by Ed Greenwood
Tabarast shrugged and said, “He guards Moonshorn Tower, not we.”
“Hmmph. Did he ever tell you about his fiery eye?”
“Aye. Something about a curse … he lost a spell duel to someone, and his service as guardian was payment to the priests of the Mysteries, to break the magic and restore him. Another poor mage-wits, driven into the service of the Lady who governs us all.”
Beldrune lifted his head. “Do I hear the faith of Tabarast of the Three Sung Curses retunding? The divine graces of Holy Mystra losing their hold after all these years?”
“Of course not,” Tabrast snapped. “Would I be sitting here the night through in all this cold damp if they were?” He thumbed the lid of his tankard open, took a long pull, and looked back at the castle towers in time to see one of the glimmering lights go out.
They sat and waited until their tankards were empty, but nothing else happened. The castle, it seemed, was asleep. Tabarast finally turned his gaze from it with a sigh. “We’re all pawns of the Lady who minds the Weave, though—aren’t we? It just comes down to whether you delude yourself into thinking you’re free or not.”
“Well, I am free,” Beldrune snapped, his lips tightening. “By all means let these funny ideas prance through your head, Tabarast, and govern your days if you want them to, but kindly leave me out of the ‘foolish puppet’ drawer in your mind. You’ll live longer if you grant that other mages might have scrambled out of it, too.”
Tabarast turned to fix the younger mage with a wise and keen old glare. “Which other mages?”
“Oh, just the ones you meet,” Beldrune grunted. “All of them.”
Far from the turrets Tabarast and Beldrune were watching, and farther still from the shattered, smoking stump that had been the tower of Holivanter, another wizard’s tower stood against the night sky.
This one was a modest roughstone affair studded with many small, loosely shuttered windows, sun boxes of herbs hanging from their sills. It stood alone in the wilderlands, bereft of village or muddy lane, and deer grazed contentedly around its very door—until a mist rising silently out of the grass settled upon them, and they sank down into oblivion, leaving only bones behind.
When there were no eyes left to see it, a chill, chiming whirlwind stole to the base of the tower and began to rise.
Floating up past climbing roses and ivy in eerie silence, it gathered itself in the air like a coiling snake—and lunged through a chink in a shutter halfway up the tower, pouring itself into the sleeping darkness beyond.
Dark chamber within opened into dark chamber, and the misty wind whirled, moaned as it gathered its might in that second room, a place of books and scroll-littered tables and dust—and became an upright, gliding thing of claws and jaws that slid out into the spiral stair at the heart of the tower, and up.
At the top of the tower, candlelight through an ill-fitting door danced reflections down the staircase, and an old and rough voice was speaking, alone, oblivious to the danger creeping closer, as clawed mists came gliding.
At the heart of a chalked symbol set with many candles, an old man in much-patched robes was on his knees, facing the chalk image of a pointing human hand. A blue radiance outlined the hand, and both it and the chalkwork were his doing, for he had dwelt long alone.
“For years I’ve served you, and the Great Lady, too,” the wizard prayed. “I know how to smash things with spells and to raise them, too. Yet I know little of the world outside my walls and need your guidance now, O Azuth. Hear me, High One, and tell me, I pray: to whom should I pass on my magic?”
His last word seemed to echo, as if across a great gulf or chasm, and the blue conjured radiance suddenly shone almost blindingly bright.
Then it went out entirely as a wind rose out of the very floor, flowing from the chalked hand. The candles flared wildly, spat flames, and went out under its rushing onslaught, and out of the darkness that followed their deaths came a voice, deep and dry: “Guard yourself, faithful Yintras, for danger is very close to you now. I shall gather your Art unto me in the time of your passing … worry not.”
