Spellstorm

by Ed Greenwood

  What she did was turn her rage and rising dismay on Elminster.

  “Stop these childish pranks, Aumar! You demean yourself by such exhibitions!”

  El gave her a raised eyebrow. “Oh? Which particular childish pranks?”

  “The—this playing at being a ghost!”

  “Yet I’m not, Calath, as it happens. And thy accusation is a bit much, coming from a woman old enough to know better, who nonetheless is fresh from playing at casting a spell! Surely a Runemaster can manage a mere dispelling!”

  Calathlarra went white with fury, and lashed out at Elminster this time, with a breathtaking disregard for etiquette—or prudence, considering the deadly mastery of the Art commanded by those at the table, many of whom were seated near the Sage of Shadowdale. Some of them hissed out swift mantlings and wardings … only to falter and look taken aback.

  The failure of magic—and powerful, brutal spells, at that—to do much of anything at all was apparent to everyone in the room.

  A frowning Skouloun of Nimbral spread his hands and then carefully worked a novice’s cantrip with exacting care and frowning concentration.

  And nothing at all happened.

  The Elder’s face froze, and he turned and snapped at Yusendre, “We must away from this place! Safety here, there is none, and …”

  He acquired a frown, deep and dark, as his gaze went to Elminster. “No, it’s you, you snake! You’re our jailer, here in this prison! Wh—”

  “Prison?” El asked. “How exactly are ye imprisoned, Elder of Nimbral? I’m retired from the archmage business, remember? I now live and work here, whereas ye invited thyself inside these halls. I haven’t worked a spell on ye—on anyone here—since thy arrival.”

  “You know what I mean! We all saw the Thayan’s fate!”

  “Yet thine own spells brought ye here, and I bid ye up and leave if ye desire to! So what, pray tell, saith ‘jailer’ to ye, in that?”

  Yusendre of Nimbral sighed. “So magic truly is … ineffective, here in Oldspires.”

  “For now,” Manshoon put in.

  “Now is all that matters,” Malchor Harpell observed, “for if anyone has come to trust overmuch in the strength of their Art, ‘now’ is all that may be left to them.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Calathlarra snapped.

  The patriarch of the Harpells gave her a gentle smile that did not reach his eyes. “Oh, I do, Runemaster.”

  That was all he said and quietly, too, yet it held sufficient sting of reproof to make the Twisted Rune mage darken and hiss anger at him as she sat back. And said not another word.

  As a sudden silence fell over the table, that lone, lit candle flying upright through the air was soaring serenely back to its perch in one of the maerifasturs. Everyone watched it settle itself gently back into place.

  And then, almost mockingly, wink out.

  As Lord Halaunt came slowly back into the room, resumed his seat, and seemed to slump instantly into slumber.

  Maraunth Torr looked at the old noble, and then at Elminster. “So, is yon candle’s flight your doing? I’m genuinely curious.”

  “No,” El replied gravely. “It’s not. Mystra be my witness and smite me if I speak falsely: I had nothing to do with what you just saw that candle do.”

  As he spoke, a chair that had been gliding across the floor from the row of seats along the walls came to a sudden stop—and yet another chair began to move. The green flames in the fireplace were silently fading back to more normal fiery hues.

  Nicely done, El thought in Alusair’s direction, without looking at her, but don’t overdo it, now. There was a time to prod the sleeping dragon, and a time to soothe and placate …

  “As I recall,” Alastra Hathwinter said softly, “this house is said to be haunted. The chairs that move by themselves, the candles … all that’s missing, if I remember all the legends rightly, is the chalice.”

  The table waited, but she said no more.

  “The chalice?” Tabra finally asked.

  “The chalice,” the Harper replied. “I’m waiting to see if—ahhh.”

  She sounded more satisfied than apprehensive, and everyone at the table turned to see where she was looking. In time to see a large old ornate metal chalice sail into view, moving through the air at about chest height for an adult man—upside down.

