His only response was to drop his head as tears flowed freely from his right eye. He bowed his head to hers, his voice choked with emotion. “You honor me with that mourner’s prayer. Thank you.” He dropped his hands and collapsed into the nearest chair, his shoulders and head slumped in grief.
Tsarra looked to Khelben for a cue as to what she should do. He walked around the glistening spell construct, his face an unreadable mask, and spoke up from across the room: “A worthy and intriguing spell, Gamalon. If not for its overlong casting, it would be a boon on the battlefield. Still, truly a spell that needs carry your name.” His pacing brought him close to where Gamalon and Tsarra were, and his face relaxed into a look of compassionate concern. Speaking to neither one of them, Khelben looked at a wall and said, “Laeral, please bring the globe if it’s ready.” He knelt down and placed a hand on Gamalon’s shoulder, and the wizard looked up.
“My anger’s spent, as are my spells, Blackstaff. I’m just … I can’t believe Mynda … Why didn’t her necklace protect her? Why? I … I don’t understand …” Gamalon began a series of wracking sobs that did not stop when Laeral entered the room.
In her hands, she held a wooden box. She went directly to a small table near Gamalon and placed the box on it, opening the latch and letting the box’s hinges open to reveal its contents. Set into each of the hinged covers was a scroll tube. Inside the box on a velvet cushion rested a globe of rose quartz about two hand spans in diameter. Its surface was polished smooth save for a few sigils lightly etched into it. Laeral and Khelben both murmured the same spell, which Tsarra did not recognize, and their palms glowed as they placed their hands upon the globe, their faces a mixture of sadness and compassion.
Tsarra shuffled around the room, opening windows to let out the lingering smoke. She busied herself with the mundane tasks of tidying the bed and moving the smoldering furniture beneath the windows. Hearing Gamalon cough, Tsarra poured him a cup of water from his bedside pitcher. She sent the clay cup over to him with a minor cantrip. Gamalon looked at her and nodded.
“Aha. ‘Use every occasion to sharpen your magic, even the most mundane. It is not vanity or laziness that makes a mage use his skills in all things, but to honor the gods Azuth and Mystra for their gifts and their trust in him.’ That still holds true?” Gamalon asked.
Tsarra smiled in return. “It would seem Khelben’s lectures remain the same across the years. You were an apprentice here, your excellency?”
Gamalon said, “Never an apprentice, but kin and a intermittent student over the years. Poorer in magic would I be, were it not for my great-grandfather.”
Tsarra asked, “So you too know he’s not who he claims to be?”
“Less than one per twoscore who have studied within these walls realize Khelben knows too much to only be a mage of fifty-odd winters. I always knew my paternal grandmother Kessydra was born in the Year of the Bright Sun as the daughter of Khelben the Elder and Cassandra Simtul-Arunsun. Mind you, I called him cousin for many years before I uncovered the truth. His secrets are there, but only decipherable if he trusts you enough to show you the trail that leads to them.”
“Enough, Lord Idogyr,” Khelben intoned from across the room. “Here is another secret, though it is pale recompense for its costs.”
Gamalon turned to look at Khelben, and stood up, his face paling as he said loudly to the mages Arunsun, “A Nykkaran Mourninglobe?”
The spell’s glow shifting from their hands into the globe, Laeral and Khelben pulled their hands away. Both opened their eyes, and Khelben spoke. “Yes. Laeral and I spent the night preparing this one while you healed and slept. This one is for you—for Mynda.”
“Khelben,” Gamalon said, “these are priceless, their secrets lost.”
“Not exactly true on either account,” Laeral returned. “You have four scrolls here with the mourning spell on them—enough for you and your children to mourn her within the globe.”
As Laeral spoke and Gamalon sat down at the table with them, Khelben looked at Tsarra and sent to her, You’re usually better at keeping your emotions off your face, Tsarra. Your confusion is apparent.
Well, I don’t usually see this much new or old magic this quickly. I’ve seen more secrets in two days than I’ve studied in a dozen years here. I’ve never heard of either mourninglobes or Nykkaran before—was he the wizard who made them?
