by Ed Greenwood
Tarth stared briefly down at the ring upon his finger, remembering for an instant the crumbling, bony hand that had worn it. The rest of the ring’s former owner had lain shattered and hidden beneath a huge fallen block of stone, in a deep and cobweb-shrouded crypt of Myth Drannor.
Tarth had not expected to keep the ring for long. He swallowed, suddenly afraid again and suspicious. “What do you want, then?”
“In return for thy training? Why, thy staff, of course,” came the calm, dry voice.
Tarth’s breath froze in his lungs for a long, trembling moment. The staff he bore, a plain spar of smooth-polished, shadowtop wood, was the most precious thing he owned.
Tarth’s first tutor, in far-off Amphail, had given it to him long ago. Old Nerndel’s Art had been feeble and forgetful with great age, but he had warned Tarth to keep the staff safe all his days. “It is a thing of great power,” Nerndel had said. “Guard it well. Perhaps it will make you happier than it did me.”
“My staff?” Tarth asked, heart sinking. “No. No, I cannot part with it. I will not! I refuse.”
“The door, as I recall, lies just yonder,” Elminster said dryly. “Ye found a way in … those bold feet of thine may serve to find a way out again.”
“No!” Tarth said. “No, no—name some other price, some other payment … if you will. I’ve come so far.…” He leaned forward. “Please? A service, perhaps? To ask that a wizard give up his staff is a very great asking—and what good is such a staff to you, a great archmage?”
“More importantly,” Elminster asked quietly, “what good is such a staff, Tarth, to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Thy staff,” the Old Mage demanded, “grows weaker and weaker as ye use it, does it not?”
After a few breaths of startled silence, Tarth nodded reluctantly.
“Ye, too,” Elminster went on, “grow weaker and weaker in Art, Tarth Hornwood, as ye come to rely upon it more and more.”
Tarth frowned. “You know my last name?”
Elminster grinned. “Aye. A while back, a friend of mine, young Nerndel—eh, old Nerndel he’d be, to ye—told me he had chosen his heir-of-Art, a bright one. He asked me to look out for ye, if ye came this way.”
“Then—then you’ll train me?” Tarth asked, hope rising suddenly into his throat.
“Aye. In return for a service.”
“I can keep my staff?”
“I did not say that. The service ye can do me, mageling, is to destroy thy staff. Ye have come to depend on it overmuch, methinks, to have survived the perils of Myth Drannor and won that ring ye wave about so boldly. ’Tis time to learn to trust thine own power, without frozen fire to aid thee. Thy service will be to undertake a simple but precise ritual, to bring about the destruction of thy staff.”
“And if I refuse?”
“Then ye must go,” said the old man mildly. “On down whate’er roads thy overconfident feet lead ye … until ye fall, as ye are sure to, to some brigand quick with a rock or two, or a lone goblin creeping while ye sleep. No man who bears such power openly can have friends, nor trust companions overlong. If ye try, ’tis a cold and open grave ye’ll find soon, lad, as someone else seizes thy baubles.”
“I’ve not done poorly so far,” Tarth said, nettled. “I can protect myself.”
“Can ye?” came the soft response. “What defenses did ye prepare, then, before venturing into easy reach of my power?”
Tarth sat in silence, cold fear slithering within him again. The Old Mage’s eyes gleamed steadily in the dimness, watching him.
Finally Tarth shook his head in defeat, and spread his hands. “Only the spells I carry.”
“And thy staff, of course,” Elminster added pointedly. “Come, lad—thy tea is growing cold. Have we agreement, or will ye walk?”
“If I destroy this staff,” Tarth said, trying not to look at it, “do you promise to make me a more powerful wizard—and let me walk free?”
Elminster nodded. “Aye. I do so swear. Mark ye: Only by the unmaking of thy staff will ye give and find freedom and learn true power and happiness.”
Tarth nodded, slowly and reluctantly, as his thoughts raced. “Then we have agreement,” he said. A moment later, he added, “I must rejoin my companions-of-adventure for a few days, then I shall return.”
Elminster nodded. “Aye, neglect not thy share of the loot,” he said with a smile. Tarth smiled back, thinly, and drained his jack.
