by Ed Greenwood
“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 scrunched 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. Syluné … 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 Faerûn, 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, Syluné,” 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 the 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 Faerûn, 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 Faerûn,” 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 the 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. “Syluné,” she said softly, “my thanks. They are not dead, then.”
“Yet,” came the voice of Syluné’s ghost dryly, “yet.”
* * * * *
Storm stiffened above her cauldron, almost dropping her knife. “There it is again,” she whispered. “Sister, what’s happening?”
Syluné 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 everything 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, CAPTIVE, 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?”
* * * * *
I hear, devil. By Mystra, how I hear.
CALL NOT TO HER, ELMINSTER! I KNOW YOUR GAME, NOW YOU MUST HAVE SPELLS READY AND SEEK TO AWAKEN THEM BY RECALLING THEIR TRIGGERS TRY ALL YOU LIKE—YOU’LL FAIL, BELIEVE ME—BUT REMEMBER THIS? MY PATIENCE IS NOT ENDLESS.
[mental lash; pain]
YES, RECALL AWAY, LITTLE MAN!
Longer, my memories must be longer—but each I call on is spent forever.…
AYE, YIELDED TO ME AND LOST TO YOU FOREVER! NOT SO MIGHTY ARE WE NOW, HEY?
[echoing storms of diabolic laughter]
Aye, I’ve known better days—and nights. Much better nights.
Four
TO LOVE A GODDESS
The stench was unbelievable. Bones and blood—blood welling up from the ground and flowing in rivulets over the sharp rocks, as foul gases drifted over everything. A figure moved amid the tattered vapors: a lone, naked human crawling painfully down a hillside, like a shattered crab, headed he knew not where.
Elminster’s fingers were bleeding stumps, torn by dozens of razor-sharp rocks, but the mental lashings kept him crawling, aimless and trembling. Stingfly after stingfly landed on his trembling flesh and drank deeply of his blood before leaving its eggs under the wizard’s skin. With but one arm to lean on, the Old Mage had no way to dislodge them. Not that he could do more than groan and fling himself over on his back. He crushed one buzzing, squalling stingfly that way, but the others all sprang clear—to pounce on El’s belly instead, ere he could right himself.
Ahead, the land fell away in a field of tortured rock to a gorge out of which rose darkly boiling plumes of smoke. Maggots as long as three men and as sinuous as snakes fell from some of those drifting clouds, to flop and slither across the rocks. Most seemed able to smell where the blood was strongest and glided thence, to a place where pale, amorphous bulks moved. Lemures, glistening palely, fed from a small pit of maggots—oblivious to the fact that other maggots burrowed into their own rear extremities.
An inspiring sight—not that Elminster cared much where he went in this land of death and cruelty. Perils loomed or lurked everywhere. Firebursts bloomed over distant mountains. From time to time spinagons and worse rose on flapping wings to cross the air above the gorge and glare hungrily at the struggles below.
Lower to the ground undulated something that looked like a lacework of odd jaws and claws and eyes, joined by ropes of mauve flesh. A hooked spear reached up to tug it brutally down to a waiting devil below. The fray that followed was brief ere the weird flying thing rose into the air again, larger and heavier than before.
It rose, drifted Elminster’s way, and veered at him, descending in a swift dive with its many-toothed mouths swiveling to the fore. Lower it rushed, jaws agape, knowing its prey had nowhere to run.
The Old Mage watched it grimly. Would Nergal manifest power through him to defend the body he’d so shattered … or just let him be torn apart and devoured—salvaging only his head?
The many-jawed creature swept down, very close, trailing streams of green saliva. Dozens of black and gold eyes met his, gleaming with hungry anticipation. Well, his answer would not be long in coming.…
BACK AND FORTH I GO, ELMINSTER, OVER THE MEMORIES YOU HOLD UP BEFORE ME LIKE SHIELDS AND YET FIND NOTHING OF WHAT I SEE.
WHERE ARE THE SECRETS OF SILVER FIRE? WHERE ARE THE SPELLS AND SPELLBOOKS AND HIDDEN RINGS AND SCEPTERS AND ALL, GLOWING WITH POWER I CAN USE? WELL?
The archdevil rummaged again, clawing aside memory after memory. He shouldered impatiently through the dark, vaulted caverns of Elminster’s memories.
An elf queen stands atop a cliff. The tatters of her sword-hewn, blood-drenched gown flap in the evening breeze. As she looks grimly out over a land the sun sets on, her arms cling to the broad, armored shoulders of a grim dwarf. He clutches her and weeps into her stomach. His bloody axe dangles by its war strap from one hairy, weary arm.…
GAHH! YOU’VE CENTURIES OF SUCH DROSS! WHAT CARE I FOR MORTALS NOW DUST AND REALMS LONG FALLEN?
