by Ed Greenwood
There was a door at the next landing, facing neither into the kitchen nor away from it but north into the “blind end” of the landing turn, and he plucked it open cautiously—in time to see the heel of Narnra’s boot flick past. He was out into the cross-passage she’d been traversing as fast as he could move, but she’d already stepped into a great room or gallery beyond and darted to the right.
Rhauligan ran after her and froze, just before the archway where the passage opened out into this larger chamber ahead.
It was a very large room, and lofty. This was almost certainly the central hall of Haelithtorntowers, and he’d probably be stepping out onto a promenade balcony part way up its walls.
Torchlight flickered below, all along the front of the balcony. Across a vast ring of empty space he could see the far sweep of them, beneath an archway that matched the one he was standing in. They gave light enough to show the Harper the walls of this huge room rising up out of sight and curving inward, probably to a vaulted spire far overhead.
Painted coats of arms—wooden plaques as large as a stable door, each of them, and these were the old, fully-gilded sort with real helms and crossed spears affixed to them, not the simply carved false adornments more in favor, for some inexplicable reason, these days—adorned the walls above the balcony, and there were many tall, dark, closed doors between them. If Narnra didn’t want to stay on display in this hall, she’d probably creep to one of them and try to open it.
For his part—he ducked low again, so as to be close to the floor when he thrust his head out to peer along the balcony in both directions, seeking guards—Rhauligan hoped she’d find them all locked. All but one that opened into a dead-end chamber where he could pounce on her, truss her up, and go and announce himself to the Lady Ambrur and request that he be allowed to remove his captive into the keeping of the Mage Royal. Enough of this chasing about through laundries and cookshops.
Even before the Harper had finished making sure there were no guards or servants within sight on this balcony, nor any signs that anyone often came up here, he caught sight of Narnra. Keeping low and out of sight below the balcony rail, she’d worked her way around the balcony to the far side, obviously intending to depart through that matching archway—but had now stopped to listen to the voices floating up from below.
And leaned daringly forward to hear everything.
Rhauligan frowned. He could hear only a few people engaged in private converse—with no link of cutlery nor bustle of servants. Out of long habit he cocked his head to listen, too.
A sentence or two later, he’d put aside all thoughts of trying to capture Narnra Shalace.
“You’re in no pressing hurry, my Lord Starangh?”
“Not as yet, though I reserve the full disclosure of my desired pace through the rest of this unfolding day until I learn the reason you ask such a thing,” the Red Wizard replied calmly, inspecting the fingers of his own right hand as if he’d never quite noticed them before.
“Well, if we’ve the time and you’ve no objections on the grounds of, say, prudence considering our present company,” the Lady Ambrur responded, “I’d prefer to unfold the information you seek in an ordered, chronological fashion—to tell it as a story, to use plain words. A brief tale, not deep history.”
The Thayan raised his eyes to hers. “Why don’t you begin that way? If things become overlong or drift far from what most interests us all, we can always cry warning and agree upon another manner of discourse, can we not?”
“Indeed, sir,” his hostess agreed smoothly. “Let us begin, then, with the recent retirement of the Royal Magician.”
Malakar Surth had been displaying some signs of irritation throughout the preceding discussion—his mouth drawing into a thin, disgusted line, his gaze beginning to wander around the hall, beginning with a glance at what her gown displayed to the watching world of the Lady Nouméa Cardellith’s bosom—and so had his partner Bezrar, who’d slumped in his chair into a more sullen pose of boredom. Both leaned forward with renewed interest when the Lady Ambrur looked down into her empty tallglass for a moment then spoke to it gently.
“Vangerdahast ruled this kingdom for years. Azoun reigned, yes, dispensed justice, and rode to war when the need arose … but by his control of the Court, through manipulations of almost all of its officials, the Obarskyrs themselves, and many of the nobles who had dealings at Court, the Mage Royal held the day-to-day rule of this realm. Cormyr was ordered very much as he wanted it to be—until the coming of what most folk call ‘the Devil Dragon.’ We all know what befell Azoun and Tanalasta, but I also happen to know that Vangerdahast had some very trying adventures—alone—and almost met his death, too.”