I forget my days can seem overwhelming to those unused to such tumult. You’ll have to get used to this, I’m afraid. As for Nykkar, it is a place. Calimshan has always had Nykkar, a city dedicated to funerary practices and the dead. Some funeramancers of this city first created these globes back when the Shoon dominated the south.
Khelben’s lecture went much faster, as Tsarra received images, memories, and knowledge relating to his topic as he sent.
A highly specific spell cast by someone touching a globe allowed one to fully mourn and remember a person recently passed, draining all their grief quickly and leaving them with a globe full of memories. In fact, with enough people embedding their memories and impressions of the deceased into a globe, one could touch the globe later to gain a sense of meeting the departed. They fell from use for centuries when desperate wizards after the Shoon Imperium’s fall enchanted them to mind-rape wizards foolish enough to touch one. The keepers of Nykkar stopped making them about the time of the Warlord Laroun, and the mourning spells have been lost to most even longer. Laeral can bring Gamalon the sole surviving copy of Rituals for the Dead by Harun yi Nykkar from my personal library to study today.
She sent, And you just happened to have one of these lying around?
No, he replied. I have yet one more in reserve, which may be used all too soon.
Tsarra realized their entire mental discussion happened rapidly, and Khelben ended it just as Laeral finished speaking.
Khelben answered both her and Gamalon’s lingering question. “It is as Laeral says, Excellency. I only wish it were not needed. I’ve only made nine of these in as many centuries, when I found myself or allies in dire need of mourning without the time to do so properly. There are two mourninglobes in the tower for two former wives. A third rests with her namesake granddaughter Cassandra at the Thann villa. Yet another lies within my first son’s tomb in the City of the Dead, untouched in eleven-score years. A fifth has some notoriety, as it mirrors Lhestyn’s spirit, though I know not its whereabouts, thanks to the Shadow Thieves.”
Gamalon stared at Khelben, exhausted but attentive, and Tsarra wondered about the history between the two men and the women in their lives. She could not grasp the despair gripping Gamalon, as she had long avoided any chance of losing herself in relationships. She had had lovers, including three fellow apprentices, over the years. She always remained pragmatic about them, never letting them get too close. Ever since her father died, she never wanted to feel that pain of loss again. Her reverie was broken by Gamalon’s icy words leveled at Khelben.
“I have made many vows to you and through you to great causes, Blackstaff. You have had my trust and allegiance much of my life. If I had known the cost of those vows, I would never have promised them. Never!” Gamalon appeared calm and quiet as he spoke, but Tsarra could feel the impacthis words had on Khelben. “You gave me my ‘eye’ fifty years ago, hinting it had a great destiny and warning me it could be a great burden. Did you know then this would happen?”
Khelben said, “I did not know the secrets of the gem might cost you so dearly, no.”
Gamalon’s hands trembled, though his voice remained steady. “Is there anything else with links to this lightning to strike tragedy at my family?”
“No,” Khelben said. “What you bear as a kinsman and tel’teukiira, you bear with full knowledge of their abilities.”
“Why didn’t you tell me, Khelben?” Gamalon pleaded. “I’ve paid the price with blood—I deserve to know what that bought!” The count pounded the table as tears began to flow again from his right eye.
“Yes, you do, as do
es Tsarra,” Khelben replied. “Unfortunately, the time for such revelations is not yet here, and I need to ask your patience.”
“Promise me, Blackstaff,” Gamalon said. “Reveal every secret that cost me my wife. Swear by whatever you hold holy.”
“You shall know the truth, blood of my blood, and the redemption and peace that shall come from Mynda’s unfortunate death.” Khelben’s sorrow was genuine, Tsarra felt through their link, but even Laeral was agape at Khelben’s vows. “This I swear by the silver in my veins, by the Weave, and by the emerald eyes of my daughter Kessydra, your ancestor. Do you need me to pledge by the Nine who Remain, the Six Argent Guardians, or the Twelve Mysteries, among other things?”
“No. Enough. Potent vows, those.” Gamalon sighed. “To be honest, I expected equivocation, not a straight answer with vows holy enough to bind a temple elder.” The count leaned on the table and exhaled. “I shall assume there is more you need of me, or else you’d have taken me directly to Tethyr.”
