by Ed Greenwood
In Waterdeep, an apprentice's prank involving a dog charmed to fetch and carry pretty passing girls in to meet the lonely caster went wrong. Everyone the dog touched was transformed into another creature-serpent or rooster or centipede, When one became a hissing wyvern, the dog fled in terror. Nearby mages, alerted to the clanger, cast spells to slay the monster. The enchantments instead brought down a rain of fire from the sky, turned gray stone buildings pink and translucent (mightily pleasing the owner of one, for it was a high-class brothel), and caused the street to be riddled with holes. The wyvern escaped, flying to the top of Mount Waterdeep. There, Khelben Blackstaffs spells restored it to its former shape: that of a terrified noble lady. Even his Art, though, twisted awry. Instead of clothes, the hysterical lady was covered with feathers of a vivid blue.
In Calimport, two female slaves with barbed whips dueled to the death for the amusement of their cruel sultan owners-and to settle a bet. Both weakened, panting and staggering, sweat beading their oiled bodies like clusters of gems. A watching wizard decided to aid his master's slave with a secretive spell. His furtive Art, designed to make her a shade faster, instead transformed her into a raging red dragon. In a trice, she devoured or smashed flat the sultans, the unfortunate wizard, and many of their servants. She then beckoned the other slave onto her back, and they flew away, northeast, toward the Marching Mountains.
All across the Realms, magic was going wild. Even in the High Dale, amid the chaos of weakening magic, fateful changes came. Perhaps the gods willed it, perhaps it was the deliberate work of Mystra… or perhaps it was mere chance. Heladar Longspear never had time to find out.
Heladar longspear? What care i for human warriors in the pigsty kingdoms of toril? For that matter, what cared mystara for him?
She was-is-a goddess. She cared. If ye cannot see the need to care for and nurture what ye rule, ye can never hope to be more than an outcast or a conqueror, Nergal. Never a ruler. Never for more time than it takes whatever world or plane that's beneath ye to find some way to be rid of ye.
Lecture me not, puling human! [brutal mental bolt] i think not!
[pain; gasping, helpless, twisting servant to the pain]
How crow you now, elminster? Is clever sneering still your tone?
Show me the next memory mystra gave to you. No tricks, no delay. Give it. Now. [dark glare]
A dark head, glaring…
A dark, floating sphere amid racing shadows…
Shadows falling away before torchlight, and old stone vaulting, and a room that had need of neither…
Khelben sighed and sat back from the crystal ball. It was three times the size of his head, glossy-smooth, and as dark and lifeless as death. There came an answering, feminine sigh.
Around them, the dome of the spell chamber winked and sparkled with stars-as it always did, no matter what the time of day or weather outside Blackstaff Tower.
He shook his head slowly, staring again at the empty crystal ball. "Nothing."
Laeral laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Easy, my lord. The fault is not yours. Magic seems to have gone rogue everywhere in the Realms."
Khelben Arunsun rose to pace the chamber. "It's not that, love. My Art held, I believe. I reached Lhaeo, the Old Mage's scribe, but Lhaeo knows not where Elminster may be."
Khelben shrugged. "He suspects-hopes-that a lady: ranger of the Knights of Myth Drannor accompanies the Old Mage: one Sharantyr. Her I cannot reach, and in truth I barely remember her. We've met only a time or two, and always with many others in her company, whom I know much better."
Laeral glided up behind him and stroked his shoulders. "I expected no better result than this, and I'll be very surprised if you tell me in truth that you did. We can only keep trying and hope."
She gravely studied the man who was her lord, love, and master. "You are troubled more deeply, Lord-there is something more. I would know it, if you will."
Khelben turned and took her in his arms, unsmiling. Behind him, a star fell across the dark, unending void of the chamber. "I have tried to reach Azuth and the Lady, both. I have felt them. They are here, in the Realms, with us. Azuth's power bums but dimly, a mere glow where once there was a fire, and I cannot reach him. His Art has waned as he uses it; he is helping lesser beings as he always has-and will do so, I fear, until he is but a whisper and a memory."
Laeral turned her dark, beautiful eyes up to his. "Yet that is not what really troubles you. Is it the Lady?"
