by Ed Greenwood
Why, THANK you, most loyal dealer in turret tops and spires, Caladnei’s thought echoed in his mind, as sharp as if she was shouting in his ear. Permit me to BE Mage Royal and not merely carry the title around like a costume to be sneered at, hmm? I’ve two good reasons for this particular reckless idiocy: first, to make the point that must be made, that I happen to hold authority here and no Chosen should think their divine favor gives them sway to do as they please; and because what I’ve heard from and about this Narnra convinces me that she’s much more than she appears—and at the very least could mind-yield a LOT of useful information about current “dark dealings” in Waterdeep. I visit your mind, Rhauligan, not to justify myself, but to give you this order: whatever happens, you are to capture this Narnra and bring her back to the most senior surviving Wizards of War, for questioning.
Lady I am honored to serve, Rhauligan thought back quickly, I hear and obey.
“The woman you demand,” Elminster observed gently, “is not ours to surrender. I have freed her from my own detention and will defend that freedom, according to her wishes. Moreover, if ye examine no less than six royal decrees and two binding treaties that I know of, preserved in the royal records of Cormyr, I—though not the ruler of Aglarond, I’ll grant—have the freedom of the realm and a court rank, by the way, that outstrips thine own.”
Caladnei regarded him expressionlessly, her eyes going darker and more red, then said calmly, “This may be so, yet my desires stand.” She looked up at the infamous slayer of hundreds of Thayan wizards, still standing on air above her. “It remains my desire not to offend either of you, but I must ask: Queen of Aglarond, what is your response to these my stated desires?”
“You would defy us, child?” the Simbul asked, her voice incredulous but amused.
Elminster looked up at her, and she turned her head to regard him. They looked at each other in silence, thoughts clearly flashing between them.
“Great persons,” Caladnei shapped, clear anger in her voice for the first time, “I demand that you hold no private converse but share for us all what you have to say to each other!”
“Demanding, isn’t she?” Elminster remarked, not looking at the Mage Royal. “She extended us no such courtesy when giving Rhauligan his order.”
“She’s young, yet,” the Simbul replied tolerantly. They turned their heads in unison to favor Caladnei with identical sweet smiles and—did as she’d demanded.
YOU DO WELL, TO ASK ME DIRECTLY, AND, YES, SHARING OUR CONVERSE WILL BE FOR THE BEST.
A voice that was gentle and yet thunderous rolled through the cellar, sending Cormyreans staggering back with faces going pale and hands faltering in fear. Not one of them needed to be told who that mind-voice belonged to: blue-white and bright in their minds, tinged with bursting and reforming stars of sheer power, it cried “Mystra” into every mind.
* * * * *
The chime he’d been expecting sang its eerie little song just outside the door, and Bezrar scrambled up from his littered desk. He was sweating—but then, Aumun Tholant Bezrar was always sweating. Part of it was because he was, let’s grant it before the gods, fat … and the other reason was because someone whose daily business as an importer and wholesaler of sundry goods involved far more than the usual cartload of smuggling and of stolen goods well, such a one has a very good reason to sweat.
He fumbled aside the bar, the three chains, the two bolts—and flung the door wide. “B’gads, you’re here!”
“Stand aside and let me in,” Surth’s cold voice snapped out of the darkness, “instead of announcing my arrival to the entire neighborhood, you incredible dolt.”
Bezrar blinked, chuckled, and hastily shuffled back to make way for his partner. Surth was right, of course. Surth was always right. “Did y’bring the hoods?”
“No, of course I strolled across all Marsember to pay for a special order and forgot to bring them back with me!” Malakar’s voice was as thin, sour, and sarcastic as always. “You’ll have to cut your own eyeholes—you do have some shears in this sty, don’t you?”
Bezrar chuckled rather than stiffening as he would have done in the unlikely event of any other man in Marsember addressing him in this way. Surth was Surth: Malakar Surth, every cold, sinister, and icily superior inch of him. He was tall and lean where Bezrar was not and sour and sarcastic where Bezrar was jovial and cheerfully evil.
’Twas dealing in scents, wines, cordials, and drugs until the coins spilled out of your ears that did it—that and worshipping Shar. Bezrar neither liked nor understood Surth’s love of cruelty, but there were times when it came in right handy—stop me vitals!—such as, well, now, for instance. He shook out the hood Surth handed him and held it up, preparatory to yanking it over his head.
