Ynshael and Nain surprised each other by saying, “The staff goes next …”
Nain raised the blackstaff and stabbed it down hard upon the gold seal. The staff suffused with light and energy, and magical power lanced upward.
“Now, the blade,” he whispered.
Kroloth unhooked the moonblade—still scabbarded—and looked at his cousins. “For the People.” Nain, Yaereene, and Ynshael corrected him, “For all people.”
For the first time in nearly two thousand years, an Ilbaereth drew the family’s moonblade from its scabbard, its dead blade cracked instead of rune-marked. Kroloth swung the sword toward the glowing blackstaff, but energy erupted when his blade hit the surrounding light. The sword and the scabbard were wrenched from his grasp, and both hit the blackstaff from the top, shattering it into four long pieces. Each piece fell as a shower of energy and engulfed each of the four assembled there. The blade seated itself in the scabbard magically, and both buried themselves hilt deep into the center of the stone pillar on which they stood.
Magic corruscated from the entire circle, and Ynshael yelled above the roar of ancient power, “Once I add this to the pillar, we must all grasp hands!”
Ynshael picked up the rusty shard, kissed it once, and tossed it into the conflagration. She grabbed for Nain’s and Kroloth’s hands as thunder slammed into them all and the powers boomed both above and below. The power among them was contained by their hands, and they all watched as some magic rose from the shards of the blackstaff and focused into a tiny gem. The gem swirled about in the maelstrom of magic then quickly flew off to the west, faster than a rage of dragons. The casters knew that gem had something to do with the central casting, but their rings told them to concentrate on the pommel of the blade.
As they focused on the embedded sword, the earth shifted beneath them. They kept their balance, as where they stood was stable and rising. All four knew the legends of Cormanthor and recognized it as a variant ritual to summon a tower beneath them. They were only barely aware that the shift had dislodged the stone walls that made their location a peninsula. The waters of the lake were no longer held back, and it began flooding the trenches carved around the pillar where the quartet stood.
Nain smiled as Highstar Lake swelled into a new lakebed. Earlier, he had asked Malchor what work Khelben had him doing with Sememmon and Ashemmi, and the elder wizard grumbled, “I’ve had to build a lake bed without letting a lake into it. Hard enough working with that former Zhent, no matter what Khelben says, but harder still as he and his mistress challenge each other with creative uses for earthquake spells …”
Nain saw their work at hand as his vantage point rose. He guessed that by the time they were done with the tor and the waters setteled, Highstar Lake would be at least a mile wider and longer, a tower in its midst left inaccessible by land.
The magic merged with the casters as the tor grew. They drew apart as the tower grew wider, but stony duplicates of their own forms linked hands with them as the width of their circle grew. By the time they stopped rising, twenty figures linked hands atop the tor. The merlons and crenelations looked like five duplicates of each caster forming the upper battlements here.
Kroloth had a personal vision. He knew that his destiny would be to command this outpost that rose with them. In his mind, he saw the moonblade purified into a crystalline broadsword. He knew it and its eight brethren sacrificed at the other eight Sentinel Tor sites would be called hope-blades. Kroloth beamed—it was his duty to wield the hopeblade of Tor Arsuor as its commander.
Ynshael had never before left the safety of Neverwinter Woods. She responded to Yaereene’s call when it intertwined with a vision from the Moonbow herself. She gasped as she realized the mate for whom she had prayed to Sehanine stood near. He was a human and had shining dark hair long past his shoulders, and hair on his face and chest. His build was elfin—whip-strong and wiry, but not as muscular as some humans. Ynshael realized that she had seen his eyes—a pale green like the snow lettuce growing in her garden—and she found those same eyes in Nain Keenwhistler.