The Lady of Haelithtorntowers looked up from the depths of her tallglass to find the eyes of Harnrim Starangh dark and intent upon her. She looked into them and added, “Not a few folk at Court remarked that the Royal Magician looked more old and exhausted at Azoun’s funeral than they’d ever seen him before. Most put it down to grief—for the friendship between the Mage Royal and the Purple Dragon was legendary—and the stresses of battle, but among the most senior Wizards of War there were murmurs of … deeper failings.”
“Say more, Lady,” the Red Wizard purred, leaning forward with his nonchalance forgotten.
“I believe it’s safe to say that the death of Azoun forcibly reminded Vangerdahast that no man lives forever and that he hadn’t much time left, He was growing steadily more frail. Yet we’ve all seen men enfeebled with age cling to what little they have left like a withering vine, hanging on grimly past all reason—until the hanging on prolongs existence past all enjoyment or a natural end. Faerûn knows legions of liches because of wizards who fiercely desire not to let go of life.”
The Lady Ambrur rose and took an idle pace away from her seat. Out of habit all three of her male guests marked where she walked and laid hands to the hilts of daggers or wands, but their hostess took only one more idle step before turning about to face them again. “Vangerdahast feared one thing more than his failing body: his failing mind. Increasing forgetfulness is a deadly failure in any mage, the Mage Royal of Cormyr in particular, and his had become bad enough in matters large and small that War Wizards were noticing daily. The Mage Royal could no longer juggle dozens of intrigues and managed rumors and timings of events without dropping some of them—and could no longer deny this from himself. He hated it, but he feared for Cormyr with someone else at the helm—given the plentiful supply of traitor nobles, the headstrong Princess Alusair, and the defenseless babe that the fifth Azoun was and remains.”
Lady Ambrur turned again to look at Lady Cardellith and said gravely to Nouméa, “Finding his replacement could have been an impossible job. He could well have died still looking—but for the first time in his life, Vangerdahast was truly lucky, or Mystra smiled upon him: He found his Caladnei, and though she’s no wise old Vangerdahast, she’ll do. She has youth, vigor, and the ability to work as well with Alusair as Vangey did with Alusair’s father. That left Vangerdahast free to retire before he mishandled something into a real disaster and let half the realm know that weakness now walked the Royal Court. So he hastened to do so, seizing on his long-held desire to be free of the petty, time-wasting intrigues and demands of Court etiquette and routine, and do something important ere he died.”
Lady Joysil Ambrur spun around to face the wizard Darkspells and the two Marsemban merchants. “That is what drives Vangerdahast, gentlesirs. That is what has driven him for some years, ever since he judged himself successful in schooling and guiding the great Azoun. He saw himself as a successful guide, teacher, manipulator, and helmsman of the realm … but other Royal Wizards of Cormyr have been that. Vangerdahast wants more. He wants to leave his mark in lore, so that men in centuries to come will say, ‘Baerauble was the founding High Wizard of the realm, aye, but Vangerdahast … Vangerdahast was probably the greatest of them all.’ It’s not a hunger rare among mages, I’m afraid.”
Harnr
im “Darkspells” Starangh did not smile at that observation, but Lady Ambrur was carefully looking now into the round and startled eyes of the importer Aumun Bezrar and no longer meeting the gaze of the Red Wizard.
“Vangerdahast is a builder of great ships of state and their helmsman,” she added, “so ‘great things’ to him doesn’t mean blasting cities flat or cracking open castles with their archwizards and kings still in them. By very difficult and expensive means I’ve been able to learn what two specific things he does hold important. One is personal: to sire a blood heir and enjoy romance and companionship, something he dared not allowed himself to do whilst serving as Mage Royal. One is his last gift to Cormyr, his legacy: to craft a great feat of magic, a webwork of spells that will defend and protect Cormyr after his death.”
Abruptly Lady Ambrur sat down again and fell silent.
