by Ed Greenwood
“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 OR 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!
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, Jhessail 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 Syluné.
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. “Syluné 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.
Syluné’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 Art has raged against him before, and done much damage—and he is still here, this day, to tell of it.”
“If any mage in the Realms can hold Mystra’s might and live to see the burden passed on—and resist the hunger to master it and, in the doing, be mastered by it—’tis Elminster of Shadowdale.”
Khelben did shiver, then, and turned a white face to look into Laeral’s. His eyes were large and dark with fear. “Mine will be the task to take up what of his work I can—and gather all the strength I can, here. If the Art does master him, and he becomes as wild and cruel a rogue as Manshoon, mine will be the duty to destroy him.”
They held each other tightly in the large bed as tears fell. Neither could find words to comfort each other that were not empty.
Nergal stirred. ARE YOU TRYING TO ALERT YOUR FRIENDS, ELMINSTER? DO YOU TRULY THINK SUCH MEMORIES CAN REACH THEM, TO WARN THEM OF YOUR CAPTIVITY HERE? GIVE IT UP, FOOL—NOTHING LEAVES YOUR MIND BUT THROUGH ME. I AM THE GATE OF FANGS, THE PORTAL THAT OPENS NOT? DESPAIR IN MY DARKNESS AND YIELD? YIELD UP TO ME YOUR SECRETS, LITTLE MAGE, ERE I GROW RESTIVE AND TEAR APART ALL IN SEEKING WHAT I DESIRE.
Silver flames, flowing …
YES! MORE OF THAT! SHOW ME, CRINGING HUMAN! NERGAL COMMANDS! MORE, OR I’LL SNATCH AWAY YOUR SANITY WITH CLAWS OF FEAR!
Cold fear in spellcasting, fear of going mad …
YES! WHEREFORE YIELD! YIELD TO NERGAL!
Fear like a quavering flame in a dark room, where magic sputtered and failed in slender fingers …
Illistyl drew a deep breath and tried the spell again. Nothing happened—again. Her hands shook.
Magic had never failed her before. Oh, she’d failed it, a time or two, but always the error had been hers, something that more care or training could conquer. Not this wildness, this unreliability of her every spell.
Deep fear tasted like cold metal in her mouth. There was no Simbul here now, and Storm was half the dale away—there was only Illistyl Elventree, alone in a cold, dim stone room in the Twisted Tower.
“What’s happening?” she demanded of the Realms around her, bosom rising and falling as fear took hold. “What have we done, that magic fails us?”
The door of the room resounded to a thunderous knocking, shook in its frame, and burst in upon her. She screamed.
“Oh, gods look down!” Jhessail scolded her, sweeping into the room like a vengeful wind, robes swirling around her. “Must you work such pranks of Art? Half the guards below have just lost every buckle and plate of metal on them—and they’re now scrambling around in their boots and under-rags, looking very embarrassed indeed!”
Illistyl looked at her and burst into laughter … that soon dissolved into tears, and then twisted into laughter again. Jhessail held slim shoulders in her arms, cradling them, pulling her pupil close.
“There, there, kitten,” she soothed. “Shadowdale still stands around us—take heart. It could be worse.”
Illistyl drew a shuddering breath. “How?” she demanded tremulously. “I can’t work even the simplest spell!”
Jhessail sighed. “Well,” she said wryly, “all magic could fail us, and the gods could walk the Realms, and—”
Illistyl’s arms tightened around her waist fiercely. “Don’t say that,” she hissed into her mentor’s ear. “Don’t even think about it! Jhess, I’m scared. Scared.”
Jhessail Silvertree held the younger mage tenderly in her arms and said, “We all are, kitten. Even the gods, now. Elminster used to tell me, when I cried: Walk with fear a little while. Get to know it, and know thyself the more.”
Illistyl only sobbed in reply, and clung to her more tightly. “He’s gone, too! Jhess—where is he?”
Jhessail felt wetness welling up in her own eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered back. They clung to each other in the darkness. In a voice that was not quite steady, she said, “We’re all scared. We should be, now, if we know what’s befallen—and are sane.”
Illistyl drew back and stared at her, eyes streaming. “You think mages are sane? You’re crazy!”
Jhessail laughed until she had to cling to Illistyl for support, and they laughed together awhile longer.
There came the hurrying tread of booted feet, and Mourngrym rushed in, torches and guards at his back.
“What now, women?” he demanded, sword naked in his hand.
“The—sanity of mages,” Jhessail gasped. “A … laughing matter, it seems.”
“I’ve often thought so,” the lord of Shadowdale replied, sheathing his sword. “Though with Elminster about, I’ve never quite dared say it.”
Illistyl nodded. “And now that he’s gone, who knows where …?” Her voice was only a whisper.
Mourngrym looked at her. “I’m so afraid, lass, that if I stand still too long my bladder fills my boots right up to the tops. If you had any sense, you’d know that much fear, too.”
