The Making of a Mage

by Ed Greenwood

  The mists of light swirled and then parted again, revealing shapes of fire burning, endless and immobile, in emptiness. El stared at them. These fires were magic … and familiar. She stared at their coils and leaping tongues of fire … and—aye! These were the spells she’d memorized earlier, hanging in her own mind waiting to be released!

  Yes, a warm and mighty voice said, echoing all round her, and added, Watch. One of the fires moved suddenly, writhing and twisting like a snake unfolding. It flared in sudden brilliance—too bright to watch, even as the voice said, Do thus, and behold!

  The fire flared up and was gone, leaving the white mists around a flickering amber. Elmara felt suddenly better, as if tension and pain had lessened … and at the same time, the weight in her mind eased, as if a spell had passed from memory.

  Again, said the mind-voice of Mystra. Another flame writhed, opened, and flared up. At its passing Elmara felt stronger and more at ease from pain, and hung basking in the growing warmth of the now-golden mists.

  Do this yourself now, the voice said, and El trembled in sudden awe and nervousness. She knew somehow that a slip could tear her mind apart … but the flames were unfolding, coiling, as her will surged through her and out to guide them. Brighter, now … aye! Thus, and—’tis done!

  A golden radiance seemed to roll outward through the mists as the fires of the spell dissipated. Elmara felt stronger, as if the pain that numbness had shielded from her was suddenly gone, falling away from her like a tattered cloak that has split asunder … and the burning weight of spells in her mind eased again.

  Mystra had shown her how to turn her memorized spells into healing energy and guide that raw force to work her own restoration. Hanging in the bright amber mind-void, El gasped at the beauty and intricacy of the process … the chill darkness seemed far away now. She found she could identify particular spells if she stared at the flames long enough. She floated, considering, the remaining pain like an aching mantle around her, until she’d chosen the least useful magic.

  To spend it was the act of but a brief moment now, and the pain eased still more. She was going to live!

  With that thought, El found herself wanting to rise—and then she was in motion, ascending smoothly through golden mists into the light.

  There was a sudden rocking burst of noise and radiance. Through a swimming golden haze she could see clouds in the bright blue sky of morning—and darker and nearer, a ring of gawking faces, staring openmouthed at her. El recognized the anxious face of Asmartha the innkeeper, and smiled up at her.

  “A-Aye,” she said, finding her voice thick with blood, “I live.”

  There was more than one shriek, and gaps appeared abruptly in the circle of heads. El smiled thinly … but her heart swelled when the innkeeper matched her smile, and stretched down one strong hand to touch her.

  “I saw it,” the woman said, voice husky in wonder. “You were dead—cut open like a slaughtered hog—and now are whole. The gods are real … they must be. I saw you heal, right in front of me. The gods were here!”

  Asmartha’s face broke into a wide, wild laugh, and tears ran down her face. She traced El’s cheek with a gentle finger, shook her head, and said, “I’ve never seen the like. What god smiles on you, lady?”

  “Mystra,” Elmara said. “Great Mystra.” She struggled to sit up, and there were suddenly strong arms at her shoulders, helping her. “I am a priestess of the Lady of Mysteries,” El told the innkeeper—and then, as a sudden realization came to her, added slowly, “Yet I must learn to be more.”

  “Lady?”

  “If I am to battle magelords and their armsmen, face to face and spell to spell,” El said softly, frowning, “I must become a mage in truth.”

  “You’re not a sorceress?”

  Elmara shook her head. “Not yet.” Perhaps never, she thought suddenly, if I can’t find a wizard willing to train me … and where in the world could she find one to trust? Not in Athalantar, where every sorcerer was a magelord … nor in the Calishar. There must be wizards in the other lands around, aye, but where to start looking?

  Wh—Braer. Of course. Go to the High Forest and ask her teacher. Whatever he said, it would be an answer she could trust. “I must leave,” El said, scrambling to her feet.