“My thanks for the tea,” he said, getting up. Dust, disturbed, rose around him in a clinging cloud.
“The tea was the least of the things ye should be thanking me for,” the Old Mage told him mildly, waving a finger. In slow silence the pair of empty jacks rose out of sight overhead. Uneasily Tarth nodded, and strode for the door a shade more hastily than he’d intended to. It opened for him by itself. He sighed and did not see Elminster smiling at his back.
[sigh] YOU DON’T HURRY THROUGH THIS, DO YOU?
If one does, it doesn’t work. Like certain dealings in Hell.
CLEVER AS EVER, MIND-SLAVE. MIND THE BACK EDGE OF YOUR OWN TONGUE DOESN’T SLICE YOU.
[silence, images flourished almost mockingly]
There came a knock upon Sarlin’s door. Sarlin the Supreme heard it and rose in haste. Times had been hard of late, and coins all too few.
Tarth Hornwood stood outside, his face tanned and a ring gleaming on his finger. His eyes looked somehow older than they had when he’d visited Sarlin before. He’d been adventuring, surely.
“What do you want, Tarth?” Sarlin asked plainly.
Tarth regarded the old, evil sorcerer calmly and said as simply, “Business. And no tricks, this time.”
Sarlin did not smile, but nodded. “Well, then: what?”
Tarth thrust forward the splendid staff he held, dark and smooth and straight. “I’d like you to make another of these.”
Sarlin raised his eyebrows. “That could well take years,” he began. “Do—”
“Not its powers,” Tarth said quickly, “though it must bear a dweomer and be able to, say, bring forth radiance, and quell it again. I need a staff that looks like this one, so close that not even the greatest mage of the Realms could tell them apart.”
Sarlin raised his eyebrows again. “Expensive,” he said, after a moment.
Tarth nodded. “I’m willing to pay you with this,” he said, extending the fist upon which the ring gleamed. “It is the Lost Ring of Murbrand.”
Sarlin leaned forward to peer at it. “Truce?” he asked.
“Truce,” Tarth agreed. Sarlin extended his hand, and Tarth put the ring into it. The old sorcerer examined it carefully, turning it in his fingers to read the runes Murbrand had put there long ago. It was unmistakable, or all the books of lore were wrong. He held in his hands a ring of power. Sarlin almost trembled with excitement.
But that was not his way. He merely raised his eyebrows again, and—slowly, reluctantly—handed the ring back. “This staff must be valuable to you,” he said.
Tarth nodded. “Almost as valuable as the ring I’m offering,” he replied pointedly, “to one who knows how to use it.”
Sarlin grinned. “As you know, of course, how to wield the ring,” he returned. “Give me the staff now and the ring when I’ve done, in exchange for the two staves. Come back four mornings from now.”
Tarth raised his own eyebrows. “That soon?”
Sarlin shrugged. “I am a master of what I do. You know that.”
Tarth nodded. “You are. Agreement, then?”
Sarlin nodded back, almost eagerly. “Agreement.”
AND NOW THE REVEALING … OR YOU’LL PAY IN PAIN, MAGE …
“Ready, lad?” Elminster asked gently. Tarth nodded, face expressionless. The Old Mage waved his hand. “Begin, then.”
Tarth stood in the circle Elminster had prepared, deep in the forest near Shadowdale. On a tall, flat stone at its center lay the staff Tarth had brought here. Beside the staff lay a sharp knife
.
Tarth stepped forward to stand over the stone. Sweat was suddenly cold upon his neck and forehead. He could feel the sage’s watchful gaze like a weight upon his back. The young wizard breathed deeply, then shrugged and began the ritual Elminster had taught him.
It began with a spoken charm, soft and precise. Tarth pronounced it and carefully took up the knife.
As he did, his eyes fell upon the staff. Dark and smooth and gleaming, it was the familiar and comforting thing that had earned him the name “Thunderstaff” in Arabel. Half in derision that name had begun—but he had made it a term of respect. Now, if Elminster’s will reigned, he would be leaving it all behind.
Tarth sighed again, forced down his irritation, and raised the knife, beginning the chant. Soft and light, to begin with. The knife caught the light and gleamed briefly. He raised his other hand to it and drew blood with a firm, deliberate stroke.
