Prince of Ravens: A Forgotten Realms Novel

by Richard Baker

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Simply speaking to myself, Edelmon. Some paper and a quill, if you please. I’ve a note to compose.”

  The valet bowed and withdrew, returning shortly with a stack of good linen paper, a quill, and an inkpot. Jack spent the next half-hour carefully composing a small thank you note to Seila, expressing his delight with the hospitality of the Norwoods and noting how much he looked forward to their next meeting. Then, with no easy way to further ingratiate himself with Seila or her father and most of the morning still ahead, he sat back to consider what other interests deserved his attention.

  “I have always been ardent in pursuit of opportunity,” he mused, “but now I find myself virtually ignorant of what opportunities might be available in this day and age. What should I do with myself while my designs upon Seila ripen?” Idly he picked up the handbills and leafed through them. The first broadsheet led with a lurid tale of abductions in the alleyways of Mortonbrace, laying the blame at slavers scouring the city for drunk, homeless, or simply unfortunate souls to sell into slavery. The second handbill was occupied with an investigation of bribery and racketeering among the watch officers of the Pumpside neighborhood; the next reported on the deliberations of the Council of Lords, lamenting their inability to agree to a plan designed to combat the criminal influences in the city and making carefully veiled insinuations to the effect that some councilors might have an interest in keeping things in their current state. It seemed that he had returned to Raven’s Bluff in an age of unusual civic corruption; Jack smiled as he considered the bountiful opportunities that implied.

  He settled down to read the handbills more thoroughly. On the back of the first bill, an item caught his eye: REWARD OFFERED FOR RECOVERY OF MISSING TOME. He read further, studying the article. “Anonymous patron offers five thousand gold crowns to any person who finds the spellbook known as the Sarkonagael, rumored to be lost in the depths of Sarbreen … the Sarkonagael? By Mask’s shadowed sword, is that old grimoire still about?” Jack knew that book very well. Long ago the lovely and mysterious Elana had commissioned him to find the Sarkonagael, which had led him to the library of the infamous necromancer Iphegor the Black, from whence he’d stolen the book. On delivering the book to the mysterious Elana he’d discovered that she was none other than the Warlord Myrkyssa Jelan. The mage or mages who served her had used the Sarkonagael’s spells to cause no end of trouble during her attempt to seize power in the city. As far as Jack recalled, the Ministry of Art had confiscated the sinister spellbook for safekeeping after Jelan’s defeat … but it seemed that it was missing again, and someone very badly wanted it found.

  “Now that is interesting,” he murmured. Once upon a time he had been very good at unraveling riddles of that sort, and even if he didn’t know where to start in the Raven’s Bluff of today, the exercise might help introduce him to the sorts of useful, if shady, people he used to know throughout the city. And who could say that he was at any disadvantage compared to a contemporary investigator? He would, after all, embark on the process with no preconceptions, armed with a mental flexibility few others could match. He had personal experience of the Sarkonagael, which any other seekers in the current day likely lacked. The reward was substantial enough to double his fortune at a stroke if he succeeded … or, if he decided the person seeking the book shouldn’t have it, he could curry favor with the city’s authorities and rulers by securing it for them. “Either way I would continue to burnish my fortunes in this current day,” he concluded.

  He read further, noting that the reward was offered through the counting house of Horthlaer—doubtless the interested party wished to publish his or her interest in the ancient book while protecting their anonymity—and made a note to inquire at Horthlaer’s about when the reward had been offered and who was behind it. After all, it was more than a little coincidental that a book that had gone missing back in his own day had resurfaced as a topic of interest at the very same moment in history that he himself had returned to. Then he pushed himself back from his breakfast table, pausing to dab at his mouth with his napkin. “Very interesting, indeed,” he reflected. He would have to look into the Sarkonagael business soon … but for now, he had business at the High House of Magic. Some wizard of a hundred years past had done him a great disservice, and someone from the Wizards’ Guild might very well know the identity of his forgotten nemesis.

