"Very good, Meloon Wardragon," Tsarra said. "There's more to you than a great physique and a magical axe. I expected you to fight my harassment long before you ever got here. If Lauroun"-and here the ghost nodded toward Azuredge-"honors you with advice, listen to her. You're both defenders of Waterdeep now, and that's rarely the easiest path on which to walk. Are you certain you choose this?"
Meloon smiled and said, "And so the wagons toll."
"So be it, warrior," Tsarra said. "How do you know which door to choose, then?"
Meloon laughed and winked at her, then strode past her and through the servant's entrance. As he crossed the mist-enshrouded threshold, he heard Tsarra's ghost mutter, "Brawn and some brains when he chooses. Just like you, husband…"
Meloon's third step took him through the mists and into a decidedly cooler place.
And again, not where he expected.
CHAPTER 20
I worry for our son, my love. His temper is as yours was, though he has not my mother's gifts to protect him. Krehlan climbs to your example, but 'tis such a fall from so high…
Laeral Arunsun, Lifelong with Regrets, Year of the Wrathful Eye (1391 DR)
11 Nightal, Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
Renaer just stood and stared. After all he'd read about Blackstaff Tower, he'd not expected this. No one else was ptesent other than Vajra, and the room itself was tiny with barely room for Vajra and him to stand face-to-face. Its walls were made of some chilling, white energy. Touching them felt like brushing a hand against glacial ice. Pushing his hand farther through, Renaer quickly lost all feeling in his hand. The room's featurelessness frightened Renaer, as he tubbed his hand to restore feeling to it.
"Vajra, what's going on? Where's Vharem? And the others?" Vajra turned to him, a lone tear running down her cheek. She looked past his left shoulder and said, "I'm sorry, friends, for what we now must endure. I thought it safe, but the tower seeks to prove us worthy to walk its halls." Her form shimmered as she sobbed. "I'm sorry-and may Tymora bless you with good luck." As her voice wavered, she faded into a frail cloud of green mists, leaving Renaer alone.
He turned back to the stairs, only to find them gone. The white walls dissolved into mists that slowly rose and cleared. Renaer gasped, finding himself at an intersection among rows upon rows of bookshelves. In every direction, books rose on ancient wooden shelves up to a ceiling more than three times' Renaer's own height. He let out a low whistle, turned, and walked into another row, only to be faced by the same scene-thousands of books of all conceivable sizes and bindings.
Renaer reached out at random, grasping a red-leather bound folio off the shelf and opening it to its title page. The rich smell of vellum wafted over him as he read in elegant script "An Archmage's Life at Court, by Vangerdahast Aeiulvana." The scribe's notation at the bottom marked this as a personal copy for Khelben Arunsun, penned in the Year of the Crown, 1351 DR. More astonishing were brief scrawls of "Enjoy!" written by Azoun IV, and another hand writing, "Now you owe me your next," followed by an elaborate V. Renaer replaced the book with reverence, knowing this tome alone would cost him a month's worth of rents.
Renaer turned and grabbed a more modest brown leather book bound by straps. He gingerly undid them and opened Wanderings with Quill andSwordby Mirt the Moneylender, penned in the Year of the Bridle. Renaer's eyes widened as he realized the book had been copied that same day 130 years in the past! He put the book back and wandered down the rows of books, less frequently taking books down for identification as much as absorbing the variety and breadth of the tomes in Blackstaff Tower.
When Renaer turned down his twentieth row, he stopped in his tracks, startled by the appearance of someone in the library. More than ten feet overhead, a man stood on thin air at the high shelves, reading. The man's olive robes and hood hid his features, but Renaer noticed that his green boots showed no wear and tear on their soles.
"Forgive my intrusion, master," Renaer said. "Do you know where I might find Vajra Safahr or my other comrades?"
The figure barely twitched, though the man's left hand began a spell. Renaer watched carefully, but neither moved nor interrupted him. When the spell finished, a brief cloud of sparks surrounded the man's hood. "How did you know?" "Know what?"
