“Niyadra’s Chains? He knows his elven spell-lore. Pity about his human patience.”
“I will not be bound.” The chains on the far right chair dissolved with the sound of iron clanging on steel.
“Of the five, his power alone can keep our secrets.”
“Power alone is not enough. Our sharing with the elf of Ardeep proved some cannot abide all secrets.”
“Aloevan’s love and trust of history shattered with our secret. This one understands the past has many layers and many truths inside shells of deceit.”
“He is human, the starred one’s gifts besides.”
“Human born of half-breed, true, but elf blood is his. He is worthy.”
During those retorts, the Nameless One maneuvered to the empty chair, the one the other five all faced. He dropped his invisibility spell as quickly as his jaw. He had recognized the voices as those of the high priests of the Pentad’s temples, but they were not precisely whom he faced just then.
They each looked like the priests in basic form and profile, but a glistening black slime covered them from foot to throat. What little flesh remained uncovered had darkened considerably. High Hammer Arnathus the dwarf had claws and fangs sprouting and disappearing in his prodigious beard, its russet-brown hair black and oily. Saarvip and Mijala Oakenstaff, the elves whose marriage mirrored those of their gods, held hands, and the wizard could not see where one black form ended and the other began. Magepriest Laume of Summersreach always had the kindest eyes, and they smiled on the wizard—all seventeen of them blinking about the gnome’s body and face. The Chondathan woman he knew the least. She had only recently come to the Lorebinder’s service, but he knew that Naarys the Morninglark had never before needed five hands to play a lap-harp.
All five spoke in unison but alternated among themselves, as if they all shared the same mind. The wizard sat in shock as five of the massive crystals manifested each of the Pentad’s holy symbols within their cores in blue and purple energy, underscoring the acceptance of their gods in the event.
“We are in transition, Nameless Chosen, for the good of all.”
“Understand we are in no harm, nor pain, nor fear.”
“All your questions are answered in these crystals and our books.”
“Attend them, know them, guard them, and keep them safe and secret.”
“Our legacy must be kept but we guard others greater still.”
“Know we are not the first to make this transition, for we join many vanished waiting to be found later.”
“Among us are minds and souls of many peoples, all of us coming from realms falling.”
“Many have been lost to greed, ambition, or evil, and we protect those few who cling to their dreams.”
“Redemption may come for all, but neither soon nor easily.”
“We enfold the lost, the missing, the dreaming, the worthy, and the bold.”
“Many are we but all are one in form and purpose, e’en if we forget that for a time.”
“Our guise and goal shall remain hidden until the lightning calls to us.”
“Wake us not to our old selves, as that is the task of that which destroyed us all—greed and power and guile and treachery.”
“All our brethren are among us, the faithful of this place, but we waited to tell thee true things.”
“Thou art more than Mystra’s Chosen—the Pentad Chooses thee as well.”
“We ask you to remember us and keep our works and secrets.”
“What you see here you may comprehend fully with study of our library and learn the secrets of lives and lores and labors long lost.”
“We shall await the time when we may be singular yet united.”
“We charge thee to ready the Realms for our return.”
“We all take Oacenth’s Vow and Dragmar’s Promise to heart.”
“Until we meet again, we may redeem lives and reclaim lores lost where we find them, e’en if our actions match not our intent.”
“Until the world can accept our message, we remain hidden, even from ourselves.”
“Dutiful one of secrets many, we honor and thank thee for thine service.”
“Fare thee well, honored son of five faiths.”
As they spoke, the priests seemed undisturbed as the black oil crept over their faces and into their open mouths, eyes, and noses. Once fully covered, the priests’ forms began to shift and merge, regardless of initial height or breadth. Their individualities melted, and features, clothing, profiles, and limbs flowed together into shapeless jet that remained pinned to the chairs by the wizard’s spell until a nimbus of purple light settled around them all. They disappeared with only the chuff of softly imploding air to mark their passage.
