by Ed Greenwood
From a place where only gods walk cometh the Fall to cast down all the gods. Among them is Mystra, the goddess whose thought shapes and controls the eternal fires men call magic all across the world of Toril. What befalls that world if all the bounds and enchantments of its magic should burst at once, to let the fire flash free?
The world perishes in flames, of course, and so this must not befall. Even in her destruction, a goddess can strive to do something noble, a last act of love for the world she’s watched for so long.
No time remains for a considered and orderly passage of power. No mortal frame can hope to hold her essence without burning to nothingness. No mortal mind can carry what she knows, without being snuffed out in an instant.
Azuth must carry more. All of her Chosen must carry more. But one mortal must carry the chief load, lest all perish with Mystra’s passing. One mortal must be chosen in an instant. One who can carry more than most. One who can resist the temptation to twist the power to his or her own ends, and by meddling doom all the Realms. One must suffer Mystra’s Doom.
In pride, folly, and despair at the moment of her passing, Mystra knows the mortal who must be chosen. Only one can hope to survive. Only one may succeed—and perhaps, much later, forgive.
“Remember me,” she whispers to the chosen one, with her last thought. There is not enough left of her to shed the tears that are the price of her long burden. “Remember me.”
“Lady Mystra,” Elminster whispered in urgent reply, as he lay on the stones of his kitchen floor. “I love thee! I will remember. Take my thanks!”
He could not tell if Mystra ever heard him, or if she was gone before his thoughts were formed. Elminster looked up at Lhaeo and felt tears wet on his cheeks.
“She’s gone,” he mumbled, rather unnecessarily. Lhaeo nodded, and bent over him.
“Aye,” he said gravely, “but what has she done to you?”
Through fresh tears, Elminster met a gaze that was wary and the gray of cool steel. He noted Lhaeo’s ready grip on a belt dagger and made no move with his own hands.
“I am still myself,” he said quietly. “Or as much as I can be with no magic left to me.”
Lhaeo stared at him in shocked silence for a long time. Then he whispered, “Old friend, I am sorry. Very sorry indeed.” He knelt down and took Elminster’s hand. “Gone for good?”
Elminster shrugged and then slowly nodded. “I fear so.”
Lhaeo’s look was grave. “There is no gentle way to ask this,” he said slowly. “You have lived beyond most men. Without Art, will you soon crumble away?”
Elminster grinned feebly. “Nay, Lhaeo. Ye’re stuck with me awhile longer.”
“Then I suppose,” Lhaeo said solemnly, “you’ll be wanting to get up off this floor. I haven’t swept it yet today.”
In a dark chamber far away, the silent, floating ring of beholders drew back as Manshoon, High Lord of Zhentil Keep, gasped and halted in his cold address to them. He stumbled, caught himself, and straightened to face them again, but on his bone-white face was a look of fear it had not worn for years.
The beholders waited watchfully, many dark and glistening eyes staring at the human archwizard, ready to rend him in an instant if it should be needful.
Manshoon looked around at all those eyes, took a deep breath, and licked suddenly dry lips. “Something has happened. Something terrible.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Bindings have failed all across the Realms.”
The largest beholder drifted a little nearer. The cold, hissing voice of Ithaqull sounded coldly amused as it rolled out around the archmage. “An event that has possibilities, does it not?”
As the sun went down over Shadowdale, Elminster sat, long pipe in hand, beside a placid little pool. Power still roiled within him, but there seemed less of it now than at first. Perhaps it was leaking away or leaving him by some means prepared beforehand by the Lady of Mysteries, or perhaps he was just getting used to it.
He raised a finger and tried to light his pipe with a little cantrip he’d learned long ago. Nothing happened. He tried again, holding up his finger and staring at it as he gathered his will.
The spell was still there. He’d had it in his mind before Mystra had spoken, though he couldn’t feel any enchantments hanging ready any longer. He could think clearly and remember all that he’d done, but Art simply would not come to his call. Feeling a little ashamed, he stuck his pipe, unlit, back in his mouth and stared out across the water.
