Despite the distractions, the young wizard uttered the spell’s final syllables looking into Xaerna’s eyes.
“Xymmaoth Piurasjk Atox!”
Wincing from the pain of burnt skin, the wizard pulled all his limbs together, tucked himself into a ball, and fell backward through the window. The magic he cast remained on the windowsill and the wall, gold and red energies leeching into the stones.
“All that effort to escape, and he wishes to fall to his death? And what is that? Ahaud, do you know this spell?” Xaerna demanded. “It’s seeping into the stones, and I can’t dispel it!”
“I don’t know, Xaerna. I’ve never seen its like.” Ahaud glanced out the window, scanning down then up toward the tower’s peak. “The boy’s atop the roof!”
The mage shivered as wind and rain lashed against his naked form, but he smiled back at Ahaud as the drow clambered out into the night and started walking up the outer tower. The silent wizard took to the air and looped swiftly once around the tower. Then he slammed into it with his shoulder, screaming in pain as he hit. Ahaud could see the human’s shoulder was broken with bones jutting partly from his skin.
The drow’s satisfied smile lasted only moments as he realized the tower had shuddered beneath the impact. He saw the results of the earlier spell. Red and gold magic weakened mortar and stone. With the magically enhanced impact, the tower fell inward on itself.
In a matter of moments, Silorrattor lay in a huge mound of rubble and dust. The son of Arun barely even heard the screams of his former captors over the din of grinding stone. By the time he reached the ground as well, all was silent. Arun’s son groaned as even the slight jar from landing sent spasms of pain through his shattered shoulder. Still, he smiled grimly as a cloud of stone dust settled in the rain.
“They taught me enough, witch. They taught me architecture, to be sure.”
“Easy, Tsarra. I’m sorry—I thought the visions would ease on you in time.” Khelben’s voice penetrated her consciousness before her vision cleared.
“I don’t recall your other apprentices being so inclined to faint, Blackstaff.” Lord Wands chuckled as he held her on the opposite side. “Are you afraid of heights, my dear?”
Tsarra gulped as she got her bearings. They were back in Maskar’s study, and she lay on a divan in one corner beneath the windows. The sun was muted and much closer to sunset. “No, Lord Wands, I’m not. I think it was the smell that triggered the vision … or perhaps the sound of scraping stone …”
Maskar asked, “What visions are those? From that kiira you wear?”
“She sees my past, Maskar” Khelben said. “Amazingly, even before I was Chosen.”
Tsarra felt his concern and admiration, then was surprised as her master’s eyes rimmed with tears.
“I’m sorry this onus fell to you, Tsarra.”
Maskar had also moved closer, and he touched Tsarra on her shoulder. “My dear, are you wearing the Coronal’s Beljureled Belt?”
Khelben and Tsarra noticed the belt had become exposed from beneath her leather top. Maskar stared at the glowing green gems and gold scales alone, as did Tsarra—the gems and the buckle were the only things that didn’t seem to be part of her flesh! She touched it, and the gold scales shimmered, but they felt like skin.
“Yes,” Khelben sighed. “I’d not told her, as I didn’t want her intimidated by bearing one of Eltargrim’s gifts. Do not worry—its wearer can remove it at will. The merging is just another way to hide the belt from thieves.”
Tsarra smiled and ran a finger along the belt. “My mother taught me not to revere things over people, milords, and that all items are meant to be respected as tools and used, not feared or venerated.”
Khelben said, “That woman continues to earn my respect long after her untimely death. Yes, Maskar, you know I would only bring that item from the shadows for one reason.”
Lord Wands cleared his throat again and said, “So it’s that time, Blackstaff? Rhaelnar’s Legacy is to be fulfilled? That’s the third favor? Do I need to hide a Nether Scroll for you, should a foolish treasure hunter actually reform one?”
“No, old friend,” Khelben replied. “Rhaelnar’s Legacy is a blind that hides a greater secret, one I’d hoped to forestall for another three-score years yet. As my hidden foe now has two components I’d never expected uncovered, an inheritance more powerful than Netheril’s writings will soon rise. I need you—we shall locate the scabbard in our own way—to participate in a high magic ritual out on the High Moor on the Feast of the Moon.”