Stranger still, Ynshael saw what Nain didn’t seem to notice—his restoration. His hair grew within the fiery magic, darkening to a chestnut brown and becoming more lustrous. Nain’s scraggly beard thickened and lengthened down to his chest, and all that darkened as well. The only white hair he kept were twin stripes of white along his temples and in his beard where sideburns would be in a clean-shaven man. Ynshael smiled and gripped his hand harder. Her patron goddess had shown her a path, and while she never expected to live beyond Neverwinter’s boughs, she believed her home to be with that man. The both of them, often underestimated by themselves and others, would come together to fulfill destinies they dared never dream of before.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Feast of the Moon, the Year of
Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
Tsarra heard four whispers whirling about her library, each chanting, “Assemble …”
Ghostly elves entered her sanctum and summoned thrones for themselves around her. They studied her mutely, some with open disdain. The sendings grew one by one, and so did those assembled before her. She tried to talk with the elves, but she only ever got a one word sending: Patience. Tsarra hated the mystery, and grew frustrated when even her tome would not or could not identify the figures invading her sanctum.
She examined the library and found that every book in Khelben’s true collection had a simulacrum there as well. She looked for books discussing high magic, in hopes of understanding those rituals, both the one with Khelben at the center and the second one under the direction of the grand mages of Miyeritar. Khelben’s working was incredibly powerful, but it wasn’t high magic. It cleansed and prepared the High Moor for the return of its people, destroyed that last taints of the Killing Storms, and raised the city’s defensive towers as they were twelve thousand years ago.
After hours of the droning chant, Tsarra jumped as the elves suddenly stopped. Magic crackled around the sanctum. Nine additional thrones rose swiftly, and within a few moments, elves appeared in them. All smiled broadly. Tsarra felt suddenly powerful, and she approached the mirror. Thirteen gems swirled and circled around Tsarra’s head, leaving trails of arcane fire behind themselves and lighting up her own kiira and tattoos. The fires and the gem’s pulses suggested the hints of a crown around her head, and Tsarra recognized it—and the degree of power in the working.
At the same time, all thirteen elves stood as one. The first to arrive drew Tsarra into the center of both circles and embraced her. He gestured, snapped his fingers, and Khelben’s image joined them in the library as well. He too was embraced. The thirteen bowed their heads and their collective sending went out with a pulse of power: The Highfire Crown is worn once more, and we bless the Weave and the People as one!
A sending rang through the head of everyone bearing a golden item for the Gathering. Later, people would remark that the voice sounded like a mixture of Tsarra, Khelben, Danthra the Dreamer, and sixteen other elves of various tones and timbres.
Hearken ye, and hear the People’s thanks. Nine tors rise without, our guards and our sentinels. Our home rises within, our symbol and our hope. All your actions and sacrifices shall be rewarded. Remain united yet retain your differences. Be brethren in intent, if not in blood. Honor knowledge and ability without judgement. These are the hallmarks of Oacenth’s Vow, of the Promise of Cormanthor, of every hope for unity from Silverymoon to this place.
The Central Caster sparked the flame. The First Circle lit the pyre. The Second Circle restored warmth and light. The Third Circle awakened understanding. The Fourth Circles raised awareness and vigilance. Your work is done. The land is risen and restored.
All Circles now join in fire and friendship. All Circles shall see Miyeritaar restored in Rhymanthiin, the Hidden City. The city and its denizens, its secrets-keepers, its loyalists, and ye, its saviors all—ye shall be restored to health and happiness, if that be your wish. Now begi
ns the Rejuvenation.
Tsarra found herself seeing and feeling a flurry of images and sensations as ninety-five souls felt the play of magic that used the links of the first ritual intertwined into another more primal, more powerful ritual. She felt the magical connection she and Khelben had with the sharn, and she realized it was the trio of grand mages at work. She readied herself to add her spirit to theirs, but the elves surrounding her in the sanctum shook their heads.
Watch and learn. Your strength is needed next.
She realized the thirteen were the high mages of Myth Drannor manifested as the Highfire Crown. She and Khelben both turned to the mirror to watch the other participants who gave their spirit and magic to the ritual.
Gamalon felt a tingling in his left eyesocket but bowed his head and sent a prayer to Mystra, “Let me honor Mynda’s sacrifice by bearing that scar.”
When he opened his eyes, he realized his Lady had answered his prayer with a new gift. His left eye showed him a green world awash in magic, just as he had seen with his magical gem-eye for more than forty winters.