Night came creeping across the sky like thieves’ fingers, long, dark blue clouds coming in low from the west. Small croakings and singings sounded around the pool. Amid the stones at its eastern edge, Elminster sat as if he were stone himself, and made no sound at all.
Lhaeo came out to him with a steaming jack of hot spiced wine. Elminster only smiled a little as the scribe placed it in his hand, and looked up with eyes that did not see. Lhaeo put a hand on his shoulder in answer and went back in. Elminster did not speak, for he was very busy talking—in his mind, which was a crowded place just then.
The Divine Lord Azuth was there, and with him Nouméa, the Lady Magister. There was also Storm Silverhand and High Lady Alustriel and Nethreen. Most of all Nethreen: Witch-Queen of Aglarond, widely feared across the Realms as the fiery-tempered, awesomely strong archmage the Simbul. Elminster loved her very much.
They’d held each other and whispered their truenames in the wake of the coming to power of the spellfire-maiden, Shandril Shessair. Since then—in their own independent, far-traveling ways—they’d been lord and lady to each other.
In the flurry of mind-spoken questions, comfortings, and advice, the Simbul’s quiet voice tore at Elminster’s heart the most. As night came to Shadowdale, Elminster sat amid the ever-louder chorus of crickets and bullfrogs, and thanked his friends for their care and good wishes. Feeling sick at heart, he told them plainly that he didn’t know what to do now. Concerned thoughts flew like flashing swords, but in their midst the Old Mage grew ever more tired and heartsick. He was beginning to feel that the power to link thoughts with others who carried the burden of Mystra’s power was a curse, not the comfort and safety it was intended to be.
Yet the Old Mage cared for all who reached out to his mind this eve, and none of them were unfriendly or unperceptive. They knew he carried a terrible measure of power he did not know how to call on. Worse, they all knew his own Art, or at least his means of grasping magic, was gone. They knew, too, that he was very tired and wanted to be alone.
One by one they wished him well and withdrew. Soft soothings echoed and re-echoed in his mind. Elminster felt their own weariness, bewilderment, and fear for Mystra and for the fate of them all, and had no comfort to give. He saluted them as they parted, until at last—as he knew would happen—only one thought-voice remained, riding his mind with the easy familiarity of intimacy.
Nethreen. Lady most mine. Elminster let her feel his gratefulness. I am right glad of thy company.
I know, Lord, came the calm reply. I know. I was ever lonely until I came to thee and found another I could trust.
Elminster smiled in the darkness, and then hastily caught his pipe as it fell. I love thee, Lady.
And I thee, Lord. Stop all this formal fencing, El. We’re alone now, and you’re in perhaps the worst danger you’ve ever really faced. Have you decided what to do next?
Elminster’s sigh slid into a rueful grin. No. I’ve thought, but not decided. I was hoping—
That between us all, we’d decide on a path for your feet? came the dry reply. That is not laid on through life for any of us, Old Mage. You of all folk know that well. The rebuke was lost in the same ruefulness that Elminster felt, shared for a moment before it faded. When the Simbul spoke again, her mind-voice was gentle. Will you come to me? There is a hidden place deep in the Yuirwood, a refuge I’ve used before, as others of Aglarond did before me.
Nay, Lady. Elminster’s feelings were firm and certain about this, at least. This danger is, as ye s
ay, mine to face. Moreover, I menace any mage I am near. Even if I did not love thee, Aglarond needs thee against the spite and greed of Thay, whose meddling mages would be that much closer to me in thy refuge than they are now.
Right now, all who learn of your misfortune and would do you ill know exactly where to find you, Nethreen reminded him sharply. Don’t misthink yourself into a grave, my lord! Her mental tone shifted into curiosity. Why are you a danger to any mage? Are you afraid the power in you will tempt me, or another like me?
Elminster’s reply was subdued. I know not if Mystra’s power will leak from me. Mayhap it will be unleashed in some sort of magical blast. In either case, it may destroy any mages near, or render them feeble witted or dead to Art as I am now.
