by Ed Greenwood
“I knew it was coming,” Farl admitted, his face going very red. “It’s the scruples that assured it. But this ‘one thing more’—’twouldn’t be a betrayal, would it?”
Elminster shook his head and spoke slowly and deliberately. “I’ve never had a friend as close and as true as Farl, son of Hawklyn.”
Suddenly their arms were around each other in a tight embrace. They stood in the alley and wept, pounding each other on backs and shoulders.
After a time, Farl said, “Ah, El—what’m I to do without you?”
“Take up with Tassabra,” Elminster said, and added with a gleam in his eye, “Ye can show her appreciation in a more satisfying way than ye can with me.”
They stepped back from each other—and then, slowly, both grinned.
“So we part,” Farl said, shaking his head. “Half our wealth is yours.”
Elminster shrugged. “I’ll take only what I need, for the road.”
Farl sighed. “So it’s loot for me—and killing magelords for you.”
“Mayhap,” Elminster said softly, “if the gods are kind.”
PART
III
PRIEST
SEVEN
THE ONE TRUE SPELL
In ancient days, sorcerers sought to learn the One True Spell that would give them power over all the world and understanding of all magic. Some said they’d found it, but such men were usually dismissed as crazed.
I saw one of these “crazed” mages myself. He could ignore spells cast at him as if they did not exist, or work any magic himself by silent thought alone. I did not think he was mad—but at peace, driven by urges and vices no longer. He told me the One True Spell was a woman, that her name was Mystra—and that her kisses were wonderful.
HALIVON THARNSTAR, AVOWED OF MYSTRA
TALES TOLD TO A BLIND WIZARD
YEAR OF THE WYVERN
The night was warm and still. Elminster took a deep breath and counted out most of what Farl had insisted he take. He owed a debt … and besides, the other matter he meant to see to this night would probably kill him. Then it would be too late to pay any debts.
When he was done, he was looking at a heap of coins—a hundred regals, bright in the moonlight. In the sun, come morn, they’d blaze their true gold color … but he’d probably not be around to see them, one way or another.
Elminster shrugged. At least his life was his own again, and he was free to pursue any folly he desired. So, of course, he reflected wryly, here he was, bent on one last thiefly act. He slung the coins together in the sack—tight, so they’d not clink—and set off over the rooftops in search of a certain bedchamber.
The shutters were open to let in any breezes that might drift by, to cool a sleeping bridal couple whose furnishings failed by far to match those of the Trumpettowers. Elminster had been delighted to hear of their betrothal, even if it would cost him most of the coins he’d worked for. He stole in over the sill like a purposeful shadow and grinned down at them.
The bridal garter was exquisite, a little thing of lace and silken ribbon. Impishly, Elminster reached down and stroked it. Take it, as a trophy? But no—he was a thief no more.
Shandathe stirred as she felt the light touch high on her thigh. Yet deep in dreams, she stretched out a hand to the familiar warm and hairy bulk of Hannibur, snoring as deep as any drunken tavern-singer could. As Elminster smoothed her new bridal garter back into place where Hannibur had tied it on her hip, she smiled but didn’t awaken.
Elminster noted other gifts, too: a stout cudgel and a new apron lying on the carpet on Hannibur’s side of the bed … and the hilt of a dagger protruding, like a winking eye, from beneath Shandathe’s pillow.
He laid his bridal gift carefully between them. It was a tight fit between the smooth flank and the hairy one, and it took all his thiefly skills to avoid a clink and rattle as he slid the coins into a smooth sweep of gleaming gold from end to end of the bed. When he’d crammed in all the regals he dared, there were still over a dozen left. He laid the last of his belated bridal gift gently on Shandathe’s belly, and left hastily as the touch of cold metal made her stir in earnest.
Selûne was riding high in the deep blue sky over Hastarl as Elminster stood on a rooftop, looking across the empty, silent street at the crumbling front of the disused temple of Mystra.
