A murmur rose among the crowds, especially among the elves who realized upon what desecrated ground they stood.
“What peoples, Blackstaff? Which of us?” The voice came from a black cat, which morphed into a slim, black-haired woman, much to the surprise of the man who had picked up the small feline earlier.
“Elsura Dauniir and all ye gentles of the Art, meet our hosts, allies, and soon to be restored friends. We stand among quessir’Miyeritaari.”
Khelben gestured outward, and everyone found the plains around them were dotted with dark figures in the recognizable shapes of dwarves, gnomes, centaurs, and elves. Randomly interspersed among them were the teardrop shapes of the sharn as well. The blackness that clung to the plinths slid off into a black moat completely encircling Malavar’s Grasp and leaving the Chosen, Ualair, and Rhymallos separated from the crowd.
The sharn also flowed over the chests Kyriani and Nain bore and dissipated them in a flurry of purple sparks. The morning sun glinted off dozens of golden rings, bracers, and circlets floating on the air. They hovered for a short time before they all drifted down toward the black moat. The items sank beneath the surface quickly until no more gold was visible.
“Each of you will take up one of those items. Those items link you to the working and take you to your appointed task. This working has three central circles and nine smaller circles comprising the fourth perimeter. Some circles span so large a space that you may seem to be alone, but know you are not. Each role is crucial, no matter where you make your contribution. Many have sacrificed much to reach this point. The Gathering will be complete once all are in their places, and our hosts will attend to that.”
The assembled sharn dissolved into liquid, forming hundreds of black pools and streams all over the High Moor. One tri-headed creature remained, hovering above the black moat around the Grasp. It reached into itself and pulled out a dagger apparently carved from a single ruby. It cut its own finger and let some blood drops fall to the surface of the moat.
“Very well. Our task is before us. If you would approach and do as it does, blood chooses our roles.”
With much formality, the mezzoloth within the Grasp lumbered forward and cracked its own shell open on a claw. A breath after one blood drop hit the black surface, a shimmering bracer floated up to the surface. He picked it up, clamped it into place on his tail, since his forearms were too large, and blinked away to his designated spot.
With similar ceremony, sixty wizards, mages, sorcerers, and notables of the Art stepped toward the black moat and dripped their blood into it. Each time, a golden item bobbed to the surface of the moat and each took up the linking item that would bind them to the working. Most nodded to Khelben as they donned rings, circlets, or bracers, and Tsarra was able to spot more famous faces and names as each joined the working: Malchor Harpell, Phaerl Hawksong, Maskar Wands, Fourth Reader Shaynara Tullastar of Candlekeep, Luvon Greencloak, and a bronze dragon of near venerable years named Essioanawrath the Elder. Tsarra sent a fervent wish of good luck to Raegar and Nameless, as they glittered away with a circlet-clad Sandrew.
By the time the sun cleared the Gray Peaks and tucked its blazing glory beneath the blanket of heavy clouds, all those assembled had shed their blood and taken their places. All, that is, save some of the elves, including those who bore their family’s moonblade with them. Tsarra happily noted that Yaereene Ilbaereth had been among the first to take her place in the working, so she was not one who questioned the rightness of it all.
The tallest elf said to Khelben, “It is not your place to command this working, Blackstaff. None of you, even as Mystra’s Chosen, should usurp the honor that is the elves’ alone. Let that venerable elf help us restore this place to right and we shall be his first two circles.” The elf acknowledged Ualair the Silent, but it was obvious he knew him not. “You and your fellow n’tel’quess can serve as our bulwarks in the lesser circles. Spare us the insult of having half-breeds, horse-men, and demons within our rituals.”
Khelben glared at all the elves.
“Gods, what an arrogant cuss …” Laeral muttered.
Alustriel rolled her eyes, Elminster inscrutably puffed on his pipe, and Alvaerele laughed in response.
“You’re banishing half-breeds now, Araermal Phyallandar? Care to know how many of your by-blows exceeded your accomplishments, half-breeds or no? They spread far beyond your home in Shilmista.”
Araermal glared at the half-elf woman, who only tapped one finger on the massive volume hovering near her.