“Sit down first,” Surth advised him coldly. “ ’Twould be less than amusing to see you stumbling around all this chaos putting the point of your shears through an eye—or perhaps me.” Surth made the dry little snort that signified he’d uttered a joke and added, “Come on. The night won’t last forever, you know!”
“Odd’s fish, no!” Bezrar agreed enthusiastically—if in muffled tones—from within the hood. And promptly stumbled backwards to sit down in his chair with a resounding crash. Surth rolled his eyes in disgust as he watched the fat and hairy fingers of one sundry-wholesaling hand grope around among the litter of papers like a drunken spider, seeking the shears that lay ready gleaming less than a fingerlength away.
His own hood was already prepared and—he jerked it down savagely and settled it with an impatient jerk—on. “Bezrar,” he said warningly, in tones that produced the expected result: a frantic flurry of activity that sent the wholesaler’s chair creaking.
“Yes, yes, aye, yes!” the frantically snipping wholesaler responded, ending with a triumphant, “There!”
“Luminous,” Surth told him in a voice that fairly dripped sarcasm down the walls. “Now, shall we—?”
“Yes, yes, of course, b’gads!” The fat wholesaler heaved himself up like a walrus conquering a shore-rock, puffed his way toward the door—and halfway there smote his forehead, turned to pinch the lamp out and snatch up his ready-scabbarded longknife—a truly impressive specimen of the curved Marsemban fish-gutting blade—and turned back to his partner with the sudden question, “What if they’re not there?”
Surth set his teeth. “Then we’ll try again another night,” he explained patiently. “No one swindles ten thousand in gold from Mal—from us and lives to whistle away with it.”
“But … but what if they are there but are ready for us? With dark spells, say?”
Malakar Surth put his hand to the door and replied, “I have a … business associate who can step in, if need be.”
“Eh? What kind of a ‘business associate’?”
The tall, thin shadow silhouetted in the nightgloom of the doorway murmured, “Bezrar, the time for silence is come. Of my associate, let’s just say, his spells are darker.”
* * * * *
Narnra swallowed, or tried to, but seemed to be floating in calmness, in the midst of glory, enthralled by that great yet gentle voice. So this is a god.…
Slack-mouthed in awe, most of the War Wizards went to their knees in the cellars as the thunderous voice of their goddess rolled and echoed around them. The Harpers stood staring wide-eyed at the two Chosen, in hopes that they’d see something—however brief and fleeting—of the Mother of All Magic.
Something awakened in Narnra’s mind as she crouched, trembling in awe, something that seemed to find and sort through seven blue-white stars curiously … then smile in an echo of the earlier smile that had washed through the Silken Shadow.
Narnra Shalace wept inwardly, frozen like stone, as Mystra regarded her personally and let new blue-white fire flood into those stars, leaving her quivering.…
Which was why she was the only person in the room who did not hear every syllable of Mystra’s mind-voice:
AS A SMITH TESTS AND TEMPERS A BLADE,
THE DESIGNS OF THE MAGES OF THAY CAN AND SHOULD BE RESISTED AT EVERY TURN—YET IT IS MY WILL THAT THAY’S INCREASED MERCANTILE SPREAD OF MAGIC CONTINUE, FOR NOW. YOU WERE RIGHT TO SLAY THESE, ALASSRA, BUT TO JOURNEY NOW TO THAY AND INDULGE IN SLAUGHTER OF OTHER RED WIZARDS WOULD BE WRONG. THEY’LL OFFER YOU SPORT IN AGLAROND ITSELF SOON ENOUGH.
A MORE IMPORTANT CONCERN IS FOR YOU, ELMINSTER, TO DEAL WITH: YOUR ONETIME PUPIL, VANGERDAHAST. HE’S NEITHER AS FEEBLE NOR AS FORGETFUL AS HE’S LED CALADNEI TO BELIEVE. MAKE SURE, EL, THAT HE’S TRULY CONSIDERED ALL IMPLICATIONS OF HIS UNFOLDING PLANS AND ISN’T JUST BEING SELFISH. FOR ME TO PRY WOULD BE TO RUIN HIS WORK—AND FURTHER ENDANGER CORMYR.
Most of the Cormyreans in the cellar were cowering or shaking with awe at the sheer weight and power of Mystra’s presence, as her mind-voice thundered on. They were too enthralled to faint or become numbed. The mere contact made every mind alert and afire—but Mystra’s last sentence was the first that made the Mage Royal of Cormyr go pale.
