by Ed Greenwood
She meant his death. Zalarth's wand came up and he said coldly, "It is always a pleasure to destroy a Knight of Myth Drannor. Die, bitch!"
"Excuse me," said a calm new voice from very close by, and Zalarth felt his elbow struck sharply. His aim was driven wide; the wand's power smote a stone wall harmlessly.
"Met are we, mage of the Zhentarim," another voice said formally, "and the pleasure, I assure you, is all ours."
"Aye. Farewell, tyrant mage," the first voice said, and Zalarth Bloodbrow scarce had time to look from one grimly smiling speaker to another before two long swords passed each other in his chest, sliding in with silken ease and leaving a sudden rising burning in their wake, a burning worse than anything he'd ever felt.
Zalarth felt himself falling, falling with mouth open but no breath left to speak, hands open but with nothing to grab. He stared hard into the rising white mists that had not been there an instant ago, and sank forever into the nothingness beyond them.
"Best chop off that finger, there. There's no telling what Zhent rings will do, and I'd hate to have to kill this one four or five times," Belkram said briskly. Itharr nodded, looking all around.
"Where's Elminster gotten t-ah, there!" He pointed.
Belkram looked up to the balcony where the Old Mage was unconcernedly puffing on his pipe. Elminster waved to them lazily.
The two Harpers shouted in horror. Behind Elminster, a bone-white face had appeared, a gleam in its dark eye sockets and a widening grin stretching its ghastly jaw. Long, skeletal arms reached for the Old Mage, and there was nothing-utterly nothing-that Itharr or Belkram, or Sharantyr coming unsteadily to her feet beside them, could do.
Sharantyr threw back her head in despair, and screamed. "Mystra, aid us all!"
23
Until Magic Do Us Part
"And so it ends," Manshoon said in disgust, turning away from the glowing scrying bowl. "As always… mages of the Brotherhood cut down by sword-swinging louts because they're too foolish, or arrogant, or set on their course with no wits to spare for looking around them. This bodes ill for us all. Time and time again we suffer these embarrassments. If the Brotherhood does not triumph in such little things, we will surely fail and be swept away and forgotten."
Silent faces looked back at him, Anaithe's among them. Fear was written plainly on all-in dark eyes, sweat upon temples, and lips that trembled in their hard set. The Lord Most High looked around at them all in long, sour silence. In sudden rage he turned, robes swirling, to snatch down a staff from where it floated in the air above.
"This is too important to ignore," he snapped. "Elminster's carrying greater power in him now than I've ever felt in any being. Left alone, he is a great danger to us, and if we can seize what he holds, none will be able to stand against us. Guard this place well in my absence, Belaghar, or you will pay the price."
"But, my lord," the wizard called Belaghar protested, waving a hand toward the bowl. "Is this wise? The Brotherhood needs your leadership now more than… ever… and, if… you… sh…" His words slowed and finally died to silence under the cold weight of Manshoon's venomous gaze.
"Think you I am a fool?" the lord of the Brotherhood asked coldly. "Do I seem likely to be thrown down by any of those"-he stretched a long finger toward the glowing waters of the bowl-"as two minor magelings were? If it so seems to you, then it is you, Belaghar, who are the fool."
He strode to a certain archway in the shadowed gloom, then slowed, turned, and added with dark humor, "Gain wisdom, Brother, while I am gone, if you would hold your place among us."
He looked around slowly at the other mages in the room and added softly, "All of you know, I think, what sort of torment will befall you if any treachery or misjudgments occur in my absence. It would be prudent to see that no such unfortunate supervenities greet me upon my return." He stared at them for two long, silent breaths and added, almost in a whisper, "And I shall return."
The lord of the Brotherhood made a certain sign in the air before him, and a beholder that had hung invisible over the bowl until now faded slowly into view, its dark eyestalks coiling and writhing menacingly.
Manshoon made a slight bow in its direction and said, "Watch well, Quysszt, as you always do. You have my permission to act freely to keep things here as we have agreed." He smiled slowly, turned away, then looked back and added, "Guard yourself, my love." It was unclear if he addressed the silent, white-faced Anaithe or the beholder looming low above her head. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep favored the wizards with a calm, deadly look and went out.