Rhmallos cried tears of joy as the chitinous armor fell around him in pieces, and he stood a gnome once more. To feel soft loam and grass beneath his bare feet and the rush of breeze and magic across his skin was a blessing after seven hundred years as a demon. His role to infiltrate the armies fighting Myth Drannor was long over, and he danced gleefully to have a life again in a place of new hope as Cormanthor was in its day.
Numerous cries of joy echoed through the links as those who had long lived under curses or enchantments found their burdens gone. Tulrun laughed his deep, booming laugh at his restored youth and humanity. Ashemmi wept as the foul contortions Manshoon had once placed on her soul were shattered, and she found her love unchanged for Sememmon, knowing he struggled toward the light of his own will. Many chose to drink in youth and vigor from the ritual, the energy freely given by the grand mages.
Hundreds of sharn sloughed off their shimmering black skins, and many Faertelmin stepped from the darkness to reclaim lives as elves, humans, dwarves, centaurs, and others. Their skins slid across the smoldering plains, slithering toward the central pyre or a closer sentinel tower.
All the beings caught up in the eldritch flames heard a new sending as they marveled at the magic at play: Know there are yet sharn in the Realms. There are those of Miyeritar who would become dhaerow with the Corellon’s Descent, should they become n’fhaorn’quessir. They choose to remain as Rhymanthiin’s defenders as well as defenders against corrupt magic across the Realms.
Tsarra and others wept for their sacrifice.
His imprisoned form hovering near yet consipicuously untouched by the flames, Frostrune struggled, but not even his hatred could break the bonds his own magecraft built. How could the Rune have betrayed him so, sharing his greatest spell with his worst enemy? How did they dare defy his obvious superiority?
Frostrune’s self-absorption kept him from noticing the buzzing flies and hazy brown air that rose from the High Moor toward him. The ochre- and olive-drab rain and poisons also rose on the winds whipped up by the Second and Third Circles. It wasn’t until the poisonous matter was heavy enough to fill out the lich’s form for the first time in more than a hundred years that he realized what was happening. The magic pulled the poisons and infestations and killing magic from the soil, the sharn, the plants, and the air. Worse yet, they imprisoned those poisons in his own form, and they proved virulent enough to eat away further at his form and the energies that bound his soul to it.
As the sun crawled toward dusk, all that remained of Priamon “Frostrune” Rakesk was a partial skull without a jawbone and a few spinal bones. The Killing Storm had rotted his form and also undid much of the necromantic magic that kept him active. Still, while he had feared he would be destroyed, he knew his phylactery was safe. He had contingencies in place, and he would have laughed if he could speak. He had but to wait patiently, a skill natural to liches.
When the swarming fireflies obscured his sight, Priamon felt a subtle shift. He had been teleported away from his enemies. Priamon found his head being turned around by someone holding it. His eyesockets aligned with darting and twitching eyes set in a wrinkled bald face. Priamon discovered that even the blackest of hearts can be broken by the unexpected.
“Khelben was right,” the Mad Mage of Undermountain gloated. “I owe you a grievance, Priamon Rakesk, for pains ye visited upon me five years agone.”
In his other hand, Halaster Blackcloak idly toyed with a rod of Shoon trade rings, a collection of seventeen gold coins looped onto a platinum rod—Priamon’s phylactery.
Screams echo unceasingly in the halls of Undermountain. The same can be said within the minds of those without hope.
CHAPTER FORTY
Feast of the Moon, the Year of
Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
Tsarra heard the sending meant only for Khelben’s ears, which by necessity were hers at present: Khelben, hear me. I’ve known since yesterday, darling. Khelben, you never say good-bye when you die. Khelben, let the fires heal your body again. Khelben, do not leave me, leave your children. Khelben! Not so soon. Not now … not now.…
It shocked Tsarra to hear Laeral beg, and the despair in her sending tore at Tsarra’s heart. It shocked her even more to see Khelben. He was just as distraught, but he did not respond at all. He slumped forward in his chair, his face hidden, his body wracked with sobs. Tsarra understood, but it tore at her, the two archmages whose love outshone their power, and both trapped by fates beyond them. She reached toward Khelben, hoping to comfort him … and Ualair’s image appeared in her way within the kiira-library.
