by Ed Greenwood
The old woman watched until the young maid in the cloak was gone through the trees. Then she went on watching; a few trees were nothing to her.
Finally she turned and walked to the temple, growing as she went, her shape shifting and rising until a tall and shapely lady in shimmering, iridescent robes strolled to the temple door. She turned once more to look where Elmara had gone. Her eyes were dark and yet golden, and little flames danced in them.
“Seen enough?” The voice from the darkness within the door was a deep rumble.
Mystra tossed her head; long, glossy hair slithered and danced. “This could be the one. His mind has the width, and his heart the depth.”
The temple rippled, flowed, and shifted, even as she had done, and split, revealing itself as a bronze dragon rising away from around a much smaller, stone house.
The dragon stretched out gigantic wings with a creak and a sigh and inclined its head until one wise old eye regarded the goddess. Its voice was a purr so deep that the front of the stone house shivered. “As did all the others … those many, many others. Having the skill doesn’t mean one must or will use it rightly, and take the true path.”
“True,” Mystra answered, a certain soft bitterness in her tone, and then she smiled and laid a hand on its scales. “My thanks, faithful friend. Until next we fly together.”
As gently as if it were brushing her with a feather, the dragon stroked her cheek with one massive claw. Then it drew in its wings and melted, dwindling down into the form of a bent, wrinkled white-haired woman with bright green eyes. Without a backward glance, the priestess went into the temple, moving with the slow gait and bent back of age. Mystra sighed, turned away herself, and became a dazzling web of lights that whirled and spun, faster and faster—until she was gone.
The sack Braer had given her proved to hold over twenty silver coins at the bottom, wrapped in a scrap of hide. That was not so many that she could afford to hurl them away for a warm bed every night, at least before the deep snows came down on the world. Hedges and thickets were her bedchambers, but Elmara usually warmed herself of evenings at an inn with a hot meal and a seat as close to the hearth as she could manage. Lone young women walking the roads were few, but conjuring a little mage-fire and looking mysterious always kept any over-amorous local men at a distance.
This night found her in the latest house of raised flagons, somewhere in the Mlembryn lands. To all who would listen, she spun tales of the glory of magic, tales drawn from what Braer and Helm and the streets of Hastarl had told her. Sometimes these tales won her a few drinks, and on nights when the gods smiled, someone else would tell stories of sorcery to top her own, and thereby tell her more of what most folk thought of magic … and win her new marvels to tell on evenings to come.
She had hopes of that happening this night; two men, at least, were edging forward in their chairs, itching to unburden themselves of something, as she warmed to the height of her most splendid tale. “… And the last the king and all his court saw of the nine Royal Wizards, they were standing on thin air, facing each other in a circle, already higher than the tallest turret of the castle, and rising!” Elmara drew breath dramatically, looked around at her rapt audience, and went on.
“Lightnings danced ever faster between their hands, weaving a web so bright that it hurt the eyes to look upon it—but the last thing the king saw, ere they rose out of sight, was a dragon appearing in the midst of those lightnings, fading in, he said.…”
And then a curtain across a booth in the back of the room parted, and Elmara knew she was in trouble. The eager men turned hurriedly away, and the room filled with a sudden tension centered on a splendidly dressed, curl-bearded man who was striding across the room toward her. Rings gleamed on his fingers, and anger shone in his eyes.
“You! Outlander!”
Elmara raised a mild eyebrow. “Goodman?”
“ ‘Lord,’ to you. I am Lord Mage Dunsteen, and I bid you take heed, wench!” The man drew himself up importantly, and Elmara knew that though he looked only at her, he was aware of everyone in the room. “The matters you so idly speak of are not fancies, but sorcery.” The lord mage strutted grandly forward and said sharply, “Magic interests everyone with its power—but it is, and rightly, an art of secrets—secrets to be learned only by those fit to know them. If you are wise, you will cease your talk of sorcery at once.”
At the end of his words, the room was very still, and into that silence, Elmara said quietly, “I was told to speak of magic, wherever I go.”
“Oh? By whom?”
