“Watch for any changes or signs on the statue or the base when it’s in moonlight,” said the Blackstaff. “Tell me immediately if you see something.”
With that, the old man pulled his hood close around his balding head. Eiruk peered carefully at the tomb as he walked three circuits around the base, passing the distracted wizard multiple times. As the Blackstaff looked low and at the base, Eiruk looked higher at the statue or their immediate surroundings. On his fourth circuit, Eiruk spotted a hidden blue glow, visible only to his mystically sensitive eyes, and said, “Blackstaff, I see something.”
“What is it?” The Blackstaff scurried to his side.
Eiruk pointed and said, “Look there. It points to something.”
The Blackstaff sighed loudly. “I’ve no desire to waste energy on a detection spell or analysis. Just show me where it points.”
Eiruk and the Blackstaff stood between the tomb and the northern wall of the City of the Dead. Looking through the wide stance of Sarael’s statue, he saw thin lines of magic glimmering in response to the moonlight. Two points led from the axes and intersected with a third line from the point of the shield. When the lines intersected, they became a stronger white beam that pointed directly to one spot on the back wall of a tomb within the shadow of the Beacon Tower.
“There are magic beams directed from this statue to the Ralnarth tomb there,” Eiruk said as he pointed.
“Why that tomb?” The Blackstaff wondered aloud. “And what do the beams do?”
“The Ralnarths bought all holdings of the Estelmer clan,” said Eiruk, “and I think the Estelmers were allies of the first Blackstaff long ago. That might be the connection. As for what they do, I can see they’re conjurations overlaid with illusions, but I can’t tell you more. If Vajra were here, she could easily discern these spells. If I may ask, where is your apprentice? She can do this task far better than I.” Eiruk hoped he kept his face impassive as he asked. He respected the Blackstaff and his power, but he still pined to be close to Vajra, despite her love for the older man.
“You may not ask, underling.”
Eiruk became uncomfortable beneath Samark’s long and angry stare. He returned his attention and concentration to his spell.
“Show me where the beams touch the tomb,” the Blackstaff said.
Eiruk stepped up on the marble dais and crouched to maintain his line of sight. As he squatted, he rested his hand on the cold statue. A stabbing headache suddenly formed behind his eyes and a ghostly shimmer of the lights appeared in normal sight.
“Ah! Very good, Weskur!” the Blackstaff exclaimed.
The Blackstaff moved away to the back of the tomb and began chanting, weaving his fingers through a few simple spells directed at the wall. Eiruk realized that while the statue and his hand were cold, his fingernails glowed the same as the beams.
Eiruk could not discern what spells the Blackstaff cast at the beam’s final point, but the younger mage’s vantage offered him new insights. Eiruk watched the wizard mutter more arcane phrases, snapping his fingers through spell after spell to no apparent effect and then swear at the wall. The young man had worked briefly with the Blackstaff thrice before in the six years he had been with the Watchful Order, and now he could see that whoever stood before him, it was definitely not Samark Dhanzscul. That older man never swore, even in battle, and always used people’s given names. Samark also spoke kindly and respectfully to everyone, from the lowliest servant to the guildmasters and Lords themselves. The contempt Eiruk heard in his voice should have warned him sooner. This person, while a decent enough actor to cow most with his illusionary form, was rash and impatient when faced with the unexpected. As Eiruk watched the wizard move, he detected a shimmer around the Blackstaff and another dark-haired form beneath his skin. He squinted, trying to see the man’s face, but he couldn’t over the distance with only moonlight.
Eiruk felt a tingling beneath his hand and turned his attention back to the statue. The inside of the shield that rested against Sarael’s leg shimmered slightly with the same blue glow as the axes. Maintaining his contact with the statue but moving his hand along the cold metal, Eiruk shifted closer to the left leg and tentatively reached toward the shield with his right hand. He expected to touch cold metal, but instead felt warmth. He felt a throb of heat on his palm, and then the surface yielded and his hand sank inside—but not through—the shield. Eiruk could only feel warm air and the edges of the shield. He smiled, fascinated by the curious magic set by a long-dead wizard, one who truly earned the title of the Blackstaff—an honor for which Eiruk fervently wished.