A shining-eyed young sorceress delights in her first great casting. Her face glows as brightly as any lamp. She sweeps the brown-withered, skeletal body of her lich master into an enthusiastic embrace, showering his crumbling lips with kisses.…
ALWAYS AN EYE FOR BEAUTY, EH? NOW TO ME, WEAKNESS IS BEAUTIFUL—A CHINK TO BE THRUST THROUGH, A GOOD GRIP ON A FOE TO BE USED? YESSS …
Grim-faced warriors lean on their axes and broadswords. Flat menace fills their eyes as they watch wizards walk past, Elminster among them. One bladesman stirs too much. A cowled figure whirls to fling up an open hand. A green, glowing sigil bursts into being right in front of the snarling warrior, freezing him in midswing. The mages walk away, and the warriors glower silently.…
Here Nergal wandered, and there, rummaging through dusty darkness where small things scuttled and large things slept. The devil growled as he came on. El’s lurking awareness stole away before him, ducking here and crouching there in mind shadows, memories like cloaking webs in his wake.
ANSWER ME, HUMAN! DO YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE IN YOUR OWN MIND?
A world away, fangs bit and claws pounced, raking and clutching. El screamed, or tried to, sagging back as red pain flared in the dark vaults.
Nergal made a sound of irritated impatience, and lines of blue fire raced here and there through the darkness. There were singing sounds and echoes of what might have been snarls or shrieks. The claws and jaws were gone again.
Dimly, El felt himself collapsing onto sharp, uncaring stones.
ANSWER ME, ELMINSTER! HEED MY CALL, DAMN YOU!
Damned am I, indeed. Cringing here with my memories flowing away from me like water, slipping between my fingers to be gone, gone forever.…
INDEED WEEP AND WAIL, WIZARD! WEEP AND WAIL.
[sudden vicelike mental probes, closing like claws]
BUT FIRST, SHOW ME MYSTRA SHARING THESE MEMORIES WITH YOU? HOW CAME THEY INTO YOUR MIND? HOW? LET ME SEE! SHOW ME NOW!
Dark eyes swim in dreams. Visions flood in, jolting a drowsing Old Mage awake. He sits bolt upright in wonder in his bedchamber, his eyes leaking blue-white fire. The flames reflect in the eyes of the one beside him—smiling Storm in early days, and later the fiery Witch-Queen of Aglarond. Her hair stirs around her slender shoulders like silver blades hungry for a foe, since …
YES, YES. WOMEN YOU’VE HAD AND TO SPARE! LET ME IN, WIZARD! NOT WATCHING YOUR FACE AFTER SHE MIND-TOUCHES YOU! SHOW ME!
[blinding, blue-white fire]
AARGGH! YOU DARE?
[mind lash red pain black agony dripping purple ruin]
STOP YOUR SCREAMING! THINK YOU’RE THE ONLY SELF-IMPORTANT MORTAL I’VE MIND-REAMED?
[reluctant healing]
THERE. STOP YOUR GAMES, OR TASTE WORSE.
No game. Ye wanted to see Mystra’s mind-touch, and that’s what I showed ye. The fire undying.
SHE COMES ONLY IN DREAMS, AND YOU SEE THE MEMORIES SHE LEAVES ONLY WHEN SHE’S GONE? BAH! DECEIVE ME NOT! SHE MUST IMPART DIRECTLY OR LEAVE YOU UNCONT
ROLLED.
Aye, so she does, most of the time. When we speak directly, I gain images of the moment, not memories worth sharing.
NOTHING MORE? EVER?
[glimpse]
AHA!
[confused images, swift racing]
HAH! WHAT WAS THAT?
[dwindling down, devil-ridden, to one brightness … of Mystra, long, long ago, in the land of Elminster’s youth.…]
Eyes that swam with stars stared into his. Elminster fought for breath as lips that were both fire and ice kissed his throat, moved to his shoulder, and bit gently. Silver fire flowed from that wound. It roiled in the blue-white flame that was her hair, and in her hands, and in a regal cloak flowing endlessly from her.
In the air they drifted, a blue-white star high above Athalantar; El caught a glimpse of its flickering lantern fires far below, as they rolled together.
“Your defiant tenderness, El—aahh, I could drink of it forever. Give, Chosen of mine. Give unto Mystra.”
“Gladly,” Elminster growled, young and shining-eyed and supple.
As they surged amid the fire, memories that were not his own flooded into his mind. Images whirled, crashed, and raced in a welter of toppling towers and dragons locked in biting battle. Earth trembled. Rock shivered and rose into lofty peaks. Haughty mages brightened the sky with spells.…
SO, HER REMEMBRANCES LEAK INTO YOU WHEN YOUR MINDS ARE JOINED? SHE MUST MEAN TO SO SHARE, OR YOU SERVE A WEAK GODDESS INDEED….
[weeping, falling from light into darkness, lost and alone]
OH, STOP THAT! YOU MAY HAVE LOVED A GODDESS AND LIVED, BUT IF YOU DEFY ME YOU’RE GOING TO DIE! SHOW ME MORE OF THE SILVER FIRE, FLOWING INTO YOU! YES! YESSS!
[mental probes lancing forth brutally, transfixing bright memory]
[weeping, shimmering tears, yielding]
Soft summer stars shone above Myth Drannor. El drifted thoughtfully beneath, looking down on magnificent, glowing spires. They were soon to fall, if Starym deceit and o’erreaching pride and dangerous meddling went unchecked. All this beauty to be lost …