“A priestess of Mystra.”
“And why,” Lord Mage Dunsteen asked with silken derision, “would a priestess of Mystra waste three words on you?”
Color rose in Elmara’s cheeks, but she answered as quietly as before, “She was expecting me.”
“Oh? Who sent you out into Faerûn to seek priestesses of the Holy Lady of Mysteries?”
“Mystra,” Elmara said quietly.
“Oh, Mystra. Of course.” The wizard scoffed openly. “I suppose she talked to you.”
“She did.”
“Oh? Then what did she look like?”
“Like eyes floating in flame, and then as a tall woman; dark robed and dark eyed.”
Lord Mage Dunsteen addressed the ceiling. “Faerûn is home to many mad folk, some so lost in their wits, I’ve heard, that they can delude even themselves.”
Elmara set down her tankard. “Ye’ve used many proud, provoking words, Lord Mage, and they tell me ye think thyself a wizard of some … local importance.”
The wizard stiffened, eyes flashing.
Elmara held up a staying hand. “I’ve heard many times in my life that wizards are seekers after truth. Well, then, so important a wizard as thyself should have spells enough to determine if I speak truly.” She sat back in her chair and added, “Ye bade me speak no more of magic. Well, then, I bid ye: use thy spells to see my truth, and stay thy own talk of madness and wild lies.”
The lord mage shrugged. “I’ll not waste spells on a madwoman.”
Elmara shrugged in turn, turned away, and said, “As I was saying, the last the king ever saw of his Royal Wizards, their lightnings were chaining a dragon they’d summoned, and it was spitting fire at them.…”
The lord mage glared at the young woman, but Elmara ignored him. The wizard cast angry glances around the room, but men carefully did not meet his eyes, and from where he wasn’t glaring, there came chuckles.
After a moment, Lord Mage Dunsteen turned, robes swirling, and stalked back to his private booth. Elmara shrugged, and talked on.
The moon was bright, riding high above the few cold fingers of cloud that crept along above the trees. Elmara drew her cloak closer around herself—clear nights like this brought a frost-chill—and hurried on. Before seeking the inn, she’d chosen a fern-choked hollow ahead to bed down in.
Far behind her, branches snapped. It wasn’t the first such sound she’d heard. Elmara paused to listen a moment, and then went on, moving a little faster.
She came to the hollow and darted across it, clambering up its far bank and turning to crouch among the bushes there. Then she did off her cloak and sack and waited. As she’d expected, the stalker was no excited young lad wanting to hear more of magic, but a certain lord mage, moving uncertainly now in the darkness.
Elmara decided to get this over with. “Fair even, Lord Mage,” she said calmly, keeping low among the ferns.
The wizard paused, stepped back, and hissed some words.
A breath later, the night exploded in flames. Elmara dived aside as searing heat rolled over her. When she had her feet under her again and her breath back, she forced herself to say laconically, “A campfire would have been sufficient.”
Then she tossed a rock to one side, and as it crashed down through the brush, leaped to her feet and ran in the other direction, around the edge of the hollow.
The mage’s next fireball exploded well away from her. “Die, dang
erous fool!”
Elmara pointed at the wizard, who stood clearly outlined by moonlight, and murmured the words of a prayer to Mystra. Her hand tingled, and the lord mage was abruptly hurled backward, crashing roughly through bushes.
“Gods spit on you, outlander!” the wizard cursed, clawing his painful way to his feet. Elmara heard cloth tearing, and another hissed curse.
“I don’t hurl fire at women whose only offense is not cringing before me,” Elmara said coldly. “Why are ye doing this?”
The lord mage stepped forward into the light again. Elmara raised her hands, waiting to ward off magic—but no spell came.
Dunsteen snarled in anger. El sighed and whispered a spell of her own. Blue-white light outlined the mage’s head, and she saw his features twist and struggle as he found himself compelled to speak truthfully.
The string of fearful curses he was spitting became the words, “I don’t want half the folk in Faerûn to work magic! What price my powers then, eh?” Dunsteen’s voice rose into a wordless shriek of fear.