The open hand of peace and a loyal heart gains you alone entry. Eiruk heard the deep voice in his head and struggled to keep his face from revealing his shock. He felt another stab of pain behind his eyes and heard the voice again. If ye truly be friend, Blackstaff Tower will welcome you. All others will only enter to gain knowledge in accord with their hearts.
Eiruk felt a searing sensation in his palm. It ended swiftly, and then he felt stone scrape against the top of his knuckles. A large bundle apparated beneath his touch. He closed his hand, hooking his fingers beneath what felt like leather bindings, and pulled a large parcel out of the shield. As he did so, the light emitting from the statue and the light inside the shield both winked out. Eiruk found no visible mark on his palm, though he felt magic pulsing beneath his skin. He would have to study it later—on his way to Blackstaff Tower for more answers. The leather bundle in his hand was sealed with a complex sigil unmistakable to many Waterdhavians—the wizard mark of Khelben Arunsun, lord of Waterdeep and the first Blackstaff.
“What happened?” The false Blackstaff turned around, angry at the interruption of his activity. “What did you do, Weskur?”
When he saw Eiruk held something, he dashed forward and snatched the leather bundle from his grasp.
Eiruk kept calm and said, “When you cast spells at that spot, the statue’s shield here became some sort of portal. I reached in and withdrew this.”
The false Blackstaff tore at the leather bindings, ignoring Eiruk and the significance of his predecessor’s mark on the parcel.
Inside the surprisingly supple and warm leather wrap were two bundles. One, wrapped in lighter kid leather and stamped with an Elvish rune Eiruk didn’t recognize, was round with an obvious bulge on one side. The other was an elaborate scroll tube carved from a dragon’s leg bone and set with gold-plated runes and many gems. From the weight of the bundle, Eiruk also knew the tube held far more than the usual few parchments.
Eiruk watched the Blackstaff examine the parcel and tube. The young man resisted the urge to expose the imposter before him. Eiruk knew there was no one here to help him, and his foe’s power might be far stronger than his subterfuges. For now, the young wizard held his tongue. Perhaps Maerla Windmantle, another guildsenior of the Watchful Order and one with whom he usually studied and worked, would be able to help. If he could find Vajra, they could expose this fraud of a Blackstaff.
The false Blackstaff looked up at Eiruk. “You should smile, for you’ve done well. You have the Blackstaff’s thanks.” The false Blackstaff retied the leather straps and tucked the bundle into his belt pouch. “Let us return to the Towers of the Order and show Master Naomal the fruits of our work tonight.”
Eiruk could resist no longer. He had to test the lying wizard as the pair of them headed back toward the Weeping Gate. “As you wish, milord. If I may, will you tell your apprentice Vajra that I asked after her welfare? If she is ill, I’d be happy to visit any apothecary.”
The Blackstaff shot a look back over his shoulder at the younger man. “Thank you for your offer, Eiruk, but no matter. Vajra suffers naught. She merely winters with her family down among the hills of Tethyr. She returns with the spring.” With that, he pulled his hood tight around his head and said nothing more.
Eiruk worried that this imposter had harmed Vajra. While she only returned his love as friendship, Eiruk knew Vajra would not leave the city witho
ut saying farewell.
No, Eiruk thought. Maerla needs to learn of this tonight, no matter how late.
“Thank you, Eiruk,” Ten-Rings said. “That will be all. Return to your room and remember nothing of this night but a long, peaceful sleep.”
The wizard finished his spell, and Eiruk Weskur walked calmly out of his office and down the stairs toward the younger guild members’ dormitories. Once he was gone out of sight, Khondar closed the door, turned around, and said, “Not here.” He rested his hand on his companion’s shoulder and said, “Oralneiar.”
The two men disappeared from the Tower of the Order with a chuff of imploding air.
