Khelben said, “Then again, his mistress has never been quite so tethered to Mystra’s raw Weave either. Perhaps the silver fire and my body’s destruction carried some effects through our link.”
Tsarra heard a yowl at the same time she felt anger from the tressym. His howls were fast and frantic, but she understood his rage—someone teleported in atop his tail. As she and Raegar ran around the rubble, she felt the tressym’s satisfaction as he attacked the robes and feet of the offender. She found Nameless, his jaws being pried loose from the ankle of Elminster. The old mage held the hissing, furious tressym by the scruff, seeming more surprised than injured.
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Don’t hurt him, please, sir!” Tsarra felt embarrassed, but she also felt the outrage coming from Nameless.
“Now, why would I go and do something as silly as that, my dear? Granted, he’s insulted me more in the past breath than most do in a tenday, but I did tread on his tail. For that, you have my apologies, Nameless.” Elminster smiled as he let the tressym go.
“How did you know that?” she asked. “Laeral calls him that, and I’ve not met anyone who could read another’s familiar.”
“So little time for questions, my dear.” Elminster kissed her hand. “I’m afraid Laeral learned her sense of humor from me. Given your tressym’s appearance and temper, I can’t think of a more suitable name.” As if on cue, the tressym looked up and cocked his head to one side, a pitch-perfect impression of a curious Khelben with the white wedge within black-as-night whiskers. Elminster chuckled, “Don’t you think it sad that more don’t learn to speak Tressym? Such an expressive language beyond the usual Avian or Feline—in nine hundred years, I’ve never been called a ‘haggard food-carrier who smells like a burnt dungheap’ before.”
Tsarra opened her mouth to apologize but started laughing instead. “I’m sorry, milord, but I—”
Elminster’s smile disarmed her, the mirth in him spread through his eyes and the face behind his wintry bramble of beard. “Fret not, lass, and belay the lordship I never took up. I’ve heard tell of your past few days. It is you who honor us and Our Lady, and I know we can expect greater things of thee in times yet to come.” Elminster bowed deeply from the waist, causing Tsarra to blush.
Khelben’s image shimmered between them and he said, “If you’re done trying to seduce my apprentice, Graybeard, it’s time to begin.”
Elminster took Tsarra by the arm, winking at her while addressing her mentor. “Serenity, Khelben. Remember, ‘Waken darkness in lightning’s strike; Waken Sleepers when dawn breaks night; only then may the Gathering attend the Feast of Five Gods.’ ” Elminster nudged Tsarra in the ribs and said, “I penned that little something into a poetry chapbook in Myth Drannor. Some fools think it has something to do with Bane.” He shrugged and returned his attention to Khelben, who tapped his illusory foot impatiently. “A few stars need to fall into place before our work begins, but we must assemble. Are all in attendance, then?”
“Imagine my astonishment that you’re an early arrival for the first time in centuries.”
Elminster waved his hand in dismissal. “You never know to enjoy a situation when it comes, son of Arun.” The old wizard squeezed Tsarra’s arm and whispered, “Remember this if things get rough. Think of the sun-dappled happiness of the woods, child, and that shall carry ye through. I’m off to see how Malchor and the others have fared preparing the lakebed. See you in a trice!” With that, Elminster of Shadowdale’s form popped like a soap bubble.
While Tsarra had more questions, she found her attention snapping to the rubble pile along with Nameless. Rocks tumbled out of the way, and Priamon Rakesk flew from the mound of broken masonry as if it weren’t there!
Raegar drew and threw the flaming short sword, but its flame trail missed all but the tatters of his black and green cape and robes.
Luckily, the blur that was Syndra’s rod zipped in to intercept the flying lich. The duskwood rod slammed onto the lich’s head and shoulder mercilessly. The weapon reared back in the hands of its invisible wielder a third time, eager to lunge as the Frostrune fell back toward the ground, but Khelben yelled, “No, Syndra! Don’t disrupt this spell!”
Tsarra yelled “Barkalrhael!” while pointing her bow at him, and a dark emerald ribbon of energy launched from it. The energies gelled over the lich’s hands and his one remaining foot, the ribbon snaking around his limbs and his mouth. The spheres pulled the lich’s arms and legs apart, leaving him spread-eagled and hovering over the rubble.