The greatest state secret of the realm, laid bare before all.
She swayed, feeling sick, and fought down the sudden urge to cry. After all the secrecy, innocent folk mind-blasted or slain to make them forget what they’d seen, and the torment of facing nobles and War Wizards and courtiers, all hostile, before she was ready … all that work swept away in an instant.
Whereupon two gigantic eyes opened out of nothingness behind Elminster and the Simbul and stared right through them at Caladnei. RECKLESS IDIOCY, PERHAPS, BUT BRAVELY DONE, CALADNEI OF CORMYR. MOREOVER, YOUR SUSPICIONS OF NARNRA ARE WELL FOUNDED. NO SECRET CAN BE KEPT FOREVER, AND YOU HAVE SHIELDED IT—I HOPE—JUST LONG ENOUGH.
Caladnei stared into those great glowing orbs, fighting to find words as exultation rose in her, her face awash in sudden, silent tears.…
A lone, hooded figure in leathers sprang out of her crouch and was away like the wind, sprinting across the cellar floor as swiftly as any arrow. A few blue-white stars seemed to curl around her heels, just for an instant.
Glarasteer Rhauligan shook himself like a wet dog and burst out of his own trembling rapture at a run, slapping something into Caladnei’s hands as he went.
She stared down at what she held, not comprehending what it was for a mind-whirling moment: a gleaming steel vial.
Drink, his firm, warm mind-voice came to her, along the spell-link that hadn’t yet expired, and be healed. Worry not; I carry two more.
Only one other Harper scrambled to intercept the racing Silken Shadow. Narnra flung her last purse of sand into his face, vaulted a trembling War Wizard, and was gone up the stairs, panting for breath.
The older, stouter Rhauligan lumbered along in her wake at a slower, grimmer speed, threading a less bruising way through the enthralled crowd of Cormyreans.
Through the mind-link of tumbling stars, the amusement of a goddess crashed over them all in a vast flood, forcing most in the cellar into helpless, gasping laughter.
As they rocked and slapped thighs and shouted helpless mirth, those giant eyes winked out, Elminster and the Simbul vanished along with all their mist-curling radiance—and the overwhelming presence of divinity was suddenly … gone.
Laughter died swiftly, as half-dazed War Wizards and Harpers clutched at each other for support, blinked, and sighed their various ways down from rapture. Many started swearing, and not a few bent over to brace themselves like winded soldiers and collect their wits.
“That … that was something,” a grizzled Harper said weakly, grounding his sword. Beside him, two War Wizards turned and embraced each other, their uncontrollable shudderings slowly slackening into tremblings.
Standing alone still facing the dark emptiness that had held two Chosen and their goddess, the Royal Magician of Cormyr stood shaking and silent, clasping the vial to her breast and weeping uncontrollably.
A woman in trim dark robes slipped out of the crowd of Cormyreans and went to Caladnei. She was careful to circle around the Mage Royal so as not to startle her by clasping her from behind—but never slowed in her advance.
Without really looking up Caladnei saw a lock of hair that had recently gone white amid many tresses, and its owner’s erect and graceful walk, and knew as gentle arms went around her that her comforter was Speera.
Laspeera. She wasn’t sure she quite dared to call Laspeera Inthré Naerinth, the second-in-command of the War Wizards for many of Vangerdahast’s years of service, by the nickname the royal family used for her. Laspeera, the lady she’d been afraid would resent and attack an unknown adventurer from Turmish, anointed out of nowhere by the increasingly difficult and much-feared old Vangerdahast … but who’d instead become a firm friend, remaining a loved and trusted diplomat and a cheerful tower of strength and moral guide for the War Wizards and the nobility of the realm alike.
Not for the first time, she wondered what Laspeera’s true thoughts were, behind her unfailing graceful politeness. Many a courtier could act and speak one way and believe and covertly advance quite another, and far too many kings had fallen by trusting the wrong smiling face for too long.
Yet she could not stop crying, and Speera’s arms were warm around her, rocking her as affectionately as an older sister might.
“One of the high points of any life, yes,” Laspeera murmured, “and so of course devastating when it’s over … but Cala, life goes on, and there’ll be others—if you work to make them happen.”
That jerked Caladnei upright, to stare at the older War Wizard. “Speera?” she blurted. “You called me ‘Cala’!”
