The Making of a Mage

by Ed Greenwood

  Not surprisingly, there was a murmur of agreement from the watching townsfolk all around. The steward uneasily eyed the crowd, sidestepping his restless mount. His voice, when it came, was derisive. “A dream.”

  Elmara inclined her head. “As yet, ’tis—and not my only one.”

  The old man looked down from his high saddle and asked, “And your others, young dreamer?”

  “Just one,” Elmara replied mildly. “Revenge.” She raised both her hands as if to cast a spell—and the old man’s face paled. He jerked at his reins, wheeled his mount in a nervous flurry of snorts and hooves, and set off back to the keep at a gallop. There were some hoots and exultant yells from the crowd, but Elmara turned away without another word and went back into the inn.

  “What’d she say?” one man was asking as she stepped through the door.

  A woman sitting nearby leaned forward and said loudly, “Did ye not hear? Revenge.”

  Then she saw Elmara was in the room and fell silent, a silence that suddenly hung tense and expectant over the whole room. El gave the woman a gentle smile and went to the bat “Is that beer ready yet?” she asked calmly, and was pleased to hear at least one man behind her dare to chuckle aloud.

  Briost was not having a good day. He burst out of his grand council chamber the moment the messenger had gone. The apprentice who’d been trying to eavesdrop by means of a just-perfected spell stiffened guiltily; his master’s face was dark with anger.

  “Go and practice hurling fireballs,” Briost snapped, “or what spells you will. I’m called away on the king’s business. Some mad traveling wizard’s had the temerity to slay all of Seldinor’s apprentices at an inn west of Narthil—and he’s ‘too busy’ to avenge them. So I’m going to reap the idiot’s head for the greater glory of the magelords!”

  The hand that shook Elmara was soft but insistent. She came awake in the best bed in Myrkiel’s Rest and peered at the woman bending over her. The innkeeper wore but a blanket, clutched about her. “Lass, lass,” she hissed, hovering over El in the darkness, “ye’d best be gone from here right speedily, out into the woods. Word’s come that armsmen are riding here to take thee!”

  Elmara yawned, stretched, and said, “My thanks, fair lady. Would there be such a thing as hot cider about, and some sausage?”

  The innkeeper stared at her. Then what might almost have been a smile flashed across her face as she turned and hurried out, bare feet flashing in the gloom.

  The road fairly shook under their hooves in the gray gloom that comes before dawn. Sixty mounted knights of Athalantar, gleaming dark and deadly in their best battle armor, headed west, bent on battle. In their midst, the man whose helm bore the plumes of a commander turned his head to the man riding beside him.

  “Suppose you tell me, mage,” he ordered, “what urgent befalling brings us to ride through half the night.”

  “We go to work revenge, Prince,” Magelord Eth snapped. “Is that good enough, or would you question my orders further?”

  Prince Gartos appeared to consider the matter for a moment, and then said, “No—revenge is the best reason to make war.”

  There was a shout from ahead, and the horses broke stride. “Stay on the road, damn you!” Gartos ordered wearily, as the knights’ mounts bunched up and snorted and tossed their heads all around him. The band of knights came to an uneasy halt.

  “What?” he roared.

  “The Narthil road-gate, Lord Prince—and no guard stands here.”

  Gartos snapped, “Helms on, all! Blades out!” and waved imperiously. The knights around him obeyed, and urged their mounts forward at speed. A breath later, they were thundering down into Narthil.

  The gloom-shrouded road ahead was empty and in darkness; no lights glimmered in the houses and shops on either side. The foremost knights slowed their mounts, peering around uncertainly. The town looked asleep, but they’d all heard of knights tumbled from their mounts after riding into cords stretched stiff across streets. There were no cords … and no leaping arrows … and no one defying them at all. Unless …

  A lone figure was trudging up the street toward them: a youngish, thin woman in nondescript garb, who held a steaming mug of cider in one hand. She halted calmly in their path and stood sipping and watching. They slowed to a trot and then, in a patter of hooves, swept up to and flowed around her.

  Elmara found herself looking up into the hard eyes of a battle-worn warrior who wore magnificent armor and was flanked by a cold-eyed man in robes that bore no device, but somehow had “magelord” limned all over them.