  He threw on the best of his borrowed Norwood cloaks, chose a jaunty cap, and informed Edelmon that he would return in a couple of hours. Then he ventured out into the streets of Tentowers. It was overcast and blustery, much more typical for springtime in Raven’s Bluff than the fine weather of the previous day, and Jack shivered as the wind bit through his clothes. Fortunately, the High House of Magic was only two blocks south of Maldridge on MacIntyre. A few minutes’ dignified stroll brought him to the foot of a small, spired castle that stood in the middle of the fine houses and well-heeled shops. Jack had always thought the headquarters of the Wizards’ Guild was rather pretentious, and he was not surprised to see that a hundred years hadn’t moderated the tastes of its occupants in the least.

  He climbed the steps to the tower door and gave it a firm knock. A moment later the door opened, and an officious-looking chamberlain—a tiefling, to judge by his horns and tail—answered. “Yes?” he said in a sepulchral voice.

  “Good morning!” said Jack. “I am a wizard of some skill, and I might be interested in joining this arcane fellowship if a tour of the premises and introduction to the staff convinces me that it would be worth my while.”

  The tiefling bowed and showed Jack inside to the dark-paneled foyer without another word. Seven busts of stern-looking mages stood in small alcoves, seeming to study Jack with disapproval. He gave them a casual glance; he was not terribly interested in the Guild’s long-deceased assortment of notables and benefactors. But the tiefling chamberlain paused in the middle of the foyer and addressed the collected statuary. “An applicant for membership, honored archmages,” he intoned.

  “A peculiar tradition,” Jack observed. “Still, far be it from me to criticize your quaint superstitions.”

  The marble busts stared blankly ahead, and Jack began to form the unpleasant suspicion that he was indeed under some form of examination. The last time he had ventured into the High House of Magic to join the Guild, there had been no such procedure, but of course that had been more than a hundred years ago. He looked more closely at the stone faces, and realized that he recognized a couple of them. Over on the left end stood the lean, bearded visage of Alcides van Tighe, archmage of the guild in Jack’s day, and two busts to the right was a round-faced mage with a thin, drooping mustache and a bored expression—the wizard Meritheus, who’d been a minor functionary in the guild when Jack knew him. Apparently the fellow had succeeded in climbing through the ranks in the decades after Jack’s imprisonment.

  Jack grew a little restless as the tiefling waited in silence, and he began to fidget with the buttons on his coat. “Exactly how long will we continue to pay our respects?” he whispered to the chamberlain.

  “This sorcerer is known to me,” the bust of Meritheus suddenly said. Its stone visage came to life, eyes blinking and lips moving as it spoke. “Bid welcome to the Dread Delgath, master of time and space, an affiliate member since the Year of Wild Magic. His dues are in arrears by one hundred and six years. And I am reminded that I have a message for Master Silverlocke; please notify him at once.” The statue adopted a sour expression as it regarded Jack.

  The tiefling remained expressionless as he looked down at Jack. “It seems that you are a member already, Master Delgath.”

  Jack stared at the bust for a long moment before answering. “The Dread Delgath bestrides the years as lesser mages might pace across a room. If I have no recollection of joining your guild, it is simply because I have not yet done so. Clearly I will travel to the Year of Wild Magic at some point in my personal future, and join your fellowship at that time.�
�� That struck him as eminently plausible for a master of time and space, and he folded his arms across his chest in a pose of unshakeable confidence. “For that reason the matter of one hundred and six years of dues is not relevant. My dues must be calculated on the basis of my personal experience, not the simple turning of years that signify nothing to the Dread Delgath. Now, shall we continue inside? I have important business to attend in this strange and marvelous year.”

  The tiefling looked again at the bust of Meritheus, then frowned at Jack. “Do you know the Master Silverlocke of whom the archmage spoke?”