Laspeera winked at her. “Mystra take me,” she murmured, “so I did. How presumptuous and graceless of me. My tongue must have run away with me.”
She kept hold of Caladnei and so was ready to catch her when the Mage Royal collapsed into sudden, snorting laughter.
Six
A KNIFE IN EVERY HAND
There’s one sure way to know ye’ve reached a city where merchants rule: ye’ll see a knife clutched ready in every hand. If the merchants have gone so far as to practice the misrule of kings, some of those hands will no longer be attached to bodies.
Sabras “Windtrumpet” Araun
One Minstrel’s Musings
Year of the Highmantle
One of the highest peaks of the Storm Horns, that great shield-wall of mountains that defend Cormyr’s western flank, is Tharbost. “The Lord of Storms,” some call it, and it glares eternally out over Tunland, so high and wind-shrouded that few creatures lacking wings know that the lofty tip of its spire was broken off in dragon-battle long ago, leaving behind a small, flat high table. A rampart of teethlike rocks at the western lip of this lofty perch affords a little shelter against the full raking fury of the winds, so when breezes slacken, humans who somehow reach the summit of Tharbost might hope to stand thereon for a short time before the tireless wind-talons pluck and whirl them down again.
Two humans were standing there now: figures that had simply appeared there out of what minstrels were wont to call “empty nowhere” moments before, without any fuss of flowering magic or deadly struggles of climbing.
The wind moaned in a deadly rising, whipping the tattered black robe one of them wore up into a most immodest flapping, but she stood unconcernedly—showing no signs of struggling for balance or feeling the icy wind-chill—side by side with a figure who spat out the end of his beard for the third time and muttered a small, sharply worded magic to keep it down.
The Simbul grinned at him. “Strange, how you worded your cantrip to tame your beard but not my dress.”
“Presume to alter the fashion statement of a woman who’s also a queen? I’m widely considered a meddling fool, Lady Fire, but I’m not that much of a meddling fool.”
Though the sorceress no more than smiled fondly, merry laughter rolled around the summit, shaking Tharbost and setting some of its rocks to singing out echoes.
THIS IS WHAT I MISS MOST ABOUT LAYING ASIDE MORTALITY, Mystra told them a trifle sadly, when she’d mastered her mirth. NO ONE
TEASES ME.
Elminster lifted his head, grin widening—and his beard promptly flew up into his face to forestall whatever he’d been going to say.
NO, OLD MAGE, THAT WAS NOT A REQUEST FOR YOU TO START DOING SO. HEAR AND BELIEVE. As a coda to that emphatic statement, Elminster’s beard slapped down to its tamed position once more.
The Simbul promptly burst into laughter at his revealed expression, so it was left to the long-suffering onetime Prince of Athalantar to observe, “Ye cannot have snatched us here, Divine One, just to hear us banter. Ye’ve more to impart, eh?”
OF COURSE. WHENEVER POSSIBLE—ALASSRA SILVERHAND, HEED ME TRUE!—YOU ARE TO SUBVERT RED WIZARDS RATHER THAN SLAUGHTER THEM.
The Simbul lifted an eyebrow. “ ‘Subvert’?”
LAY DEEP-MIND SUGGESTION SPELLS TO GENTLY NUDGE THE THAYANS INTO ACTING AS I DESIRE THEM TO. SOME WILL YET HAVE TO BE SLAIN, BUT TOO MANY HAVE A CAPACITY TO CRAFT NEW MAGICS AND EXPAND MORTAL USE OF THE WEAVE, TO LOSE THEM ALL.
“I hear and obey,” the Simbul said formally, bowing her head. “In truth, my … bloodlust when it comes to Red Wizards increasingly frightens me. I’ll stay my hand and do as you command. Guide me as to the actions you want them steered into.”
“I hear and obey,” Elminster echoed, “and will do the same. Command and guide us.”
I SHALL. THANK YOU.
The rising wind whistled around them, heard but unfelt. It whipped away their breath in long, fleeting plumes as the Chosen waited, finding themselves after some dozen plumes had raced away east still standing on the desolate mountaintop, beneath a sky of uncaring stars.
“There’s more, Divine One,” Elminster observed calmly, not leaving it as a question.
The rocks around them seemed to sigh. YES.
YES, THERE IS. The wind moaned higher. MOMENTS LIKE THAT MOOT IN THE CELLARS MAKE ME FEEL VERY … MORTAL AGAIN. UNCERTAIN. UNSETTLED.