by Ed Greenwood
Still wearing its cruel smile, the face closed its eyes and shrank back into the column of flame, fading as it did so. In a few moments the flames fell back into the rune, and it winked out, becoming mere dark and lifeless grooves in the stone floor.
“Did that curse afflict ye?” Elminster demanded, striding around to where he could see Saeraede.
She lifted the edge of her beautiful mouth in a wry smile. “Never … nor has it touched anyone, for ’tis all a bluff. Believe me; I’ve seen it many times down the years, whenever I grew overly lonely for the sight and sound of another human. ’Tis an empty warning, no more.”
El nodded, almost trembling in his eagerness, and asked, “How can one see the scenes held by the other runes—and just what is in each?”
Saeraede pointed. “In this next rune lie two of the most destructive spells devised by Karsus—magics none else have attained since—as well as a defensive shielding of surpassing strength and a healing magic; he placed them thus in case his new self should have urgent need to do battle.”
Her pointing finger moved. “The rune beyond holds another four magics, as powerful as the battle-spells but of more mundane usage. One creates a floating ‘worldlet’ to serve as a stronghold for the mage who uses magic to modify it further; one can stop and hold the waters of a river while digging out a new course for its bed; one can shield an area permanently against specific spells or schools of spells with precision—so that one can allow a lightning bolt but deny chain lightning, say; and the last can coddle and keep from harm a living human while permanently altering one limb or organ—Karsus most often used that to move heart or brain to an unexpected place, or graft beast claws where hands had been or extra eyeballs from others … he also gave some men gills to work under the sea for him, as I recall.”
Saeraede waved her hand at the curving row of runes. “The others hold lesser magics, four in each—and Karsus himself demonstrates all castings, noting drawbacks, details, and effective strategies.”
She watched the hunger in Elminster’s face and suppressed a smile. She had seen this so many times before … even Chosen, it seemed, were like eager children when offered new toys. She waited for the question she knew would come.
Elminster licked lips that were suddenly dry, before he could swallow and say quietly, “I asked how one can awaken these runes, lady, to view what waits within … and ye’ve not answered that. Is there some secret here, some hazard or caution?”
Saeraede gave him a warm and welcoming smile. “Nay, sir. As you’re not Karsus and able to work the magics that respond only to his blood, there’s but a matter of time—and your patience.”
El raised a questioning eyebrow, and her smile broadened and slid into sadness.
“Only I can activate the runes,” the woman on the throne added softly, “and I can call forth the power of only one in a month, by means of a nameless spell bound into me by Karsus. ’Tis a spell I know not how to cast, nor can I teach it to another. I can only call on it when the time is right—and I have no doubt ’tis the sole reason I still exist.”
Elminster opened his mouth to say something, his eyes alight with eager fire, but Saeraede held up a hand to stay his speech, and added, “You asked of a hazard? There is one, and ’tis thus: long years must have passed since I was bound here, for my powers have faded indeed. I can awaken one rune, and no more. To open another will destroy me—and all of the magic stored here will drain away and be lost; it cannot persist without me.”
“So there is no way to see the spells Karsus stored here—or at least, more than one foursome of them?”
“There is a way,” Saeraede said softly, her eyes on his. “If you use that last spell I spoke of, not to give me gills or a tail, but to pass magical strength into me … the magic of another spell that heals, or imparts vitality, or places the vital, flowing power of Art in items, to recharge them. All of these should work.”
Elminster frowned in thought. “And we must bide here a month, to see the rune that holds that spell?”
Saeraede spread her hands. “You freed me and woke the first rune. I am yet able to awaken a rune, now—and I owe you my very life. Would you like to see the rune I spoke of, which holds the spell that will let me live to unlock the others for you?”
“I would,” El said eagerly, striding forward.
Saeraede rose from the throne and held up her hands in warning.
“Remember,” she said gravely, “you’ll see Karsus instructing himself how to cast those spells, and the rune will then be dead forever, its spells—spells neither you nor any living mage may now be able to cast—lost with it.”
