Midnight's Mask

by Paul S. Kemp

  It turned and headed for the other ship.

  The panicked screams of the survivors aboard the slaadi’s ship carried over the sea. The kraken cut through the water like a blade. It closed the distance to the slaadi’s ship rapidly. Its body dwarfed the vessel. The screams of the ship’s crew grew louder. Tentacles thicker than the mainmast squirmed over the deck, crushed men to pulp, wrapped the ship from maindeck to keel. Wood splintered, shattered. The masts toppled. The ship buckled. The creature pulled all of it underwater and fed on what it wished.

  The slaughter had taken less than a five count. There was no sign of the slaadi’s ship. The kraken swam a tight circle and started for Demon Binder.

  The crew shouted in alarm, and alarm quickly turned to panic. Evrel shouted orders but no one heeded. Some stared at the onrushing mountain, some screamed, some milled about, looking for something, anything, that might allow them to be spared.

  Magadon stared not at the kraken but at the Source, sticking out of the creature’s head. It was still pouring mental energy into him. Magadon knew what he had to do. He knew it might kill him.

  The kraken was closing. Several of the crew screamed defiance at the sea, shook their fists at the beast; others wrapped their arms around their bodies, fell to the deck, and awaited death.

  Awaken, Magadon said, and used the power granted him by the dreaming Source as a prod to spur the sentience of the crystal awake.

  The kraken was two bowshots distant. One.

  Awaken!

  The Source stirred to wakefulness. The crystal in the kraken’s head flared blazing red, a pulse of power and light so bright it seemed for a moment as though a crimson sun had dawned over the sea.

  Magadon screamed; the kraken shrieked; the crew wailed.

  The awakened Source sent a call into the sky, along the Weave, so powerful that Magadon knew it could be sensed across Faerûn. It spoke only a short phrase, in a language—ancient Netherese—that Magadon had learned only moments before.

  I am here, it projected. Help me.

  Magadon did not know to whom it was speaking—perhaps it had called to no one—and he had no time to consider the implications.

  The surge of power emitted from the awakened, fully-conscious Source knocked Magadon to his knees. He lowered his mental defenses and took into his mind everything the Source offered. New mental pathways opened; understanding dawned; realizations struck him, revelations. He grabbed his head and held it, fearful it would fly apart. Sounds were coming from his mouth—gibberish—but he could not stop them. In those few moments he learned more of the Invisible Art, more of himself, than he had learned from a lifetime of study.

  But he needed more.

  Give it all to me, he projected to the Source, and was astounded at the power contained in his mental voice.

  The Source answered.

  The power that filled Magadon doubled that which he previously had received. His mind felt aflame. He felt his veins straining. Dagger stabs of pain wracked his skull. Blood gushed from his nose, his ears. His vision went blurry. He forced himself to hold onto consciousness. Despite the pain, he let the power come until the Source had given him everything it had.

  The Source dimmed while Magadon glowed with the power contained in his mind. He was soaked in blood, snot, saliva. He did not care. He roared and his voice boomed over the water. The crew turned from the kraken to face him. Their wide eyes showed fear, wonder. Evrel shouted but Magadon could not hear him. He heard only a keening in his ears, punctuated by the drumbeat of his heart. In that instant, he knew that his mental abilities exceeded even those of the Sojourner.

  Behind the crew, he saw the mountain of flesh closing on Demon Binder, saw the glowing facets of the Source coming closer.

  Magadon looked inward and found his mental focus. It brought him calm. He reached out with his mind in a way he had never before done. As his consciousness expanded, he saw the fluidity of reality, the uncertainty of outcomes, the interconnections not between events but between possible events. He knew he could affect those possibilities; he knew he could make the improbable—even the highly improbable—reality.

  At his command, reality conformed to his will. At the bow of Demon Binder, a glowing, golden vertical line appeared. It expanded rapidly in width and height until it formed an oval larger than the ship. The glow wavered, steadied, and an image appeared—a shoreline, the lantern light from a city, a thicket of masts and ships.