The sigh of men letting out long-held breaths was audible all over the room. A moment later, it was underlaid by the deep, dry humming few men hear and live long enough, thereafter, to tell of: the sound of a beholder chuckling.
As the sound grew, the gathered Zhentarim suddenly recalled various urgent tasks and concerns that required their immediate presence elsewhere. The room emptied in almost undignified haste.
The eye tyrant's mottled body descended slowly into the glowing water of the bowl, and the sound it made deepened into the gentle, steady humming of contentment.
A rat scuttling across a far corner of the room stopped, amazed, at the sound. An eyestalk turned its way almost lazily, and the dark rodent was plucked into the air. It soared helplessly into the gigantic, crooked, many-toothed maw of the monster, which opened to receive it. With a grunt of satisfaction, the beholder settled into the water and rolled.
When it rose up, dripping, it began to indulge itself in one of its favorite amusements: spitting the bones of prey at nearby targets.
Nearby stood a lifelike statue of a nude woman holding an oil bowl over her head. Whispers among the Brotherhood that this brazier was a captured slave turned to stone were supported by the expression of terror on the openmouthed stone face. Quyssztellan turned slightly in the air above the bowl, and the rat's freshly bared skull struck that mouth with such force that the bone shattered into dust and fragments.
The beholder chuckled again and chose another target.
"Where will it all end?" Noumea's voice was anguished. "And why was I ever chosen as Magister? I am too weak for this. Mystra needs a war leader among archmages now, not my feeble powers and doubting."
The tall, slim, conical column of silvery gray light beside her emitted what could only be called a mind-sigh. Its mental voice echoed in her head.
Ye were chosen, and the Lady is seldom mistaken. Thy kindness and care will be much needed in time soon to come. After the destroyers lash out, the harder task must follow: rebuilding, so that the next destroyer will have something to work upon. The silvery cone flickered, and tiny motes of light drifted about within it. Be of stout heart, Lady Magister. We shall all have need of thee.
Noumea brushed long hair back out of her face for perhaps the six thousandth time since the Lady had fallen silent. "But how can I fight Manshoon? I have not his power, nor his-ruthlessness. I was not made to slay or lay cruel Art upon anyone."
Ye will do what ye must, as we all do. And soon ye must curb Manshoon. He grows ever more powerful, and there are no gods to gainsay him. Azuth's mind-voice sounded grim, resolute. Have ye not understood what we have seen of his doings?
The Magister swallowed and nodded. "That spell he devised, it urges on wildness in Art. When he casts it on mages or their spells, their Art is more likely to go awry and destroy them, or bring harm to them through the anger and fear of others."
And so, daughter of Art: what must ye do?
Noumea brushed hair back from her face again and drew herself erect. Her skin had turned the color of fresh-fallen snow, but her face was set in determined lines. "I must fight Manshoon." She stared into the darkness around them for a moment, looking regal and serene in her power. Then she turned to the silver-hued cone and seemed to crumple.
Trembling, she whispered, "Lord Azuth, I am afraid."
Afraid? Of Art?
"No," Noumea gasped into the silvery light, "I'm afraid that when I st
rike with Art, I'll find… I enjoy it."
If ye do, does that give thee the license to do nothing, Lady Magister?
The slim maiden shook her head. "Against gods, I cannot act. Against runaway mages, I must act."
The silvery cone that was all that was left of the Lord of Mages sent her a warm, comforting mind-touch of agreement and satisfaction. Noumea embraced it suddenly, weeping. Where her tears fell on the warm, electric softness of the glowing cone, tiny winking lights were born.
Laeral watched the delicately fluted wineglass float silently and smoothly toward her. When it paused before her, she thanked it gravely. Lathlamber sparkled and glowed within. She smiled, and her slender fingers closed gently around the warm crystal.
"Lord?" she called softly, knowing he who sent it must be near. In answer, the table grew a fluid, shifting wooden hand, reached out to her leg, and scratched her… just on the itch where her boot tops always chafed. Laeral purred contentedly and sighed, "Oh, Khel-I do love you."