“Intriguing spell you created, Priamon,” Khelben said. “I look forward to studying it more, now that your compatriots saw fit to send it to me as insurance that I would save them the trouble of dealing with you.”
Raegar watched the lich struggle, and tiny lightning bolts crackled across Priamon’s spasming body whenever he pulled his limbs closer togther. His soulless stare said enough for Khelben.
“Of course they knew you betrayed them by setting up backdoor portals into their sanctums. I took your spellbooks, and Sapphiraktar and I agreed to turn a blind eye to each other’s activities for a time.”
Khelben turned his back on the bound lich, and asked Tsarra, “Could you and Raegar guide him over Malavar’s Grasp? Just push him forward. Tsarra, we need to awaken the Sleepers before dawn fully breaks over the Graypeaks, and it’s better Priamon is in place for his part in this ritual before the Gathering occurs.”
Tsarra and Khelben moved toward the stone plinths, the sky rosy in the east. She grumbled, “This Gathering is all those we’ve met the past three days? Everyone is here to work some magic?”
“All of them and more. Raegar, move him a little more south so he rests beneath Syndra’s sphere of force. Good—right there.”
“I’m still furious at you for trying to force me into submission earlier,” Tsarra grumbled, “but we’re stuck this way for now. It’s obvious you’re needed more than I am to command this crowd, so.…” Tsarra cast a spell, and her form shifted to become Khelben the Blackstaff.
Gamalon and Khelben both said, “Mystra sees and Mystra knows, every trouble found in her work, an oblation on the altar of stars.”
“Myaaklyr’s Fourth Sermon from Myrjala to the Arathenes, eh? Who’s preparing to do something rash and life-threatening?” His voice preceded him as Elminster popped back in. He turned to look up at Frostrune and puffed a cloud of smoke from his pipe. “Honestly, Khelben. The Moor is forbidding enough without ugly decorations.”
“Tsarra,” Khelben said softly, ignoring Elminster for the moment, “forever and always, we are tied together. Never easily does the Blackstaff incur life debts to anyone, but I owe you much more than one life can repay.” With that, Khelben’s illusory self stepped forward and merged with Tsarra, his corporeal double. The only clue that he was not the typical Blackstaff was the green kiira glinting on his forehead.
“And there it is. ‘Ye hearken, the three-souled-one shall lead them and the blasted heath shall impart wonders.’ Myrjala’s Prophecy fulfilled.” Elminster puffed out a smoke replica of Mystra’s symbol. “My congratulations, Blackstaff. What your strategies have brought together is a much sounder plan than you had at the Silversgate.” Elminster’s tone had not changed but his face was grim.
Khelben said, “That’s a mistake I’ll not repeat. Temper is useful only for scolding oneself, not leading a charge.”
Tsarra got a flash of Khelben’s memory through the kiira, but concentrated and did not lose consciousness. She felt something powerful grasping her right arm and both of her legs, pulling them in opposite directions. Tsarra realized she saw through Khelben’s eyes and felt his memories of his success and failure during the Fall of Myth Drannor. He had driven a battalion of creatures from the fabled city and battled them in the mountains east of Silverymoon. While he slew many and was proud to fight back to back with Elminster Aumar, the Nameless Chosen lost track of Colonel Cvor the Whipmaster. When he found his foe again, the mezzoloth had used Alayris’s Harn
ess to grow to giant-size and seize him.
Tsarra saw a snow-dappled mountain pass from that dizzying perspective—held aloft by the powerful arms of a giant demon as it tore him or her apart. She gasped and fell to her knees as she felt herself ripped nearly in half, blood and fire exploding from the wound.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Feast of the Moon, the Year of
Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
Tsarra fought against a scream and channeled the pain into ending the vision. She found herself on her knees in the illusory library Khelben had established earlier. Khelben’s image remained there, standing by the fireplace. Once she’d steadied herself, Tsarra stood up and said, I don’t know what felt worse—what Cvor did to you or the despair you were feeling about Myth Drannor’s fall. Now I know how you got that massive scar across your chest.