  “I didn’t want to say it’s always seen flying around inverted,” Alastra explained, “in case all of this is some spell-mischief worked by one of us here, and I could discover as much. You see, the scribe who wrote the definitive book on hauntings and legends of Cormyr omitted that important de—”

  “Stop, woman!” Skouloun of Nimbral bellowed, upsetting his chair as he shot to his feet to lunge forward across the table, reaching for—

  Calathlarra of the Twisted Rune. She snarled at him in frightened hatred, arms spread. The gems adorning the rings she wore on both middle fingers were swung outward like tiny doors, to reveal storage spaces beneath, and a few last grains of powder were still spilling from one of them. She’d obviously seized the distraction of everyone gazing at the chalice to empty something into the drinks of both Yusendre, seated on one side of her, and Manshoon, on the other.

  Tabra was on her feet and on the move. “Elder of Nimbral,” she snapped at Skouloun, “you’re spilling drinks! No need to grapple with this foulness; we’ve all seen what she did!”

  Mirt, who’d launched himself into a lumbering run from the kitchen door at the far end of the room, slowed with a relieved wheeze, and the half-risen Elminster subsided back into his seat. So, visibly furious and red-faced, did Skouloun.

  Calathlarra tried to rise—but Tabra’s hands were on her shoulders, and held her in place like unyielding manacles.

  “Stay,” Tabra hissed, “and face your perfidy. For once.”

  And that was when Manshoon smiled, picked up his goblet, sniffed at its contents appreciatively—and drank deeply.

  There was an intake of breath from several throats, a rising chorus of apprehension. Into which the darkly handsome founder of the Zhentarim turned, his smile growing wider and more wry, and announced sardonically, “Ah, yes, maruskaereg. Dry and nutty; unmistakable. One of my favorites. Swiftly fatal, if one hasn’t happened to sample increasing doses of it for some years, so one can safely drink with those one intends to slay. I’m practically immune to it now.”

  “Maruskaereg!” Yusendre spat, white to her lips. “You could have slain us all!” She tried to draw back from Calathlarra, seated so close beside her, but her chair would only let her shrink back so much, and no more.

  Calathlarra hissed fury at her and tried to lunge at the Nimbran—but Tabra’s grip remained unbroken, and the Runemaster could only tremble and quiver as she tried to struggle free.

  “Should we expect much more of this sort of thing?” Maraunth Torr inquired, almost pettishly. “It’s not going to make for much in the way of trust, now, is it?”

  By way of reply, Skouloun of Nimbral turned to face him, raised a reproving finger, reeled for a moment in his seat, quite gray in the face—and pitched forward, nose first into his emptied plate, his forehead upsetting several goblets across the table.

  “Poison, poison,” Manshoon murmured mockingly, quoting a popular old play. “Oceans of poison …”

  “So,” Shaaan snarled at Calathlarra, “you’ve claimed your first victim! Murderess!”

  The Runemaster gaped back at her.

  Looking, Elminster couldn’t help but notice, astonished.

  CHAPTER 8

  A Surprising Evening

  I—I—I DID NOT,” CALATHLARRA STAMMERED, SURPRISE GIVING WAY TO fury and fear, “have anything to do with … that man.” Her arms firmly held by Tabra in a shoulder grip El recognized as one that would pinch nerves and leave the Runemaster’s limbs burningly numb, she moved the only bit of her she could—and gestured with her head in Skouloun’s direction.

  At about the same time, Mirt reached the facedown Nimbran and pluck
ed him back up to a sitting position. The Elder’s head lolled; slack-jawed and unseeingly staring. Eerily, his eyes gazed at separate nothings, the left orb peering up and the right one glancing down.

  Definitely not maruskaereg, El thought to himself. Rymmthan? Ortolella? And then he told himself firmly: Later. There were many, many poisons it could be.

  Just now, he had another murder—well, “another” if Skouloun was dead, and he certainly looked it—to prevent. The faces around the table wore ugly expressions as they glared at the Runemaster.

  Not that she’d be much loss to the greater good of Toril, but Mystra had ordered him to try for accord, and—

  “This is not,” Lord Halaunt said severely, scowling down the table—for Alusair liked Calathlarra and Shaaan, of this assembly, least of all—“the behavior I expect of my guests. Even outlanders … and even powerful mages. Poisoning someone at my table? ’Tis not done, woman! Now, what shall we do with you?”