“There is, I’m afraid,” Khelben replied. “Tsarra and I must away to unavoidable errands, while Laeral shows you Harun’s tome and leaves you to grieve in private. Later, she will fill you in on the preparations, but for today, rest and honor Mynda’s memory. Both Tsarra and I know how devastating that lightning can be, and we’ll all need to be ready for a high magic ritual on the Feast of the Moon.”
Tsarra exclaimed, “High magic? Khelben?”
Gamalon said, “You have an unmatched gift for keeping allies and enemies alike guessing, Blackstaff.”
“Mynda may be gone, Gamalon,” Khelben said, “but her friendly spirit shall be with us two nights hence, to see a working unseen in anyone’s living memory.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
29 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
(1374 DR)
Tsarra fumed as she and Khelben waited in the antechamber outside of the private office of Lord Maskar Wands. Despite her sendings and verbal pleadings, Khelben refused to divulge any more information since they’d left the tower.
For the last time, Tsarra, it was hardly safe for me to divulge what I did inside the walls of Blackstaff Tower. To utter it outside invites foolishness at the very least. Khelben’s sending carried a grim resolve. You will know everything soon enough. Mystra demands my silence for now, but I can tell you one thing. The weight of these secrets can adversely effect events in the interim, so for now they remain unsaid. Now, comport yourself a little better than your tressym. I saw him chase Olanhar’s familiar into one of the outbuildings.
The pair of them had come to the Wands villa on Shando Street by a public carriage at Khelben’s insistence, “To give the gossip-mongers something on which to chew.” The manor and grounds were awhirl with activity, as the staff and family prepared for Lord Maskar Wands’s one hundred and thirtieth birthday the following day. Two stewards immediately led Khelben and Tsarra to the chamber, in which they had been standing for only a short while when a spiral mosaic on the floor began to glow. Rising from the spiral as if he merely walked up a staircase, Lord Maskar Wands appeared before them. Or at least, his head and shoulders did. The magically embedded noble turned and beamed at them.
Lord Maskar’s voice was a pleasant baritone that sounded far younger than his appearance. He spoke at a rapid-fire staccato pace, but Tsarra couldn’t tell if he was particularly excited or if that was his normal behavior.
“A surprise, this is, Blackstaff. You’re not one to advertise your comings and goings, so you startled me when your mark appeared on my glass.” His voice dropped to a whisper when he asked, “A new blackstaff, Khelben?”
“Aye, ’tis new, milord Wands.” Khelben replied.
Tsarra realized she had not noticed the change in his staff, nor that he had not carried one since the accident. It was not the gnarled and ragged, blackened wood staff she saw then. The polished blackstaff was shod on the ends with golden metal that entwined the staff like veins. In fact, it looked as if it were black stone with marble-like veins of gold, the metal protecting the ends of the staff.
Another secret you’ve neglected to share with me, Khelben? she inquired silently.
Lord Wands beckoned, his arm coming free from beneath the floor. “I want to see that, then. Come down to my workshop, will you? We won’t be disturbed by servants or exasperating relatives. You remember the passwords to my study doors, of course.” With that, he turned in his place and disappeared into the floor.
“Shall we astonish him yet again?” Khelben asked, mischief in his voice and eyes.
Tsarra was constantly surprised by the Blackstaff. The dour and serious man she had known for years was, like the Lord Wands, acting like a child at a game he was rarely permitted to play. Khelben touched the spiral mosaic with his right foot three times, recited a short incantation, and grasped Tsarra’s hand firmly. He began walking downward, and Tsarra realized that, even though it was still a mosaic, the staircase felt as if it descended naturally after the first step. The two of them entered Maskar’s workshop, where they were greeted by a hearty laugh.
“And here I thought only Olanhar and I knew the charm to use that stair! I’m going to have to unearth some of your home’s secrets as well, Lord Arunsun.”
