“So Mystra doesn’t tell you everything as you need the information?”
“She would hardly be the Lady of Mysteries, were that so. Even this new Mystra understands that. No, she only leaves me with hints and reminders of previous omens, including some I haven’t seen since the day I was Chosen. Your face—tattoos and kiira and all—was one of those.”
“You knew all this would happen? You’ve known this was coming for sixteen years?”
“I’ve known something would happen for fourscore decades, Tsarra. I only knew, after we first met and I recognized you, what you were called. I’ve known for ages that you would have an important role to play for Mystra and her Weave. Beyond that, I don’t know your fate in this venture.”
“But you seem to know everything about Rhaelnar’s Legacy.”
Khelben snorted. “That’s because I made that all up. Only those fools who believe in it think they can find the Nether Scrolls by chasing down its clues. It is a logic-trap to hide a greater secret and to draw out those who might try and usurp power not rightfully theirs.”
“What?”
Behind them, Nameless took to the air again, a low growl that spread around the room as he flew and darted among the bookshelves to shake off the emotions he felt from his mistress. In response to her shout, the tall crystal spindles began to spin and hum an unearthly harmony.
“Don’t shout, Tsarra. It upsets your familiar and can disturb my Uvaerenni lore-crystals. Again, calm yourself or you’ll slip into another vision.”
For a few moments, the only sounds in the chamber were the dying hum of the crystals, Tsarra’s breathing, and Khelben’s footsteps as he paced from shelf to shelf. When he touched their spines, the books pulled themselves off the shelves and their covers flapped merrily to fly across the room and pile themselves upon the table. Khelben returned to the table and looked at Tsarra.
“You recall the troubles with the phaerimm two summers ago? All of these events have been imminent since then.”
“Don’t change the subject, Master. What do the phaerimm have to do with this?” Tsarra asked. “They haven’t attacked us or anyone else within hundreds of miles of Waterdeep, at least that we know of.”
Khelben waved one arm to the side, and hands grew from the table’s wood, both on its surface and along its legs, to grab fallen items. The hands reorganized the morass of books into neat piles until the area was cleared. He placed out one scroll and three large tomes in that area and gestured Tsarra forward.
“You’re neither ignorant nor stupid, Tsarra. I expected you’d have worked it out yourself already if we’d had a chance.” Khelben’s irritation came through his tone. “Very well. Simplest lore first. Against whom did the phaerimm battle most?”
“Netheril and its archwizards. So this is about the Nether Scrolls? But you said—”
“Patience. Did they have any other prominent foes?”
Tsarra smacked a hand down on the table. “The sharn! Gods, I feel stupider than an otyugh.” Her face went red from embarrassment.
“Don’t berate yourself,” Khelben continued. “This situation has more conundrums and enigmas within it than most wizards see in a lifetime. You demanded this knowledge, and we’re building it up from its most basic. Now, what is different about the Realms now compared to the past millennia?”
Tsarra’s anger flared again, but she kept her response civil. She hated condescension, but she knew Khelben meant to put her back in the place of the student. Still, two could play that game, and Tsarra recited Khelben’s lecture of the last month back to him: “ ‘Netherese walk the Realms again, and their myopic and self-serving use of powerful magic threatens all of us. They bring a darker magic not of Mystra with them that may have unforeseen effects upon the Weave. The Sharnwall that once hemmed in the phaerimm beneath Anauroch is no more. These two events above all others must be studied seriously, as I suspect they bring greater effects than are yet known. However, they are not to be feared—Fear keeps you from seeing what you need to see to counter a spell or divert a disaster. Respect your foes, understand all you can about each event, and never let your emotions keep you from learning all you can. Your lives may depend on it some day.’ ”
Khelben smirked at her and said, “Word for word. Good. Your eidetic memory’s intact. You had me worried for a while, my dear. Now, you’ve studied lore on Netheril in the past and you’ve had more experience than many with the sharn—at least more than most who still draw breath. Where’s the connection? You’ve got most of what facts you need, so put it together.”