With a crackle of leaking energy and a strange singing of the air, something blown on that wind flowed around the old wizard, winding around his trembling limbs to cloak him in warmth and vigor. With an ease and agility he hadn’t felt in years, the old man sprang to his feet, raised his hands, and watched tiny lightnings crackle from one arm to the other with pleased wonder in his eyes, amid the gathering glimmer of unshed tears in his eyes. “Lord,” he said roughly, “I am unworthy of such aid as this. I—”
Behind him, the door of the spell chamber split from top to bottom, shrieking its protest as more than a dozen claws literally tore it apart, tossing down the splinters to reveal an open, empty door frame.
Something that glowed with a pale, wavering ghostliness stood at the head of the stair—something large, menacing, and yet uncertain. A thing of claws and ever-shifting jaws and tentacles and cruelly barbed mandibles. A thing of menace and death, now advancing leisurely into the spell chamber at an almost gloating, slow pace.
Yintras Bedelmrin watched death come for him, floating over wards that would have seared limbs at a touch, and swallowed, trembling.
Lightning leaped within him, as if in reminder, and suddenly Yintras threw back his head, drew in a deep breath and spoke as loudly and as imperiously as he could. “I am armored by Azuth himself, and need fear no entity. Begone, whatever you are. Go from here, forever!”
The old wizard took a step toward the thing of claws, lightning still leaping from arm to arm. Ghostly radiance rose up in a menacing wall of claws and reaching tentacles—but even as it did so, it was flickering, trembling, and darkening. Holes were opening in its overreaching substance, holes that grew with it.
With horrifying speed it expanded to loom almost to the ceiling, towering over the old man in the many-patched robes. Yintras stood watching it, not knowing what to do and so doing nothing.
A fatal creed for an adventurer, and no better for wizards. He quailed, inwardly, knowing death could come in moments, horrified that he might embrace it when he could have escaped it—just by doing the right thing, or something.
Claws snatched at him in a horrible mass lunge that left him entirely unaware that a tentacle that had grown savage barbs and long-fanged jaws was snaking around through the darkness to stab at him from behind and below.
Lightning cracked, raged white-hot in the air of the spell chamber and was gone again, leaving—when his streaming eyes could see again—a feebly flickering gray mist cringing and writhing in the air by the door.
Yintras drew in a deep breath and did one of the bravest and most foolish things in his life thus far. He took a step toward the mist, chuckled, then took another step, raising his arms despite the lack of lightning or any feeling of surging or lurking power.
The mist gathered itself as if to do battle with him, rising and thickening into a small but solid mass, like a ready-raised shield trailing away into formlessness. The old wizard took another step, and the strange mist seemed to tremble.
He stretched forth a hand as if to grasp it. In a sudden wash of frigid air and a chiming of tiny, bell-like sounds, the mist broke into a swirling stream and was gone out the door in a flash, leaving only a mournful snarl in its wake.
Yintras watched it go and stared at the emptiness where it had been for a long anxious time. When at last he believed that it was truly gone, he went to his knees again to speak his thanks. All that came out were sobs, in a quickening rush that he found himself powerless to stop.
He crept forward in the darkness on knees and fingertips, trying to at least shape Azuth’s name. Then he froze in surprise and awe. Where his tears had fallen, candle after candle was springing to life by itself, in a silently growing string of dancing warmth.
“Azuth,” he managed to whisper at last. “My thanks!”
All of the candles went out in unison, then flared into life again. Yintras knelt in the
ir midst, touched by glory and grateful for it. Sadness laced the edges of his bright delight too, and beneath all, he felt empty, utterly drained. He touched the smudged chalk that had once been the outline of a pointing hand and started to cry like a child.
Eight
THE SUNDERED THRONE
A throne is a prize that petty and cruel folk most often fight over. Yet, on bright mornings, ’tis but a chair.
Ralderick Hallowshaw, Jester
from To Rule A Realm, From Turret To Midden
published circa The Year of the Bloodbird
A shadow fell across the pages Elminster was frowning over. He did not have to look up to know who it was, even before a tress of glossy raven-black hair trailed across fading sketches and notations.