The place was dark and decaying, and from where he stood Elminster could see the massive lock on the door. The magelords, it seemed, didn’t want anyone in Hastarl worshiping the Mistress of All Magic but themselves—and they could do that in the safety and privacy of their own tower inside Athalgard. Yet they hadn’t dared desecrate Mystra’s temple.
Perhaps their power was rooted in it, and striking here could shake their mastery of sorcery and their grip on the realm. Perhaps he could force Mystra’s hand, just as she had forced his when she let his parents be slain. Or perhaps, Elminster admitted to himself as he stared at the temple, he was just weary of doing nothing that mattered, wasting days on rooftops, looking for a chance to steal this bauble or that. Wizards might not dare desecrate Mystra’s temple, but Elminster would. Tonight. The world—or at least Athalantar—would be a much better place without any magic at all.
Destroying one temple, though, could hardly hope to do that. But perhaps it might bring down Mystra’s curse on the city, so no wizards could work magic within its walk. Or perhaps the temple held some item of magic he could use against the wizards. Or perhaps it just held his death. Any result would be welcome.
Elininster eyed the shabby, peeling paint and the motionless stone bat-things adorning both front corners of the roof. They clutched the tops of the temple’s front pillars with many claws, and their beaks hung open hungrily. They did not glow under his magesight—but perhaps the magical gargoyles minstrels sang of didn’t glow.… The only magic he could see was lower down, and visible to all. Faintly glowing letters over the doors spelled out the words “I Am the One True Spell.”
Elminster shook his head, sighed, and began the climb down from the rooftop. Revenge, it seemed, was a demanding business.
He could see no spells on the lock, and it surrendered easily to his metal probes; Farl had taught him well. Elminster looked up and down the silent street one last time, and then eased the door open, stood for a few breaths in its shadow to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and slipped inside, dagger ready.
Dust and empty darkness. Elminster peered in all directions, but there didn’t seem to be any furnishings in the temple of Mystra, only stone pillars. Cautiously he stepped sideways until he was well away from the door—traps were usually right in front of doors—and stepped forward.
Something was not right about this place. Oh, aye, he’d expected to feel watched, his skin creeping with the singing tension of slumbering spells waiting all around him … and that was here, all right. There was something else, though, som—
Of course: a place this big and empty should echo back the sounds he made. Yet there were no echoes. Elminster opened a belt pouch, took one of the dried peas every thief carries to scatter and make pursuers trip, and cast it ahead of him into the darkness.
He did not hear it land. El swallowed and took a cautious step forward. He was in an entry hall, separated from a great open chamber beyond by a row of massive, smooth-curved stone pillars … featureless cylinders, as far as he could tell. Nothing moved in the thick blankets of dust over the floor. El cast a last look back at the door he’d drawn closed, and then walked into the darkness.
The great chamber was circular and reached up high overhead to unseen heights—it must go clear to the roof Elminster had looked at outside. There was a circular stone altar in the center of the room and balconies—three tiers of them—curving all around the vast open space. The chamber was dark, empty, and silent.
And that was it. Nothing here to desecrate. No acolytes.
The door behind him suddenly clattered open, and as men with torches came in, Elminster ran toward the back of the templ
e, seeking pillars to hide behind. Many men; armsmen, at least two patrols, with spears in their hands.
“Spread out,” said a cold voice, “and search. No one dares enter a temple of Mystra just on a lark.”
The speaker strode forward, lifted a hand, and sketched some sort of salute or respectful gesture toward the altar. Then he said calmly, “We shall have light,” and at his words, though he cast no spell, the very stones around Elminster began to glow.
All of the stone in the temple began to shine until a soft, pearly-white radiance filled the room, revealing the young thief for everyone to see. In this case, “everyone” was more than a score of armsmen, advancing across the chamber with grim faces and ready spears. The man who’d spoken stood in their midst and said, “Just a thief. Hold weapons.”
“What if he runs, lord?”