Forgive me, Tsarra. Some of my memories are too powerful to block entirely. Likewise, some magic, as you’ve felt already.
Tsarra rose, ignoring a gentlemanly hand from Khelben, but fell back onto a chair as she saw a tapestry depicting Nameless. Khelben! This possession—will it harm my tressym?
Hmph. Intriguing. I don’t believe so. He can be a part of the ceremony through your links, or he can be an observer. Your choice. In the physical world, Khelben reached down and scratched Nameless behind the ears, eliciting a loud purr.
No. The choice is his alone. I’ll not force anything upon him against his nature. That’s why I wait for him to tell me what he wishes to be called. He’s listened to all of this, and if he wishes to participate, I’ll be happy he’s with us. If not, I’ll be glad he’s safe.
Nameless looked up at Khelben’s face and narrowed his eyes. Thinktoomuch, goodfriend. Call me Nameless, if that pleases. Strong name for mystery, and suits me, like smellybeardwhitewizard says. Makes silverlaugher happy too. We all same pride, stand together.
Khelben said, “He wishes to stay. Would he mind helping Raegar keep watch?”
Elminster said, “Aye. He can’t stay with us here. Were they near the first two circles, both would be cinders within moments.”
“So, should Nameless and I start walking now?” Raegar jested, though all could see how nervous the last comment made him.
“Nay, lad,” Laeral chimed in. “You two will stand with a friend soon. He will keep you safe to observe much of what occurs here on this Feast of the Moon.”
So what’s to protect me, or at least my body? Tsarra found it odd to be watching the conversation through a massive mirror in the kiira-library. Staying more inside the kiira allowed Khelben to focus his concentration more.
I am, and those who watch us now from the Grasp. Khelben’s sendings still came from the simulacrum that sat with her in the kiira-library. Forgive me, my dear, but I must move our body and give it my full concentration to perform these preparations.
Khelben walked around the five plinths, finally laying both hands flat against the third stone and intoned, “First Sleeper, awaken to your task. Ivaakh!”
A surge of silver permeated the stone beneath his hands. Once the silver reached the ground, black sharnstuff began flowing over the plinth, filling in the handprints last of all.
Khelben approached each plinth in turn, repeated his actions, and intoned the same summoning, altering only the number of the Sleeper. After the fifth time, he turned to a figure stepping from the first plinth. The hooded man looked at his hands, body, then up at Khelben. Both men laughed and embraced each other.
Khelben? Who is this? Tsarra concentrated, hoping she might slip the names from Khelben’s memory. Her efforts created a large tome open in her lap. The page showed the man’s face, Khelben’s script beneath it identifying him as Mentor Wintercloak.
The two men broke their embrace, and as Mentor turned to embrace Elminster with equal strength, Tsarra watched Khelben’s reunion with the other four Sleepers: white-haired Orjalun of Silverymoon, the elf wizards Darcassan of Windsong Tower and Shalantha Omberdawn, and the seemingly young human Jhesiyra Kestellharp.
Sweet Mystra’s stars, Tsarra muttered to herself, all of them mystics of note who disappeared under mysterious circumstances over the centuries and all assembled here. Has there ever been such a collection of power in one place for one working?
Bells sounded within the plinths, and the ten assembled beings turned toward them. The first two plinths manifested the marks of Corellon Larethian and Sehanine Moonbow. Mystra’s eyes appeared next with her seven stars, then the mountain of Dumathoin on the next plinth, and the last showed the rolled scroll of Oghma the Binder. Once all the sigils were in place, three figures stepped from the blackened plinths as well, each wearing the high priest’s regalia of their respective churches.
Tsarra willed the names and faces to remain in her tome, to have a record of the day’s events. Pages ruffled forward to continue recording names and faces of the attendants, though few were known to her.
Raegar recognized the all-too-surprised face of Sandrew the Wise, who returned his grin. Twenty-five people soon filled the space within Malavar’s Grasp, but aside from brief nods among those familiar with each other, not a word was spoken for long moments.
“Are we too late? Nain and I found more friends for our party,” a woman’s voice broke the silence, and a hole seemed to draw itself in space.