He wondered, then, why the laughter of both lady mages was so wild.
MY PATIENCE IS NOT ENDLESS, MAN. DO YOU THINK SHOWING ME SUCH THINGS DELAYS YOUR FATE? THE UNLOCKING AND WIELDING OF MYSTRA’S POWERS ARE WHAT I SEEK, NOT THESE SCENES FROM THE EVE OF THE MADNESS OF MAGIC FAILING, NO MATTER HOW MUCH IT MATTERED TO YOU.
I try to reveal all, Nergal. I try. Much is tangled here, when the old Mystra passed and her powers were thrust into me to carry. Here alone is the time when I understood what I wielded. Believe me.
YOU MAKE SUCH BELIEF LESS THAN EASY, MAGE. DELAY ME LESS.
* * * * *
“Lord?” Darthusk pulled back on his swing a moment before his sword tip would have found Mourngrym Amcathra’s throat.
The lord of Shadowdale stepped back, frowning. He shook his head as if trying to clear something out of it, staring at nothing.
Darthusk waved his hand in an urgent signal. All of the guards around the room stopped their sword practice and fell silent, looking at their lord in concern. Was this some sort of Zhent trick, or—?
Mourngrym shook himself again and caught up his belt rag to wipe the sweat from his face. “Strange,” he said tersely as he raised his blade again, “but—’twas so vivid. A passing memory of our two lady wizards laughing until they were falling down. I went in to see why the noise, and …”
He shook his head again, wonderingly and said, “Cry pardon, Darthusk. I—magic. Strange, always.”
“Aye, Lord,” the guard said, as they crossed their blades to begin again. “Magic always is. I see it as a sword that burns at both ends—harming its wielder as well as the foe. It’s a wonder to me that more mages don’t end up aflame in earnest, screaming down in the Nine Hells!”
Mourngrym stiffened again, frowning at Darthusk. “What did y—never mind.” He tapped his sword against the guard’s. They swung at each other with real force, and the spark-striking clang of steel rose again around them. Mourngrym shook his head and growled, “Aflame in the Nine Hells, aye. Use magic I must, but trust it? Never!”
Their eyes met over their skirling blades, lord and guard, and they grinned and shouted in unison, “Never!”
* * * * *
[frustration like flame … aye, a flame burning in Hell with a too-clever mage in the heart of it]
WHAT’S THAT, LITTLE MAN? WHAT’S THAT THOUGHT OF FLAME YOU’RE TRYING TO HIDE FROM ME? YOU THINK FIRE CAN HARM ME?
Ah, no. “Never”
AYE, SO STALL NO MORE! SHOW US MORE OF THAT! THERE WERE GUARDS, YES, WITH DRAWN SWORDS, AND LIGHT—WELL?
[hasty swirl of images]
Brightness, long-barred doors opening, guards stepping warily back with naked swords bright in their hands, parting to let us stride forward …
Ahead, into the light …
ABOUT TIME.
The blue-white light of the Art, of Mystra’s power unleashed …
SHOW ME!
Blue-white, and wavering … in a stone tower where an old man sat alone, spellweaving …
The spell had never go
ne wrong before. It was such a simple thing, the conjuring of light. Oh, wondrous to a farm boy, to be sure, the making of radiance where there had been none before—and a thing for a raw apprentice to be proud of. In the actual casting, mind, there was nothing very complex or difficult.
Taern “Thunderspell” Hornblade, Harper and mage of the Palace Spellguard of Silverymoon, stood up suddenly, then sat down again, frowning in bewilderment. In his mind he went over what he had done again, seeing clearly the clean, careful, precise steps. No, he had made no error. The spell should have worked.
He cast a detection spell, felt it range out from him. No fields or barriers, save those that were always in this place, met his probing. The scrying magic worked flawlessly, proof that no magic had been placed to drink or deny all Art. Everything seemed normal, the torches flickering in their braziers as they always did. Yet the spell had failed.
Either someone who could not be seen or otherwise detected had acted to steal or dispel his Art—hardly likely—or something had happened to Mystra or to his standing in the eyes of Mystra … or he was going mad. Happy choices, all.
With hands that shook only a little, Taern knelt in the stone-walled spell chamber and prayed to Mystra, his gray-bearded lips moving in entreaty. He felt as if a black gulf had suddenly opened beneath him, and he was helpless to avoid plunging into it, into oblivion. What had he done? What had happened to him?
He was still on his knees when one of the room’s secret doors opened—the door that led to the chambers of Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon.
So upset was Taern Thunderspell that he did not look up or cease his prayers, even when a gentle hand came down to rest on his shoulder. He did stop, amazed, at the grief-choked, kindly words that followed.
“Make thy prayer a farewell and thanks to the Lady, Taern,” Alustriel told him. “For she is gone forever.”
Taern looked up, dumbfounded, and saw that tears rolled unchecked down the cheeks of Silverymoon’s queen. A blue-white aura of power curled about her long hair and spilled from her brimming eyes.