Khelben met her gaze and nodded grimly. "She is a captive. Magic imprisons her and drinks of her power- magic such as I have never felt before and do not yet understand."
Laeral stared at him in horror. "Who in all Faerun has the power to hold Great Mystra captive?"
Khelben smiled bitterly. "Why, another god, of course."
So, you give me more of your friends worried about your absence. How touching. Well, then, clever wizard: give me another of mystra's memories, wherein we see some of these friends of yours trying to work magic to find you. Then, perhaps, we'll get somewhere in this sword play of crossed and clashing remembrances that amuses you so….
As ye wish.
Mock me not, wizard! [mental slap]
I never mock, devil, [mental slap returned]
[pain; astonishment] you dare?
No, Lord Nergal. But Mystra does.
[confusion… fear] she's aware, with you… Within you?
Not now. But she can be, if ye disturb the right-excuse me, the wrong-memory. Then she will come, and all thy work will be undone.
[fear, anger] no. She can have no power over me here. Devils rule in hell.
Of course. Nice throne, by the way.
[red fires of anger] so you never mock, little man?
Never. Try to remember that.
[dark glare] unfold the memory, elminster aumar.
"The gods alone know where they are, by now," Storm said quietly. "I think Elminster wandered westward-but he could have passed through any of a dozen secret gates. With a single step he could have reached the other side of Faerun… or even another plane."
"A cheery thought," Shaerl observed sardonically. "Shall I tell Mourngrym to revise dale defenses to include a dozen unknown, invisible, but all-too-exposed gates that invading armies can rush through?"
"Easy, wench," Jhessail told her, patting her hand. "Have some more firequench." She pushed the decanter of ruby-red liqueur across the table. Illistyl made a silent grab for it as it moved away from her and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Jhessail. She returned it, with interest.
"Ladies, ladies," Storm sighed, shifting her feet down from atop the table. "Must we spit and snarl like rival kittens?"
Illistyl shrugged. "It's what we've always done before," she observed with impish serenity.
Shaerl giggled. A breath later, others joined her. The Lady of Shadowdale had brought the two sorceresses to Storm's farmhouse late, after most of the men in the Twisted Tower-including her man, Lord Mourngrym- were abed. Afternoon was a more usual time for these tongue-wag sessions, but they'd all been too restless to sleep and had met by chance, padding barefoot around the tower in their nightcloaks.
Storm Silverhand had also been awake when they'd come calling. As they approached, the three had heard her talking softly to someone, but when they'd gone through her open door, she'd been alone, a lute idle across her lap.
They'd sung a song or two, tossed around gossip of the dale's doings, and come at last to Elminster's sudden absence.
Illistyl had been surprised to see unshed tears standing in Storm's eyes. The lady bard had said little and continued to do so-but her sadness lay like a shadow in the room, enfolding them all. Illistyl felt it as keenly as any other but could think of no kind way to shake it away. Her gaze flicked down the table to find Storm's knowing eyes upon her.
Illistyl burst out, "Storm, what's wrong? I'd like to help, but I don't even know just-"
She broke off, startled, as a bat as large and black as a clo
ak flapped heavily in through the open doorway, circled low over the table, and writhed in the air in front of the fireplace. An instant later, it had become a tall, gaunt woman in a black, tattered gown. Her hair and eyes both danced wildly, and a fierce pride leaped in her face as she glided toward them.
"Sister!" Storm greeted her with a welcoming smile. "Will you take some firequench with us?"
The Simbul shivered like a cat after a fright. "Later," she said, taking a seat at the table. "After I try to learn what we both want to know."
"All of us, here," Storm replied quietly. "I've sent two wood men out after them, too. Two who harp." Across the room, the strings of her harp seemed to sing faintly.
The Simbul looked around at them all, not smiling, nodded to each, and without pause bent her head and began whispering words of Art.
A heavy tension grew in the room. The candle flames shrank to steady, watching pinpoints. The Simbul sat at the center of the gathered power, black and unmoving. Her shoulders shook. She gasped, and the candle flames leaped and flickered again. The room was somehow brighter-and yet, Illistyl thought, looking at the Simbul's forlorn and ravaged face-it seemed no safer or warmer.