That silence stretched, almost echoing in the vast and largely empty hall, until at last the wizard Darkspells stirred and asked softly, “Have you any idea how this web of spells will defend the kingdom, Lady? Such a massive warding—if it is a warding—would drink deeply of the life of all things within it and could not help but be noticed. More than that: It could not help but change life in Cormyr, both through how magic works, and by what other properties it possesses. Such a thing would become a treasure to steal—or a barrier to test strength against—for many mages and could not last long. I doubt that even Vangerdahast could successfully create such a thing. So … a warding seems unlikely. Have your … sources … any hint as to what this great magic entails?”
The Lady of Haelithtorntowers nodded, unsmiling. “They believe it will involve binding heroes to defend the realm in place of the destroyed Lords Who Sleep.”
“Heroes?” Starangh echoed, with a frown. “What great magic is needful in binding a few men, even against their will? Men can be compelled. Finding them need not take long—nor the crafting of magic to do the binding. The spells must be known to him as they are to me.”
Joysil shook her head. “My information suggests that these are all new spells Vangerdahast is crafting—and having great difficulties doing so.”
Starangh smiled. “So … he intends to bind more than mere heroes, then. And he’s doing this where?”
“There’s a forest village on the Starwater Road,” Lady Joysil replied, “called Mouth o’ Gargoyles. Magic goes wild when cast there. This curse has been known for centuries and is demonstrably real. Certain senior War Wizards, however, have been overheard telling particular Harpers that a hide-hold cavern was long ago established in the forest near the village by a Royal Magician of the realm and used by succeeding Royal Magicians. The magics they work are concealed from those who might otherwise come looking for explanations; any radiances or blasts or strange magical effects get blamed on the curse.”
Harnrim Starangh’s eyes narrowed. “So dozens of War Wizards know about this cavern and what goes on there—and have truly managed to keep it secret, for all these years?”
“No. Only a very few know of it, because the various Royal Magicians normally go there alone.”
“So who lurks in the woods, keeping outlaws and nosy Harpers and blundering foresters away?”
“That,” the Lady Ambrur replied, leaning forward to fix Darkspells with a very direct gaze, “is the most interesting thing about all of this. Folk who blunder too close without following exactly the right route—and no, I’m sorry, but I’ve not been able to learn the specifics of that trail—encounter creatures of Mystra: watchghosts and wizardly wraiths and the like, who turn them back with magic. Or they simply take one wrong step and are teleported halfway across Faerûn—seemingly to a different place every time. Most War Wizards who patrol the area are under orders only to observe who approaches and report such intruders to Laspeera or her most trusted senior mages. Most of them know only that something precious is located near Mouth o’ Gargoyles and that the very existence of this unknown valuable thing is a state secret.”
“So presumably a select few senior War Wizards do know the correct route to this sanctum,” Starangh said softly, bobbing his chin onto his steepled fingertips. He suddenly broke into a wide smile, blinked, and added, “You shall be well paid, Lady Ambrur.”
He opened a belt pouch, placed twenty thumb-sized rubies on the table in front of him, and added, “Consider this but a first, trifling payment—a gift, if you will. The worth of these is not be included in our agreed-upon price, which shall be delivered to you on the morrow. For I deem that you—if you forget all you’ve said tonight and speak nothing of it to anyone else ever again or of the names and faces of any of us three—have more than earned payment in full.”
He favored Nouméa Cardellith with a long, silent, thoughtful look but said nothing to her.
Starangh rose in a single smooth motion, nodded politely to the Lady Ambrur, and asked, “Have you learned anything more of interest, pertaining to this matter?”
“Not as yet,” she replied gravely.
“No matter. You have rendered me great service, Lady. I shall not intrude further upon your time.”
He bowed, spun around, and made for the door. Wordlessly, the two merchants rose in his wake, sketched clumsy bows of their own, and hastened to follow.
When the doors had closed behind them, Lady Ambrur looked at her remaining guest with a smile. “Well? What think you?”
Nouméa regarded her with large, dark eyes, shook her head ever so slightly, and said softly, “I do not trust that man.”
“Nor should you,” her hostess responded. “Are there spells upon the rubies?”