"Not to fear the spell. Most folk would have dodged for cover behind the books when they noticed my working a spell. Are you simple, fearless, or some combination thereof?" The man's tone was haughty and condescending, a combination that set Renaer on edge.
"Even if I can't cast spells," Renaer replied, "I know how to identify which spells mean property or personal damage, and which ones simply mean the caster desires information for which he is too uncouth to ask directly."
The wizatd's head snapped toward him, and he pulled his hood back, glaring at Renaer. "The merchant class has grown ruder since my time." The man's hair, skin, and eyes were all varying shades of green, his hair and neatly ttimmed full beard a lighter mossy green than the rest of him.
"No ruder than you, ghost." Renaer said. "Now that you're done trying to distract me, why not test me? That's what you're here to do-test me to see if I'm worthy to accompany the Blackstaff inside her tower?"
"She's not the Blackstaff yet, nor are you protected by her hopes and promises," the ghost replied, and he descended to the floot to face Renaer as if he walked down invisible steps. "As for testing, let us commence with something simple. Who am I?"
"Krehlan Atunsun, son of Khelben and Laeral. You were never simple in life, and I doubt you are after death."
The ghost's eyebrows furrowed, but then rose and he chuckled. "Levity in the face of danger. You're a rare one, boy. How did you know me? I was dust before your father's birth."
"I assumed the most likely candidates to haunt Blackstaff Tower were those who bore its burdens," Renaer said, "and as Krehlan's silver hair from birth made him the only Blackstaff with one solitary hue in beard and scalp, it was a simple guess."
"Fairly deduced, Renaer Neverember," Krehlan said, and he smiled at Renaer's surprise. "Now, how do I know your name, if I have been dead and a ghost for two lifetimes or more?"
Renaer stopped and thought, then replied, "I know your previous spell won't reveal my name to you. While you might have been one of the many spirits possessing Vajra over the past few days, only two managed to stay in control for more than a moment or two, so I suspect you never overheard my name. Thus, I'm left to consider that a Blackstaff would know the identity of anyone who walks inside the tower, whether such detection and identification magic can be felt by the target or not."
"Well, which is it?"
"The last. I've read Maliantor's Eyes Open Always, which is considered the definitive tome on life in Blackstaff Tower in the fourteenth century. She talked about the Blackstaff knowing the location, identity, general mood, and intent of anyone inside the tower's walls, simply by his or her magical ties to the stones. I doubt that ended with your death, since at least a part of your spirit seems to remain here."
"And how do you know I'm not fully haunting the tower, awaiting resurrection?"
"You once penned a treatise on elven kiira based on your study of the kiira n'vaelhar worn by Tsarra, Kyriani, and yourself until the Year of Staves Arcane. I've read it, and you describe how kiira create a spirit template to hold and personify knowledge within them. They're less the actual person's spirit than a permanent illusion. You obviously did something with the gem and the tower, as your image retains the green of the gem, even though you've not worn it for sixty-four years."
Krehlan nodded, then waved Renaer toward another intersection of shelves. "Very well. You're at least as smart as most of the agents who've trod the halls of the tower in the past century. Why don't you avail yourself of the library? Discover things you'll never again have the chance to read?"
"On any other day, this labytinth might have kept me enthralled for ages. But not today."
"How can you resist? Surrounding you are books for which any wiza
rd, sage, or halfwit would give both his arms and read using his feet! All you need do is reach out and read them."
Renaer sighed. "I've already lost two arms because of Ten-Rings. Their names were Faxhal and Vharem. They were friends. My right and left arms, according to some. They are dead and gone, and all I can do is make sure they didn't lose their lives in vain."
"So what will you do?"
"Use what I alteady know. Your parents taught me that." Renaer fought off a smile when he saw the shocked look on the ghost's face.
Krehlan regained his composure and asked, "How did they teach you? You weren't alive in either of their lifetimes, and Father's spirit occupies another of your friends just now."
Renaet waved his hand around, gesturing at the books. "I've read any and all histories I can find about this city and its heroes. Your parents wrote at least seven books between them about the Waterdeep of their long lifetimes, and I own and have read five of them. I've even read Malchor Harpell's Two Mages' Legacies and SavengrifPs Swords, Spells, and Splendors. All of them taught me much about Khelben and how he thought, not to mention a few choice quotes that apply."