“You live now only at my whim, wizard,” Elmara told him, pretending a casualness she did not feel. If his fear would just keep him from weaving another fireball …
Swallowing her own rising fear, Elmara uttered another prayer to Mystra. When the tingling in her limbs told her its magic had taken effect, she strode off the lip of the hollow, walking on empty air to stand facing the wizard. She pointed down, trembling with the effort to hold herself in midair. “I do not wish to slay ye, Lord Mage. Mystra bade me bring more magic into Faerûn, not rob the Realms of the lives and skills of wizards.”
The Lord Mage gulped and took a quick step back. He obviously thought less of his powers than he’d pretended to in the tavern. “And so?”
“Go to thy home and trouble me no more,” Elmara said in a voice of doom, “and I shall not bring down the curse of Mystra on thee.”
That sounded good—and the priestess had told him to try everything, If Mystra thought her words ill said … she’d doubtless say so soon enough.
The night remained still and silent—except for the sounds made by Lord Mage Dunsteen, backing hurriedly away through ferns and brambles.
“Hold!” Elmara put the ring of command into her words. She felt herself sinking slowly toward the ground as she turned her will back to her truth-compulsion spell.
Dunsteen froze as if someone had tugged on a leash about his neck.
Elmara said to his moonlit back, “I was told to learn all I could from the mages I met. Where would you suggest I go to learn more about being a mage?”
The magic of her truth-compulsion glowed brightly around the Lord Mage—but he did not turn, so Elmara did not see his twisted smile. “Go see Ilhundyl, ruler of the Calishar, and ask him that … and you shall have the best answer any living man can give.”
Most intruders wandered in the maze, calling helplessly until Ilhundyl tired of their cries and had them brought to an audience chamber, or released the lions to feed. This young lass, however, strode through the illusory walls and around the portal traps as if she could see them.
Ilhundyl leaned forward to peer out the window in sudden interest as Elmara strode out onto the broad pavement in front of the Great Gate, peered narrowly up at it, and then walked without hesitation toward the hidden door, avoiding the golems and the statues whose welcoming hands could spit lightnings at those who stepped between them.
The Mad Mage valued his privacy, and his life … and not many days passed without someone trying to deprive him of either. Thus his Castle of Sorcery was ringed by traps mechanical as well as magical. Now one of his long-fingered hands tapped idly on the table. He seized a slim brass hammer, lifted it, and rapped on a certain bell.
At his signal, unseen men sweated belowground, and the paving stones suddenly opened up under the young woman, who obligingly plunged from view. Ilhundyl smiled tightly and turned to the tall, handsome servant who stood patiently awaiting his orders. Garadic obligingly glided forward. “Lord?”
“Go and see that one’s body,” he said, “and bring ba—”
“Lord.” The servant’s rapped word was urgent; Ilhundyl followed his gaze even before he could raise his arm to point. The wizard wheeled around in his chair.
The young intruder was walking on air, treading steadily forward on nothing, and rising up out of the yawning pit. Ilhundyl raised his eyebrows and leaned forward. “Garadic,” he said decisively, “go down and bring that maid to me. Alive, if she can stay that way until you get there.”
“A priestess of Mystra told me to learn about sorcery from mages … and a mage told me you were the best man alive to tell me what it is to work magic.”
Ilhundyl smiled thinly. “Why do you want to learn magic—if you don’t want to be a mage?”
“I must serve Mystra as best I can,” Elmara said steadily, “even as she commanded me.”
Ilhundyl nodded. “And so, Elmara, you seek mages to tell you the ways of sorcery, so you can better serve the Lady of Mysteries.”
Elmara nodded.
Ilhundyl waved his hands, and darkness enshrouded the chamber, save for two globes of radiance that hung above the Mad Mage and the young intruder. They looked at each other, and when Ilhundyl spoke again, his voice echoed with tones of doom.
“Know then, O Elmara, that you must apprentice yourself to a mage, and once you learn to hurl fire and lightning, slip away without a word to anyone, travel far, and join an adventuring band. Then see the Realms, face danger, and use your spells in earnest.”