Nouméa rose, went to stand over the stones, muttered something, and passed her hand over them without touching anything. “Yes,” she said grimly, with no trace of surprise in her voice.
Lady Ambrur nodded. “Touch them not nor send any other magic at them. In fact, cast no more magic in this room. Were I you, I’d use spells to disguise myself this very night and lie low in some distant land for a month or so. Red Wizards tend to have very long arms and sharply honed senses of cruelty.”
“But yourself?” Nouméa asked, waving her other hand at the rubies. “What if he sends something deadly with his payment?”
“I can protect myself,” the Lady of Haelithtorntowers said softly, acquiring a smile that was not at all dissimilar from that worn by the Red Wizard.
“Like Vangerdahast, I too have some important tasks I wish to accomplish before I die.”
Eleven
A WIZARD IN EVERY SANCTUM
And so at last I was forced to put the world behind me and go and hide. I made myself a hole to hide in, pulled the hole in behind me, and there I was: nowhere.
The character Greatghalont the Archwizard
in Scene the First
of the play Endings In Innarlith
by Skamart “the Clever” Thallea
first performed in the Year of Thunder
There was a moment of blue, endlessly falling mists, then solid stone under their boots, bright morning sunlight, and a smell of burnt sausage and scorched toast.
Caladnei blinked. “I’ve been here before. Just once, when Vangey was testing me—but then he cloaked it from me somehow. I’ve never been able to reach it again.”
Myrmeen Lhal was shooting wary glances in all directions, her sword half-drawn. She gave Elminster an enthusiastically venomous look, so he smiled and blew her a kiss—which turned her glare stony.
They were standing in a flagstone-floored cellar, the cross-vaultings of its low, arched ceiling perhaps a handspan overhead. Ahead, beyond two littered tables and a hoopback chair be-draped with some rather dirty towels, was what looked like a kitchen: a scarred marble counter heaped high with dirty dishes and pans, flanking two sinks. Above the counter was a window, deep-set in a ferny bank and looking out through a few trailing vines over a pleasant deep-forest glade.
Standing at the counter with a bowl of almond butter in one hand, a fat loaf of bread under one arm, and his ot
her hand wielding a knife that was scooping and slapping between bowl and the sliced-off, exposed end of the loaf, was an all-too-familiar man.
He was stooped and fat and wore dirty black robes and sandals. His wild gray-white beard flowed down over his chest and reached in every other direction, too. The mouth hidden somewhere in the midst of it was hard at work creating the reason he hadn’t heard the ringing sound of Myrmeen half-drawing her blade, or Caladnei’s softly wondering words.
Vangerdahast the wizard was singing a bawdy song about a lass from Arabel—Myrmeen’s lips tightened—who’d fallen under his spell—Caladnei frowned—and was now begging for more … despite certain wizards growing sore …
Vangey’s singing voice was atrocious—a flat, rough wreck of a tone cloaked in the exaggeratedly fruity stylings he’d no doubt heard the haughtiest bards offer at Court (though they’d probably kept to one key, something the former Mage Royal was in no danger of doing), and he kept breaking off his song to choke, cough, and spit enthusiastically into the sink.
His knife was layering a finger-thick and still growing deposit of almond butter onto the end of the bread-loaf. Its swirl of oily brown was already bedecked with sprinklings of parsley, chopped garlic, and dill … and Elminster grinned slyly as he looked sidelong at Caladnei’s horrified face and watched it tighten in revolted anticipation of what her former mentor would most probably do next—which was, yes, to start to gnaw on the spread end of the loaf without bothering to slice it off or find a plate—though where a clean one might be lurking, in all the clutter, was itself a puzzling challenge—or, for that matter, make any sort of nodded offering to the gods.
What Vangerdahast did instead was launch into a second and filthier verse, through a mouthful of almond butter and bread while rocking on his heels and rhythmically conducting his imaginary wanton lass as he sang. In this manner, he turned away from the window just enough to catch sight of three visitors he’d certainly never expected to see standing in his empty pantry instead of the strongchests of provisions whose arrival he was expecting.
