unwanted attention to them. We must sit and do nothing-for once."
Shaerl grimaced. "When you're a lady at court, even in Shadowdale, you do a lot of sitting and doing nothing."
Illistyl shot her a look. "I'll bear that in mind when next the laundry must be done. I could use another pair of hands, betimes."
Storm snorted. "Enough, you two. We've the safety of the dale to consider. News is all over the North of great storms and earthquakes, of gods walking about and wild magic loosed. Many who harp are gathering to me. Whate'er befalls, you can be sure the Zhentarim and others-Mulmaster perhaps, or even Maalthiir of Hillsfar- will take full advantage of the general chaos to ride to war. We must be ready."
They all stared at her, except for Illistyl, who turned to Jhessail and said sarcastically, "And you wanted a little excitement this summer, didn't you? You had to wish it aloud, didn't you? You-"
Jhessail sighed, selected an apple of the appropriate size from the bowl of fruit on the table, and in one smooth, unexpected motion shoved it into Illistyl's mouth.
Her apprentice managed an indignant, muffled squeal in the instant before laughter reigned around the table again.
Don't toy with me, wizard! So you thrust at me a memory of yourself gone missing-amusing indeed! Yet another remembrance that can’t be your own! Another shared with your fellow servants of mystra! How came you by them?
Dark eyes, as large as all the starry night sky, looking down full of mystery… the Lady of Mystery, all his own….
Elminster smiled at that memory, slowing his plunge to hang in the star-shot darkness.
Above him, like a great dark claw, Nergal slowed too. He smiled a brittle smile as he mastered his rage. Well, then, let the little human wizard
play his games.
For a few moments more.
So these memories came from Mystra. So too did the silver fire. Well, then, let Elminster remember more of her. The secrets this future Lord of all Hell sought would inevitably be laid bare, around some waiting corner.
This one, for instance…
Stars falling in the night sky over Shadowdale, and the same stars seen from afar in Waterdeep, where folk on their balconies murmured and pointed, voices more worried than excited… to a high room in a tower in that city, where through clever magics the ceiling above the bed was lost in the sky of stars….
***
Striding across her kitchen with a fresh-cut bunch of fragrant herbs in hand, Storm stiffened and stifled a soft curse. She was in a whirling hurry. A dying Harper's plea had made her late, spells could not shorten the time that a good stew takes, and the good wives of the dale were bringing their children for an evening of tale-telling. They expected to see the Bard of Shadowdale in a nice gown, not bloodstained war-leathers crossed with recent sword cuts.
Why had that memory of seeking El come into her mind now? Alassra and Jhessail had strained so-she'd not soon forget, but why now?
She frowned, alone in the darkness, though in this place, she was never truly alone. "Sister?" she asked the empty air.
Sylune's touch was like the gentlest of breezes on her cheek and shoulder. Aye, the ghostly mind-voice came, I just recalled that night, too. I wonder why.
***
"Oh, love," Laeral whispered tremulously, arms tight about Khelben in the starry darkness of their bedchamber, "I could feel his pain. What a horrible thing to happen, to be stripped of all Art!"
"Aye." Laeral felt the Lord Mage of Waterdeep tense in her arms. With iron control, he stifled a shudder. He moved to quell her fear first, with the kind strength she loved him for. "I'd not wish that fate on anyone, even one who wore the robes of Thay or of Manshoon's serpents- and yet, love, our Lady chose him. He is the strongest of us all. Great An has raged against him before, and clone much damage-and he is still here, this day, to tell of it."