The robed man smiled and said, “My magic will force him to walk where I want him to, and nowhere else.”
He gestured, and Elminster felt a sudden tugging at his limbs … a tingling, numbing trembling akin to what he’d felt on that terrible day in the meadow above Heldon, long ago. His body was no longer his own; he found himself turning, sick despair rising inside, and walking toward the men.
No, toward the altar. A bare circular block of stone, with not even a rune to grace it. The armsmen raised their spears and ringed him in as he came.
“The law holds that those who desecrate temples be put to death,” an old armsman growled, “on the spot.”
“Indeed,” the robed man said, and smiled again. “I, however, shall choose that spot. When this fool’s on the altar, you may throw your spears at will. Fresh blood on Mystra’s altar will allow me to work a magic I’ve long wanted to try.”
Elminster strode steadily on toward the altar, raging inwardly. He had been a fool to come here. This was it, then. His death, and an end to his futile fight against the magelords. Sorry, Father … Mother.… Elminster broke into a run and charged the altar, hoping he might somehow break free and knowing he could do nothing else. At least he could die trying to do something.
The wizard merely smiled and crooked one finger. Elminster’s rush became a smooth trot until he stood in front of the altar. The mage turned him about again, until they stood facing each other.
Then the wizard bowed. “Greetings, thief. I am Lord Ildru, magelord of Athalantar. You may speak. Who are you?”
Elminster found that he could move his jaws. “As you said, Magelord,” he responded coldly, “a thief.”
The wizard raised an eyebrow. “Why came you here, this night?”
“To speak with Mystra,” Elminster said, surprising himself.
lldru’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Are you a mage?”
“No,” Elminster spat, “I am proud to say. I came to get Mystra’s aid to cast down magelords like you—or curse her if she refused.”
The wizard’s brows shot up again. “And just what made you think Mystra would aid you?”
Elminster swallowed and found he couldn’t shrug. Or move anything except his mouth. “The gods exist,” he said slowly, “and their power is real. I have need of that power.”
“Oh? The traditional way,” the wizard said pleasantly, “is to study—long and hard, for most of a lifetime—and abase oneself as an apprentice, and risk life in trying spells one doesn’t understand or in devising one’s own new magics. What colossal arrogance, to think Mystra would just give you something when you asked for it!”
“The colossal arrogance in Athalantar,” Elminster said softly, “is held by magelords. Your hold on this land is so tight that no other men in it have the luxury of colossal arrogance.”
There was a murmur, somewhere among the ring of armsmen. lldru glared around, and abrupt silence returned. Then the wizard sighed theatrically. “I weary of your bitter words. Be still, unless you want to plead.”
Elminster felt himself being forced backward, to clamber up onto the altar.
“No spears yet,” the magelord ordered. “I must work a spell first, to learn if this youth is all clever words and deluded dreams … or if he holds some secrets yet.”
The wizard raised his hands, cast a spell, and then peered narrowly at Elminster, frowning.
“No magic,” he said as if to himself, “and yet you have some link to sorcery, some minor ability to shape … I’ve not seen such before.” He stepped forward. “What are your powers?”
“I have no magic,” Elminster spat. “I abhor magic, and all that is done with it.”
“If I freed you and studied what is within you to see where your aptitude lies, would you be loyal to the Stag Throne?”
“Forever!”
The mage’s eyes narrowed at that proud, quick answer, and he added, “And to the magelords of Athalantar?”
“Never!” Elminster’s shout echoed around the room, and the mage sighed again, watching the raging youth struggle vainly to spring down from the altar. “Enough,” he said in a bored voice. “Kill him.”
He turned away, and Elminster saw a dozen armsmen—and probably more he couldn’t see, behind him—raise their spears, heft them, and take a pace or two back for a good throw.
“Forgive me, Mother … Father,” Elminster said, through trembling lips, “I—I tried to be a true prince!”
The magelord whirled about. “What?”