  The world wavered and swam around her, and she swayed, but one of the men of Narthil put a steadying hand on her shoulder, and she stayed upright. “The magelords can find me with their spells,” El said urgently. “Every moment I stay here, I endanger ye all.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath, and then another, reaching into the mists to uncoil another flame.

  Asmartha drew back a pace as Elmara stiffened, and glowing white light emanated from her. Then it faded, and the innkeeper saw that the young, hawk-nosed woman stood at ease despite her blood-drenched clothing and the pale, drawn look on her face.

  “My pack,” she murmured, and turned back toward the inn. The innkeeper stepped hastily to her side to guard against her falling, but El smiled and said reassuringly, “I’m fine now … and happier than I’ve been in some time. Mystra smiles on me.”

  “That I can well believe,” the stout woman said, as they went into the Rest. The door banged behind them.

  Elmara walked off as she had come, alone, her pack on her back, heading northeast over the rolling fields. The innkeeper watched her march out of sight, hoping no ill would befall her. Once Asmartha had dreamed of a life of adventure, seeing all the fabled sights of Faerûn and befriending elves … and there went a lass who’d done just that.

  The innkeeper smiled at the crest of a far-off hill as the tiny dark figure of her guest disappeared over it. She shook her head. Perhaps the gods would smile enough on the reckless maid to keep her alive through her fight against the mighty magelords, and she’d come back to Narthil one day with time enough to spare to tell a fat and aging innkeeper where she’d gone and what she’d seen … but more likely that would never happen.

  Asmartha sighed, wiped her hands absently on her apron, and went back into the Rest. She’d best stir some of the men to drag those bodies away, or the whole street’d stink by nightfall, and beasts’d come down into Narthil to feed.

  And so, a grumbling goodman of Narthil found himself bending over the dead prince. He reached out to take the warrior’s sword for his own—and then hissed in fear, stumbling backward. The sword shivered, moving by itself. The runes on the steel pulsed and rippled with sudden light. Then the blade rose from the ground as if taken up by unseen hands, hung for a moment in front of the terrified townsman’s eyes, and flew away, sliding slow and smoothly through the air, point-first and straight, like an arrow shot from a bow. Northeast it went, toward the grazing hills.

  The man watched it go, swallowed, and muttered a prayer to Tempus, Lord of Battles. What were things coming to, when even swords held magic? And in the end, what good had that fancy blade done this carrion at his feet? Nay, magic wasn’t something to be trusted, ever. The townsman looked down. The dead warrior stared unseeing at the sun. The townsman shook his head, spat on his hands, and took hold of the Athalantan’s feet. Hmm … the blade might be gone—but those boots, now?

  Unseen, the enchanted blade crested a certain hill and flew on, northeast. A spell from afar was bidding it rejoin the being whose blood it had last spilled, a young sorceress hitherto unknown to the magelords. A woman who defied armsmen, heralds, magelords, and princes of Athalantar alike—and for that, she must die. The blade flew on, seeking blood.

  THIRTEEN

  SPELLS ENOUGH TO DIE

  Think on this, arrogant mageling: even the mightiest archmage has no spells strong enough to let him cheat death. Some take the road of lichdom … a living death. The rest of us find graves, and our dust is no grander than that of the next man. So when next you lord it over some farmer with your fireballs, remember: we all master spells enough to die.

  ITHIL SPRANDORN, LORD MAGE OF SASKAR

  SAID TO THE PRISONER WIZARD THORSTEL

  YEAR OF
THE WATCHING WOOD

  Flamerule had been warm and wet in this Year of Bloodflowers, and if the gods sent rain sparingly in the fall, a plentiful harvest could be expected all down the River Shining.

  Phaernos Bauldyn, keeper of the Ambletrees Arms, leaned against his doorpost and watched the last light of the setting sun fade over the hills to the west. A beautiful land, this … though he’d be happier if it weren’t ruled by wizards who swaggered wherever they went, treating folk as slaves or cattle … or worse.