Ualair embraced Khelben, and the two images merged together. Ualair turned, and Tsarra saw he had traits of both wizards in his face and form. Tsarra, Khelben is in both of us now, as he must be for this final ritual. We shall ensure you survive this, even though Khelben and I cannot. It is the toll exacted to restore the City of Hope to the Realms.
Can’t I be the sacrifice in his place?
No. This world needs its Blackstaff for reasons you shall learn in time. For now, that Blackstaff is you. Now come, and be the first half-elf ever to be a central caster in a High Magic Ritual of Myriad.
Ualair leaned forward, and rested his hands on Tsarra’s shoulders. She did the same, and when they brought their kiira together, a flash of blinding magic escaped and flashed from the pyre. The pyre wove itself in a pattern of fire, creating the massive Highfire Crown among the stories-tall flames.
Out on the High Moor, wizards, sorcerers, and priests stopped as the golden objects they wore began trembling and glowing brightly. Through them, they heard a strange voice—an amalgam of voices speaking as one.
The trinkets you wear are now sacrifices to bind the powers at work here, to restore a world’s faith in brotherhood. The akhelben and many others made these sacrifices so that ye might aid a high magic without the cost of all your lives. Now, with these oblations, surrender yourselves into the high magic and help us build hope anew. The restored fhaorn’quessir ask our aid with their city. Lend them and us your thoughts and hopes and magic to help build a city that shall not fall to treachery again.
One reward for every soul is the knowledge that this city exists at all. For now, you shall be the only souls on this plane who can find your way here to the City of Hope. This city shall be a dream of unity to draw people together. Those who truly embrace the brotherhood in Oacenth’s Vow may be brought here or may find their own ways. The city shall accept only those worthy of her, and those with malice in their hearts shall not find their way here. For your courage and your aid, homes are being built here for every participant throughout the city, where you may better get to know our brethren in years to come. Now attend us with your hopes and dreams and magic.
As the sending ended, every golden item borne by those of the Second, Third, and Fourth Circles dissolved into golden fireflies and buzzed around their former wielders. Magic fil
led every breath, every step, every moment of the waning day into the night. The Highfire Crown animated the pyre and above it, the once-sharn grand mages concluded their ritual. The grand mages of two realms guided the magic and drew on the emotional and magical support of everyone within the working.
Tsarra’s body stood immobile, still cloaked in the illusion of Khelben’s form, even though his essence resided with Ualair. The ancient grand mage maintained a stream of energy between his selu’kiira and Tsarra’s kiira’n’vaelhar. She could feel the magic, even if she was still blocked from hearing the rituals or truly participating. What she was free to do was to cast about with magical senses everywhere the ritual touched. Tsarra used the enhanced senses of her tressym and the sharn, and they could find no corruption or darker magic that had tainted the land for so many millennia.
Tsarra touched the lingering connections of the first ritual working, and she flitted from one participant’s eyes to the next, seeing the effects of the third ritual from all angles. The loam, rock, and scrub wood of the High Moor folded and twisted itself into new forms. Magic permeated everything, and those who had been sharn worked to build their city as a unified vision in the craftsmanship of elf, dwarf, gnome, centaur, and human equally. All of them wielded magic and brought their wills to bear on the landscape.
While much of the building material came from the Moor itself, Tsarra watched some sharn shed their oily black skins as they returned to their original forms, the nude Art-workers weaving their former skins into their new city. Thus, much of the architecture took on a variety of darkened hues, though it lacked any malevolence in its demeanor despite that.
The first to emerge complete and intact were the streets and outer walls, very dwarflike and orderly with clean lines and heavy block constructions. These would last untold generations, and they laid out the city in the shape of a circular wheel. The central court plaza surrounded the Counciltor, atop which the pyre would eternally burn. From that point, nine major trade roads split the city like spokes, each directly aligned with the nine sentinel towers twenty-five miles distant in each direction. Five broad roads provided a circumference for the city just inside the walls and each equidistant from the others down to the smallest of the ring roads that encircled the Court Plaza. The streets and defensive walls kept the black-as-pitch hue of the sharn, and Tsarra knew that any malefactors on those streets would face the three-mawed avengers that could form from any wall or street.
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