by Ed Greenwood
The lord of the Brotherhood made a certain sign in the air before him, and a beholder that had hung invisible over the bowl until now faded slowly into view, its dark eyestalks coiling and writhing menacingly.
Manshoon made a slight bow in its direction and said, “Watch well, Quysszt, as you always do. You have my permission to act freely to keep things here as we have agreed.” He smiled slowly, turned away, then looked back and added, “Guard yourself, my love.” It was unclear if he addressed the silent, white-faced Anaithe or the beholder looming low above her head. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep favored the wizards with a calm, deadly look and went out.
The sigh of men letting out long-held breaths was audible all over the room. A moment later, it was underlaid by the deep, dry humming few men hear and live long enough, thereafter, to tell of: the sound of a beholder chuckling.
As the sound grew, the gathered Zhentarim suddenly recalled various urgent tasks and concerns that required their immediate presence elsewhere. The room emptied in almost undignified haste.
The eye tyrant’s mottled body descended slowly into the glowing water of the bowl, and the sound it made deepened into the gentle, steady humming of contentment.
A rat scuttling across a far corner of the room stopped, amazed, at the sound. An eyestalk turned its way almost lazily, and the dark rodent was plucked into the air. It soared helplessly into the gigantic, crooked, many-toothed maw of the monster, which opened to receive it. With a grunt of satisfaction, the beholder settled into the water and rolled.
When it rose up, dripping, it began to indulge itself in one of its favorite amusements: spitting the bones of prey at nearby targets.
Nearby stood a lifelike statue of a nude woman holding an oil bowl over her head. Whispers among the Brotherhood that this brazier was a captured slave turned to stone were supported by the expression of terror on the openmouthed stone face. Quyssztellan turned slightly in the air above the bowl, and the rat’s freshly bared skull struck that mouth with such force that the bone shattered into dust and fragments.
The beholder chuckled again and chose another target.
“Where will it all end?” Nouméa’s voice was anguished. “And why was I ever chosen as Magister? I am too weak for this. Mystra needs a war leader among archmages now, not my feeble powers and doubting.”
The tall, slim, conical column of silvery gray light beside her emitted what could only be called a mind-sigh. Its mental voice echoed in her head.
Ye were chosen, and the Lady is seldom mistaken. Thy kindness and care will be much needed in time soon to come. After the destroyers lash out, the harder task must follow: rebuilding, so that the next destroyer will have something to work upon. The silvery cone flickered, and tiny motes of light drifted about within it. Be of stout heart, Lady Magister. We shall all have need of thee.
Nouméa brushed long hair back out of her face for perhaps the six thousandth time since the Lady had fallen silent. “But how can I fight Manshoon? I have not his power, nor his—ruthlessness. I was not made to slay or lay cruel Art upon anyone.”
Ye will do what ye must, as we all do. And soon ye must curb Manshoon. He grows ever more powerful, and there are no gods to gainsay him. Azuth’s mind-voice sounded grim, resolute. Have ye not understood what we have seen of his doings?
The Magister swallowed and nodded. “That spell he devised, it urges on wildness in Art. When he casts it on mages or their spells, their Art is more likely to go awry and destroy them, or bring harm to them through the anger and fear of others.”
And so, daughter of Art: what must ye do?
Nouméa brushed hair back from her face again and drew herself erect. Her skin had turned the color of fresh-fallen snow, but her face was set in determined lines. “I must fight Manshoon.” She stared into the darkness around them for a moment, looking regal and serene in her power. Then she turned to the silver-hued cone and seemed to crumple.
Trembling, she whispered, “Lord Azuth, I am afraid.”
Afraid? Of Art?
“No,” Nouméa gasped into the silvery light, “I’m afraid that when I strike with Art, I’ll find … I enjoy it.”
If ye do, does that give thee the license to do nothing, Lady Magister?
The slim maiden shook her head. “Against gods, I cannot act. Against runaway mages, I must act.”
The silvery cone that was all that was left of the Lord of Mages sent her a warm, comforting mind-touch of agreement and satisfaction. Nouméa embraced it suddenly, weeping. Where her tears fell on the warm, electric softness of the glowing cone, tiny winking lights were born.