  Selgaunt Bay. The crew stirred, ran for the bow as if to jump off the ship and into the bay.

  Magadon exerted his will and pulled the portal toward Demon Binder.

  A golden glow suffused ship and crew as they entered the portal. The kraken’s shriek of rage chased them through. A tentacle struck the ship just before the magic took hold and sent it careening forward. The crew fell to the deck, shouting in alarm.

  In a blink, Demon Binder floated peacefully on the still waters of Selgaunt Bay. Magadon, wobbly, sealed the portal behind them.

  Cut off from the Source, he felt bereft. Knowledge and power flowed out of him, as ephemeral as the memory of dreams. He held on to what he could, but it was disappointingly little.

  The crew rose to their feet and looked around with dazed expressions. One cheered, another, another. Soon the whole crew was shouting, singing, thumping each other on the back.

  Smiling faces turned to Magadon and lost their mirth. Magadon touched a hand to his face. It came away bloody. His vision blurred and he fell.

  CHAPTER 14

  THE SPELL

  The surge of power from the planted Weave Tap seed caused the tower to shake under Vhostym’s feet. His sons had done it! They had planted the second seed of the Weave Tap in Sakkors’s mantle.

  A charge went through Vhostym’s frail body, a wave of exultation that would have caused him to leap for joy had his body not been so broken. He controlled his emotions only with difficulty.

  Soon he would have the Crown of Flame.

  Vhostym had been young when he and his father first had walked in the shadow of the Crown. Vhostym had been stronger then, not as sensitive to light. He still remembered the smell of the wind off the water, the feel of the air on his skin, the sounds of the surface heard through his own ears. He recalled the moments with fondness. The light had burned his skin but he had endured; his father had made him endure. Father had intended to harden Vhostym to pain, and to excite his ambition by showing him the possibility of a life on the surface, under the sun.

  Father had taught the lesson well.

  Vhostym had come to believe that nothing was unattainable, not for him, and he was about to prove it. He could track the course of his life back to those moments shared with his father under the Crown of Flame. In a sense, he had been born that day on the surface. He could trace all the accomplishments of his life back to that single event.

  It was fitting, then, that he would end his life with the same event. He would create a Crown of Flame, tame it not only for a few moments but for an entire day, and walk in its shadow before he died.

  He thought of his sons and reached out his mental consciousness for them. He linked with Azriim and Dolgan immediately. He saw through their eyes a dark city street. They were in Selgaunt, and both were restless.

  He allowed Azriim to sense the contact.

  Sojourner, his son said. We wish what we were promised.

  Soon, Vhostym answered. It would be dangerous for you to return here now. Wait where you are. I will contact you after I have completed my task. All of this will be finished soon.

  He sensed Azriim’s perturbation, Dolgan’s disappointment, the human’s … ambivalence.

  He reassured his sons. You will have what you were promised. I will keep my word. I will leave here what you require for your transformations.

  Leave it for us? Azriim asked. You will not be there?

  Vhostym heard no concern in Azriim’s mental voice, merely curiosity. He had taught his sons well. Sentimentality was a shack
le with which the weak yoked the strong.

  Yes, leave it for you, Vhostym affirmed. We will not see each other again.

  His sons fell silent. The words surprised them.

  I will contact you not long after dawn, Vhostym said. Remember that what you see this day is my doing.

  He cut off the connection before they could trouble him with further questions. He had preparations to make.

  “What now?” Dolgan asked. Sea water soaked the street at the big slaad’s feet.

  Azriim and Dolgan had assumed their preferred half-drow and human forms, and Riven had returned to his natural form. The three stood on a narrow street in Selgaunt. All were soaking wet and the human’s lips were blue. No doubt he was cold from the night’s chill.

  Dawn was still an hour or two away and only dung-sweepers populated the otherwise deserted streets.

  “We wait,” Azriim said. He looked down at his filthy, torn, water-stained clothing. “And as soon as the shops open, I buy some new attire.”