  He sighed. So long as they didn’t get foolish or arrogant enough to face the elves of the High Forest spell to spell or offended some god sorely enough to all be struck down on the spot, there was no way he could see that Athalantar would ever be free of the magelords. Phaernos frowned, sighed again, and turned back for his candle. It was fast growing dark now. He reached up, with the ease of long habit standing clear of the dripping wax, and lit the over-door lamp. As he drew the candle down and blew it out, he saw her coming wearily up the road to his door: a lone girl, tall, dark haired, slim, and drenched, with her clothes clinging to her and her sodden cloak trailing river water behind.

  “Fall in, lass?” he asked, coming forward to offer his arm.

  “I had to swim the river,” she replied shortly, and then raised her head and smiled at him. She was thin and hollow eyed, but her blue-gray eyes were keen and bright above a sharp nose.

  Phaernos nodded as he turned to lead the way in. “A bed for the night?”

  “If I can get dry by a fire,” she answered, “but my coins are few. Are ye master of this house?”

  “I am,” Phaernos said, pulling open the wide front door. His guest peered at the old shields nailed to it and seemed almost amused.

  “Why d’you ask?” he asked her as they came into the low-beamed taproom. A few farmers and village folk were sitting by the fire, cradling tankards of ale and mugs of broth. They looked up with mild interest.

  “I can pay ye with spells,” the wet girl said calmly.

  Phaernos drew away from her in the sudden silence and said shortly, “We haven’t much use for mages hereabouts. Most wizards in this land don’t use their magic to help anyone but themselves.”

  “Then their magic should be stripped from them,” she replied.

  “And just how d’ye think anyone could do that, lass?” one of the drunker farmers demanded from his seat by the fire.

  “Take their lives swift enough, and they’ve seldom any will left to work spells, I’ve found,” the woman said calmly. “I’m no friend of magelords.” The silence that followed her words was broken only by the faint, steady drip of river water from her clothes.

  No one bothered her—or even spoke to her—after that. Phaernos led her wordlessly into the kitchen, pointed her to a bench by the hearth fire, and brought her a cloak. The kitchen-women bustled over with rags for her to scrub dry with and food to eat, but then went on about their business. Elmara welcomed the peace; she was exhausted. Two hills away from Narthil, she’d made the mistake of using a spell that took her in a single step from where she’d stood to the most distant hilltop she could see. The magic had drawn on her own energy to do its work, leaving her exhausted. After that, the swim across the river hadn’t helped—and it’d left her too chilled to just roll herself in her cloak and go to sleep in the open.

  Elmara dried off as best she could, wrapped herself in the cloak, and dozed off, dreaming of shivering in a dripping hedge while magelords in the shape of wolves howled and bounded past, seeking her with sharp and hungry jaws agape.

  It was much later when, at a gentle touch, she awoke; the innkeeper was bending over her. His guest tensed and looked up alertly as if she might spring up in a moment to give battle or flee.

  Phaernos gazed down at her expressionlessly and said, “The house is closed for the night and the drinkers’ve gone home … you’re the only guest to sleep here tonight. Tell me your name, and what you meant about … paying me with magic.” At his words, two of the women drew nearer to listen.

  “I’m Elmara,” his guest said, “a traveler from afar. I’m no mage, but I can work a few spells. Would ye like a larger storage cellar?”

  Phaernos looked at her silently for a breath or two, and then the beginnings of a smile crept onto his face. “A larger cesspit would be more useful.”

  “I can do that, or both,” Elmara said, rising, “if ye’ll let me sleep here this night.”

  Phaernos nodded. “Done, lady … if you’ll come with me, I’ll show you a bed where no magelord will find you.”

  The woman gave him a sharp look and asked softly, “What d’ye know of me?”

  The innkeeper shrugged. “Nothing … but a friend asked me to watch out for Elmara, if she should pass this way.”

  “Who was this friend?”

  “He goes by the name of Braer,” answered the innkeeper, looking steadily into her eyes.

  El smiled and relaxed, her shoulders slumping wearily. “Show me the cellar and the pit first,” she said. “It may befall that I’ll have to slip away before daybreak.”

  Phaernos nodded again, saying nothing, and they went out together. As the door swung closed, the two kitchen-women exchanged looks—and with one accord made the warding sign against Tyche’s disfavor, and turned hack to their dishes.