  The name was dimly familiar to Jack; it took him a moment to place it. Silverlocke had been one of the old guild officers back in his proper day, but Jack didn’t recall any dealings with the fellow. Most likely Master Silverlocke was in charge of woefully dated membership rolls or collecting long-owed dues or some such thing, and because he’d just suggested to the chamberlain that he had no memory of joining the guild in the past, he decided not to admit otherwise. “I am afraid I know none of your guild members. Becoming acquainted with your fellowship was indeed the purpose of my visit.”

  The chamberlain considered Jack’s reply, then shook his head. “I am uncertain how to proceed,” he admitted. “I do not know any Master Silverlocke. I cannot enroll you again, nor can I excuse the unpaid dues. Please wait here while I summon Initiate Berreth.”

  “As you wish,” Jack replied magnanimously. The tiefling departed through a doorway leading deeper into the tower, leaving Jack alone with the marble busts. He wondered if they preserved any of the memories of their originals or if they were instead enchanted to simply recognize members and thus inform the chamberlain about who should be granted admittance to the tower. He occupied himself with trying to perfectly mimic their expressions as the doorman fetched whomever he’d gone to fetch. After a short time, a rather short and studious-looking woman with mousy brown hair and thick spectacles bustled into the room.

  “Master Delgath,” she said with a small frown. “The chamberlain tells me that you are a lapsed member?”

  Jack decided on the spot to overpower the bookish mage with pure charm. “Why, hello,” he answered with a wide smile. “I suppose that to your records I might seem to be a century in arrears, but things are not as simple as they appear. During my travels I have skipped across the years like a pebble hurled across the surface of a pond. I am, however, now likely to remain in this era for some time, and may be interested in resuming my membership. Of course I would like to look around before making up my mind. I am not a hasty man, oh, no.”

  Berreth’s frown deepened. “Chamberlain Marzam said that you had not actually yet joined the guild in your own timeline—”

  “I have joined, and I have not joined. Both are equally true; traveling through time engenders many paradoxes. The chamberlain undoubtedly failed to comprehend this.”

  “Can you offer some additional proof of your unusual claims?”

  “That will prove difficult. I could hop back to yesterday and meet you then, but of course that would become our first meeting, and this encounter would not take place; you would have no memory of this discussion. Or I might time-stride to tomorrow and return, but who’s to say that I didn’t just teleport off and hide for twenty-four hours to give the appearance of having leaped a day ahead?” Jack shook his head solemnly. “Your excellent archmages have already identified me as one and the same with a person who belonged to the guild one hundred and six years ago, and you can see that I am about thirty years of age and perfectly human. Is that not proof enough?”

  Berreth’s brow knitted as she listened closely to Jack. “Perhaps it would be easiest if I just marked you down as a lapsed member,” she said.

  “Please proceed in whatever manner is most convenient for you.”

  The studious mage drew a small ledger from her sleeve and scribbled furiously in it. “That was Delgath?” she asked.

  “The Dread Delgath,” Jack corrected her.

  “And what can we do for you today, Dread Delgath?”

  “I would like to tour the premises, meet the charming staff, and determine whether to renew my membership. You must remember, my experience of the Guild’s facilities—which may not have actually happened yet—is a hundred years out of date.”

  “Very well.” Berreth seemed more than a little relieved to close her ledger and turn her attention to a more manageable task than recording the comings and goings of the Dread Delgath. “Please, follow me.”

  Jack followed the mage as she led him on a tour of the High House. She provided perfunctory explanations as they wandered through laboratories, lecture halls, scriptoriums, rooms full of curios and exhibits, meeting chambers, and vaults. Jack feigned great interest in everything he saw, and went out of his way to compliment Berreth on the evident depth and variety of her learning. It was difficult to tell if his efforts were bearing fruit, since his solicitude seemed to puzzle her more than anything else; apparently she was not accustomed to being the recipient of such attentions. At one point they paused in a large library, filled with tall bookshelves that were crowded with strange and curious tomes.

  “I don’t suppose you have a book known as the Sarkonagael somewhere in your collection?” Jack asked.

  Berreth gave him a stern look. “Oh, you’re one of those, are you?”

  “One of those?” Jack repeated.