  “Fair morn,” she offered them mildly, sipping cider. “Who are ye who come in arms to Narthil when honest folk are still abed?”

  “I’ll ask, and you will give swift answer,” the warrior snapped, turning his mount to one side so he could lean down right over Elmara. “Who are you?”

  “One who would see proud mages and cruel armsmen taken down,” El replied, and at the word ‘down’ her spell went off. Shards of shimmering force flashed out from her in all directions. Where they touched metal, it burst into crackling blue flames—and the man within the armor or holding the blade convulsed and toppled from his saddle.

  For a brief instant, the world seemed full of bright light and rearing, crying horses, and then the terrified, riderless mounts were gone in a wild thunder of hooves, leaving Elmara facing just two riders, who sat white-faced in their saddles, a hastily raised protective spell glowing in the air around them.

  “My turn,” Elmara said, eyes glinting. “Who are ye?”

  The warrior slowly and menacingly drew his sword, and Elmara saw magical runes flash and glow down its steely length. “Prince Gartos of Athalantar,” he said proudly, “the man who’ll slay thee, sorceress, as sure as the sun will rise in the sky o’er Narthil before long.” As the warrior spoke, the hands of the silent magelord beside him were moving quickly—but in the next moment his eyes widened: Elmara had suddenly vanished.

  Then Magelord Eth’s mount was rearing and plunging, and there was a heavy weight behind him. He had just begun to turn when one hand slapped across his nose and mouth, bringing tears—and then another hand came up to punch him hard in the throat.

  Gurgling, fighting for air, Magelord Eth reeled in his saddle, and felt something torn from his belt before the dark ground came up hard to hit him in the side of the head, and the Realms spun away from him, forever.

  Elmara leaped away from the horse even before the wizard toppled from the saddle; Gartos was very quick. He’d realized where El’s magic had taken her, wheeled, and his blade was already cutting the air above the magelord’s high-cantled saddle.

  Elmara landed hard, jumped to one side to still the speed of her leap, and peered at the wand she’d snatched. Ah, there! Hooves were thudding toward her as Elmara looked up, pointed the wand, and carefully spoke the word that was scratched on its butt end. Light pulsed and hissed away from the wand in a pair of bolts that swerved in the air to strike Prince Gartos full in the face. He threw back his head, snarled in pain, and slashed blindly with his blade as his horse galloped forward. Elmara leaped and rolled, and came up well to one side. She pointed the wand at the armored figure rushing past and spoke the word again.

  Light flashed again and sped to its target. The gleaming armored arms jerked in pain. The warrior’s sword spun away to the turf as his mount bucked under him and then galloped away, fleeing in earnest now. Elmara saw sleepy-eyed folk gaping at her out of their doorways as she dropped the wand to the road at her feet, pointed her hands at the horse, and spoke a few soft words.

  The prince fell from his saddle, rolled over once with a mighty crash, and lay still. The horse sped on into the rising dawn.

  El retrieved the wand, cast a quick look around for other foes, saw none, and stalked over to where the warrior lay. Gartos lay on his back, face dark with pain and fury.

  “I have other questions, warrior,” Elmara said. “What brings armsmen of Athalantar to Narthil?”

&n
bsp; Gartos snarled angrily and wordlessly up at her. Elmara raised her eyebrow, and lifted her hands warningly to begin the gestures of a spell.

  Gartos watched her fingers move, and rumbled, “S-Stay your spell. I was ordered to find the one who slew some magelings at the Unicorn’s Horn, west of here … you?”

  Elmara nodded. “I defeated them and sent them away; they may yet live. How is it that a prince of the realm gets ordered anywhere?”

  The warrior’s lips twisted wryly. “Even the king does the bidding of the elder magelords—and the king made me a prince.”

  “Why?”

  The fallen man shrugged. “He trusted me … and needed to give me the right to command armsmen without having any young fool of a magelord strike down my orders or slay me out of spite.”

  Elmara nodded. “Who was the wizard with ye?”

  “Magelord Eth—my watchdog, set by the magelords to make sure I don’t do anything for Belaur that might work against them.”

  “Ye make Belaur seem a prisoner.”