  “Kill her,” Maraunth Torr drawled at the backs of his fingernails. Then, becoming aware of a stiffening tension up and down the table, he looked up and amended, “Execute her, if you prefer.”

  “And how does another death profit us?” Malchor murmured.

  “By preventing her from ever trying anything like that to any of the rest of us,” Shaaan snapped. “Simpleton.”

  Malchor merely looked back at her in expressionless calm.

  “Justice,” Yusendre said heavily, “she must face. Now or later.”

  Calathlarra glared around at them all, fear bright in her eyes, and said nothing.

  “Now, if this were my manor,” Manshoon observed, nodding gravely to Lord Halaunt, “I’d give the Runemaster the choice of being forced out into the spellstorm right now—and taking her chances—or agreeing to be locked into a bedchamber for now, to face justice later.” He raised his eyes and gave Elminster a look that was a clear challenge, but El nodded and said, “Losing her mind now, or answering for her deeds. Seems fair enough.”

  “I did not do anything to him!” Calathlarra protested. Mirt peered around Skouloun’s head to survey the vacant face with its misaimed eyes, and then looked at her, in meaningful silence.

  “I did not!” she cried.

  “Your choice,” Malchor said gently, “stands.”

  Calathlarra glared wildly around from face to face, then turned her head as swiftly as any striking snake and sought to bite one of Tabra’s restraining hands. That earned her a slap across the face from Yusendre, so hard and furious that the echo of the smack rebounded off a far wall at about the same time as the Runemaster’s head snapped back.

  “I hate you all!” the woman of the Twisted Rune hissed, her eyes now aflame.

  “Really? Yet you hide it so well,” Manshoon purred. “Your choice stands.”

  “Mindlessness or incarceration; a clear choice,” Maraunth Torr observed. “Yes, Runemaster, it stands.”

  “So say we all,” Yusendre agreed.

  Calathlarra looked from face to face, teeth bared, then spat, “The room, then! I would prefer to face the consequences of something I did rather than something I had nothing whatsoever to do with, but—”

  “You will,” Yusendre said grimly. “Oh, you will.”

  “THE GARDEROBE,” SHE’D made Lord Halaunt growl, as he departed the feast hall for the last time that evening. Alusair sighed. This deceiving business was a lot of work.

  And hauling around his lordship’s body, overweight and out of shape and with a bad back and worse knees, was even more work. Like wearing full sacks of grain strapped to her arms and legs while trying to move normally. Not that just being her ghostly self was much better. Lifting and wielding objects required intense, tiring concentration that sapped her strength in a hurry—living things more than nonliving, and large and heavy items far more than small and light. Just shoving someone, or swinging a sword not of her own spectral blades left her kitten-weak for a time, though she could chill someone by rushing past them like a wind all day long.

  Right now, she was exhausted.

  And pondering a worrisome thought: If murders were taking place where she was flying around being a ghost, did that make the victims more likely to rise as undead?

  Not that the Elder of Nimbral was dead yet.

  Yet.

  The Twisted Rune bitch had subsided into grim silence as she was hustled to a bedchamber and firmly locked in.

  The stricken Skouloun of Nimbral had been given the best herbal antidotes Elminster and Mirt could think of and plunder the pantry for, but looked none the better for it. He was alive, but not much more—still senseless, still gray-faced, eyes still seeing wildly different nothings. El and Mirt had left him in Myrmeen Lhal’s care, in another of the bedchambers.

  With Halaunt safely bundled into a garderobe and locked in, Alusair had flown as fast as she could while still keeping invisible—she could become invisible to most creatures, so long as she didn’t rush too swiftly or squeeze herself too far out of the shape and volume her living body had commanded—to the kitchens, to make sure no one stole in to try to mess with the food while Mirt and Myrmeen were absent.

  The Serpent Queen, for one. All that sudden outrage over someone else’s attempted poisoning of others. Probably because she thought that if anyone was going to deal death by poison, it should be her.