  Cale and Jak materialized in the darkness of one of Selgaunt’s countless alleys. Cale recognized the location—not far from Temple Avenue. Their sudden appearance startled several cats and the felines screeched and fled. The sound reminded Cale of the kraken’s shriek. He put it out of his mind. They were safe now.

  For a time, they simply caught their breath. Water dripped from their clothes and bodies. Jak bore a scratch on his face from Dolgan, as well as several deep gashes from troll claws on his midsection. Cale’s flesh had healed his wounds. The little man took out his holy symbol, called on Brandobaris, and spoke a spell of healing. His wounds closed entirely.

  “What about Magadon?” Jak asked, as he wrung out his shirt. They had left their cloaks and almost all of their other clothing on Demon Binder.

  Cale shook his head, removed his own shirt, and wrung it out. The night air would have chilled him had his warming spell not still been in effect.

  “I think he got Demon Binder clear,” Cale said to Jak, hoping that by saying it he might make it true. “I did not see the ship when we surfaced. Did you?” “No time to look. But … wouldn’t Mags contact us if he could?”

  Cale had been thinking the same thing but did not say so to Jak. Instead, he said, “He has only so much mental strength, little man. Could be that. I can scry for the ship, see if they’re all right.”

  Jak brightened at that. “Right now? Here?”

  “No. Midnight next.”

  The scrying spell took preparation and Cale could not be ready until then.

  Jak deflated a bit but nodded. He mumbled to himself, fished in one of his three belt pouches until he found his pipe.

  “Did it stay dry?” Cale asked.

  “Dry enough,” Jak murmured, and searched another pouch for his pipeweed. “I have never seen anything as big as that kraken, Cale. Never.”

  “Me either,” Cale said softly.

  Jak removed a small leather pouch tied with a drawstring and pried it open. Cale caught the aroma of the weed.

  Jak pulled out a pinch and held it up. “Dry as a fallen leaf. Now that’s a pouch worth its price.”

  Cale saw that Jak’s hands were shaking, and not from the chill. Cale pretended not to notice. It had been a close call with the kraken, and Cale had been close to panic himself.

  The little man managed his emotion by humming while he pressed the pinch of pipeweed into the bowl of his pipe. He searched his pouches for a tindertwig and found several—all of them ruined by sea water. The humming stopped.

  “Where am I going to get tindertwigs two hours before dawn?”

  “You’re not,” Cale said.

  “No, I’m not,” Jak said, and Cale saw tears in his eyes. Exhaustion and emotion were taking their toll.

  Again, Cale pretended not to notice.

  Jak recovered himself with a deep breath. He popped the pipe in his mouth and chewed its end.

  “What do we do now?” the little man asked.

  “We wait,” Cale answered gently. “And relax while we can.”

  “That sounds about right. The Murky Depths, maybe?”

  Cale grinned and shook his head. “I’ve seen enough of the depths to last a good while, little man. We’ll find something else dockside.”

  Jak nodded and they set off.

  Cale put his hand on Jak’s shoulder as they walked the quiet, predawn streets of the city in which they had met, just as they had done countless times before, and just as they would countless times after.

  “This is almost over, little man,” Cale said.

  Jak looked at him sidelong, nodded, and said nothing.

  Cale did not tell Jak that he thought this reprieve to be the deep breath before the plunge. They still had to find the slaadi and the Sojourner and kill them all.

  They could not find an inn that would open its doors, so they wandered onto Temple Avenue. It was deserted, except for the cranks who slept on the benches. The starlings nesting in the Hulorn’s statuary rustled at their passing. The wind stirred the leaves of the dwarf maples.

  “Let’s sit down a minute, eh?” Jak suggested.

  Cale agreed and they sat on two unoccupied benches overlooking a still pool, across from the shrine of Tymora. Cale smiled, thinking that they must have looked a bit like cranks themselves. Sighing, he stretched out on the bench. Jak did the same on the other.