Kyriani laughed as she stepped through, a floating disk bearing a large chest behind her. As she looked around at the faces of the assembled personages, even the ebullient mistress of Selûne’s Smile fell silent. Her right hand trailed behind her to lead Nain Keenwhistler, who held a blackstaff gingerly in his other hand. He stopped and stared agog at that aggregate of the powerful until the people behind him cleared their throats. Two hooded figures exited the open circle in the air, though only the female bore another blackstaff.
Lathander’s dawn streaked across the High Moor as the sun finally rose over the Gray Peaks. Khelben cleared his throat and said loudly to all assembled, “Gentles, we have waited centuries for this, and the time is upon us at last. If you would, step outside of Malavar’s Grasp so we may start our working.”
All but the three Chosen moved beyond the stone plinths, while the new arrival stepped forward with her blackstaff. Raegar and Nameless moved with Sandrew.
Inside the kiira, Tsarra saw a sketch appear of a lovely half-elf blonde woman with short-cropped hair before the woman let her hood drop open in the world beyond. Her name flashed on the tome’s right-hand page—Alvaerele Tasundrym.
The Silent Chosen? When was the last time four Chosen assembled for any working of the Art? Tsarra wondered.
Khelben’s scrawl wrote on the page beneath her image: When we sealed Hellgate Keep. Today we shall see five.
Khelben, Laeral, and Alvaerele levitated their blackstaves into place, bridging the gaps between the tops of the plinths and creating archways. Elminster blew a smoky hand, which drew a blackstaff from his cloak and settled it into place. A fifth blackstaff shimmered atop the plinths, turning Malavar’s Grasp into five curved archways. In like fashion, a shimmer of silver rain brought three figures into the palm of the Grasp. The silver rain coalesced into Alustriel Silverhand, Ualair the Silent, and a hulking mezzoloth.
Tsarra’s tome showed a pleasant gnome’s face in front of the mezzoloth’s chitinous insectoid head. He was identified as both Rhymallos and Parthar the Valiant.
Spells erupted from the crowd directly toward the mezzoloth, but a flare of energy from the orange gem on Ualair’s brow absorbed them all as Khelben yelled, “Stop!”
Arguments and murmurs rose and fell among the crowd, but Khelben continued, “I stand with a tragic hero of Myth Drannor and know that all who stand here today do so with purpose and warrant. Our brethren of the Pentad’s faith can certainly attest to that. Now, our final compatriots will arrive momentarily, and the Gathering will commence.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Feast of the Moon, the Year of
Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
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br /> Beams of sunlight streaked out across the moor, reddening the still-thick clouds overhead and gilding the plinths and staves. Curtains of magic shimmered from the staves, and elves, humans, centaurs, and others walked into the building crowd, each face as astonished as the next. Friend greeted friend, and foes locked eyes but held their spells in check. The most hushed receptions came for the devil-cursed Tulrun of the Tent, the white-caped Mistmaster and his consort Azure, the sneering Sememmon and his lady Ashemmi, and the elf woman who transformed into the gold dragon Tlanchass as she exited the gateways. She sniffed loudly with disdain as her gaze fell upon Maaril, and she made a point to fly to the opposite side of the Grasp from him.
Whether previously instructed or simply patient, all attendees held their tongues after initial grumbles and turned to look at Khelben. He stared at the archways, each still producing participants in the great working. Tsarra gasped as the roster of those assembled grew to more than seventy major and minor wielders of the Art from all across the Realms. As expected, many of the elves sequestered themselves together and away from most of the others. What struck Tsarra as strangest was that few gave any pause or attention to the struggling Frostrune, who remained bound and floating above them all, along with the sphere of force binding the lightning pyramid.
Once the golden glow diminished from all the staves and the plinths, Khelben cleared his throat.
“Welcome, one and all. Our time is short, but all will be revealed soon. Many of you know only fragments of why you are here, while others understand our true purpose. Some are here by power of the Art. Others are here by secrets within their blood—powers hidden in your ancestry. Still more attend by their gods’ faith in them. Know this—regardless of races or pasts or beliefs, we all do divine Art today. This work spans twelve millennia of plans and sacrifice. Today, we all work together to cleanse this place and these peoples and ready it for the Art they will unveil.”
Blackstaff Page 29