Ualair walked over to the black moat’s edge, nicked his finger with a dagger, and let a blood drop fall into the pool. The ripples shimmered with many-colored magic, and a bracer bubbled up to the surface. The ancient elf gestured, and the bracer flew up onto his arms. As his form dissolved into purple sparks, one final magic erupted from his kiira, and a flaming Espruarn sigil declared, “Shame.”
“Apparently, you have failed to sway Myth Drannor’s grand mage, Araermal. The mentor of my mentor has taken up the role five gods and the fhaorn’quessir would have him shoulder,” Khelben said solemnly.
“This is how you dishonor elvenkind, Blackstaff?” Teharissa Ulongyr howled, tears streaming down her face. “For small slights that stung in your youth but tempered you into becoming the archmage you are now? You demand we sacrifice priceless moonblades to this working and you insult us by having us work beneath you? This is high magic, and there is no elf within the center circles. We share history, last Maerdrym, but you do not share the true nature of the elves necessary for this work.”
“For all we know,” Araermal sneered, “you Chosen have enchanted all these linking items to favor your own agents and gods over ours.”
Khelben glowered at Araermal. “Given our history, Araermal, you should choose your words more carefully. Were it not for the specific need of your bloodline, I would not ask you to cast a fishing line.”
His eyes turned and locked on the Lady Ulongyr’s and his words stung the air. “My dear, I spent five and a half centuries trying my all to be the best elf I could imagine. All I learned was my grandsire’s and my House’s approval would never be mine. I also learned something crucial about the blood I share with more than a few here. Elves are quite good at planning, thinking, and philosophizing, but they stubbornly resist any change. Humanity, on the other hand, is all about action and transformation. For this, I accepted my mother’s heritage over that of my father. While the legacy we awaken here is elf by birth, it should well be apparent that Rhymanthiin will be something far more extraordinary than all of us combined.”
The elves blanched or grew red-faced at Khelben’s reproof until calmer heads looked skyward. From the clouds came a multitude of fireflies, which swirled around them all but more around Khelben. Murmurs of, “a sign from Oacenth!” and, “Corellon allows a message from Arvandor!” swept through the elves. Even Ualair’s sigil dissipated into fireflies as well.
Slowly, with resentment or resignation, the elves approached the moat and repeated Ualair’s actions. Each drop of blood elicited a golden ring bobbing to the surface of the pool, and each elf knelt and put on the ring presented. Within moments, only the two objectors remained as they stared at the two circlets floating on the black liquid.
A cleared throat and a light cough drew everyone’s attention. “Few are those among us,” Elminster intoned, “who remember what Eltargrim’s laugh sounded like. Please, think of that as we work and the friendship that laugh held for all. Bitter words and resentment are not the foundation on which to restore what many have forgotten.”
With tears streaming down their faces, the two elves donned their circlets and disappeared, teleporting to their rightful places in the great working.
“Carrots and sticks, Blackstaff,” Elminster said, chuckling. “I know you loathe carrots, but you wield far too much stick to foster friendships where they are needed.”
Khelben said, “Enough jokes and delays. The Gathering is complete. It’s tim
e to raise the hope of the Realms by reviving its worst nightmares. We must unleash the Killing Storms.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Feast of the Moon, the Year of
Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
Tsarra paced around the kiira-library, and she jumped when Khelben suddenly appeared by the fireplace. She followed him to the case that held the jagged blackstaff with the wolf’s head axe at its top. Khelben placed a flat palm against the glass, and it popped like a soap bubble. He reached in and grabbed the rough staff.
Tsarra felt the rush of emotions and a flood of memories go through him as he performed that simple action. She braced herself and focused, not allowing the flow of recollection to drag her under. What she saw nearly did anyway. She saw Khelben’s sacrifice in Anauroch, the blade point even closer to her eye in Stornanter, a shattering door giving way beneath a flurry of troll claws, the trident of an archdevil stabbing him through her midsection—and she screamed in pain as she felt, as he did, the pain of a dozen deaths all at once.