Khelben’s face took on an eager yearning, one Tsarra used to see on her father’s face when they were hunting game for a feast.
Tsarrra paced around the table, since she thought better while moving and she wanted to get out from under his stare. Khelben watched her, rifling through the tomes without looking at them.
Tsarra started to consider aloud, “For some reason, the sharn attack us when we get Legacy artifacts together and the lightning strikes. They have some unknown link to both phaerimm and Netheril.” Thinking back on her research and an unfinished scroll on her desk, she remembered something. “Wait a moment—you had me studying any other possible methods of survival Netherese archwizards might have used to see if there are others out there. In Camarlenn of Hunabar’s Musings on Magic Past, he spoke of a theory that the sharn fought the phaerimm because they were transformed Netherese.”
“That is what that source says, yes.” Khelben said, with a nod. “Pray, continue.”
“I can’t. I tried to find sources he referenced, but our students’ library and those of five sages in the city didn’t have any of the relevant writings. I did find out that Malek Aldhanek—the mage-historian Camarlenn studied—was the court wizard of the first Laeral, the ruler of Illuskan and the first Witch-Queen of the North. He died—oh, Horned Lady, no!”
Tsarra interrupted herself as she heard and felt her ears fill with the roaring that heralded one of Danthra’s visions. Tsarra fought against it, but the vision proved too strong. She dropped to the floor just as she lost consciousness. Again, she smelled things before the vision took hold: dust, mildew, the tang of new leather, and the smell of unwashed men in close-quarters.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
2 Ches, the Year of the Laughing Swan
(816 DR)
“Jhaurn, where is Lord Bladestroll right now?” Malek thundered at his aide as the wizard exited the tower’s secret stairwell into the inner room of his sanctum. Jhaurn had been dozing by the fire, and his master’s entrance startled him right from his chair.
“Um, sorry, milord. Who were you looking for?” Jhaurn tried to compose himself and straighten his jerkin as he stood, not meeting the angry glare coming from Lord Aldhanek.
Malek glowered at Jhaurn. “Lord Rutyk Bladestroll. Baron of the Easting Marches. Tall man with a strange creature on his face he calls a beard.”
Jhaurn snorted then said, “I believe Lord Bladestroll is with our Lady Witch-Queen for a morning repast before departing to the Duke Zelhund’s estates to the south. He should be with her now, as she hardly sleeps in, much like yourself, milord.”
A small bell on the fireplace mantel chimed three times.
“Go through the passage, Jhaurn, and fetch Arms-Master Phommor and as many guards as can be mustered to the audience chamber. Tell him a coup is in progress and to protect Laeral,” Malek said, smoothing his long black hair back after shrugging off his filthy cloak.
“But Master, what about—?”
“Go, boy, with one last lesson. Trusted advisors must also be slain when attempting to kill queens, but queens are always more important. We shall meet at the Griffon Throne. Now go!”
Jhaurn hesitated only one last heartbeat and filled the archway to their chamber with sticky webs before he turned and opened the secret bookshelf door. “For a moment’s more preparation time, Master.” With that, he darted into the darkness, and Malek closed the door behind him.
&
nbsp; No noise from the outer room betrayed the assassins’ presence, but Malek knew magic he did not share with any, even his queen. Numerous spells lay within the tile floors of both chambers. He left the door less protected to avoid suspicion. Above the archway’s keystone hung a mirror. It showed Malek the shape of the outer room and four intruders marked as glowing dots on its surface—a pair flanking each side of the doorway. A small flame jetted into the center of the webs and consumed them quickly.
Malek concentrated and uttered some incantations. The first sounds of battle were the assassins’ yelps of surprise as the stone wall and floor reached out to grab at them and hold them fast.
Malek smiled and thought, Finally getting some use from my guardian enchantments.
He stepped through the archway, clapping to activate the magical shields his rings provided. As expected, a sword clattered harmlessly off his defenses.
He entered the larger front room, finding three black-garbed men held fast by large stone tentacles, though only two of them had their arms pinned.