There was a cold tingling in his palm as the blood began to flow. Tarth stepped back and carefully drove the knife hilt-deep in the ground, whispering another charm in time with the chant. When he approached the stone again, blood had begun to drip from his fingers.
Carefully, still chanting, he moved his hand so that the drops fell upon the staff. “Ye have come for the wisdom of sages,” Elminster had said to him. “Yet it alone is not enough. The blood of heroes also is called for, to win freedom. So ye must shed a little blood, mageling.”
Tarth could feel the Old Mage watching him as he bled on the staff. Each drop that landed on stone or turf remained, but those that fell on the staff vanished utterly as they touched it.
Elminster had warned him, whatever happened, to keep on with the chant. Tarth did so, even when the staff began to glow on the stone before him. A faint red-gold radiance stole slowly into being down its length, grew brighter, and took on a white hue.
Tarth stepped back, as Elminster had instructed, and made his chanting louder and faster. He knew, without looking, that he bled no more. The magic was healing his hand.
The staff lifted an inch or so from the stone and began to hum as it floated in the air, glowing ever brighter.
The ritual required his tears now. Tarth stared at the staff, blinking and remembering all the adventures he’d survived these past few winters, staff in hand. Its magic was a shield against danger. He’d miss it.
The memories came fast now, and his chant wavered. He’d miss it indeed. Tears came to the young wizard’s eyes. His throat grew thick as he recalled the comfortable weight of the staff in his hand, after many a battle. Sometimes he had almost thought it a living thing, a person.
Tears fell freely now. He moved forward as Elminster had told him to, so that his tears fell upon the glowing staff.
In answer, the staff pulsed brightly. The hum rose in a thrilling surge, into a singing sound. Slowly and majestically, the staff rose, turning in the air until it hung upright. The very air around it began to glow until it was surrounded by a bright aura. Tarth chanted on, fascinated and hopeful.
The staff rose above the stone, pulsing. Bright and then dim, bright and then dim again, its light almost faded entirely.
Behind the young wizard, at the edge of the circle, Elminster frowned. He crossed his arms as he stood watching.
The staff pulsed more quickly now, brighter and then completely dark before it became bright again. Its singing faded. Suddenly, it crumbled into nothing, and was gone, falling in ashes upon the stone.
Tarth’s chant ended uncertainly. In the sudden silence, he turned to look at the Old Mage, almost angrily. “Is that all? It seems a waste!”
Elminster smiled sadly. “The waste, young master of Art,” the sage said softly, “was thine, in spending the ring for so little.” He gestured, and there was a sudden flash in the air above the stone.
A staff hung there, dark and gleaming—and very familiar. It was Tarth’s staff, the real one—that Tarth had left safely hidden in a study-cell in the nearest temple of Mystra, guarded by the most potent wards Tarth knew. Tarth gaped at it.
“The true staff, young hero,” Elminster said gently. “Honesty is best, even in magic. But that is a lesson one must teach oneself. Start on it whene’er ye feel old and wise enough.” As he spoke, the staff turned in the air and glided down to rest upon the stone in utter silence, the knife leaping from the turf to join it. Elminster spread his hands questioningly, his eyes on Tarth’s, then in an instant vanished, leaving only empty air behind.
Tarth stared at the fern-clad bank where the Old Mage had stood. Then he looked slowly all around, trembling. He was alone in the forest circle.
The path he had come here by ran invitingly away into green stillness amid old trees. Tarth looked down it and swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He took one hurried step toward the path, then looked back. His staff lay gleaming upon the stone. Tarth stood wavering an instant, then ran back and snatched it up.
Its familiar weight was reassuring in his hand. Tarth knew it all too well: It was his own staff, indeed, brought here by Elminster’s magic. The young wizard held it raised for a moment as though to blast an unseen foe, then turned and dashed down the path.
As he ran, Elminster’s parting words ran through Tarth’s head. A lesson one must teach oneself … start on it whenever old and wise enough … Tarth came to a halt, panting. The staff was heavy in his hands. Sweat ran slowly down into his eyes.
Tarth blinked until he could see again. He stared wildly around at the trees. No one stood watching. There was no sound but his own breathing. He thought briefly of the spell in his memory that could take him in an instant far from this place, and it stirred in his mind. Tarth thrust it from his thoughts, stared down at the staff in his hands, and turned around. He started to walk slowly and deliberately back to the circle.