She took two slow steps away from Elminster, then turned back to face him, pointing down at the rune. “If you want to preserve its power and be able to view it again hereafter, there is a way … but it will call greatly on your trust.”
Elminster’s brows rose again, but he said merel, “Say on.”
Saeraede spread empty hands in the age-old gesture traders use to show they are unarmed, and said gently, “You can channel energy into the rune through me. Touch me as I stand upon the rune, and will your spell to seek the rune as its target. The bindings set within me by Karsus will keep me from harm and deliver the fury of your magic into the rune. One powerful spell ought to do it … or two lesser ones.”
The eyes of the last prince of Athalantar narrowed. “Mystra forfend,” he murmured, raising a reluctant hand.
“Elminster,” Saeraede said beseechingly, “I owe you my life. I mean you no harm. Take whatever precautions you see fit—a blindfold, bindings, a gag.” She extended her arms to him, wrists crossed over each other in a gesture of submission. “You have nothing to fear from me.”
Slowly, Elminster stepped forward and took her cold hand in his.
Nineteen
MORE BLOOD THAN THUNDER
The thunder of a king’s tongue can always spill more blood than his own weight in gold before dawn the next morning.
Mintiper Moonsilver, Bard
from the ballad Great Changes Aborning
first performed circa The Year of the Sword and Stars
Saeraede’s touch was cold—colder than icy rivers he’d plunged into, colder even than the bite of blue glacial ice that had once seared his naked skin.
Gods! Elminster struggled to catch his breath, too shocked even to moan. The face so close to his held no hint of triumph, only anxious concern. El stared into those beautiful eyes and roared out his pain in a wordless shout that echoed around the cavern.
It was answered a moment later by a greater roar, a rumbling that shook the cavern and split its gloom with a flash of light—a flash that made all of the runes briefly catch fire, and sent a slim, stealthy figure shrinking back hastily into its crevice, unregarded.
One of her best spells, shattered like a glass goblet hurled to stones—and it could not be any doing of this helpless, shuddering mage in her hands. Oh, dark luck rule: were there spells on a Chosen that called for aid by themselves?
Saeraede straightened, eyes blazing, and snarled, “Who—?”
The light that stabbed down the shaft this time was no flash of destruction but a golden column of more lasting sorcery. Four figures rode its magic smoothly down into the cavern of the throne, boots first.
Three of the men in that column of light were old and stout and amazed. Caladaster, Beldrune, and Tabarast were all staring in awe at their companion. The quiet Harper had just broken a spell that had shaken the very trees around in its passing, and swept away a thick stone floor in the doing with a casual wave of his hand. He’d taken a few steps forward, smiled reassuringly at them, and another gesture had swept them up into waiting radiance and borne them down the shaft together in its glowing heart.
“Elminster,” the fourth man said crisply, as his boots touched the stone floor as lightly as a falling feather kisses the earth, “stand away from yon runes. Mystra forbids us to do what you are attempting.”
A gasping
Elminster had only just then recovered the power of speech. He turned with a stiff, awkward lurch, limbs trembling, and said sharply through lips that were thin and blue, “Mystra forbids us to do, never to look. Who are you?”
The man smiled slightly, and his eyes became two lances of magical fire, stabbing across the cavern at Saeraede. “Call me—Azuth,” he replied.
“The spell failed again, l-lord,” the man in robes said, his voice not quite steady.
The Lord Esbre Felmorel nodded curtly. “You have our leave to withdraw. Go not where we cannot summon you in haste, if need be.”
“Lord, it shall be so,” the wizard murmured. He did not—quite—break into a run as he left the chamber, but the eyes of both guards at the door flickered as he passed.
“Nasmaerae?”
Lady Felmorel lifted unhappy eyes to his and said, “This is none of my doing, lord. Prayers to Most Holy Azuth are as close as I come to the Art now. This I swear.”
A large and hairy hand closed over hers. “Be at ease, lady. I cannot forget that hard lesson any more than you can; I know you forget not, and transgress not. I have seen your blood upon the tiles before the altar, and seen you at prayer. You humiliate yourself as only one who truly believes can.”