  “For three days now the High House has been besieged by fortune hunters who believe that first, any missing spellbook must naturally be in the Wizards’ Guild, and second, we do not read the daily handbills and haven’t noticed the reward offered for the book.”

  “Please forgive me,” Jack replied. “I do not demean your perspicacity. I simply believe that one should eliminate the obvious possibilities before proceeding to more obscure solutions. It is my rigorous mental discipline that leads me to ask.”

  “Well, you may eliminate the High House’s library. No Guild member knows the book or has any idea why it might be so important to whatever party is offering the reward through Horthlaer’s.”

  Jack offered a small smile; here was a chance to bait a hook and see what came of it. “Ah, but in that you may be mistaken, dear Berreth. In a past that may or may not come to be, I encountered the Sarkonagael in the library of the necromancer Iphegor.”

  The mage peered at him through her thick spectacles. “Indeed? Can you tell us anything about its contents? What is it? Who would want it?”

  Jack paused, thinking it over. Any information he shared might help the Guild to recover its lost book, and provide him at least a partial claim on the reward … but he could also use the opportunity to sow disinformation, and perhaps throw the investigators off the track so that he could recover the book—and its substantial reward—himself. “I propose a deal,” he said. “I will tell you what I know about the Sarkonagael, if you will help me find out what became of several prominent wizards I knew back in my previous visit with the guild. I am very curious about their respective fates.”

  Initiate Berreth gave him a skeptical look, perhaps wondering if he really knew anything about the Sarkonagael, but she nodded. “The library contains records of prominent wizards and their activities. I think I might be able to help you.”

  “Excellent,” Jack replied. “In that event, I will tell you that the book was subtitled Secrets of the Shadewrights, and was a lengthy dissertation on shadow magic. It held a particularly dangerous spell that allowed an unscrupulous wizard to create a simulacrum or copy of somebody else by crafting it from the stuff of shadow. And the tome once belonged to the necromancer known as Iphegor the Black.” All that was true enough, of course. “As to its appearance, it was bound in smoky gray dragon leather, and its pages were made of a strange sort of black vellum. The writing was in a silver ink that could only be read by the light of a magical shadow-lantern.” That was entirely fiction, made up on the spot to confuse any Guild efforts to locate the book by its physical appearance. If he was ever caugh
t in the lie, he could always claim that the book must have been magically disguised when he saw it a hundred years ago.

  Berreth pulled out her journal again and added more notes with her quill, scratching away at the yellowed parchment. “Fascinating,” she said. “The archmage and the deans will be very interested in this; you know more about this book than anyone else of this day, it seems.” She shut her book and tucked it back into her sleeve. “Now, let us see what we can find out about these old Guild members of yours.”

  Jack spent the rest of the morning with Initiate Berreth, searching through the guild’s ancient records. He’d hoped that he might find some hint or suggestion to identify which of the powerful wizards of his acquaintance had imprisoned him in the wild mythal, but that hope proved ill-founded. The Guild records noted that Yu Wei, the Shou wizard who served Myrkyssa Jelan, was deceased as of the Year of Wild Magic, years before Jack’s imprisonment. That made perfect sense, of course; he’d seen Yu Wei struck down by Zandria’s spell of chain lightning in the final battle against the Warlord and her minions. Still, it was reassuring to know that Yu Wei did not somehow escape certain doom and return to vex him.

  Zandria’s fate was more difficult to piece together, because she’d left Raven’s Bluff a year or so after Jack’s adventures with her. Fortunately, the Guild was in the habit of hoarding news of notable wizards wherever they might be. During the Year of the Bent Blade, she was living quite comfortably in Elversult, having recovered some great treasure or another from Chondathan ruins in the area. In fact, it seemed that she had won herself a noble title for her efforts and was counted as one of the city’s high councilors. “Zandria might have returned briefly to Raven’s Bluff to visit some sinister scheme upon me,” Jack mused, “but I simply don’t believe she was that angry with me, especially if her circumstances in Elversult were condign.”