  “He is,” Gartos said simply, and Elmara saw his eyes dart aside, this way and that, looking for something.

  “Tell me more of this Magelord Eth,” Elmara said, taking a step forward and drawing the wand from her belt. It would be best to keep this warrior talking and give him no time to plot an attack.

  Gartos shrugged again. “I know little; the magelords don’t care to say much about themselves. He’s called ‘Stoneclaw;’ he slew an umber hulk with his spells when he was young … but that’s about all I … Thaerin!”

  At the warrior’s shout, magical radiance pulsed. Elmara turned hastily—in time to see the rune-carved blade flashing toward her, point first.

  She leaped aside. The warrior snarled, “Osta! Indruu hathan halarl!” and the blade veered in the air, darting straight at Elmara.

  She let go the wand and raised her hands desperately—and the blade cut right through them, searing aside her fingers to plunge deep into her. Elmara screamed. The dawn sky whirled around her as she staggered back, blood welling up, fought to speak, and fell back onto the turf, greater pain than she’d ever known hissing through her.

  She heard a cold chuckle from Gartos as darkness rolled in, and fought with all her will to cling to something … anything … With her last breath she gasped, “Mystra, aid me …”

  Prince Gartos struggled to his feet. He felt weak and sick inside and couldn’t feel his feet at all … but they seemed to obey him. Grunting, he took a few unsteady steps and sat down, armor clanking. Narthil spun around him.

  “Easy,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Easy, now …” His men lay strewn along the road, with not a horse in sight. “Thaerin,” he grunted, “Aglos!” Gartos extended his hand, watched the blade tug itself free of the dead woman and drift, dark and wet, to his waiting grasp. Young witch, who did she think she was to defy Athalantar’s magelords? He fumbled at his gorget, got it aside, and grasped the amulet beneath, closing his eyes and trying to concentrate on the remembered face of Magelord Ithboltar.

  Firm fingers swept his aside. His eyes flew open, and he was staring up at the innkeeper’s white, frightened face as she thrust a dagger into his throat and drew it firmly across. Blood sprayed. Prince Gartos struggled to swallow, could not, and tried to raise his blade. Its glowing runes dancing before his eyes, mocking him, were the last things he saw as he sank down into darkness.

  “Gartos will see that this sorceress dies,” Briost said firmly, and a smile slowly crossed his face. “Eth will make sure he does.”

  “You’re confident of Eth’s abilities?” Undarl asked. The wizards seated around the table all looked down it to the high seat where the mage royal sat, in time to see his fire-red ring wink with sudden inner light.

  Briost shrugged, wondering (not for the first time) just what powers slept in that ring. “He has proven himself able … and prudent … thus far.”

  “This was a testing, though, wasn’t it?” Galath asked excitedly.

  “Of course,” Briost replied in a voice dry with patience. Why, he thought privately, did there always have to be one eager puppy at these meetings? Surely work could be found for such as Galath on these evenings—teaching him to unroll a scroll, perhaps, or put on his own robes so the hood was to the back and the tabard facing front? Anything would suffice, so long as it kept him far away.…

  Galath leaned forward eagerly. “Has he reported in?”

  Nasarn the Hooded snorted and looked coldly down the table. “If every mageling we set to a task did that, our ears’d be ringing with their babble every moment of the day—and all night, too!” With his unblinking stare, sharp nose, and dusty black robes, the old man resembled a vulture sitting and watching prey that would soon come its way.

  Undarl nodded. “I’d not expect a magelord to waste magic on bothering his fellows just for idle chatter; a report should come only if something serious is amiss … if the intruding mage should prove to be a spy for another realm, for instance, or the leader of an invading army.”

  Galath flushed in embarrassment and looked away from the mage royal’s calm face. Several of the other magelords let him see smiles of amusement on their faces as he looked swiftly and involuntarily up and down the table. Briost yawned openly as he smoothed one dark green sleeve of his robes and shifted into a more comfortable position in his chair. Alarashan, ever one to leap onto a popular cart, yawned too, and Galath’s gaze fell to the table in front of him in misery.

