by Ed Greenwood
“Lady?” Taern asked, reaching his hands up to her. “What do you mean?”
Alustriel took his hands in her own, and Taern felt a tingling of power. Great Art, she had, more than he had ever sensed before.
“Thy spell failed not by thy doing. It was lost, with all Art worked in Faerûn in that breath, in the passing of Mystra.”
“Mystra is—dead? Destroyed?”
“Destroyed, aye.” Alustriel knelt on the stones beside him, her long gown rustling. “While ye are down here, Thunderspell, ye could join me in prayer to Azuth, to guide the living.”
“Living mages? Such as ye and I?” Taern was white-faced; the black gulf was all around him, and only the hands that clasped his kept him from sinking. Hands that glowed blue-white.
Alustriel smiled through her tears, and said softly, “For one mage, aye. The one who holds Mystra’s power now. It burns him inside, and we must all hope he bows not to the temptation to wield it. And for the one who comes after, the one who must rise and grow to take Mystra’s place and power. They will need our prayers, and whatever help we can give, in the days ahead.”
Taern wished desperately that he did not feel so old and tired, the days of his greatest power behind him. None of his apprentices were ready yet. None would serve in any battle to come.
Alustriel put her arms around him and kissed his forehead. “Peace, Taern. The Lady’s power has touched me; until it fades, I can see thy mind. Ye have done well, and it is thy wisdom, more than power of Art, that will be needed in the days ahead.”
From where she had kissed him, Taern felt power flooding through him, awakening and soothing at the same time. He stared at his queen in awe and wonder and wished again he were not so old.
Alustriel’s eyes held his in a steady, loving gaze.
He colored suddenly and brought hands up to his burning cheeks. If she could read his thoughts.… Taern loved her very much then, for she caught one of his hands and brought it to her lips and did not laugh at him.
MORE LOVEMAKING. DO YOU HUMANS DO ANYTHING ELSE?
Aye. We scheme and fight and work treason almost as energetically as archdevils.
MOCK ME NOT, ELMINSTER AUMAR? YOU ARE IN MY POWER? I HAVE BUT TO CLOSE MY HAND OVER YOU FOR YOU TO BE NO MORE? GONE FOREVER.
Promises, promises.
DO NOT PRESUME TO BANDY WORDS WITH ME AS AN EQUAL, HUMAN. MY PATIENCE GROWS SHORT INDEED. SHOW ME MORE OF GODLY MAGIC—NOW!
Pain! Pain in Avernus, of a tentacle become a talon and thrust through the breast of a crawling man, leaving him to stiffen and gasp in agony as fresh blood flowed … then to sink back, gasping in ecstasy, as the withdrawing talon healed its own wound, leaving the naked old man to fall on his face, shaking with weakness and pain.…
Weakness, and gods, and magic …
YIELD UNTO ME, LITTLE MAN!
Ah. Weakness in magic among the gods. Aye, let it be remembered.…
“I am ashamed to say it,” Nouméa whispered, so faintly that mortal ears would have missed what she said, “but I am glad the Lady did not choose me. I would have failed her—and us all.”
She stood in a dark cavern, lit only by a tall, slim conical column of silvery gray light. It replied in an echoing mind-voice.
Wherefore ye were not chosen. The Lady is—was—wise. Yet be not ashamed, Daughter. Differing natures decree different fates for us all.
“What now, Lord?”
The silvery cone flickered once. We go on as before. None must know what has befallen. This seems wisest.
“Seems wisest?”
I am not all wise or all knowing, Lady Magister. I can be sure only after I touch the mind of Elminster. It may become necessary, if the power he has taken twists him, that ye destroy him. Come with me now, as we speak mind to mind with the Old Mage. Merge with me.
The Magister looked at the cone in puzzlement. “Merge, Lord Azuth?”
Step into the space I now occupy, and stay entirely within this conical form. It is all that is left to me since the Fall. I must be ready to shield thee if Elminster has been … changed.
Nouméa shivered. She had not known that anything could bring fear into the voice of a god—especially her all wise, imperturbable teacher, the Lord of Wizardry himself.