A smile touched his lips for a moment, and stole away again. “You frighten the men more now than you ever did when you ruled this castle by your sorcery, you know. They say you talk with Azuth every night.”
“Esbre,” his lady whispered, holding her eyes steady upon his despite the blush that had turned her face, throat, and beyond crimson, “I do. And I am more frightened right now than ever I was when Azuth stripped my Art from me before you. All magic is awry, all over the Realms. It will be down to the sharpest sword and the cunning of the wolf once more, and not one of our hired mages will be able to aid us!”
“And what is so bad about trusting only in sharp swords and the strong arms and cunning of warriors?”
“Esbre,” the Lady Nasmaerae whispered, bringing her lips up to brush his—but too slowly for him to miss seeing the bright glimmer of unshed tears welling up in her eyes, “How long can you stand against foe after foe without the spells of our mages to hew them down for you? How many sharp swords and how much cunning does an orc horde have?”
A chiming as of many bells rang out across the chamber. It nearly deafened Elminster, as the chill wind that carried it raced through him, searing him once more into frozen immobility. The ghostly mist that had been Saeraede was spiraling about him, coiling and twining—seemingly unharmed by the beams of fire Azuth had hurled, that roared through her into Elminster.
Ice, then fire—fire that lifted him off his feet in a whirlwind of battling mist and flames and set him down again staggering, too overwhelmed to do more than bleat in wordless pain.
“Here,” Tabarast mumbled, through lips that were white and trembling with fear, “that’s our Elminster you’re smiting, sir—Your, er, Divineness, sir!”
“Break free of her,” the Harper who was Azuth said quietly, his gaze no longer flaming—but now bent on the pain-narrowed eyes of Elminster, “or you are doomed.”
“I’d say you’re doomed anyway,” a sneering voice said from above—and five staves spat in unison, hurling a rending rain of doom down the shaft.
The Overmistress of the Acolytes strode through the black curtain of hanging chains with every inch of the cruel authority that made her so feared among the underclergy. The cruel barbed lash rode upon her shoulder, ready to snap forward at the slightest act or omission that displeased her, and her face beneath the horned black mask wore a smile of cruel anticipation. Even the two guardian Priestesses of the Chamber shrank back from her; she ignored them as she strode on, the metal-shod heels of her thigh-high black boots clicking on the tiles, and shouldered through the three curtains of fabric into the innermost place of the Darklady’s contemplation—the Pool of Shar.
A figure moved in the gloom beyond the pool: a figure in a familiar horned headdress and deep purple mantle. Dread Sister Klalaerla went to her knees immediately, holding forth her lash in both hands.
With leisurely tread the Darklady came around the inky waters and took it from her. The Overmistress immediately bowed forward to kiss the knife-blade toes of the Darklady’s boots, holding her tongue against the cold, bloodstained metal until the lash came down across her own back.
It burned, despite the webwork of crossed lacings that were part of her own garb, but it was a mark of pride not to flinch or gasp; she held firm, waiting for the second blow that would mark her superior’s displeasure, or the rain of cuts that meant Avroana’s fury was aroused.
None came, and with a smooth motion that almost managed to conceal her relief, she straightened to a sitting position once more, for Avroana to put the lash to her lips. She kissed it, received it back, and relaxed. The ritual was satisfied.
“Your Darkness?” she asked, as was the custom.
“Klalaerla,” the Darklady said, almost urgently—her familiarity made the Overmistress stiffen with excitement—“I need you to do something for me. Despite Narlkond’s assurances, those five Dreadspells are going to fail us. You must be the striking hand that rewards them for their misdeeds. If they betray the House of Holy Night, you must bring the justice of the House to them, whatever the danger to yourself. I demand it. The Flame of Darkness herself demands it. Dearest of my believers, will you do this for me?”
“Gladly,” Klalaerla said, and meant it. To travel outside the House once more! To breathe the free winds of Faerûn, out in the open, and see lands spread out before her once more! Oh, Avroana! “Lady most kind,” she said, her voice trembling, “what must I do?”