“Apprentice,” Dasumia said beside his ear, in melodious, gentle tones that made El stiffen in alarm, “fetch the Orbrum, Prospaer on Nameless Horrors, and the Tome of Three Locks from my side table in the Blue Chamber, and bring them now to me in the Balcony Hall. Do off any items you may wear or carry that possess even the slightest dweomer, upon peril of your life.”
“Aye, Lady Master,” El murmured, glancing up to meet her eyes. She looked unusually stern, but there was no hint of anger or mischief about her eyes as she strode to a door that was seldom opened, stepped through it, and pulled it firmly closed behind her.
The solid click of its lock coincided with Elminster realizing he had to ask her what to do about the guardian of the Blue Chamber. Her spell-lock he could probably break—a test?—but the guardian would have to be slain if he was to do something so time-consuming as to cross the room, pick up three books, and attempt to carry them out again … or it would be the one doing the slaying.
If he slew it, she’d once told him, small malignant sentiences would be released from mirrors and orbs and tome-bindings all over the castle. They might rage for months before they were all recaptured and spellbound once more to obedience. Months of lost time she’d repay him for with the same duration of torment … and Elminster had tasted the Lady Dasumia’s torments before.
Her favorite punishment seemed to be forcing him to fetch things on hands and knees that she’d thoroughly broken, so every movement was wobbling, grating agony, but sometimes—more often in recent days, as the Year of Mistmaidens abandoned spring for full summer—she preferred strapping El into a girdle of everhealing then stabbing him in succession with a slim sword tipped with poison, and a blade fashioned of jungle thorns as long as his forearm, dipped in flesh-eating acid. She seemed to enjoy the sounds of screaming.
These reflections took El only the few seconds needed to stride across the room and open the door Dasumia had passed through. Beyond it was the Long Gallery, a passage studded with alternating paintings and oval windows. It was an enclosed flying bridge the height of twenty men above a cobblestone courtyard, that linked the two tallest towers of the castle. Ever since two once-apprentices of the Lady had thought it a perfect venue for a duel and had slain each other amid conjured flames that threatened both attached towers, the Lady had caused the Gallery to be magic-dead: its very air quenched and quelled all spells, so Dasumia could do nothing but walk its considerable length; he’d have ample time to call out to her before she—
He snatched open the door, opened his mouth to speak—and stared in silence at a dark, lifeless, and very empty gallery.
Even if she’d been as swift as the fastest Calishite message-runners, and thrown dignity to the winds for a panting sprint the moment the door had closed, she’d have been no farther from him than mid-passage. There’d just not been time enough for anything else. Perhaps she’d banished the dead magic effect and not bothered to inform him. Perhaps—
He frowned and conjured light, directing it to appear at the midpoint of the passage. The casting was both simple and perfectly accomplished … but no light blossomed into being. The gallery was still death to magic.
Yet—no Lady Dasumia. Elminster turned away from that door looking very thoughtful.
El used the heavy, many-layered wards that the Lady had set upon the Blue Chamber to spin a modified maze spell that drew the guardian—a small, enthusiastic flying maelstrom of three barbed stingtails, raking claws, and a nasty disposition—into “otherwhere” for a long handful of moments. He was out and down the hall, with the door safely closed and the books under his arm, before it won its furiously hissing freedom.
Twice cobwebs brushed his face on his brisk jaunt along the Long Gallery, telling him the Lady Master hadn’t passed this way recently—certainly not mere minutes ago.
The doors of the Balcony Hall stood open, star-studded smoke swirling gently out; the Lady had spun a spell-shield to protect her castle. This was to be a test, then, or a duel in earnest. He held the books in a stack out before him as he entered, and murmured, “I am come, Lady Master.”
The books floated up out of his grasp toward the balcony, and from its height Dasumia said softly, “Close the doors and bar them, Apprentice.”
El glanced up as he turned back to the doors. She was wearing a mask, and her hair was stirring about her shoulders as if winds were blowing through it. Spell-globes floated above and behind her; El saw much of her jewelry hanging in one, and the books were heading for another. Real magic was to be unleashed here.