  “Your enthusiasm does you credit, Galath,” Undarl Dragonrider added with a straight face. “If Eth asks us for aid or something befalls him, I assign you to act for us all in setting things to rights in Narthil.”

  Galath straightened with such swift and obvious pride, swelling visibly before their eyes, that more than one magelord at the table sputtered with swiftly repressed mirth. Briost rolled his eyes up to look at the ceiling and asked it silently if Galath knew how to open a spellbook, or if presented with one, he’d peel it like a potato?

  The stone vault overhead did not answer … but then, it had hung above this high chamber in Athalgard for almost a century, and had learned to be a patient ceiling.

  The pain burned and roiled and threatened to sweep her away. In the darkening void, El clung grimly to the white light of her will. She must hold on, somehow.…

  Pain surged as the enchanted blade shifted and then slid smoothly—oh, so smoothly, in her own blood!—out of her, leaving her feeling empty and … open. Violated. Faerûn should not see her innards like this, hot blood rushing out of her into the sun … but she could do nothing, nothing at all to stop its flow. Her hands moved a bit, she thought, as she tried to clutch at her wound, but now the light and sounds around her were fading, and she was getting colder. Sinking, sinking into a void that was everywhere around her, scornful of her failing life-force … and as cold as ice.

  Elmara gasped and tried to gather her will. The white radiance she’d always been able to summon flickered feebly before her, like a watchfire in the night. She thrust herself forward into it, enfolding it and clinging to it, until she was adrift in a white haze.

  The pain was less, now. Someone seemed to be moving her, rolling her gently over … for a moment panic soared within her as the movement shook her hold on the radiance and it seemed to slip from under her.… El clawed at the void with her will until the white light surrounded her again.

  Something—a voice?—echoed around her, eddying softly and crying afar like a trumpet, but she couldn’t make out the words … if there were any. The void around seemed to grow darker, and El clung fiercely to her light. It seemed to grow in brightness, and from far away she heard that voice cry out in surprise and draw away, babbling in fear, or was it awe?

  She was alone, adrift in a sea of light … and out of the pearly mists ahead something she knew swam up to embrace her. Dragonfire! Raging flames framing a street she knew well, and Elmara tried to cry out.

  Prince Elthryn stood in the midst of blazing
Heldon, the dancing flames gleaming on his mirror-polished black boots, and brandished the Lion Sword, whole and flashing back the flames. He turned, long hair swirling, and looked at Elmara. “Patience, my child.”

  Then smoke and flames swirled between them, and although she cried her father’s name loud and desperately, she saw Elthryn no more, but instead a high hall of stone where cruel mages in rich robes bent over an ornate scrying bowl held up by three winged maidens of glossy polished gold. One was Undarl Dragonrider, the mage royal who’d destroyed Heldon. Another mage was passing his hand over the waters, waving his fingers angrily. “Where is he?” he snarled … and seemed for just an instant to see Elmara. His eyes narrowed, and then widened—but that chamber whirled and spun away into the void of light, and Elmara was suddenly staring into the eyes of Mystra, who stood in the air in front of her, smiling, her arms open to embrace.

  Stumbling in haste, Elmara ran across unseen ground toward her. Tears welled up and burst forth. “Lady Mystra!” she sobbed. “Mystra!” The light around the goddess dimmed, and the smiling Lady of Mysteries was fading … fading.

  “Mystra!” El reached out desperately, tears blurring the darkening scene. She was falling … falling … into the void once more, chilled and whimpering, alone, her light gone.

  She was dying. Elmara Aumar must be dead already, her spirit wandering until it fled and faded … but no! In the dark, floating distance El saw a tiny light sparkle and flare—and then rush toward her, bright and spinning. She cried out in wonder and fear as the blinding brightness leaped at her and flooded around her once more. Mystra’s smile seemed to be all around her, too, warm and comforting, infinitely wise.

  Through thinning mists Elmara saw another vision: she rose from her knees in prayer to Mystra and turned to a table where a large, ornately bound tome lay, surrounded by small items that she recognized as spell components. She sat, opened the spellbook, and began to study … mists roiled up, and when they cleared again, El saw herself casting a spell and then watching as a ball of flames burst into bright being in front of her. A fireball? That was a spell wizards commanded, not priestesses.…