“High magic?” Maskar said. “I have neither elf blood nor that kind of intimacy with the Weave, old friend.”
“I have it on good authority we’ll have help in that regard.”
“Who can promise you that?”
The air around Khelben’s head shimmered slightly, a hazy halo of stars coming into view. His eyes were rimmed with silver, and Maskar and Tsarra both gasped as Mystra’s symbol manifested clearly for a breath before dissolving into the remnants of the sunbeam.
“Very well,” Maskar said. “What’s the task—fully restoring Myth Drannor?”
“No, though a few worthies of that realm may join us for the working. No, ’tis something older still. We need your wisdom as much as your knowledge of the Art for our ritual. Besides, you’ve little delight in these galas of overstuffed shirts. Join us at Malavar’s Grasp, and help us tame magic that has slept for millennia.”
“Getting away will take some doing, Blackstaff, especially if it needs to happen without undue notice. For me to disappear from my villa during a birthday feast in my honor will draw attention.”
“You’re capable of slipping away without anyone the wiser, Maskar. Besides, it has been a score of years since you reminded people you’re a wizard of power with many secrets they dare not invade.”
“Good point. My reputation is in need of repair, and it’s been longer since I’ve been well and truly surprised by magic. What you’re hinting at sounds too intriguing to miss. You have my promise to meet you at the Fallen One’s Fingers, aye. I cannot break away earlier than daybreak on the Feast, but I shall meet you at Malavar’s Grasp by moonrise, regardless of my family’s wish for a three-day-revel.” Lord Wands smiled as he shook both Khelben’s and Tsarra’s hands.
“Are you well enough, Tsarra? We need to move quickly now.” Khelben helped her into a sitting position.
“I think so,” Tsarra said, standing up and stretching. Her balance was restored, and she readjusted her top to cover the belt again.
“All right,” Khelben said. “Many thanks, Lord Wands. It is now time we consulted with another god. I’ve a feeling there’s much for us to learn at the feet of Oghma. Summon your tressym, Tsarra, and let us make haste for the Font of Knowledge. In the interests of both safety and propriety, we owe Sandrew the Wise a visit.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
29 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms
(1374 DR)
Raegar woke abruptly as the slap tore him from an exhausted slumber. What kept him conscious was the flesh-chilling cold from the lich’s touch, the marble floor, and the many other pains across his body. The stunning effect had long worn off, but the beatings and lack of sleep were having a cumulative effect on him. The late afternoon sun lit the upper dome of the Stagsmere entry chamber through its shattered skylight, but the rays were intermittent as clouds still gathered overhead, as they had all through the night and morning. While Raegar enjoyed the fleeting warmth of it, the afternoon sun in his eyes had lulled him to sleep for a time.
Raegar hated feeling helpless, but he could only turn his head from left to right. The night before, the lich had summoned and morphed a trio of skeletons into a bone cage that anchored him spread-eagled on the floor. Turning his head away from the lich, he could see his broken short sword, two of his daggers, and his magical rings in a clump against one wall, tossed aside when the lich’s spells overwhelmed and disarmed him. He couldn’t see where the lich had taken
the Diamondblade, but he was glad he didn’t need to dodge any lightning because of it.
“I realize you’re not genteel, Raegar, but you must stop falling unconscious when I’m talking.” The creature’s skull loomed close to his face, its soulless features even more disturbing up close. “You’re young, but Waterdhavians were made of sterner stuff in my day.”
Raegar spat a stream of invectives at the lich foul enough to make a Dock Ward sailor blanch. To his chagrin, no sound came from his throat due to a magic placed on him a few hours before. Raegar had been hurt many times by people and circumstances in the past. Never once had he ever felt so helpless. He pushed against the bone cage, but his efforts were less effective than they had been hours before. He was weak from exhaustion, but his hatred for his situation and his captor burned bright. The thief entertained methods of revenge and stored them away for more appropriate times to exact them.
“Yes, this is better … much easier with you incapable of interrupting me,” the lich gloated. “Besides, don’t you wish to learn more for those little scribes of the Font of Knowledge? Laughable, that they think themselves worthy to take for themselves the secrets wizardry has wrested from the cosmos. At least this venture has proven fruitful with a number of new pawns and Rhaelnar’s Legacy itself within my grasp.” The lich paced around the chamber, sprinkling an area with powders and herbs, gesturing mystically at various points, and obviously focusing on a major work of magic while simultaneously torturing the captive Raegar.