Laeral watched the delicately fluted wineglass float silently and smoothly toward her. When it paused before her, she thanked it gravely. Lathlamber sparkled and glowed within. She smiled, and her slender fingers closed gently around the warm crystal.
“Lord?” she called softly, knowing he who sent it must be near. In answer, the table grew a fluid, shifting wooden hand, reached out to her leg, and scratched her … just on the itch where her boot tops always chafed. Laeral purred contentedly and sighed, “Oh, Khel—I do love you.”
“I know it,” came a quiet reply from her feet. The grave face of the Lord Mage of Waterdeep rose out of the floor and ascended steadily as his body floated up through the solid, polished obsidian slabs.
Laeral’s dark, beautiful eyes widened for an instant over the wineglass. Then they crinkled into a smile of pure pleasure. “You never cease to amaze me,” she said lightly, set down the glass, and threw her arms about him.
They embraced, there in an upper room of Blackstaff Tower, kissing in fondness and then in passion. After fiercely embracing one another for a time, they loosed and studied each other, and sighed as one.
“More bad news, Lord?” Laeral asked, knowing her lord and love well, and reading in his face more than he ever thought it showed.
Khelben nodded, unsmiling. “Chaos grows across the Realms. Beasts not seen in an age swarm over the land, roaming even into the streets of large cities like Iriaebor and Crimmor. Brigands and all manner of orcs, drow, and goblinkin are on the move, raiding, and from everywhere come reports of religious fanatics burning, slaying, and inciting others to open war. The gods themselves are walking Faerûn, destroying this and ordering that—and always, Art grows wilder, less reliable, more savage and apt to have unforeseeable effects.”
Laeral nodded. “So much has been apparent for some days, Lord. Yet I sense a darker shadow. Unburden yourself, please. We work better together than when one of us broods alone.”
Khelben smiled. “I apologize … I can see myself when you speak so. Well, then, my dark thoughts are bent on Manshoon of the Zhentarim. He has set to work in all this fright and wild worry to develop a spell that augments the wild effects of other spells. He’s been using this dark magic to turn the Art of foes back on them, or to bring harm through the wild effects of twisted spells.”
Laeral nodded, her eyes large and dark. “So I have heard from two sources, now. You have seen him work this?”
Khelben nodded grimly. “It is high time, and past time, that we dealt with the Black Master of the Zhentarim, whatever the cost to us. I think I shall begin preparations.”
Laeral reached for him. “The danger! Especially now, when our Art is needed to protect and defend, and this wildness of magic aids his dark spells.”
Khelben nodded again. “I know all this, and yet it is a responsibility I cannot evade longer. If Nouméa were more … warlike, the task is rightfully hers. But time passes, and his power grows, and she acts not. So …”
Laeral managed a smile. “If you go up against the Dread Lord,” she said quietly, “do not deny me room to stand at your side.”
Khelben came toward her then, opening his arms to her embrace. “No,” he said quietly, “that one thing at least I have learned in our years together. I will not try to keep you from the fray, or tell you what is wisest and safest, or try to shield you. I love you too much, Lady, to so
insult you anymore.”
A thought then came to him, one he’d had several times before. Nothing in all Faerûn tasted so sweet as one of his Lady Laeral’s kisses.
Long, skeletal arms went around the Old Mage. He took his pipe out of his mouth as he saw them come into view, turned smoothly within their tightening embrace, and said, “Ah, it is you. Well met, my lady.”
Then, without a trace of repugnance, he leaned forward and kissed the tattered skin and bared bone and teeth of the undead thing’s grinning mouth.
“Oh, Elminster,” came a loud, dry voice in reply. “The years have dealt with you far more kindly than they have with me.”
“Not by my Art,” Elminster said gently, and his tone was sad. “I am as you see me now by the grace of Lady Mystra—and it is not, I must tell you, entirely a blessing.”
“Live by your charm, Old Spellhurler,” came the wry response, “and die by it.”
Elminster chuckled, then seemed to remember the shocked audience below. “Excuse me,” he asked, “but do you mind if I introduce you to my companions?”
“Not at all, El. They are welcome in my home.”