  Through the maple leaves, Cale saw the stars shining down. He kept his gaze away from the Sanctum of the Scroll, though he felt it lurking there in the darkness, whispering Sephris’s dire prophecies at him. He did his best to put them from his mind.

  Exhaustion settled on both of them quickly. They did not speak and both lay looking up at the sky, alone with their thoughts. Within moments, Cale heard Jak snoring. He smiled and drifted off to sleep himself.

  He dreamed of Magadon and tentacles and a foaming sea.

  Vhostym spoke the words that allowed him to pass through the warded doors that led into the sanctum. He opened the doors with his mind and floated through. They closed behind him.

  He felt calm, and his self control pleased him.

  The Weave Tap stood in the center of the room, its golden leaves charged with the stored power of two Netherese mantles, possibly more magical power than ever had been assembled in a single place.

  It would be enough, he thought. He would poke a hole in the sun and take a day, a single day, and make it his.

  He floated forward, under the sparking canopy of the Weave Tap, and touched its silvery bark with his hand. It was warm, almost hot with the power it contained. He looked at the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Lines of arcane power veined the stone.

  Everything was ready.

  He found a suitable spot between the Tap’s exposed roots and lowered himself to the floor. He crossed his legs, ignoring the pain the movement caused him, and closed his eyes.

  Formulae moved through his mind, numbers, equations, variables, all of them designed to anticipate the movements of the bodies in the heavens. He moved through each one methodically, checking and rechecking the calculations. They were critical to his spell. Throughout the day, the magic would have to adjust continually to account for the movement of Toril, to keep the Crown of Flame intact over his island.

  He was prepared.

  With a slight mental exertion, he opened a channel between his body and the Weave Tap. Arcane energy flowed into him, powered him, the feeling more delightful than even the pleasures of the flesh he had enjoyed in his youth. He let the power gather in him. It built slowly but inexorably. As he drew from the artifact, the Weave Tap continued to draw power from the mantles of Skullport and Sakkors, replenishing the power that Vhostym took.

  Vhostym inhaled and began his spell. Magical syllables fell from his lips in a complex incantation. His hands traced a precise, intricate path through the air before him. His fingers left a silver glow in their wake. He wove the mathematical formulae into the incantation. Vhostym accounted for the speed of Toril’s sp
in, its precession on its axis, the speed of its revolution about the sun, the size of Selüne’s tear, the necessary distance that he needed to move it, the power he would need to hold it there, a host of other factors. The equations grew increasingly complex.

  Vhostym kept focused and worked the equations into his spell. His fingers and hands became a blur. For a time, a short blissful time, he was lost in the casting and felt no pain in his body.

  He worked for over an hour, all of it preparatory to the spell’s finale. His voice grew hoarse and still he recited the arcane words. Sweat dripped from his body.

  When he finished the preparatory casting, he found himself sitting in the middle of a cyclone of magical energy. The formulae he had spoken were a storm of glowing, silver characters whirling about his person. They wanted only their purpose.

  Vhostym gave it to them.

  He drew everything from the Weave Tap that it could give. His body glowed with contained power. The numbers and equations whirled around him so fast they formed a silver wall.

  He put his palms flat on the floor of the tower and let the magic flow through him and into the stone. The silver wall of numbers swirled through the tops of his hands and into the tower.

  The entire structure shuddered. A glow in the stone started at his palms and rapidly spread to the rest of the sanctum, to the rest of the tower. The structure amplified the magical power Vhostym channeled into it until the spire itself radiated with power. Numbers and equations raced along the walls, glowing silver.

  Vhostym pictured in his mind the largest of Selüne’s tears, a perfect sphere of rock roughly fifty leagues in diameter, almost exactly a twentieth of Selüne. Vhostym needed to bring the tear closer, such that its distance from Toril was a twentieth that of Selüne’s distance. He would have preferred using Selüne itself, but not even his empowered magic could control a celestial body that large.