He settled the bar and secured its chains without haste, giving her the time she needed to be absolutely ready. When facing the spells of a sorceress who can destroy you at will, it’s best to give her little cause for irritation.
When he turned back into the room, the last glowspell had dimmed to a row of glimmering lights around the balcony rail; he could no longer see the sorceress who stood somewhere above him.
“It is time, and past time, Elminster, for me to assay this. Defend yourself as you’re able—and strike back to slay, not gently.”
Sudden light burst forth from on high: white, searing light that boiled forth at him from the face, bodice, and cupped hands of his Lady Master. Did she know of his treacheries?
Time enough to learn such things later … if he lived to enjoy a “later.” El spun a hand vortex to catch it and sent it back at her, diving away when its fury proved too powerful for his defense, and broke his vortex apart in a snarling explosion that awakened short-lived fires here and there about the floor of the Hall. El spellsnatched one of them and threw it up at her, in hopes of spoiling another casting. It flickered as it plunged wide, but its brief radiance showed him Dasumia standing as rigid as a post, with silver bands of magic whipping about her—bands that became flailing chains as they rattled free of her and hurtled down upon him.
He danced across the Hall, to win himself the few moments they’d need to chase after him, then put his hands together in a spellburst that shattered them. He’d placed and angled himself so as to spit the unused fire of his spell up at the balcony, wondering how long his dozen or so defensive or versatile spells could serve him against the gathered might of her magic.
This time, some of it reached her; he heard her gasp, and saw her throw her head back, hair swirling, in the blazing moment when her spell-shield failed under the searing, clawing assault of his strike.
Then he glimpsed the flash of her teeth as she smiled, and felt the first cold whisper of fear. Now would come agony, if she could burst through his defenses to bring him down. And sooner or later—probably sooner—she would bring him down.
Purple lightning spat out of dark nothingness in a dozen places along the balcony rail, and lanced down into the Hall, ricocheting here, there, and everywhere. El spun a swift armoring spell but felt burning agony above one elbow, and in the opposing thigh—and crashed bruisingly to the stone floor, biting his tongue as he grunted back a scream. His body bounced and writhed helplessly as lightning surged through it; he fought to breathe now, not to weave spells or craft tactics. Yet perhaps the tatters of his failing, fading armoring could be used to hurl her lightning back—for she’d spent no time to raise another spell-shield for herself.
El crawled and rolled, blindly and agonizingly, seeking to be out of the searing surge of the lightning, to where he could gasp for breath and make his limbs obey.
A rising whistling sound just above his head told El his armoring had survived—and could turn lightning aside quite effectively. He willed it down to above his head, to break the lightning that was holding him in thrall, then moved it to one side, rolling to stay in its shadow.
Lightning clawed at his foot for a moment; then he was free once more. Murmuring a paltry incantation to make his armoring larger and longer lasting, El rose into a crouch to peer at the last few lightnings crawling about the Hall. It was the work of a few moments to deflect these so until they could all be cupped in his armoring and hurled back up at the balcony, raking it for the briefest of instants before they boiled away under the onslaught of the Lady Dasumia’s next spell.
This one was a wall of green dust he’d seen before; short-lived and unstable, but turning all living things it touched briefly to stone. El cast a wall of force as fast as he knew how, bringing it into being curved like a cupped hand to scoop dust aside and spill it back up onto the balcony.
As his “hand” moved one way, he trotted in another direction, hurling magic missiles at where his Lady Master must be crouching, to keep her from moving away from the area wherein her dust would be delivered back to her.
A moment later, the glowing green cloud spilled across the balcony, and it was too late for Dasumia to flee. El had the satisfaction of seeing her stiffen and grow still.
An instant thereafter, he was shouting in startled pain as sharp, slicing blades materialized out of the air on all sides. He threw himself to the floor and rolled, shielding his face and throat with tight-curled arms as he willed his forcewall back down out of the balcony like a swooping falcon to batter aside blades and shield him.