Elminster bowed to her as if he faced a queenly lady and not a mold-covered, half-skeletal horror clad in rotten rags. Then he turned and looked down over the balcony rail.
Three silent, openmouthed, wide-eyed folk stood with blades wavering in their hands, looking up and obviously not knowing what else to do.
“Will ye come up?” Elminster asked. “I’d like ye to meet the Lady Saharel, queen in this, her castle of Saharelgard.”
The undead lady came to stand at his shoulder and beckoned them with a smile. It looked ghastly, but its warmth was evident in her tone. “You may as well call it Spellgard, El. I’ve heard that name often down the years and become used to it. I think I’m even starting to like the name. Terribly pretentious, if I’d laid it upon this crumbling pile of mine, but rather impressive when bestowed out of fear by someone else.”
She leaned over the rail, her wild, gray-white hair trailing forward. “Come up, yes. Please come up, and excuse the mess and general … decay. I’ve not the skill at Art or practical knowledge to keep my home in good repair. Moreover, I sleep much of the time, and when I wake I half expect to find that the whole thing has come down on top of me and I’m buried under my own folly … not an unusual fate for wizards, I’m told.”
Elminster winced. “Ye haven’t changed,” he complained.
“Oh, no? Tell that to my mirror, the only one I haven’t broken in rage over the years. I was beautiful once.”
As Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr came hesitantly up the stairs, weapons sheathed, they saw Elminster draw the gaunt, long-haired lady to him. Her bared bones clung to his old arms.
“Ye still are, Saharel,” he said, “when I look at you, and not merely what’s left of your skin.” After a moment he grinned and added, “Didn’t I tell thee, once? Ye have beautiful bones.”
The undead lady in his arms sighed loudly and swung her skull-like face toward Sharantyr. “He hasn’t changed much, has he?”
Despite herself, Sharantyr came to a halt, but she managed a smile and said, “If you mean he was prone to shameless flattery and leering ways, when first you knew him, Lady—no, he has not.”
Then she forced herself to step forward and sketched a court salute, that archaic bob of one lady to another.
Saharel shuddered. “That didn’t catch on, did it?” Then she put bony fingers to her mouth. “Forgive me, Lady,” she said, quickly. “I did not mean to offend … I have had few visitors of thy gentle nature, and am somewhat out of practice at common courtesies. Pray accept my apology.”
“Lady,” Sharantyr said haltingly, “none is needed.”
The undead sorceress turned to Elminster and poked him sharply in the ribs. “Well, Spellhurler? I’ve never known your tongue to be so laggard before! You said you’d introduce us, and here I am speaking to a charming young lady and know not her name. What manner of gallant are you?”
“No gallant, Lady,” Elminster said in an affected mock-courtier’s voice, “but, I fear, a rogue.”
“Words more true were never uttered,” Belkram said to Itharr in a whisper loud enough to be heard all over the vast hall.
Elminster’s glare was lost in the mingled, tinkling laughter of Sharantyr and Saharel. The Old Mage sighed loudly, looked up at the ceiling (which offered him no visible support or even agreement), and said, “May I present the Lady Saharel, Sorceress of Saharelgard, of the High Mages of Netheril?” He knelt, and lifted his hand to indicate the undead sorceress. “The Lady Saharel!” he declaimed grandly.
The two Harpers bowed solemnly and Sharantyr repeated her salute. Elminster rose between them and said to Saharel, “Good lady, I present to you three distinguished adventurers of the sword. Firstly, the Lady Sharantyr of Shadowdale, Knight of Myth Drannor.”
Saharel stepped forward to lay a hand over Sharantyr’s. The bones were cold, smooth, and hard but patted her fingers reassuringly. “Try not to mind my looks,” came the dry voice. “I would be your friend.” Then she added, “I am glad to hear that Myth Drannor flourishes.”
“Well, actually,” Elminster said rather sheepishly, “it does not. It lies in ruin, but the Fair Folk have recently withdrawn from the elven court, and this brave lady is one of a band who have dedicated themselves to guarding the city from those who would pillage it, and to rebuilding its glory someday.”
“So how come you here?” Saharel asked, gazing at Sharantyr.