"I know it," came a quiet reply from her feet. The grave face of the Lord Mage of Waterdeep rose out of the floor and ascended steadily as his body floated up through the solid, polished obsidian slabs.
Laeral's dark, beautiful eyes widened for an instant over the wineglass. Then they crinkled into a smile of pure pleasure. "You never cease to amaze me," she said lightly, set down the glass, and threw her arms about him.
They embraced, there in an upper room of Blackstaff Tower, kissing in fondness and then in passion. After fiercely embracing one another for a time, they loosed and studied each other, and sighed as one.
"More bad news, Lord?" Laeral asked, knowing her lord and love well, and reading in his face more than he ever thought it showed.
Khelben nodded, unsmiling. "Chaos grows across the Realms. Beasts not seen in an age swarm over the land, roaming even into the streets of large cities like Iriaebor and Crimmor. Brigands and all manner of orcs, drow, and goblinkin are on the move, raiding, and from everywhere come reports of religious fanatics burning, slaying, and inciting others to open war. The gods themselves are walking Faerun, destroying this and ordering that-and always, Art grows wilder, less reliable, more savage and apt to have unforeseeable effects."
Laeral nodded. "So much has been apparent for some days, Lord. Yet I sense a darker shadow. Unburden yourself, please. We work better together than when one of us broods alone."
Khelben smiled. "I apologize… I can see myself when you speak so. Well, then, my dark thoughts are bent on Manshoon of the Zhentarim. He has set to work in all this fright and wild worry to develop a spell that augments the wild effects of other spells. He's been using this dark magic to turn the Art of foes back on them, or to bring harm through the wild effects of twisted spells."
Laeral nodded, her eyes large and dark. "So I have heard from two sources, now. You have seen him work this?"
Khelben nodded grimly. "It is high time, and past time, that we dealt with the Black Master of the Zhentarim, whatever the cost to us. I think I shall begin preparations."
Laeral reached for him. "The danger! Especially now, when our Art is needed to protect and defend, and this wildness of magic aids his dark spells."
Khelben nodded again. "I know all this, and yet it is a responsibility I cannot evade longer. If Noumea were more… warlike, the task is rightfully hers. But time passes, and his power grows, and she acts not. So…"
Laeral managed a smile. "If you go up against the Dread Lord," she said quietly, "do not deny me room to stand at your side."
Khelben came toward her then, opening his arms to her embrace. "No," he said quietly, "that one thing at least I have learned in our years together. I will not try to keep you from the fray, or tell you what is wisest and safest, or try to shield you. I love you too much, Lady, to so insult you anymore."
A thought then came to him, one he'd had several times before. Nothing in all Faerun tasted so sweet as one of his Lady Laeral's kisses.
Long, skeletal arms went around the Old Mage. He took his pipe out of his mouth as he saw them come into view, turned smoothly within their tightening embrace, and said, "Ah, it is you. Well met, my lady."
Then, without a trace of repugnance, he leaned forward and kissed the tattered skin and bared bone and teeth of the undead thing's grinning mouth.
"Oh, Elminster," came a loud, dry voice in reply. "The years have dealt with you far more kindly than they have with me."
"Not by my Art," Elminster said gently, and his tone was sad. "I am as you see me now by the grace of Lady Mystra-and it is not, I must tell you, entirely a blessing."
"Live by your charm, Old Spellhurler," came the wry response, "and die by it."
Elminster chuckled, then seemed to remember the shocked audience below. "Excuse me," he asked, "but do you mind if I introduce you to my companions?"
"Not at all, El. They are welcome in my home."
Elminster bowed to her as if he faced a queenly lady and not a mold-covered, half-skeletal horror clad in rotten rags. Then he turned and looked down over the balcony rail.
Three silent, openmouthed, wide-eyed folk stood with blades wavering in their hands, looking up and obviously not knowing what else to do.
"Will ye come up?" Elminster asked. "I'd like ye to meet the Lady Saharel, queen in this, her castle of Saharelgard."