The noise smote their ears like a blow. Dust curled up, the ground shuddered and heaved beneath their boots, and here and there around the ruins slabs of stone whirled aloft, thrust into the air by geysers of rocketing vapor.
The five Dreadspells exchanged awed, delighted glances, the roaring of their unleashed magic swallowing their shouts of excited approval, and poured down death until Elryn slapped at their arms and waved the scepters in his hands—weapons he’d snatched from his belt after his staff sputtered out.
When he had their attention, the senior Dark Brother aimed the scepters at an angle toward the floor beside the shaft. If their fire burst through into the cavern below, it would burn an angled path reaching to where Elryn’s spying spell had shown him the staggering Chosen, near a throne and a ring or half-ring of runes that could perhaps, just perhaps, be made to explode.
The destruction of a Chosen was, after all, their holy mission. As Femter, Vaelam, and Hrelgrath aimed their staves with undaunted enthusiasm, Elryn stepped back a pace or two and saw Daluth, on the far side of the group, doing the same. They exchanged mirthless smiles. If there was a backlash, someone had to survive to take word to the distant Darklady—or, if it raced along the linkage she used to spy on them all, to see what fate she suffered. Perhaps it would even be one that would let two false wizards go their separate ways in Faerûn, so heavily laden with enchanted items that they could barely stand.
A more prudent time for such moondreams would come later—when they weren’t standing in a haunted ruin near sunset, at the heart of a killing forest emptied of life, with a known Chosen and a madman who thought he was a god and the ghost of a sorceress locked in battle somewhere close by under their feet, hurling spells around and over old and powerful spell runes cut into the stone floor for some old and very important purpose.
The thunder of destructive magic roared on unabated as the junior Dreadspells laughed and exulted in the sheer rush of power under their command. Walls toppled, smashing wardrobes flat, as the floors that supported them melted away and tumbled into an ever-lengthening chasm. Trees all around groaned and creaked as the ground shifted.
Daluth kept his own wands trained straight down, at the self-styled Azuth and his companions. He’d seen the casual waves of a hand that had wrought what it took most arc
hmages long and complicated rituals to achieve. God or avatar or boldly bluffing archmage, whatever it was must be destroyed.
Elryn aimed his scepters to fire through the opened, dust-choked space in the wake of the three staves—which were now, one by one, shuddering to exhaustion, to be tossed aside in favor of Netherese scepters whose blasts were almost as potent. Chosen or not, no lone wizard could stand unscathed in the face of such destruction. Elryn snarled as a scepter crumbled to dust, and snatched forth another to replace it. No, there was no chance at all that a man could survive this. Why, then, was he so uneasy?
The end of the cavern vanished in tumbling stones and the flash and rock spray of spell-wrought explosions. Floor slabs bounced upward as a shock wave rolled through them, toppling the throne. More rocks broke away and fell from the ceiling, bouncing amid the roiling fury there; on his knees, a dazed Elminster watched through pain-blurred eyes as the collapse of the ceiling continued in a rough line heading toward him, chunks of stone larger than he was crashing down or being hurled aside in an endless roaring tide.
Someone or something aloft must be trying to slay him, or destroy the runes … not that he faced any dearth of foes nearer at hand.
Saeraede, who must have lied to him about everything except who put the runes here, was riding him like a mounted knight, her claws around his throat and searing his back with talons of icy iron. He knew before he tried that no amount of rolling or smashing himself into a wall could harm or dislodge her; how can one crush or scrape away a wisp of ghostly mist?
Move he must, though, or be buried or torn apart by the snarling, smoking bolts and beams of magic that were gnawing their way through earth and stone to reach him. El groaned and crawled a little way along heaving stones—until the runes of Karsus erupted into white-hot columns of flame, one by one. As they licked and seared the collapsing ceiling, magic played all around the cavern, purple lightning dancing and strange half-seen shapes and images forming and collapsing and forming again in an endless parade.