I’m so sorry, Tsarra. Sorry for it all. Sorry for the burden the fates have put on your shoulders. His voice was heavy with nine hundred years of suffering in it. Tsarra wasn’t sure what frightened her more—the fleeting memory of so much death, or the smell of death permeating the illusory chamber as Khelben held the one true Blackstaff out for her.
I thought you said this was what made you the Blackstaff.
And so shall it make you, Tsarra Autumfire Chaadren.
Tsarra felt resolve coming from her mentor, but she also felt despair and his resignation to this fate. You expect to die today? Why are you giving up now, Khelben? Don’t you want your children to know you?
You and Laeral can teach them of me. What we must do today—now—is to preserve as many lives as possible. That only happens with my sacrifice.
She wanted to argue, but her own understanding wouldn’t let her do so. Her hand reached out for the black-staff, but she drew back before touching it.
Let me sacrifice myself to the working. You’re too important to too many, she sent.
Khelben reached out and cupped her face, his eyes sad but firm. No, my dear. You can’t, or else I’d have no body in which to do this. Remember this always—the blackstaff is important, but its bearer less so. And it must be me, or else the ritual will claim the lives of my wife and children or other Chosen. The only way this ritual works is by giving up all my silver fire and my life to keep the Killing Storm from destroying those tempering its fury.
Does Laeral know this is happening? That you’ll die today?
She suspects, but I dared not confirm it for her. She would lose the focus she needs to do her part in this ritual.
Tsarra wracked her brain for other options, to argue against Khelben’s cold logic. There are five gods here! Can’t they do something?
Two of them have saved me from death before, so they act by my returning their gift. No, they attend to watch only. Their involvement stopped at choosing their priests and changing Nameless earlier to save your life.
Is what we’re doing truly worth giving up your life, Khelben?
Aye, lass, ten times that cost, but I can’t do that without your help. You have a role to play, even in here. Now relieve me of one burden at least. Become the Blackstaff.
Tsarra’s hand closed around the rough staff, and the silver metal along the staff crackled with magic. She had a sense of Blackstaff Tower in Waterdeep, the location of every student within it, and more. So many secrets lay open before her from Khelben’s memories and the powers tied to that staff.…
I never realized …
You’ll have decades in which to learn more about the powers and responsibilities that have been forced on you today. Truthfully, I expected this burden to fall to Malchor and groomed him thusly. Alas, the fates had other plans. Khelben suddenly seemed older and weaker than before, and he stumbled as he let go of the staff. After tonight, the tel’teukiira are yours to command. Many of them are in attendance here.
Tsarra felt a tingling, and beneath her cloak she found a dull metal badge of a scroll surrounded by seven stars.
You should make one of those for Raegar as well. There’s much promise in that boy, don’t you agree?
Indeed. Tsarra mocked Khelben’s normally grave tone and favored phrase, but neither had the energy to laugh. Tsarra helped Khelben over to a chair and sat across from him before asking, Why didn’t you stop the Frostrune, if you knew what he set in motion?
Don’t call him that, for the last time. I regret what was lost while we gave him free rein to collect his power. We had to leave the Legacy items in play and allow him access to such levels of magic. The Killing Storm’s binding into the High Moor could only be undone by one not seeking to activate it but having the power to do so. The magic necessary is also inherently evil, and none of us could bring the items together and cast what needed to be done. Now that Priamon has primed the area for us—I hate to admit, ingeniously—with that pyramid and the lightning bolts, we can now take the activated magic and transform it.
Why not Sememmon or Ashemmi? Don’t tell me they aren’t evil enough to have done that!
Truthfully, they are not. Ruthless and self-absorbed, to be certain, but wholly and indisputably evil? Nay, lass. They are destined for more than this gambit with the tel’teukiira. Besides, with the Legacy as a lure over time, its false leads exposed more than a score of would-be world conquerors who trouble the Realms no longer, including Priamon. You know all this now, Tsarra; it’s in the Blackstaff. You also know what you must do in concert with what I do in the physical world.
But why unleash the Killing Storm? Won’t this cause more harm than good?