Krehlan's left eyebrow rose, and he said, "Indeed?"
"No, that one doesn't apply." Renaer laughed as he walked past Krehlan and faced the nearest bookshelf. "Your father said, 'The door to truth opens with knowledge. The door to knowledge opens when you admit you do not understand.' " Renaer paused as he realized the shelf ahead of him now glowed slightly-ot at least around the decoration on the spine of a massive hand-thick tome. He reached forward and said, "I don't know how to escape this room, but I'm willing to learn and accept such learning."
He reached out, grabbed the decoration, turned it, and the entire bookshelf opened outward as if it were a door. Renaer stepped through it, despite the icy cold draft coming from it.
Behind him, Renaer heard Krehlan mutter, "Stlaern. Took me seven years to realize that secret, and he figures it out in less than a day. He'll do just fine."
CHAPTER 21
The golden-haired half-elf Ashemman carried his mother's grace, his father's guile, and Art both learned and innate. Many said the fifth Blackstaffoutshone all but the first in statecraft.
Sarathus Hothemer, Blackstaves: Their History, Year of the Forged Sigil (1459 DR)
11 Nightal, Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
Laraelra found herself at the top of a stairway. Behind her, a chamberlain announced in a loud voice, "The Honorable Guild Master Malaerigo Harsard and retinue."
Laraelra was shocked to note her friends were gone, and she was on the right arm of her father, his other arm attached to Yrhyra, his latest companion, a giggly and short but buxom auburn-haired lass several years younger than her. Malaerigo held tightly to Laraelra's arm, leading her into one of her most hated arenas-a noble's feast. She recognized the green-marbled setting as the Ralnarth noble manse off of Vhezoar Street.
Laraelra found herself wearing a summer-weight gown of deep purple with black and red highlights, her boots replaced by heeled shoes of crimson that made her ankles ache in three steps. Her long black hair no longer hung loose and straight down her back, but was up high above her head in an elaborate Mulhorandi headdress. Her dress was immodestly cut and tight, its front dipping far lower than Laraelra liked, as she normally disguised her slender-to-gaunt figure in layers of clothes. Yrhyra in contrast reveled in the attention her nearly exposed and more curvaceous front garnered her.
Malaerigo also had dressed up beyond his usual attire, slicking his normally unkempt brown hair back on his head and shaving, which exposed the line of moles down his right cheek. Laraelra knew this was an illusion, despite all the evidence-including the proper smells and sounds-merely because her father had always been too cheap to own such well-tailored clothing of red silk and black leather.
Laraelra looked around the crowd surrounding them, not resisting the hold her father had for now. She searched for familiar faces-specifically those with whom she had come to Blackstaff Tower. Perhaps they might have answers. While Malaerigo whispered this or that wrong someone in the crowd had done to him, Laraelra spotted Vajra off to one side.
When she made as if to close with Vajra, Malaerigo held her wrist. He continued smiling broadly and nodding at passersby, but his harsh whisper chilled her. "Child, don't shame me in front of these folk. You'll go where /direct, not where you will."
Even for an illusory duplicate, Laraelra felt the all-too-familiar anger at her father's intransigence. She considered exposing the illusion for what it was, but decided to manipulate it to uncover its true purpose.
"Fathet, I merely sought to steet us away from another dreadful encountei with that coin-sucking Amnian harpy, Lady Kastarra Hunabar."
As expected, her father's face paled to an ashen gray as he scanned the crowd and spotted the large olive-skinned woman with blond hair heading their way. Laraelra managed to steer them behind another crowd of folk behind Vajra.
"Vajra?" Laraelra said. "Milady Safahr?"
Vajra turned to her, a lone tear running down her cheek as she looked straight into Laraelra's eyes. "I'm sorry, friends, for what we now must endure. I thought it safe, but the tower seeks to prove us worthy to walk its halls." Her form shimmered as she sobbed. "I'm sorry-and may Tymora bless you with good luck." As her voice wavered, she faded into a puff of green vapor, leaving Laraelra adrift in a sea of politics, people, and pageantry-three things she avoided as much as possible.