The ranger sighed and said, “I came to guard him.” She pointed at Elminster.
“Guard?” The undead lady, obviously astonished, turned to look at Elminster. “From me?”
“Ah, no—no,” Elminster said. “It’s a delicate matter. Oh, gods blast, ye may as well know it, too.” He straightened up. “The gods walk Faerûn, Saharel, even as we speak. They are thrown down among us by a greater power, and much of their might stripped from them. By Mystra’s will I hold much of her power, and the carrying of it has stripped from me the use of my own Art. I can’t conjure up even a hand-glow … and I must survive, to pass on what I hold to Mystra or to some mysterious successor she spoke of.”
He sighed and then grinned. “It’s all rather a mess, I suppose.”
“And I suppose,” Saharel said archly, “you’re going to try to pretend to me that you had no part in causing all this?”
“Ah, indeed,” Elminster replied. “For once.”
Two twinkling lights rolled in the skull’s empty eye sockets, a sight that made Sharantyr and the Harpers burst into helpless laughter. The glowing eyes came down to fix themselves on the two young men, whose laughter rapidly died away under the eerie scrutiny.
“And who are these two loud, handsome young men?”
“These are Itharr and Belkram,” Elminster said with a grand gesture, “of the Harpers.”
“Oh, so that caught on, did it? Welcome, gentle sirs, welcome.”
“That?” Itharr asked, guessing what she meant.
At the same time Belkram said, “Lady, we have come here from the High Dale by means of a magical gate, to defend Elminster. We have been given to understand that his survival, and that of the Realms entire, are one and the same.”
“Well, ye don’t have to be so melodramatic about it, lad,” Elminster said testily. “It’s not the first time around for me at this, ye know.”
“What?” the ranger and the two Harpers erupted, more or less together.
“Oh, no,” Saharel said, obviously enjoying this. “But come. Let us find a place where there’s furniture left to sit on in some comfort—the Fountain Hall, perhaps, so you can drink your fill. This one, at least”—she poked the Old Mage again—“is apt to flap his jaw so much he gets thirsty.”
“Besides,” the undead mistress of Spellgard added as she led the way from the balcony along a narrow, dark hall, waving aside cobwebs, and down a crumbling stair, “there are things I must te
ll you before I grow tired of your fearful looks, you young three. I’m an archlich, not one of your evil lichnee. I don’t eat people, or chill the life from them, or steal their spells or souls, or suchlike. It’s quite safe to touch me.”
“Aye,” Elminster agreed absently. Saharel favored him with a look. Elminster’s companions all saw it, in the darkness, by the light the archlich had begun to shed. Her hair and white flesh seemed to glow with a faint silvery radiance.
They noticed another curious thing. As Saharel walked along, her arm now linked with Elminster’s, she seemed to grow more substantial with each passing breath. Her silvery skin seemed to expand into the smooth curves of a tall, beautiful woman. Her face now seemed almost whole, and her eyes more the orbs of a living maiden than two weird, twinkling lights in the empty eye sockets of a skull.
“If I may ask,” Sharantyr ventured as they turned into a rubble-strewn gallery and walked on over the fallen, dusty ruins of arched double doors into a darker chamber, “what did that look mean, Lady? Or is it something private between you?”
The archlich, who swept along like a silvery beacon in the gloom before her, looked back. “It was, once. This old rogue of yours had the temerity to break my defensive spells and walk in upon me one night. In time, we … came to be lovers.”
One silvery hand, not quite all flesh yet, stroked Elminster’s cheek. Itharr shivered despite himself as they strode on in the darkness, and his hand crept to the hilt of his sword.
“It seemed the best way to end our rivalry,” Elminster murmured.
Saharel laughed. “So calculating, Old Spellhurler? You seemed rather … warmer, at the time.”
Elminster came to a sudden halt. Three swords grated out of their scabbards in response, but Saharel scarce had time to look her reproach their way before Elminster swept her into a tight embrace and kissed her. The tensely watching Sharantyr reflected, with sudden rueful amazement, that this is what bards meant when they sang “kissed deep, and with passion.” Their lips met and clung, and Saharel began to moan and murmur in Elminster’s embrace, and move against him, her tall body swaying.