Moreover, I am sure to attract the overly ambitious, if ever my fate becomes known. I would not want ye to face hourly visits from the likes of Ghalaster of Thay; that Calishite, Murdrimm the Hierarchmage; or Manshoon, backed by all his Zhentarim. One or a number of them, working against thee or me, might taste too much of Tymora’s good fortune. Those who would seize Mystra’s power will do anything, and more than anything, to get it.
What must we do, then? The Simbul’s voice seemed close to tears.
If ye would help me, Elminster replied carefully, feeling his way as he spoke to her, watch over Mourngrym—and Randal Morn in Daggerdale—as I have done, and help the Harpers as best ye can. Storm will tell thee how. I need thee to take on my tasks while I am unable to do them—if ye deem the doing necessary and good, for I will not tell thee how to judge, or that I have been right in what I’ve done.
There was a little silence, and then the reply came, soft as a falling feather. I will, Old Mage. Remember that I love thee. That was all, and she was gone.
Elminster sat alone again in the night, waiting for moonrise.
He could not see the silent tears the lady in the tattered black gown shed then. Far away, in the highest room in a night-cloaked tower in Aglarond, the Simbul wept for her doomed lord. She hated to break their link together—now, when he needed her most—but she couldn’t hide her pity any longer. That last pride she would not take from him, whatever befell. It was nearly all he had left.
Sitting alone in the soft darkness, Elminster watched the stars slowly wheel overhead.
“I wonder,” he said at last, aloud, “if every mage who strives with Art to change the world were swept away tomorrow, if it would make one breath of difference to the Realms.”
“I know not,” came a quiet reply from out of the night, “but it’s never stopped any of us from trying.”
Elminster nearly jumped right into the air. Heart racing, beard bristling, he contented himself with jerking around toward the voice as he flung away pipe and wineglass.
Delicate eyebrows arched. “I know I haven’t done anything to my hair since this morning,” Jhessail Silvertree asked calmly, “but do I really look that bad?”
“Mystra’s mercies, lass! Must ye creep up on an old, enfeebled man like that?” Elminster sputtered, peering at his onetime pupil. Instead of her customary man’s tunic and breeches, the Knight of Myth Drannor wore a dark, splendid gown. Her long hair, unbound, curled about her shoulders. Her eyes were very dark.
The lady Knight leaned close enough in the dimness for him to see her smile. “It certainly seemed effective,” she agreed. “How are you tonight, Old Mage?”
Elminster sat very still. Then he said simply, “Not good.”
“I know,” Jhessail said softly, sitting down and wrapping smooth, strong arms around him. “It’s why I’ve come.”
“Ye know?” Elminster asked dully. Realizing how very much he needed the friendly warmth of arms about him just now, he slowly relaxed in her embrace.
Jhessail nodded, her hair brushing his cheek. “Storm sent me. Worry not; no others in this dale know.” She snuggled closer. “Storm has two guests—Harpers—this night and thought you needed someone to hold you.”
“Well,” Elminster said dryly, “there’s always Lhaeo.”
“He’s busy,” Jhessail said, “getting out all your old clothes and wands and traveling boots, and cooking up a storm just in case.”
“In case, good lady, of what?” Elminster asked rather testily.
“He knows how restless you are,” Jhessail said gently. “Even if you’re so shaken right now that I could walk right past you to the tower and back again without your noticing.”
“Shaken?” Elminster suddenly found himself shouting, trembling in a red fury. He drew back a hand and hit out hard. “Have a care, wench!” he snarled. “I’ve—”
When he realized what he’d done, ice clutched at his spine, and the anger was suddenly gone. He was alone in black despair, sinking, and without magic. “Oh, gods, lass,” he whispered roughly. “I’m sorry.”
There was silence. She did not move.
“J-Jhessail?” the Old Mage asked almost frantically, “Have I hurt thee? I—Smite me with Art, I deserve it! I am most sorry, but I cannot undo what I’ve done. I deserve to make amends.”
There was a soft chuckle in the darkness, a chuckle with a catch in it. Then Jhessail’s arms went around him again. Elminster couldn’t help noticing what a shockingly firm and heaving bosom pressed against him as warm lips kissed his cheek.
“Just had to catch my breath. You’ve a mean right arm, for all your years, Old Mage,” Jhessail said happily into his chest. “I’m glad, not angry. It seems you’ll be all right, after all.”