Hurriedly she stepped forward and plunged—with a momentary, shocking chill—into the silvery cone, all that remained of the High One. Already his mind reached out like an uncoiling snake, lashing across great distances toward the slightly leaning stone tower in Shadowdale.
FULL OF TRICKS, AREN’T YOU? A FLAGON BRIMMING OVER WITH DECEIT. NEARLY AS DEVILISH AS ONE OF US. YOU KNOW FULL WELL I SEEK WHAT YOU RECALL OF MYSTRA. DON’T YOU? DON’T YOU? [searing fire]
[pain] Aye. [shuddering pain]
SHOW ME, THEN, SOMETHING SHE LEFT IN YOUR MIND—OR I’LL TEAR AND REND YOUR WITS IN EARNEST, WISE OLD ELMINSTER!
As ye command, Lord Nergal.
DO YOU DARE TO MOCK ME? [furious lashing fires]
[pain] Not I, Lord. Gods, not I!
Tears running down the sky from the dark, watchful eyes of the Lady of Mysteries, on a night before her powers failed, and she could only behold what befell as magic failed, all across Faerûn.…
The day was warm and bright—but all was decidedly not well in the Realms.
In Chessenta, the Sceptanar screamed in rage as three of his high wizards battled to control the wild transformations their Art had brought to certain ladies of the court. It was the Sceptanar’s wont to have noble consorts altered by magic, to tint their skins with exotic hues, enhance their height and features, and give them something different—scales, or serpentine tails, claws, or even gossamer wings. This morn, the spells had gone horribly wrong. They brought on changes, yes—changes that continued, faster and faster, altering the ladies into monstrous things that screamed, bellowed, or burbled at the pain and stress of their shifting. The Sceptanar’s most powerful high wizards scurried and cast spells and puzzled, hurling all they could find. No magic could stop these fell transformations.
Moreover, rumors of the gods walking the Realms grew ever more detailed with the passing days. The Sceptanar was beginning to grow very afraid indeed.
* * * * *
“Lady?” Taern’s voice was rough with concern, and he half-rose from his stool under the lamp.
In the pool where Alustriel bathed, amid the spell glows and scented oils applied by deft servants, she had stiffened and gasped. She sat bolt upright, ripples racing away across the waters. She clutched at her head as if something had caught fire within.
“Lady!” Taern almost shouted. “Are you well?”
Alustriel raised a hand to stay his cry, and then asked, “Taern, did any memories come into your mind just now? Of the two of us, perhaps, on the night when the Art seemed to fail?”
Taern shook his head, his eyes large and dark. “The night I felt Mystra’s power within you?” he whispered, heedless of the listening servants and the little murmur of wordless excitement that spread from them. “I’ll never forget that night, Lady. Yet I tell you truth: It comes to me now, as you speak of it, but nothing until then. I was thinking of nothing but the ledgers and coins we’d been discussing.”
“Nothing of Azuth, or the Magister, or far Chessenta?”
Taern shook his head. “No, Lady,” he said in a low, wondering voice. “Why would I?”
“Aye,” the lady wizard echoed, sinking back into the pool until the rippling waters lapped at her magnificent throat. “Why would I?”
* * * * *
[images spinning on, in the blood-red gloom of Hell]
In Aglarond, the Simbul forbade the use of magic against Thayan raiders, telling her men to trust instead in their swords. When the Red Wizards leading the strike against Aglarond tried to hurl lightning against the Simbul’s men, their spells instead brought forth falls of flowers, crystal spheres, and mud. In the end, a Red Wizard sought escape by giving the raiders’ stolen boat the power of flight, but his Art instead
turned it to old and crumbling cheese, and it fell apart beneath them. They sank into the cold waters of the Sea of Dhurg. Only a handful emerged to the embrace of the Simbul’s spell chains.
In Silverymoon, a simple spell to light the recesses of a dark cellar brought down the tower above it. The astonished caster was High Lady Alustriel, herself.
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 danger, 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 Blackstaff’s 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 MYSTRA 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 burns 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 Faerûn 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 Faerûn … 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 cloak 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 good 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.