The lich had spent the past eighteen hours magically building something in this chamber and torturing Raegar for more information on Khelben and modern-day Waterdeep. The creature also lectured on the superiority of southern magic and the gentrific elegance that was the Shoon Imperium and its magical works. One thing the lich did not do was reveal his name to Raegar, which was fine. Raegar had more colorful names for him in his head.
I would gladly kill this lich simply to spare anyone else the boredom and pain, Raegar mused to himself. At least he’s taken off that skullcap and I’m able to think without him stealing my thoughts.
The thief shuddered when he felt the lich invade his mind and mine every detail of his life, significant or otherwise. His only pleasure came when the lich discovered how many insulting swear-word-filled names Raegar had silently given him.
That rattled him enough to shout, “Boy! You will fear the Fro—No. Very good, Raegar. Very good indeed. You’d almost wheedled my name from me. No, I want Khelben to go mad wondering who brought his plans down around his ears. Not until I am assured of victory will I face the Blackstaff again.”
More hours passed, and the only sounds in the chamber were the lich’s incantations and the whistle of the wind in the upper chamber around the broken masonry and skylight. The lich’s robes stopped directly in front of Raegar, and he continued a particularly complex incantation for a few moments. Raegar turned to look up at the creature, breathing through his mouth so as not to smell the dusty and pungent smell that came off the lich. He almost wished the wizard would reactivate that harness, if only to mask the creature’s smell and horrific looks.
“Why are you smiling, Raegar?” the lich inquired. “Thinking up petty revenge? Well, you shall soon be free of my skeletrap and back in the City of Splendors. All I need do is temporarily reset my newest portal to link with Kerrigan’s Gate that we used earlier. But first, a few preparations.”
The undead wizard knelt by Raegar’s left hand and placed a ring on it—the one that had sparked when close to the Diamondblade. Raegar got a good look at it when the lich walked away. The crude iron ring had an intricate silver emblem—a rack of antlers framing a tiny sword with a crescent moon for the sword-haft on the hilt. Raegar could not remember where he had seen this symbol in the past. He wondered why the lich would part with such a powerful item.
The lich returned with a pair of chain-mail gloves forged from four different metals. He cast a quick spell and touched Raegar’s forehead twice, then stood up. He said one odd syllable, and the bone-cage around Raegar clattered into an inanimate pile.
The thief knew better than to leap up, given how cramped and chilled his muscles were from lying on the cold marble all night and day. Raegar shook the bones off of him, never taking his eyes off the lich, and knelt while he stretched his arms and legs. The lich laughed his hollow laugh and tossed the metal-link gloves at him. Raegar let the gloves fall to his feet rather than catch them.
“Put them on, puppet,” snarled the lich.
Raegar’s stomach wrenched when his body obeyed without hesitation, slipping the metal gloves onto his hands. The rogue felt them clench into his skin. Raegar shot the lich a look of fury and hatred and mouthed another silent stream of invectives at him.
“Yes, yes, be angry if it helps,” the lich said. “You’ll still fulfill my direct instructions and be unaware of why you’re doing what you’re doing. The enchantment preventing your speech will also last a goodly time. Those gloves are yet another Shoon relic—the Gauntlets of the Syl-Vizar Tnarrak. They will remain linked to your hands until your death or until they hold my specified item—another Legacy artifact. Once they do, the gauntlets will come to me along with all they touch. Then you’ll be your own man. Of course, more likely you’ll also be dead at the hands of Khelben Arunsun.”
Raegar sidled over to his equipment, taking up his daggers and pocketing his two silver rings. He cast a wary eye at the poor black boots he found with his equipment. His own magical boots were missing.
The lich stared at him and pulled his hood back around his fleshless head as he said, “You’ll have to do without your boots, as I’ve another agent who deserves them. Now, stop delaying, Raegar, and walk across the mosaic. Oh, one thing to note—the sharn will detect magic on you from the Legacy artifacts once you use this portal. My suggestion when you arrive back in Waterdeep is to run quickly. We shall not meet again, little thief.”