The Witch-Queen of Aglarond looked around at them all and said simply, "I'll need your help, all of you. Join hands with me, and I'll try again."
Without hesitation the women leaned forward around the table, the liqueur decanter standing like a red flame before them. The Simbul closed her eyes, shuddered again, and began to gather her will. As before, the room grew dim.
"Think," she muttered, "think of Sharantyr. Picture her face, her voice, what she looks like when she moves. We must key upon her, for Elminster is cloaked to seeking magic."
Obediently, they thought of Shar. Jhessail's eyes closed, her face calm. Illistyl and Shaerl both frowned, eyes scamched in concentration. Linked to the Simbul, they could feel her draw in her power, feeding on their thoughts, emotions, and yearnings.
Power swirled around the room. Then the Simbul hurled her questing, searching thought outward, a long way. Like a fisher's hook into dark waters, she fell into a void of seeking where those linked to her could not follow.
After a long, tense silence, the Simbul shook herself like a dog coming up out of water. "We need more. All is twisted, all gone wild. Sylune… please?"
Three pairs of wondering eyes saw Storm and the Simbul's fingers part. Out of the smoky air between them, two slim, faintly glowing hands seemed to grow, gaining substance in ghostly silence. Each clasped a living hand.
A gentle whisper said, "I am here. Try now, Sister."
Shaerl, Jhessail, and Illistyl looked at each other for a frightened moment, stared at the half-seen, ghostly figure between Storm and the Simbul, closed their eyes, and threw themselves into seeking Sharantyr.
An eternity passed. The candles burned lower. They breathed as one, low and deep. Toril, with awesome slowness, rolled steadily beneath them.
They heard someone whimper, and the circle was broken.
Storm held only empty air, and the Simbul fell heavily facedown on the table, upsetting the decanter.
"Storm?" Shaerl asked anxiously, half rising. "Is she-?"
"Exhausted," the Bard of Shadowdale said faintly, leaning back in her chair. "As I am. It's a magic few know-thankfully, or there'd be mindless mages across half Faerun, in short order."
Jhessail rescued the decanter and silently held it out to Storm. Storm stared at it dully for a breath or two, then deliberately took it, unstopped it, and took a long pull. When she replaced the stopper again and handed it back, it was almost empty.
"Storm," Illistyl asked quietly, her voice almost steady, "was that-?"
"Our sister, Sylune,' Storm answered, as quietly. "Yes. It was, and what we tried did more harm to her than to either of us."
She turned dark eyes up to theirs, and added, "So now you know. Take up die weight of another secret, for the good of the dale."
Three pairs of serious eyes met hers, and three intent faces nodded silently.
The Simbul stirred. She spoke into the table her cheek was pressed against, "Is there any of that firequench swill left?"
After the laughter died away, Illistyl dared to lay tender, helping hands on perhaps the most powerful sorceress alive in Faerun, raising her and wiping her sweat-soaked brow. The Simbul smiled silent thanks, looked at them all, and said, "Well-you know we failed. There's worse news."
Jhessail and Shaerl both looked at her sharply. "Tell," the Lady of Shadowdale said simply.
"All Art in the Realms is going rogue," the Simbul answered plainly. "Everywhere, and for all who wield it- we can unleash it, but our control slips and snatches and most of the time is lacking entirely. Magic has gone wild, and we cannot stop it."
Dread came and went on her white face. She reached thoughtfully for the decanter. "Across Faerun," she added, "not a single mage, archmage, or hedge-wizard can rely on spells anymore."
Illistyl, Shaerl, and Jhessail exchanged looks. Illistyl and Shaerl spoke together, framing the same question as one. "In die name of all the gods, why?"
Storm answered softly, eyes on the flame of the nearest candle, "That's just why-all the gods. They've been cast down into the Realms, to contend among us, struggling and striving as we do; Mystra among them. It's why Elminster's gone away."
"Cast down?" Illistyl almost whispered. "By whom? Who has such power?"
Storm spread her hands. "In the oldest writings, he was called the Overgod, Nowadays, to those who know of him at all, he is 'The One Who is Hidden.' " She smiled. "If you meet him, you might ask his true name and aims-there are a lot of souls, mortal and divine alike, who'd like to know."