The undead lady came to stand at his shoulder and beckoned them with a smile. It looked ghastly, but its warmth was evident in her tone. "You may as well call it Spellgard, El. I've heard that name often down the years and become used to it. I think I'm even starting to like the name. Terribly pretentious, if I'd laid it upon this crumbling pile of mine, but rather impressive when bestowed out of fear by someone else."
She leaned over the rail, her wild, gray-white hair trailing forward. "Come up, yes. Please come up, and excuse the mess and general… decay. I've not the skill at Art or practical knowledge to keep my home in good repair. Moreover, I sleep much of the time, and when I wake I half expect to find that the whole thing has come down on top of me and I'm buried under my own folly… not an unusual fate for wizards, I'm told."
Elminster winced. "Ye haven't changed," he complained.
"Oh, no? Tell that to my mirror, the only one I haven't broken in rage over the years. I was beautiful once."
As Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr came hesitantly up the stairs, weapons sheathed, they saw Elminster draw the gaunt, long-haired lady to him. Her bared bones clung to his old arms.
"Ye still are, Saharel," he said, "when I look at you, and not merely what's left of your skin." After a moment he grinned and added, "Didn't I tell thee, once? Ye have beautiful bones."
The undead lady in his arms sighed loudly and swung her skull-like face toward Sharantyr. "He hasn't changed much, has he?"
Despite herself, Sharantyr came to a halt, but she managed a smile and said, "If you mean he was prone to shameless flattery and leering ways, when first you knew him, Lady-no, he has not."
Then she forced herself to step forward and sketched a court salute, that archaic bob of one lady to another.
Saharel shuddered. "That didn't catch on, did it?" Then she put bony fingers to her mouth. "Forgive me, Lady," she said, quickly. "I did not mean to offend… I have had few visitors of thy gentle nature, and am somewhat out of practice at common courtesies. Pray accept my apology."
"Lady," Sharantyr said haltingly, "none is needed."
The undead sorceress turned to Elminster and poked him sharply in the ribs. "Well, Spellhurler? I've never known your tongue to be so laggard before! You said you'd introduce us, and here I am speaking to a charming young lady and know not her name. What manner of gallant are you?"
"No gallant, Lady," Elminster said in an affected mock-courtier's voice, "but, I fear, a rogue."
"Words more true were never uttered," Belkram said to Itharr in a whisper loud enough to be heard all over the vast hall.
Elminster's glare was lost in the mingled, tinkling laughter of Sharan
tyr and Saharel. The Old Mage sighed loudly, looked up at the ceiling (which offered him no visible support or even agreement), and said, "May I present the Lady Saharel, Sorceress of Saharelgard, of the High Mages of Netheril?" He knelt, and lifted his hand to indicate the undead sorceress. "The Lady Saharel!" he declaimed grandly.
The two Harpers bowed solemnly and Sharantyr repeated her salute. Elminster rose between them and said to Saharel, "Good lady, I present to you three distinguished adventurers of the sword. Firstly, the Lady Sharantyr of Shadowdale, Knight of Myth Drannor."
Saharel stepped forward to lay a hand over Sharantyr's. The bones were cold, smooth, and hard but patted her fingers reassuringly. "Try not to mind my looks," came the dry voice. "I would be your friend." Then she added, "I am glad to hear that Myth Drannor flourishes."
"Well, actually," Elminster said rather sheepishly, "it does not. It lies in ruin, but the Fair Folk have recently withdrawn from the elven court, and this brave lady is one of a band who have dedicated themselves to guarding the city from those who would pillage it, and to rebuilding its glory someday."
"So how come you here?" Saharel asked, gazing at Sharantyr.
The ranger sighed and said, "I came to guard him." She pointed at Elminster.
"Guard?" The undead lady, obviously astonished, turned to look at Elminster. "From me?"
"Ah, no-no," Elminster said. "It's a delicate matter. Oh, gods blast, ye may as well know it, too." He straightened up. "The gods walk Faerun, Saharel, even as we speak. They are thrown down among us by a greater power, and much of their might stripped from them. By Mystra's will I hold much of her power, and the carrying of it has stripped from me the use of my own Art. I can't conjure up even a hand-glow… and I must survive, to pass on what I hold to Mystra or to some mysterious successor she spoke of."