And then the spears were in the air, and Elminster glared into the wizard’s eyes and hissed, “I curse thee, Ildru of the magelords, with my death and the—”
He broke off in confusion. He hadn’t expected to get this far in his curse, and he could see the wizard had raised his hands to weave some spell, crying out, “Wait! Stop! No spears!”
He could also see the armsmen staring at him as if he were a dragon—a purple dragon with three heads and a maiden’s body, at that!
And the spears … they hung in the air, motionless, surrounded by pearly radiance. Elminster found he could move, and whirled around. There were spears on all sides, aye, a deadly ring of points leaping in to transfix him, but they all hung motionless in the air, and by the look on the wizard’s face, it was none of his doing.
Elminster flung himself flat before this strange magic faded away. His move brought his facedown low against the altar top, in time to see two floating eyes fade away, and a flame leap up from the bare stone.
Armsmen shouted and backed away, and Elminster heard the magelord cry out in astonishment.
The flame climbed, crackling, and then from it, bolts of flame roared out, consuming the spears where they hung. The spears became spars of flame that curled slowly and faded into smoke.
Elminster watched, openmouthed. A golden radiance was stealing outward from the altar, now, washing over him. Armsmen shouted in real fear and backed away. Elminster saw them turn and reach for blades and try to run, but they seemed to be shimmering and moving slowly, as if they were figures drifting in a dream. Slowly, and more slowly still the armsmen shifted as flames that did not burn them sprang up and surrounded their bodies. Then they stood still and silent, frozen and unseeing … frozen in flames.
Elminster spun around to look at the magelord. The wizard stood as still as the rest, golden flames flickering before his staring eyes. His mouth was open, and his hands raised in the gestures of a spell … but he moved not.
What had befallen?
The flame pulsed and twisted. Elminster whirled back to face its changing flickering, and it shaped itself into someone … someone tall and dark robed and shapely, who strolled calmly over to stand by the brazier. A human woman … a sorceress?
Eyes of molten gold met his, and little flames danced in them. “Hail, Elminster Aumar, prince of Athalantar.”
Elminster took a pace back, shocked. No, he’d never seen this great lady before—or anyone so beautiful. He swallowed. “Who are ye?”
“One who has been watching you for years, hoping to see great things,” came the reply.
Elminster swallowed again.
The lady’s
eyes held dark depths of mystery, and her voice had a musical lilt. She smiled and raised an empty hand—and suddenly, she held a metal scepter. Lights pulsed and winked down its length. Elminster had never seen anything of the like before, but it blazed with blue mage-fire in his gaze, and its very look shouted that it held power.
“With this,” the lady said quietly, “you can destroy all your foes here at once. Merely will it and speak the word graven on the grip.”
She released the scepter, which rose a little and then drifted smoothly through the air toward Elminster. He watched it come, eyes narrow, then snatched it out of the air. Silent power shuddered in his grasp. Elminster felt it crackle and roil around in him, and his face brightened. He raised it, turning to face the motionless armsmen, feeling a fierce exultation rising in him. The lady watched him. He stood still for a long moment, then carefully bent and set the scepter down on the stone floor at his feet.
“Nay,” he said, lifting his eyes to meet hers, “ ’twould not be right, to use magic against men who are helpless. That’s just what I’m fighting against, Lady.”
“Oh?” She raised her head to stare at him in sudden challenge. “Are you afraid of it?”
Elminster shrugged. “A little.” He watched her steadily. “More afraid of what I’d do wrongly. Thy scepter burns with power; such magic could do much ill if used carelessly. I’d rather not see the Realms laid waste by mine own hand.” He shook his head. “Wielding a little power can be … pleasure. No one should have too much.”
“What is ‘too much’?”
“For me, Lady, anything. I hate magic. A mage slew my parents, on a whim, it seems, or for an afternoon’s entertainment. He destroyed a village in less time than it takes me to tell ye what befell. No man should be able to do that.”