The ruler of the Calishar leaned forward, voice thinning in urgent precision. “When you can battle a lich spell for spell and prevail, seek out Ondil’s Book of Spells and take it to the altar of Mystra on the island called Mystra’s Dance. Surrender it to the goddess there.”
His voice changed again, thundering once more. “Once you know you hold Ondil’s tome in your hands, look no longer on its pages, nor seek to learn the spells therein, for that is the sacrifice Mystra demands! Go, now, and do this.”
The light above the Mad Mage’s high seat faded, leaving Elmara facing darkness. “My thanks,” she said, and turned away. As she walked back down the great chamber, the globe of light moved with her. The light faded beyond the great bronze doors, which ground shut with their usual boom. When the echoes had died away Ilhundyl added quietly, “And once you’ve got me that book, go and get yourself killed, mageling.”
Garadic’s handsome features melted soundlessly into the fanged and scaled horror of his true face. The scaled minion stepped forward and asked curiously, “Why, master?”
The Mad Mage frowned. “I’ve never met anyone with so much latent power before. If she lives, she could grow in magic to master the Realms.” He shrugged. “But she’ll die.”
Garadic took another step, his tail scraping along the floor. “And if she does not, master?”
Ilhundyl smiled and said, “You will see to it that she does.”
PART
IV
MAGUS
TEN
IN THE FLOATING TOWER
Great adventure? Hah! Frantic fear and scrabbling about in tombs or worse, spilling blood or trying to strike down things that can no longer bleed. If ye’re a mage, it lasts only until some other wizard hurls a spell faster than thee. Speak to me not of “great adventure.”
THELDAUN “FIREHURLER” IEIRSON
TEACHINGS OF AN ANGRY OLD MAGE
YEAR OF THE GRIFFON
It was a cold, clear day in early Marpenoth, in the Year of Much Ale. The leaves on the trees all around were touched with gold and flame-orange as the Brave Blades reined in beneath the place they’d sought for so long.
Their destination hung dark and silent above them: the Floating Tower, the lifeless hold of the long-dead mage Ondil, hidden away in this bramble-choked ravine in the wilderlands somewhere well west of the Horn Hills.
Upright it stood, a lone, crumbling stone tower reaching into the bright sky … but as
the tales had said, its base was a ruin of tumbled stones, and there was a stretch of empty air twelve men or so high between the ground and the dark, empty room of the tower’s sixth level. Ondil’s tower hung patiently in the air as it had for centuries, held up by an awesome sorcery.
The Blades looked up at it, and then looked away—except for the only woman among them, who stood with a wand raised warily, peering past her hawk nose at the silent, waiting keep hanging above her.
The Blades had come here by a long and perilous road. In a spider-haunted sorcerer’s tomb of lost Thaeravel, said by some to be the land of mages from which Netheril sprang, they’d found writings that spoke of the mighty archwizard Ondil and his withdrawal in his later days into a spell-guarded tower to craft many new and powerful sorceries.
Then old Lhangaern of the Blades crafted a potion to make his limbs young again, drank it—and fell screaming into crumbling dust before their eyes … and they were without a mage. The Brave Blades dared not take the road again without so much as a light-bringing incantation to aid them. So when a young woman came to their inn and spun tales of the wonders of magic—and proved she could work spells of a sort—they practically dragged this Elmara into their ranks.
She was not a pretty woman. Her fierce hawk nose and dark, serious gaze made many a man and most maids draw back from her, and she rode garbed as a warrior in boots and breeches, avoiding the robes and airs of most mages. None of the Blades felt inclined to lure her to bed, even if the threat of defensive spells weren’t hanging around her. Her first demand was for time to study the spellbooks Lhangaern would never read again … and the second was for a chance to use them.
The Blades granted her that, riding out to make red war on a band of brigands who oppressed that land. In the crumbling old keep the defeated band used as their stronghold, Elmara found wands they could not use and books of spells they could not read, and bore these out in triumph.