Magic, like all natural forces, likes synchronicities. One of the many keys to unlocking this great secret was the need for this level of magic, power, and the specific forces found only in the Killing Storm. Until the crusted barrens we call the High Moor are cleansed, the secret remains buried. By cleansing the land, we shall reveal the great secret of the sharn. What has been called Malavar’s Hand is the top of the highest tor of Miyeritar’s city of high magic, once called Faertelmiir.
Khelben had paused a moment, his eyes closed as he conferred with Tsarra inside the kiira. He focused his intentions and concentration to the magic ahead of them. After a breath or three, he exhaled, stretched, and approached Laeral. He kissed her deeply on the lips, placed one hand over her abdomen, and gave her some of his silver fire for her protection. When she started to ask him a question, he put a hand to her mouth and backed away. He bowed before her, arms outstretched. She reached into her robes and pulled the gnarled, tangled blackstaff of Miyeritar from its extradimensional pocket. Blue sparks crackled among the tangle of roots on its apex. Laeral laid the staff across Khelben’s palms.
Khelben centered himself at the dead reckoning of the Grasp. Raising the staff as high as he could, he drove it a foot into the rocky heath.
Inside the kiira, Tsarra did the same with the blackstaff, thrusting it into the stones of the library, seeing her place in the work.
Silver lightning bolts and flames erupted around the staff’s impact, but Khelben maintained his grip on the staff, though the flames claimed robes, clothes, hair, and even the flesh on his hands. The blast shattered the sphere of force above their heads, and lightning bolts quintupled in intensity and number around them. The staff drew the lightning bolts from the pyramid, and the air over the structure thickened even more with clouds and storms.
Inside the kiira, the plume of silver-green energy lanced upward from the blackstaff. Tsarra realized that action unleashed most of the silver fires Khelben had previously stored in the tower in Waterdeep. The silver magic danced into the clouds as lightning, but she could feel it subtly changing the storms. The City of Splendors would be spared any harm, though much would be said of the night Blackstaff Tower crackled lightning-white till dawn. A fleeting glimpse outside the tower also showed Tsarra that the magic had rebuilt the Eig
htower anew.
Tsarra pulled her focus back from the blackstaff and felt all the magic in play on the High Moor. Khelben harnessed the lightning bolts on the High Moor and changed them to pulses of silver fire that flickered to the four Chosen and the five curved menhirs behind them. As the fire drew them into the magical effect, Tsarra could feel their minds and souls within reach, just like Khelben’s. She could see the structure of the Working within their minds and hearts.
She and Khelben were the central casters along with Danthra, making them the three-souled one. Elminster mused about a prophecy of the Three becoming a Reunion of Many.… Alvaerele thought about all the sixteen bloodlines of power represented among the workers in the first three circles, blood that stretched as far back as Uvaeren in five of them and to Miyreritar in three people.… Alustriel carried Silverymoon foremost in her thoughts and its unity and friendship, focusing her hopes into exceeding that spirit herein.… Laeral worried about Khelben most of all and the lightning-wracked Sword Coast. No matter what else, each also had in mind a tiny gem.
Each Chosen reached into extradimensional pockets and withdrew gems pulsing with power in red, orange, black, and brown hues. They let the gems float in the air. A ring of lightning crackled among them, which blasted the blackstaff at the center of the pyre too. That stoked the fires, and the flames engulfed the First Circle and Malavar’s Grasp. The flames leaped higher, and the central bolt of power shattered the crystalline pyramid overhead. The five legacy items at the points of the pyramid whirled into the fires. A greasy cloud of flies, dust, and corruption rose to infest the bound and floating corpse of the Frostrune.
With the pyre lit and burning, the five Chosen urged the selu’kiira they unleashed to find their bearers. One zoomed over to Khelben’s forehead and began orbiting a tight circle over the existing kiira already there, both kiira pulsing with energy. The three other gems flew no farther than the black moat surrounding the flaming Grasp. A massive three-headed sharn rose, and the three gems affixed themselves to its heads. The sharn erupted, fires consuming its oily black form and producing three separate bodies, each as tall as Elminster. The two women and one man still kept the blackened skin of the sharn, but their forms were those of nude elves who easily joined the five Chosen within the pyre. The trio formed a ring hovering over Khelben and around the core plume of energy pulsing from the blackstaff.
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