Raegar, standing, noticed subtle differences in the chamber. What was once a smooth marble floor had magical runes etched into it by the lich’s spellcraft and powders. An intricate knotwork pattern encircled the center of the room. Inside that circle, the floor wavered with tremors of energy. Raegar didn’t want to step anywhere near it but found himself a passenger in a body that stepped forward as ordered. As he felt a magical tingle crawl up his legs and the portal enveloped him, he gestured rudely toward the lich, glad to have at least managed that small act of defiance.
Raegar stepped from thin air into the tunnel near New Olamn, and his head ached as it always did from teleporting. The pain wasn’t reduced by the scream of a startled horse, rearing up and away from this obstacle suddenly appearing in his path. Raegar dodged out from under the horse’s flailing hooves and noticed his body was wreathed in greenish sparkles as his arms came up to guard his face.
As Raegar broke into a light jog toward Swords Street, he watched the color of the strange light shift to blue. By the time he broke into a full run, the remaining sparks glowed purple.
Raegar had ignored the oaths and yells of passersby objecting to his magical arrival, but he dared a brief look back when the screams began. The rosy color of the setting sun illuminated the tunnel’s exits on both ends, but Raegar could still see lingering footprints glowing purple where he’d stepped. The shadows along the walls and ceiling dripped together around those sparkling prints. Familiar four-clawed hands reached from the shadows. The hapless horse Raegar had startled screamed as a toothy mouth erupted from the wall and savaged its hindquarters while other claws slashed at the horse’s rider.
Raegar ran as fast as he could from the tunnel and into the streets. He raced east, skirting the back of Shukar’s Chandlery, the Preening Peryton Inn, and the collapsed corner of masonry and wood that used to be the Pharraoth Alchymistary. His feet seemed directed toward Zelphar’s Walk until they slid out from under him, and he scraped to a halt against the outer wall of Soonymn’s Finecrafts. His head screaming with pain, Raegar looked up in
to the hate-filled eyes of Kemarn Darkthrush of Nesmé.
Raegar tried to push himself up but found the ground beneath him more slippery than ice. I thought only Damlath used that grease spell effectively, he mused.
He grabbed a dagger from his belt and threw it hard at Kemarn. The dagger hit the man in the arm, and the action as well as his grunt of pain was enough to disrupt the new spell Kemarn had been casting.
Screams closed in behind them as well as the screeching wail Raegar had heard at the Sleeping Dragon. He used the slippery spell to his advantage, spinning on his back then kicking hard against the stone wall to slide quickly across the street and away from Kemarn. When he skidded out of range of the spell, Raegar tucked into a backward somersault and drew his dagger from its sheath, rolling onto his feet in a defensive crouch.
The mage growled at him, “I owe you pain, thief!”
Raegar barely saw the gestures before four purple pulses of energy rocketed from Kemarn’s fingers. He gritted his teeth against the pain of the spell and scurried backward. Kemarn paused for a crucial second. Raegar sheathed his dagger and ran as he saw the sharn looming at the opposite end of the alley.
“Coward! The Darkthrush of Nesmé wants revenge!” Kemarn shouted, oblivious to the danger behind him. “You can’t run fast en—”
Kemarn’s taunting threats ended with a wet crunch and a muffled scream upon which Raegar had no wish to turn. He was too busy fighting the impulse that had his feet crossing Swords Street and mounting the stone steps leading up into the Font of Knowledge, Oghma’s great Waterdhavian temple.
Raegar took the steps two at a time and vaulted through the open doors into the Hall of the Binder, the three-story-high temple entry chamber. Dominating the stone-walled chamber was a massive green marble statue of Oghma as an unclad male with exceedingly long hair and a beard. The god’s muscular form was posed as if in flight, his left arm stretched out ahead of him and its fist more than twenty-five feet from the floor below it. In that fist was a golden scroll, long held by rumor to be either simple gold sheeting or some hidden secrets of the gods. Raegar remembered that Khelben the Blackstaff had donated the statue to the temple during its construction and claimed that it once blessed the grounds of the Binder’s temple in Myth Drannor. Behind the statue on either side were the two-stories-tall sets of double doors leading into the Great Library of the Binder, a four-story scriptorium and library that rivaled houses of learning centuries its senior.
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