They reappeared in a small, cold room lit only by a meager fire. Two tables flanked the hearth, both piled with scrolls and books. The table farthest from the window held a sculpture of two human hands carved from hematite, rings winking on every digit.
“Show me,” Khondar said. “Show me, boy!”
Ten-Rings muttered a few arcane words, and two glowballs flared to life above the tables in his work chamber.
“I wasn’t sure what we had, but I recognized both Khelben’s mark and the Elvish rune.” Centiv’s face shimmered back into focus as he dropped his Blackstaff illusion. He reached to the rough table beneath the window and handed his father the tome Samark had brought with him out of Khelben the Elder’s tomb. The sigil on the cover matched the one on the kid leather bundle.
Ten-Rings muttered, “That book’s protections proved beyond our skills.”
His hands out of Khondar’s sight, Centiv clenched his fists in frustration against the constant jabs. He had spent eleven days more than Khondar studying the tomes, and he knew the words and letters just swam about, as if he tried to read the book through a foot of wind-shimmered water. When he could catch a recognizable letter or sigil, he could only tell it was a word in Dwarvish, the next in Elvish, another in some form of Draconic. Centiv hated that his father rushed to judge what was beyond Centiv’s skills when Khondar’s own proved lacking.
“I know, Father.” Centiv said. “But given that sigils on the covers match, perhaps this can help us with the book.” Centiv unwrapped the kid leather to reveal a hand-sized lens of clear amber crystal.
Khondar snatched the crystal away from Centiv with a growl and held the crystal over the first page of the tome. Through the lens, the page swam as usual, but after a moment, both could see the letters stop shimmering and settle into place. Better still, the letters reformed into Common, and both men read the title.
Lore and Awareness of the Dark Archmage’s Acolytes: On the Assumption of Power as the Blackstaff or the Blackstaff’s Heir.
Beneath the title page were five signatures—Khelben Arunsun, Tsarra Chaadren, Kyriani Agrivar, Krehlan Arunsun, and Ashemmon of Rhymanthiin—and their wizard marks after them.
Laughing loudly, Khondar threw an arm around Centiv’s shoulders, a move from which his son initially flinched before smiling at the show of paternal pride.
“You’ve done it!” Khondar said. “You’ve found the way we can make the Blackstaff’s power our own! Now if we can just make sure that Tethyrian bitch stays out of the way …”
“In a way, I did so earlier today …” Centiv’s flush of pride deepened as he thought about the report his agent Charrar brought to him the previous dawn. While he bristled at the costs in lives and gold, Centiv was grateful he had had to silence only one agent instead of six to cover his tracks. He marveled at the luck Renaer and his friends seemed to have. They had very nearly caught him, all thanks to that skinny witch’s muting spell. Before this was over, Centiv knew he had to rip the secret of that spell from her, both to resist it and to exploit it. With that spell, he might even force his father to acknowledge him as an equal …
Dagrol, the Watch armar, entered Shank Alley along with an accompanying wizard of the Watchful Order, both of them with their staves at the ready. The five other Watchmen were either in the alley already or at either end, keeping folk from entering and disturbing the scene. Dagrol approached his firstblade and asked, “Who found her, Barlak?”
“He did,” the watchman pointed at a young boy taller than Dagrol. Despite the cold, the boy wore no shirt beneath his apron, and his muscles showed Dagrol he was used to hauling around loads of heavy fish. “His name’s Karel.”
“Talk to him, would you?” Dagrol asked the wizard at his side, who nodded and walked away. “Where’s the victim?”
Dagrol’s impatience was well-known by his patrol, and the young man nodded up the alley to the left. Dagrol found his best vigilant assessing the scene. Tasmia looked up at him, gray eyes somber and haunted.
The body lay tucked against the rough rear exterior of the Filleted Filliar hearthouse. The woman’s body had been shoved roughly behind and beneath large stacks of discarded garbage, fish guts, and other assorted offal. Her body was a mass of welts, scars, and wounds, but Dagrol’s eyes fell on two wounds in particular.