The Nameless Chosen sat for five days and nights without movement, pondering what he had witnessed. He read what he could from sunlight and moonlight filtering through the seven meditative lore crystals—priceless artifacts from Uvaeren, the long-fallen realm of the elves. In his ruminations and trances, he learned from the patron gods of the Pentad. The priests of the Pentad were creatures that the Nameless One learned were called shiftshades, blackclaws, simmershadows, skulkingdeaths, or the fhaorn’quessir, though most knew them as the sharn.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
29 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
(1374 DR)
Tsarra shook her head to clear her eyesight, and she realized she was sprawled on the floor of the temple between the statue and Khelben. For the first time, there was no disorientation from the vision or any headache. She knew at least the general truth about the sharn. She also awoke angry, then realized it wasn’t her rage as much as it was that of her tressym. The avian creature darted in and out, slashing at the sharn … or was it?
The creature that batted away at Nameless wore the greasy black skin of the sharn and its limbs ended in the same elongated tri-arms with claws, but it stood on the four legs and body of a strong stallion and had a heavily muscled torso. It seemed more to be a silhouette of a centaur, save for its two oddly distended limbs. The creature advanced on Khelben, and the tressym looped around its front, hissing savagely to warn it off.
She sent to the tressym, No, wait. I don’t think he means harm. His reaction was to hiss again at the sharn and bare his claws as warning as he flew back to Tsarra.
Dangersmell, predator, darkelder wounded, helpless prey! he sent to Tsarra as she stepped forward between the sharn and Khelben.
She tried not to flinch when she saw her mentor collapsed on the marble floor. Silver flames and blood alike spilled from a large ragged hole in his robes where his left hip and torso met. Were he a normal man, Tsarra guessed he might have been either dead or, even with expert healers, hobbled for life.
Khelben? Tsarra sent to her mentor through the kiira. Can you hear me? How badly are you hurt?
Yes, apprentice, I hear you. The bolt knocked me out for a few breaths, and it obviously left me a significant wound. For now, it’s more important I get a few moments to prepare a spell. Distract him for me, would you?
Tsarra stepped closer to the sharntaur and drew her scimitar, holding it point upward across her chest. “Come no farther, creature.” She wasn’t quite sure what to expect of it, but she knew her grandfather’s blade Maornathil should do well against it, regardless of what strange magic it wielded.
“You don’t need to fear us.” The sharntaur’s voice sounded deeper but more commonplace rather than the odd echo in what Tsarra deemed a sharn’s usual tone.
“I don’t.” Tsarra surprised herself with her unbidden answer. She really had no fears of the creature for the first time. She understood what she faced and knew it was well within her abilities to deal with the creature. Gone were the flashes of temper, the nagging fears and doubts, and all the uncertainties of the past few days. She wondered how much of them were hers and how much were perhaps those of Danthra, her friend whose soul had come to link her with their mentor.
The sharntaur nodded
at her then stamped its hooves. This action seemed to surprise it, and it rotated its head completely around twice, staring at its own form even as its actions defied its normal structure. Eyes erupted across its form, opening along its torso and lower body. Its skin shimmered as it reasserted its centaur nature, closing all eyes but two that looked at Khelben, Tsarra, and Nameless. It then distended its head around them all to look at the fallen thief.
Tsarra backed up and knelt by Khelben, resting her scimitar on the floor. She held him around the chest and under his arms so he had both his arms free to cast his spell, rather than prop himself up on one elbow. The wound’s blood flow had soaked his lower robes, but the silver fire cauterized it and prevented any further blood loss. Only after she had done all that did Tsarra realize he’d not said a word. Had she read his mind?
Khelben wove subtle sigils in the air as he spoke, interspersing his statements with his spell’s arcane incantations. What he spoke was apparently a dialect of Elvish that Tsarra had never heard, as she couldn’t understand all that Khelben said.