The knife lay on the stone. The clearing around remained empty and still. Tarth walked into the circle again and stopped. His breathing was loud and ragged in his ears. Raising the staff, the young wizard looked at it long and lovingly, feeling its heft and power in his hands. Then he sighed and stepped to the stone. It took a very long time to let go of the staff after he’d laid it down.
White-lipped, Tarth Hornwood stood alone in the circle for an even longer time. Then he stepped forward and softly spoke the charm that began the ritual all over again. Reaching for the knife, he never saw Elminster reappear on the bank behind him.
The Old Mage smiled and nodded approvingly.
The staff rose again. This time Tarth’s tears flowed so freely that he could scarcely see the staff through them. He was filled with an aching sense of loss and a wrenching, weak feeling that grew worse in waves, in time with the pulsing of the staff.
It climbed above the stone. The singing was loud in Tarth’s ears. Suddenly it flared into blinding brilliance. Tarth cried out, breaking off the chant. He fell helplessly to his knees amid the singing, and slid sideways to the turf, and beyond.…
[growl] HOW MUCH LONGER, WIZARD? HOW MUCH FIRE-LASHED longer?
Cool air whispered past his brow. There were gentle hands on him … two, three—had the old sage grown more hands?
Tarth blinked and found himself looking at a clear blue sky and dancing leaves overhead. He was lying on his back on uneven ground. The aroma of warm tea came from somewhere very near at hand.
“With us again, lad?” Elminster’s familiar voice rolled out. Tarth turned to look at the Old Mage, opening his mouth to reply. It stayed open for some time in utter astonishment.
The Old Mage was sitting on a stone, tea in hand. He wore a worn and patched cotton under robe above his battered old boots. Sitting with him was a slim, gray-eyed lady regarding Tarth with interest. She held two jacks of steaming tea in her hands and was clad only in Elminster’s flowing outer robe.
“Well met,” she said, in a low, gentle voice.
Elminster grinned. “Tarth Thunderstaff,” he said with gallant grandeur, indicating the lady, “meet thy staff. The Lady Nimra. Known in her day as Nimra Nineha
nds, after a spell she favors.”
His grin broadened. “Ye’ve been draining her strength to work thy Art these long years, so I had ye give much of thine back to her, ere ye destroyed her entirely. Now, I’ve wasted time enough. Evenfeast awaits ye both at my tower, when ye find the way thither. I imagine ye’ll have much to say to one another.”
He chuckled at Tarth’s stunned expression. “Now, lad,” he reproved, “ ’tis not every day a wizard has a chance to speak so freely to his staff. Use that glib tongue of thine.” With that, Elminster waved a hand, and was gone.
Wordlessly the lady held a jack out to Tarth.
He took it gingerly, managing not to spill any on himself, and cleared his throat. “Ah … well met!” he began uncertainly. A wavering smile spread itself hesitantly across his face …
GAH! LOVING AGAIN? YOU HUMANS!
Much later that night, Tarth sat again with the Old Mage amid the dusty stacks of parchment. “How long have you known about her?” the young wizard asked curiously, gesturing upwards. The Lady Nimra slept in Elminster’s bedchamber above them.
“Nimra was imprisoned in the form of a staff over seven hundred winters ago, by a rival in Myth Drannor,” Elminster said slowly. “We never freed her, for her imprisonment let loose a number of fell creatures that had been in her power. They searched everywhere for her and would have found and destroyed her in the end, if she’d walked the Realms in her own form. Her imprisonment was the best disguise she could have found.”
“What happened to these creatures that search for her?”
“Destroyed in their turns, down the years,” the Old Mage replied. “Nerndel slew more than one of them.”
“Master Nerndel? How did he come to have the staff?” Tarth asked in astonishment.
Elminster grinned. “He was Nimra’s rival. It was his trap that imprisoned her. He hoped one day to free her and woo her—but I laid spells on the staff, so that I could find it where’er it might be hid and so that its making could not be undone while Nimra’s enemies yet lived. I also took from Nerndel the spells he used to entrap her—so ye are stuck with her, young Master Mage.”