“Have the Black Blades fallen so far as to not expect magical defenses in a wizard’s chambers? Now, tell me who hired you, or I’ll ask the wall to squeeze.”
From behind him came a sound of rustling fabric. Malek whirled around into a crouch, lightning scattering off his fingertips. The magical bolts crackled around him, striking and destroying the three darts coming from behind him. He faced his fourth attacker, and Malek smiled grimly.
“I should have known it would be you, Varret.”
“Southern scum of an outlander, you slight me even now? No wonder I chose to slay you instead of that hussy upstairs. I will have you address me properly before you die.” The less-than-honorable Lord Varret Tryshaln, Count of the Xornmoor Riding, glared and grimaced at him, his pale skin flushed red enough to match his unkempt and thinning hair. Dressed down from his usual foppish manner, Varret wore a brown robe and cloak with a hood. He gestured and hooked his thumbs together, sending an arc of flame directly at Malek.
The flames illuminated the edges of his magical shields, and the fire agate on Malek’s left ring began to glow ominously. While the flames licked dangerously close, Malek gestured with his left hand, and the flames leaped into the ring.
“Now, Lord Tryshaln, I’ve given you all the respect you’ve earned, but imagined slight is no impetus for treason. Put down your arms. Her Majesty’s mercy is far warmer than mine, I pray, and I have no wish to fight your family over your death.”
“The only deaths today shall be yours and the Witch-Queen’s, Tethyrian!” Varret’s face contorted with fury as he barked out an incantation that Malek had not encountered before. His curiosity slowed his counterspell, and he threw himself to one side to avoid the fiery dragon’s jaws that lunged from Varret’s cupped hands. The fire construct bit Malek’s lower torso and legs, and he screamed as the fire burned him. His clothes caught on fire, though the leathers fared far better than his linen shirt.
Despite the pain, Malek managed to thrust his left fist into the fire construct and scream, “Alakedarth!” The fires pulled into the ring’s gem, leaving only a shimmer in the air as the magic dissipated.
“I’ll add that ring to my wardrobe as Stornanter’s new Court Wizard, Aldhanek,” Varret promised as he moved closer and loomed over the prone Malek, his hands moving in intricate circles and his mouth muttering a new incantation.
Still too pained to stand up, Malek grabbed the edge of the rug and yanked hard, tripping up Varret and ending his spell.
“My turn, fool.” Malek whispered, and he cast quickly.
One of his simplest and newer spells, the magic touched the Weave of magic and the weave of Varret’s clothing. The robes, cloak, and hood writhed and constricted on the wizard’s body, making it hard for him to move or cast. Malek used the moments the spell bought him to pull the carpet the rest of the way from under Varret. As he rose, he kicked the mage in the stomach, knocking the wind from him and stopping his counterspell against the weaveweird. Just as Malek suspected, Varret planned defenses only against magic, leaving himself open to more mundane attacks.
Malek snapped out the small carpet with one hand, and the square Calishite rug remained level and floating on the air two feet above the floor. His other hand worked another spell over Lord Tryshaln. Malek didn’t seem to notice Varret finally gaining against his seemingly possessed clothes. Malek and Varret completed their spells one atop the other. A translucent sea-green dome appeared over Varret just as he unleashed a fireball, which, to his misfortune, remained inside the dome. Malek looked at the charred and damaged noble and his three accomplices still pinned to the walls and shook his head. He turned his back on all of them, hopped atop his small floating carpet, and with a few gestures and the pop of imploding air, he teleported away.
Malek reappeared in the audience chamber of Port Llast’s Griffon Palace to a scene of utter chaos. He had safely teleported into the upper dome of the chamber unnoticed above the archers’ perches. Blades clashed with blades, and spells flared in every corner. Malek immediately identified the main traitors—the Lords Elsmyth, Rushfire, Argentouch, and Bladestroll—and their retinues of guards and mercenaries. More than a dozen royal guards and almost as many traitors lay dead and bleeding on the stone floor. The Griffon Throne of the Witch-Queen was dark with blood, and Laeral, Witch-Queen of the North, lay sprawled alongside it, her short silver curls matted with blood. Barons Bladestroll and Rushfire bent over Laeral, stripping her of protective or life-sustaining magical items.