"What are you doing talking to the Blackstaff s heir, Daughter?" Malaerigo said. "Like every wizard, she tries to pry secrets out of evety honest man's brain. Never trust anyone touched by magic, especially those in power."
Laraelra stopped and stared at her father, wondering how he had forgotten her own abilities.
"Wizards are icky, Mally," Yrhyra cooed at him. "I don't let them use their wands on me now that I got you."
"Hush, Hyra." The guild master's grip on his daughter's arm tightened. "What does that Tethyrian bitch know about you or about our guild? Is that why she was talking to you-trying to muscle in on my control through you? That's exactly how our oppressors operate, you know… stealing secrets and-" In a heattbeat, Malaerigo's visage and voice shifted from angry diatribe to pleasing sycophancy. When Laraelra responded to his turning her around, she saw to whom his smiles went. "Why, Lord Gralleth, how marvelous to see you! I hope you're happy with the solution we came up with for your property on River Street. Here, my lovely daughter will keep your son from getting boted while we talk business."
Malaerigo nearly shoved Laraelra into the arms of the younger Lord Gralleth. While she was relieved to be away from her fathet, Laraelra now despaired as the adolescent and far-shorter Rharlek Gralleth boldly placed his cheek against her exposed cleavage, smiling lecherously as he lisped, "A pleathure to meet you, lovely lady. Let uth danth and you may tell me all about yourthelf."
Unlike most other women in the party, Laraelra did not find Rharlek fascinating ot atttactive, despite his social and financial prominence. She saw him as he was-a squat, poor-complexioned boor with bad teeth, worse manners, two left feet, and a wasted education. Still, she had something to learn here, so she continued to play along.
"Milord Rharlek, I hope nothing is amiss at your mansion on River Street. It's such a marvelous example of modern Tethyrian architecture-definitely something to gentrify Trades Ward, if I may say so."
"You may, my dear," he replied, readjusting his too-tight grip on her hip. It took some work for Laraelra to keep them even barely in step with the dance, not that Rharlek noticed either the beat or the other dancers. "No, there'th nothing wrong, unleth you count thievth coming up through the thewerth."
Laraelra kept her interest from her face. "Surely my father has put the guild to work to prevent any such incursions ever again."
Rharlek nodded. "Yeth, but we're more interethted in where they came from, becauth they theemed to have Jceyth to many lockth in my houth."
Laraelra gaspe
d, "Oh my goodness!" both to this and to Rharlek's exuberant entry into the next dance atop her right foot. She knew the younger man wanted her to ask what was stolen so he could brag about his family riches, but she took another tactic. "I'm glad no one was hurt by the intruders. Isn't it awful, the lawlessness in the city? You'd think the Blackstaff or someone could do something about that."
With musicians playing an exuberant dance, the pair whirled about the room. Laraelra nodded at a number of other women, all of whom would gladly be in her shoes, no matter how often their feet were trod upon. Her smiles were met with scowls or outright fury, and one woman even stormed across the floor toward them. Laraelra carefully timed her minor magic and prestidigitated the front of the woman's dress beneath her left foot. The youngest Lady Korthornt sprawled forward with a scream, her sliding fall knocking four other dancers down with her.
Rharlek did not even see the woman tumble on the dance floor, but with unexpected deftness, he maneuvered Laraelra into a double-whirl off the floor and through a side door from the hall. With a flick of his wrist, he spun Laraelra onto a divan, and he closed the doors behind them. Before he turned around, his hair lightened to golden blond and lengthened until it nearly reached the floor. His back remained slender but grew taller, and his garish purple velvet outfit became a wide-necked robe of scarlet. The man turned around, and Laraelra saw a variety of sigils and designs tattooed in black and blue across his chest, shoulders and neck, as his torso was exposed down to his lightly haired navel. The man's face was clean-shaven with hawklike features, and while she imagined he could be severe, she found his smile kindly and pleasant.
"You're good, but you overreached there. Do you know where?" he asked.
"Excuse me?"
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