  In the morning, Elmara awoke to find her wet things had been dried and hung, and atop her battered pack sat a cloth bundle. It proved to contain sausage, dried fish, and hard bread. She smiled, dressed swiftly, and went out, to find the innkeeper slumped asleep in a chair by the bedchamber door, an old sword across his knees.

  Swallowing to drive down the sudden lump in her throat, Elmara slipped down the stairs and out by the kitchen door, past the cesspit and into the trees behind. Perhaps it would have been wiser not to have said anything about magelords or spells last night … but she’d been wet and exhausted, and it was done.

  It would be best to be well away from Ambletrees before any word of a sorceress spread. Elmara kept to the trees as long as possible before stepping out into the back fields, heading north toward Far Torel. She took care to keep well out of sight of the road. Phaernos had said many armsmen had marched up it this last tenday, gathering for he knew not what—an attack on the elves of the High Forest, he half-hoped and half-feared.

  Elmara doubted the magelords would risk themselves as the innkeeper hoped. No, they’d more likely order the woods set afire, and tell their armsmen to use crossbows to fell any elves who came to fight the flames. She sighed and strode on. She might have to spend years slipping across Athalantar like a shadow, evading the clutches of the wizards and their swaggering armsmen while learning all she could of what magelords ruled where. If she were ever to avenge her parents and free the realm, she’d have to find some way to fell a few of the stronger magelords in the backlands so watching eyes would be fewer and she could make their deaths seem the work of enemy magelords or ambitious apprentices.

  Perhaps she could seduce a magelord to gain his confidence and learn all he knew before destroying him. Elmara sighed, came to a thoughtful halt for a moment, and then went on. Not only did the idea make her stomach heave, she hadn’t the faintest idea of how to act enticing … enough that a wizard who could have any maid he wanted would spare her more than a passing glance. A spell to change her shape might be noticed, and she wasn’t particularly beautiful. She slowed her customary brisk stride and swayed her hips, gliding along with the lynxlike allure of an evening-lass she’d once seen in Hastarl, and then burst into high, helpless laughter at the very feel of it, shaking her head at how she must look.

  Creep up on magelords like a thief, then.… Aye, that she still knew how to do, though this lighter, softer body, with its breasts and hips, balanced differently and lacked some of the strength she’d had as a man. She’d need to practice skulking again.

  Soon, she thought suddenly. If Far Torel was an armed camp, they’d have patrols and watchers … and she’d blunder right into them if s
he went on walking in the open without a care. On the other hand, if she were seen, someone skulking along would look suspicious indeed, where a traveler who trudged openly would not. Time to walk in and embrace doom again, Elmara thought to herself and smiled wryly. Out of habit she glanced all around, and so saved her life one more time.

  A gleaming rune-carved sword was speeding through the air toward her from behind, a sword she’d never forget. The horrible memory of her impalement flashed into her mind, and through the steely taste of fear that rose into her mouth, Elmara shouted the words she’d never forget. “Thaerin! Osta! Indruu hathan halarl!”

  The blade shivered to a halt, turned aside, and darted uncertainly around in the trees. It reached an open space as El watched, her thoughts racing desperately, and then slowly turned until its glittering point was toward her again.

  As the blade leaped at her face, she stammered out the only prayer to Mystra she had left that might work.

  “Namaglos!” she shouted its last word desperately—and the blade burst into flashing shards right in front of her. Elmara shuddered in relief and sank to her knees, discovering that tears were running down her cheeks. In angry haste she wiped them away and gasped the words of another prayer.

  Tyche smiled upon her, too, it seemed. There was no magelord near. This blade must have been sent after her by someone hack in Narthil, or even a wizard distant from that town, perhaps in Athalgard. Whatever its origin, there was no magical scrying upon her, and no intelligent being within spell-sight.

  El thanked both goddesses because it seemed the right thing to do, then rose from her knees and went on cautiously. Perhaps she’d best seek a place to hide and pray to Mystra for spells.