A dagger jutted out of her right eye, and a short sword had been driven up beneath her ribs and directly into her heart. The blades were ornately decorated along the hilts.
“You ever seen work like that before?” Dagrol asked Tasmia, who knelt beside the body.
“The killing blows, yeah,” Tasmia said. “Standard moves to make sure someone’s definitely dead, despite all other wounds. Overly showy blades are all the rage right now among the rich, too. The details on that basket-hilt sword, though, give up our suspect right away.”
“Who is it?”
“Well, those arms—the bear’s claw atop a diamond, all atop a field with three stripes from dexter to sinister—belong to the Neverembers. Unless you think the Open Lord’s killing women in alleys these days, I’d say we need to find young Renaer Neverember. And we’d better do it quickly.” Tasmia pulled a rough woolen blanket over the body, and whispered a quick prayer. “Selûne keep her soul safe from the predators that claimed this body.”
“Aye.” Dagrol nodded, sighing deeply. “Anybody else recognize her?”
“Just me, Dag,” Tasmia said as she stood, brushing mud off her leathers. “She’s Vajra Safahr, lover and heir of the Archmage of the City. If we want justice served, we’d better arrest Renaer and any accomplices before the Blackstaff finds them.”
“Gods help us if that happens.” Dagrol shuddered. “If he’s like his mentor Ashemmon at all, we’ll need a lot more gravediggers.”
CHAPTER 9
No one ever knew what happened to old Varad Brandarth. Many said he went mad. I knew he was mad before the Spellplague, so it couldn’t have been that. I suspect he had one or three hidden safeholds of which only he knew.
Elchor Serison, Sorcery & Trust, Year of the Silent Bell (1435 DR)
10 NIGHTAL, YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)
Renaer stepped into darkness. His footsteps echoed loudly. “Kamatar,” he said, and fires flared to life in the two hearths on opposite sides of the room.
Vajra stirred in his arms and opened her eyes. Renaer flinched as he saw her eyes waver between the red-black maelstrom orbs and normal eyes of different colored irises. She grimaced, creasing her brow, and her eyes briefly focused into almond-shaped eyes of deep mahogany brown.
“Where am I holding me wait aren’t you no a friend carry a vampire’s victim?” she said.
Vharem appeared behind them, followed by Laraelra and Meloon. All of them stumbled slightly when they apparated.
Vajra, whose attention shifted quickly to look over the new arrivals. “I don’t know …” Vajra tapped Renaer on his shoulder and pointed down with her eyes.
“Welcome to Varadras, milady Safahr, everyone,” Renaer said, setting her on her feet. Renaer noticed the others looking around the room, but the skies beyond the windows were dark, and snow and ice covered much of their openings. Renaer said, “Palnethar,” and torches flared to life on each wall and inside a long hallway leading out of it. Cobwebs covered many surfaces and corners, and the chamber warmed now only due t
o the presence of the hearthfires.
“Neat trick, Renaer,” Vharem said. “You never told us you were studying wizardry.”
“Varad taught you don’t know where how we’ll survive when you are mage?” Vajra said, and while she rambled, she approached and touched Renaer, her fingers glowing with magic. “No he casts not words for any safehouse fine for now don’t trust it calm down among friends.” Renaer heard her voice change inflections and pitch as she spoke. Her eyes shifted as well, flitting between different colors and shades of gray, brown, green, purple, and a dark blue. Still, she stood steadily, looking around the room and smiling.
“You knew Varad?” Renaer asked.
Vajra’s only response was an arched eyebrow and a nod of her head toward Vharem.
Renaer remembered how frustrating it was to talk to wizards who liked their secrets. “She’s right, if I understood her correctly,” her said. “I’m not a wizard, but I’ve been studying up on this place and my ancestor who built it three generations ago. He set a lot of magic in place, and most remained stable despite the Spellplague. Mostly, Varadras is just a place to get away. My father has no way of finding me here. The manor house is invisible to those outside of it unless you approach within a certain range.”
Blackstaff Tower Page 12