“No,” Elminster said miserably, “that’s just what I won’t be, lass. Without magic, I won’t be all right ever again.”
Jhessail kissed him full on the mouth, stopping his bitter words. “Ever notice,” she said, a long breath later, “how some wizards think the sun rises and sets on their shoulders, and their feet hold the Realms together as they walk on it?”
Elminster, still reeling from the kiss, asked roughly, “What d’ye—? Are ye implying—?”
“No,” Jhessail replied sweetly, “I’m saying it straight out. And more. I’m telling you to get up, help me find the glass and pipe you threw my way a little while ago, and go in and have dinner. Lhaeo’s worried about you. I’m worried about you. And when I get home and Merith sees this magnificent bruise on my ribs, he’s going to be worried about you.”
“I didn’t—I’m sorry, lass!” Elminster protested wretchedly, but firm hands lifted him from his seat and propelled him into the night. He heard her chuckle again, and in anger and despair cried out, “Jhessail! My Art’s gone, I tell thee!”
“Yes, yes,” Jhessail said quickly, “and now the whole dale knows, too!” Her voice broke then, but she rushed on. “Gods, Old Mage, don’t make this any harder for me than it is already. I’m scared sick at what might happen to you, and to this dale without your protection. I’m trying to cheer you up, but it’s cursed hard work, and—and—” Tears came then, and she reached for him in the darkness and embraced him again.
“If you’re quite finished with the first act of this little love play,” Lhaeo’s dry voice came out of the darkness a few breaths later, “a late feast—late indeed, by now—is laid ready in the kitchen. There’s enough for three.”
2
Mystery, Doom, and a Long Walk
Storm was laughing in a flying web of steel, her flashing blade holding off two others in a deadly dance. It was the bright height of the day of Lord Aumry’s Feast, and no clouds marred the circle of blue sky above her as she ducked and pivoted. The two men she fought had no spare breath to do more than grunt and gasp.
The Bard of Shadowdale was training two Harpers at sword work, showing them how with skill she could force their blades and bodies continually nearer each other, driving them into each other’s way as they circled about the moss-carpeted glade. More than once the two men in leathers had stumbled into each other, muttered apologies and oaths, and leapt hastily out of the way of the weaving blade that stung them, teased them, flirted with their own steel, and slid pas
t their sword hilts to touch them again and again.
It was a rare chance to cross blades with Storm Silverhand. Among Harpers she was as famous as Mintiper or Sharanralee, veteran adventurers of whom many songs had been sung and tavern tales told. Semiretired now, she dwelt in the green fastness of Shadowdale and trained Harpers in the ways of music and battle. Many came, some skeptical that one woman could really be so special. They left amazed and changed, and spoke of their meetings with her in awe and with fondness.
Storm Silverhand was really that special. An impish humor danced in her eyes as she faced them now, long hair bound back out of her face, her leathers creaking with the strain as she twisted and leapt and danced as lightly as a child at play.
Belkram and Itharr, rangers and Harpers both, wore faces as delighted and eager as boys at a favorite sport. They had come almost as much to see if the legends were true as to hone their sword skills. Both had seen many deaths and much battle, and thought few could teach them more than a trick or two with a blade.
Now they knew they faced a true master. Thrice, five times, a dozen more the lady bard could have slain them, had that been her goal. Her slim but very long silvery sword leapt again and again through their guards to kiss shoulder, breast, forearm, or flank. Yet so skilled was she that she pulled back ere steel tasted flesh, time and again, even when blades met so hard that winking sparks flew, and the fray moved so fast that the two men were scrambling and all three panted like winded dogs.
A rare chance, this, to face one skilled enough not to hurt you but to keep the sword work as hard and as fast as if it were to the death. Belkram and Itharr, parrying the blade that seemed to be everywhere, found themselves helplessly maneuvered again into each other. They bumped shoulders, sprang apart murmuring apologies, and exchanged glances. Their eyes met for only an instant—it was all they dared spare time for—but each saw admiration for their opponent in the other’s eyes. This Storm was truly magnificent with a long sword in her hand.