  Alusair shook the head she no longer had—she was still finding lifelong habits hard to lose—and sighed again. She’d peered at Shaaan’s fingernails, and was sure every last sharpened one of them had been tipped with something deadly.

  Gods, but she was tired. She could still see, and think, just as when still alive. And fly around, and squeeze through keyholes, and move in utter silence. She didn’t know enough about magic, even after all the years of dealing with Vangey—hmm, perhaps because of having to deal with Vangey, and his love of secrets—to know if any of these wizards could do the same, with big showy spells that might go wrong here in Oldspires, or by little things they could do inwardly, and might well get away with.

  Even when being an invisible, flying ghost, she couldn’t see in all directions or hear at a distance or read thoughts when she mindtouched—but could they?

  How exactly did you foil a wizard, when you didn’t know what they could or couldn’t do?

  She knew there were different ghosts, but just which sort she was, and all the details of what she could and couldn’t do—these were things she’d never had the chance to discuss in detail with anyone she trusted enough to share all about the ghost princess she now was. Her vulnerabilities, in particular.

  Yet she was still here, still part of the Cormyr she loved so much, here beyond death when her mother was but a fleeting warm and silent comforting presence she found on rare occasions in certain corners of the palace, and her father was gone entirely.

  Sometimes, she wondered why.

  Usually, however, she was too blamed busy for wondering. Right now, for instance, as she swooped into the kitchen at last and took up a post swirling invisibly in a corner of the kitchen behind the gentle wisps of steam rising from three simmering pots. A trio that Myrmeen had just told Mirt would run out of fuel and cool down before they boiled dry and their bottoms got burned out.

  So here she was, silent, invisible, and standing sentinel against a poisoner who might, after all, be anyone among the guests.

  The Runemaster had undoubtedly tried to eliminate her adjacent table-mates, Yusendre and Manshoon, but had looked genuinely taken aback when accused of felling Skouloun. Alusair was there not to grapple with any intruder, or try to frighten them by confronting them as a furious, admonishing apparition, but rather to see what they did, and warn El and Mirt and Myrmeen about it.

  They all believed there was more than one serpent loose in Oldspires now, and Mystra’s hope of prudence and cooperation was a forlorn, thin, and tattered thing … but this crazed experiment had to be tried, and if it succeeded, might well bring a glorious payoff for battered Toril. If even two or t
hree of these archmages fell into friendship, and saw the benefits of working togeth—

  A door opened softly and cautiously, and its opener came through it in the same manner, slipping inside the kitchen like a spy.

  It was Shaaan the Serpent Queen, sinuously stealthy and sly, her usual cold hauteur set aside. Coming into the room by the back way, from the great entry hall.

  Well, well. The most dangerous poisoner of them all, by far, come to tamper …

  But no. Shaaan peered unblinking into this, and slunk to where she could see into that, swiftly and deftly prying into the simmering pots, other pots set ready, and decanters and jars all around the kitchen.

  What she did not do was add anything to their contents.

  And when Alusair made a small jar of spice paste, which Shaaan had just replaced the lid of, slide across the counter, seemingly by itself, the Serpent Queen shrank back in a hurry and made for the door she’d come in by, never turning her back on the room.

  Alusair watched her feel behind herself for the handle, then let herself out, all in unbroken deft silence.

  A bare breath before the main kitchen door—the wide one that opened into the feast hall—swung open with rather less stealth, and the wheezing, floppy-booted bulk that was unmistakably Mirt the Moneylender lurched into the kitchen.

  He saw the jar of paste out of place in an instant, and firmly closed the door behind himself ere rumbling, “Princess lass? You there?”

  “I am,” Alusair whispered nigh his ear, as softly as any lover, just to see him jump.

  He robbed her of that satisfaction; all he did was flinch, just for an instant, ere growling, “You enjoyed that, didn’t you?” He wagged a finger at the jar. “Well? Mreen never leaves things that forrard on a countertop. You, or—?”

  “Shaaan, the Serpent Queen. Came, poked into everything, but introduced no poison that I saw—and took care not to put a finger into anything, or breathe into anything, either; if she was doing more than looking, she certainly fooled me.”