Malek spun some magic around himself, suddenly adding three identical images of himself. The four Maleks swooped down into the fray, keeping a tight formation, though each Malek seemed to do things slightly differently, standing, kneeling, or sitting on the carpet as he flew.
One Malek strafed the main knot of attackers with arcane bolts, and another dispelled the wall of flame that blocked the entry. The remaining pair swooped toward the throne and the downed queen. A pair of massive magical rams’ heads materialized in front of them and knocked both traitors away from Laeral and into the walls.
As one duplicate wove an occultrap around the stunned mages, Malek leaped off his carpet and threw his body on top of Laeral to protect her from any further attacks. Malek’s heart pounded as he rolled her over to find two daggers buried hilt deep in her stomach and heart. Her dark emerald eyes were glazed over, and she was barely breathing.
He struggled to save Laeral, but he had no more teleports memorized for the day. He let his awareness slip through his illusionary selves, seeing that the other wizards had taken the bait and concentrated all their spells on his images. Every spell just got absorbed either by the figure or its magical shields, causing them to glow.
“You’re too late, Aldhanek! We’ve killed her and taken her throne. Long live King Elsmyth!” Lord Argentouch boasted as he fired a barrage of magical purple missiles at the Malek closest to the door.
Malek only partially heard the boasts and the opposing spells. He willed the spell to its completion, so he could buy time for another more important working.
“Hang on, my queen,” he said, but Laeral could only blink and her breath bubbled in her throat. She failed to see the tears streaming down Malek’s face. “Stay with me, my lady. I swore to protect you, no matter the cost.”
Three glowing Maleks floated or walked to within arm’s reach of the four wizard-nobles turned traitors and raised their arms as if to cast a spell. Both the masters and their servants saw the threats and fired spells and arrows or other weapons at the glowing figures. With deafening roars, the images exploded, unleashing all their absorbed magic onto their targets through eyebeams, open wounds, or blasts from their hands.
With no time to check on his foes, the court wizard placed one hand on the throne and invoked its powers. A crystalline griffon stood where the throne had been, its massive form and wings providing some cover for the two wizards at her feet. With that action completed, Malek opened himself u
p to another working—one far more powerful, more intricate, and more personal. Malek’s fingers and eyes danced with silver licks of flame, and he incinerated the two daggers in Laeral’s body. She screamed as the daggers dissolved, and she slumped in Malek’s arms.
“Laeral! Laeral!”
Malek heard someone barking orders and the twang of bowstrings behind him, but all that seemed miles away. His world was only the bloodied face in front of him, blurry through his own tears. Malek cradled Laeral’s head in one palm and whispered to her, the silver flames in his eyes growing and flames creeping from his other hand into her wounds.
“I loved you from the moment I first saw your face—three centuries before you were even born. I am yours, forever and always, through as many lifetimes as we may share. Ignore the poison, love. Ignore the pain. I have a gift to share that can save you if you let it. If your will is not enough to revive you, take my love as well!”
Malek kissed her deeply, forcing power down her throat and suffusing her with magical silver flame.
Let the silver fires spark within you, my love, and realize you are more than mortal. No more may I say, for you must learn your own destiny before we can be united again. Malek’s voice spoke within Laeral, mystically coaxing her back to life. You shall know me always. My truename, for you to guard in your heart, is Wrytham, and all I am I freely share with you. Know I shall always be a true servant of your mother and your soul’s mate. Now, heal in body and mind, until you are ready to remember and understand.
Malek felt Laeral’s heart start beating stronger and she began breathing again, without breaking the embrace the two shared. The silver fires receded as Malek let Laeral back down onto the marble floor. Both of them lay naked on the floor, the fiery magic that saved the Witch-Queen’s life having burned away their clothes. Moving slowly, as if in a dream, Laeral tenderly touched the hand-wide angry scar that crossed Malek’s chest from his left armpit down to his right hip.
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