“Ye who have been sukarat a’layr are sinaglar again. Accept nuamil and learn of tuul edemp close at hand.” Khelben completed his spell, and his hands suddenly held a crackling globe of purple and azure energies that drifted in the air toward the creature.
The sharntaur reared up on its hind legs when a chorus of yells erupted from its right hand side. A handful of wizards, bards, and spellcasting priests burst from the Great Library’s doors, weapons drawn and readied. Khelben yelled, “No!” and waved them off, but two of the bards aimed arrows at the sharntaur.
With a feline snarl, Tsarra urged her tressym into action. “Spoil their shots, now!”
Nameless bolted toward them, spraying into the face of the first bard while clamping claws and jaws on the bow hand of the second to make him drop his weapon. For her part, Tsarra pulled up the memory of ice growing on a still pond and the smell of the frosty snap of chilling air. This spun together the magic that put an invisible shield between the archers and their target. The only hint that she had cast a spell at all were the whispered incantations only Khelben could hear.
Nameless flew past the swiftly growing group and looped up in the air for another pass when a voice from behind the archers boomed out, “Enough! Stand your ground and do not interrupt them unless they bring direct harm to you!”
Tsarra and Khelben both sighed in relief as the temple’s founder pushed his way to the front of the group. Sandrew the Wise, lorekeeper high and ranking priest of Oghma here, spread his arms wide then moved toward the fallen thief while keeping an eye on the goings-on in front of him. The man’s priestly calling to Oghma demanded he value knowledge and history as well as tending to the aggrieved. He seemed equally fascinated in what Khelben was up to with the sharntaur and horrified at the disturbance of his temple’s peace.
Tsarra watched him as he began weaving healing spells around the man’s arm and head. She thought it odd treatment for a rogue who had defiled a god’s temple, but she had never met Sandrew. For all she knew, he might be among the more compassionate of high priests, unlike the callous Meleghost Starseer of the House of Wonder. Her initial impression of the Oghman priest was of strength and purpose as he rose and helped the red-shirted rogue to his feet. Sandrew was clad in white pants and shirt with a golden vest and slippers. The head of the Font of Knowledge stood relatively tall, his shoulders square and strong, unlike many lifelong scholars with stooped and bowed shoulders. Aside from a receding line of graying hair, the priest’s age was not apparent. Tsarra realized with a start that the red-shirted thief was the man they’d encountered the previous morning—and the same man whose blade set off the lightning that killed Danthra.
Yes, Tsarra, he’s entangled with our fates in many ways. Tsarra returned her attention to matters in front of her, including the injured Blackstaff. Khelben, what happened? I didn’t even see the lightning strike—I lost consciousness a moment after the three artifacts reacted to each other. I was lost in your memories for a few breaths, but I learned a lot about our friend here.
Good. There’s less to explain now. As for my predicament, I intercepted the magic directly and paid the price. Khelben’s response shocked Tsarra as it exceeded his typical penchant for understatement.
You caught the lightning? Weren’t you the one who used to warn me about taking too many risks or asking questions too late after leaping?
Good advice, that. We should both listen to that prudent sage. It isn’t exactly lightning, though.
How can you tell?
Because I’m immune to lightning, my dear. Adamar’s song, I’ve not been hurt this badly …
… since your encounter with the Crown of Horns?
Khelben’s face darkened, and his eyes blazed into hers for a moment. Through their link, Tsarra felt a roiling upsurge of rage, pain, sadness, horror, and regret. If she had not felt his emotions, she might have missed that look, as it took him less than the blink of an eye’s time to restore his features to their normal unreadable state and his emotions under tight rein once again.
Sorry, Khelben. It’s not easy for me either, sharing your thoughts and memories.
No apologies necessary, Tsarra. You’re holding up better with this than I might have at thirty-four. I’m simply unused to having someone other than Laeral complete my thoughts so concisely. I am more angry at myself, having counted on a certain invulnerability when I should have heeded my instincts.