Illistyl drew a deep, ragged breath, and then smiled. "I'll get straight to work on it." Her hands trembled as they reached for the decanter. It held far less when she put it back down.
Shaerl shook her head. "Easy, lass, or we'll have to carry you back to the tower again."
Illistyl crooked an eyebrow. "Who, wench, will be carrying whom?"
Jhessail rose. "Come, ladies," she said. "We've done enough harm this night. Storm needs her sleep, even if we do not."
Storm thanked the mage with her eyes. Jhessail read the look and swept her companions swiftly out into the night.
As the candles died, one by one, the two sisters sat at the table unmoving, eyes faraway.
At last Storm moved unwilling lips. "Did you see or feel anything when you reached for Shar? Anything at all?"
"No," the Simbul said, staring down at her empty hands. "Nothing. I was like the worst apprentice I have ever had-alone, wavering, helpless in the dark."
"I saw three things, Sister," came the eerie voice they had not expected to hear again. "Fire, and tears, and stars-overhead, it seemed, though they were all mixed together. Our stars."
Storm raised her head, and there were tears in her eyes. "Sylune," she said softly, "my thanks. They are not dead, then."
"Yet," came the voice of Sylune's ghost dryly, "yet."
***
Storm stiffened above her cauldron, almost dropping her knife. "There it is again," she whispered. "Sister, what's happening?"
Sylune was a silver shadow passing the firelight, just for a moment, ere gliding into gloom again. "I know not, but I've mind-spoken Jhess and Illistyl, and both are restless- but know not why. Could it be a sign from the Lady?"
The Bard of Shadowdale frowned. "She's never been so cryptic before!"
The ghostly figure of her sister smiled and faded away, leaving Storm staring at a bright copper pot. "And that habit will stop her being so now? We'll think more on this later. For now, best get your gown on, Lady of the Harp-your first guests are on their way up your path right now!"
Storm Silverhand wiped her hands dry, cursed cheerfully when she realized she'd used her gown, and then snatched it up and over her head, dampness and all, and thrust a herb-flower into the bodice as impish ornament. Later, for the love of Mystra! It seemed everyt
hing had to wait for later, these days-
***
Anger, little mage? Now? Rage is in you like flame, stronger than when first i smote you and bound you! Why?
Later devil. I'll tell thee later.
No, caitive, you'll tell me now!
[pain]
[scream, trailing away to sobbing, images awhirl]
Don't you collapse on me, puny human! I know you're stronger than that! Feigning and cringing are for devils i trample-from you, let there be instant obedience! Instant and absolute! Do you hear?
***
Khelben lifted his head sharply. "Did you hear something? A roaring, as of distant command?"
"Command, my Arunsun?" Laeral purred in his ear, almost playfully. "No, but I tell you true: Jerk your head like that again while my shears are so close, and it's not hair I'll be cutting, but your ear!"
With a frown of irritation Khelben flicked two fingers, and the glittering shears sprang upright. Laeral frowned at them, quivering in her hand, and then at her lord consort.
"Shall I finish this later?" she asked dryly. "The Lord Mage of Waterdeep is content to go out into the city shorn one side and not the other?"
"The Lord Mage of Waterdeep," Khelben said slowly, staring at nothing, "is troubled and knows not why. Put those away, love, and quell all castings, and feel. Just-feel. Something is amiss."
The shears clinked upon a table, and the glowing globes of light drifting all around them winked out, fading to nothingness as they sank toward the floor. In the sudden darkness Khelben could see Laeral standing like a statue, her eyes glistening, as they both reached out with their minds, seeking whatever it was that had brushed Khelben's thoughts so fleetingly… faintly….
And then the door burst open, and an excited apprentice stood staring at them, framed against the light flooding in from the passage behind her.
"Lord and Lady Mage," she burst out, "I cry pardon! Ah, were you-?"
"Cutting hair?" Laeral asked calmly, as globes of light burst into being all over the room once more. "Yes." Her smile was only slightly wry as she asked, "So, Kareece: What news shakes all the Realms and requires our immediate action now?"