Tsarra had only been to the Wands villa twice in twenty years, and neither time had she actually been introduced to Lord Wands. Khelben stood over him by nearly a foot. The man’s reputation stood far taller than he did in life with his pronounced stoop and slight hunchback. She knew he was older than most humans, but unlike Khelben, he chose to keep an aged and wizened face and body. He had recently cut his beard to closely trimmed muttonchop sideburns and cut his white hair very short. His ginger-colored eyes practically laughed for him as he clasped forearms with Khelben wordlessly. Tsarra noted Khelben had set the blackstaff aside, and it stood on end, perfectly balanced and without any apparent support.
“Well met, milord Wands, and a premature wish for the happiest of birthdays to you.” Khelben said. “Your staircase charm remains a close family secret, for who do you think helped your father build it, and the others?”
Maskar’s bushy white eyebrows rose, and he grinned, revealing a broad row of white teeth. “Well then, you’ll have to reacquaint me with one or two of them that have been lost over the years, if only to get us into forgotten cellars.” Maskar smacked Khelben on the back between the shoulders and laughed. A small chime sounded on the table behind him, and Maskar stopped, his face immediately serious.
“Excuse me a moment, would you? This brew is temperamental and has to be taken almost immediately.” He turned his back on them and levitated a bubbling beaker off a flame, setting the glass bottle down in an ice-filled cauldron. He counted out to thirty on his fingers then grabbed the bottle and drank down its contents. If his stamping foot and shuddering didn’t communicate his dislike of the potion, the gagging sound and heavy breathing of Lord Wands told Tsarra enough.
The old man turned back to them, and Tsarra watched his hair shift from white to a dark salt-and-pepper gray. His back straightened, his hunchback disappearing, and his face bore many less wrinkles.
“If anyone ever asks, child, why wizards don’t all drink life-extending potions, tell them this: Each and every one of them smells like otyugh scat and blood, tastes like rancid milk mixed with sawdust and grass trimmings, and feels like you’re imbibing razors and glass shards.” Before Tsarra could ask, he smiled weakly at her and continued, “So why do I drink them, you wonder? Since my fiftieth birthday, I have traditionally drunk one of these every twentieth year. I don’t trust most of my heirs to do right by the family, as happened at my brothers’ passing. And perhaps a little because I’m just arrogant enough to want to finish a few more spells with my name on them as legacies for my children and for this city.”
“Well, you’re only a third into your second century. Give it time,” Khelben said.
Maskar’s eyes narrowed. “You’re being cavalier with your secrets today, Blackstaff.”
Maskar’s face went through contortions, both from the potion’s age-reducing effects and his mixed emotions of surprise, concern, confusion, and finally amusement. The man began laughing and slapped Khelben on the back again.
Tsarra couldn’t believe what she saw. Common knowledge said the Blackstaff and Lord Wands held a mutual respect, but distrust and wariness for each other. She realized that, like Khelben’s personal behavior, Lord Wands apparently kept up appearances in public as well. When Lord Wands turned back to her again, she bowed deeply, aware of the awkwardness of her shouldered bow.
“I’m glad to finally meet you again, Tsarra Chaadren nee Autumnfire. Your father was a kind man and far nobler than most who carry such title. You appear much changed, girl, from our first meeting. Those tattoos are bold statements that suit you. Welcome once again to my home.”
Tsarra smiled nervously.
“My apprentice wonders how you know her secrets, Lord Wands,” Khelben said. “She doesn’t believe anyone outside of her choice confidants knew the nickname her mother put to her.”
Maskar winked at Tsarra. “You have your mother’s beauty with your father’s eyes and bearing. It has been many years and I meet many folk, but I shall always treasure having known Taalmuth and Malruthiia Chaadren.”
“Thank you, milord. I wasn’t aware we had met or that you knew my parents,” Tsarra said.
“Of course you don’t remember our first meeting. You were not yet three at the time. You left quite an impression on me and my daughter, at least.” Maskar chuckled. “You played with Olanhar’s first tressym familiar and turned him a bright purple! My daughter was just beginning her wizardly studies and was jealous of the sorcery you used when you napped with the creature. It took her a month to change his coloring back to normal. Tressyms, however, were one of the reasons I expected to meet you today.”
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