So why did you throw yourself into its path? You already knew it could affect you since this morning.
Khelben’s chagrin and resolve were all evident in his response. The lightning would have destroyed the support walls of the temple, collapsing it upon all of us that were within it. Lives would have been lost, as well as that statue—a legacy of Myth Drannor actually crafted by my father. I just didn’t expect to take as much of the bolt, given the transfer of energies to the sharn through the globe.
As Khelben and Tsarra silently conversed, the sharntaur slowed its rearing and pawing at the air with alternating hooves and its strange tri-arms. It settled down and stared at the globe that hovered in the air before it. Eyes again peppered the creature’s surface to reflect the energies of the globe. It reached out, and its skin glowed in response as well. Its claws dissolved as it touched the globe, its tri-arm melting into a normal centaur’s hand, albeit obsidian-skinned. Once both hands embraced the globe, its energy leeched into the sharntaur’s skin and body, forming constellations of winking purple and blue stars among the blackness of its shape.
Tsarra found herself speaking in concert with Khelben, finally understanding the obscure Elvish dialect as the two said, “Remember and return redeemed and readied. We shall await you at Faertelmiir.”
Tsarra didn’t quite know what she was referring to, but the certainty of it never wavered in her or Khelben’s minds. She looked down at her mentor, who she helped settle onto his back, his wound still a massive hollow where his hip and side should be. The only evidence revealing his incredible pain was his shallow and rapid breathing. He smiled at her.
Don’t miss this, Tsarra. Watch the sharn, not me.
The sharntaur, its silhouetted form fully centauran save for its glistening black skin, bowed to Khelben and Tsarra from its waist. It also wove a number of hand signals and gestures as it bowed in Sandrew’s direction as well. The priest returned a number of the gestures and bowed. The sharntaur crouched then leaped high into the air, which elicited a chorus of screams and gasps as it appeared to leap for Sandrew and the statue. Instead, it disappeared into a nimbus of purple lights at the apogee of its leap.
Tsarra looked down at Khelben again, surprised to find tears of joy rimming both their eyes.
Khelben whispered, “You feel it, don’t you? Even if you’re not fully aware of it all, part of you knows what’s to come and rejoices at it. Remember that when things get bleak. It will help you through harder days than this one. Now, prepare to bear the endgame that
is upon us. I’m sorry I did not prepare you better—I thought I had more time. So many things undone, unsaid.”
Tsarra felt a flash of warning in her head along with the loud growl of Nameless as he flew down to protect her. The tressym landed on her left shoulder as the priest and their opponent stepped close to them.
His eyes not on them, Sandrew muttered a few words in prayer, and a glow emanated from his hands. He spread his arms in arcs overhead, and the glow settled into a radiant hemisphere around the quintet.
“There,” said the priest. “Oghma loves to share knowledge, but he also knows when to keep secrets from prying eyes and ears.”
“Glad to see that prayer book I gave you for the founding has seen good use,” Khelben said then coughed violently, expelling small amounts of blood and smoke from his mouth. Tsarra felt his embarrassment over his seeming weakness, though he seemed to have some concerns toward his continued health.
“Lord Arunsun?” Sandrew the Wise asked as he kneeled down opposite Tsarra on the other side of Khelben. “Thank you for saving my temple from destruction, milord archmage. May I heal your suffering?” Sandrew’s clean-shaven face was both young and ancient at the same time, as his unwrinkled brow and umber-colored eyes seemed to hold the insight of ages.
“No, thank you, Loremaster High. It looks worse than it is. That matter is well in hand.” Khelben nodded, though Tsarra noticed his face had returned to its usual stony facade, revealing no more than absolutely necessary. “The scrolls will unfurl in due time, old friend. For now, introduce us to our erstwhile foe. I believe we all have met briefly, though names were not exchanged.”
Blackstaff Page 19
