Spellstorm (13 page)

He sighed. “More than that, the Weave is no longer as unstable, as awash with freed and dangerous power, as it was that day—and I and all who serve Mystra are trying to keep it from ever being so imperiled, so on the verge of utter collapse, as it was then. Nor would ye face a foe so bloated with excess arcane energy that ye could turn against him. I say again: I did not defeat the Most High of Thultanthar in a spell duel. There was no duel. I slapped him down with the Weave, in a way he did not believe
I or anyone had the ability to harness, and so he had no defense against it that he could craft in time.”

“And if you had failed?”

“Both the Srinshee and Larloch could have done it, and would have done it. Thy former master could probably have done it, too, but I know not if he could have grasped how to wield the Weave swiftly enough to stop Telamont ere the Most High carried out its destruction, as Shar had commanded. Ioulaum, last I knew, was … lost in his own contemplations.”

Tabra nodded sadly. “You describe him aptly. And I thank you for your candor. You have not the weapon I seek.”

Elminster nodded. “And I hope never to have it again. The risk to us all, to the Art we all use, is too great.”

“So,” Tabra said slowly, “in this place, here and now, where magic won’t obey us, you can’t use the Weave in its place.”

El looked back at her gravely, and said nothing.

They regarded each other in silence for a long moment, among the chatter up and down the room, ere Tabra observed quietly, “You’re not the prancing mighty spellhurler most think you at all. You are as … misunderstood as my looks now make me misjudged.”

El gave her a wry smile. “Don’t tell, now! I’m in disguise! And that same prancing mask I wear achieves much for me.”

Tabra crooked an eyebrow. The effect was grotesque, thanks to her misshapen face. “More conquests? Females yielding to you?”

Elminster rolled his eyes. “That’s far more part of the pose than it is reality. I
meant
I further Mystra’s aims by playing the wise old fool so I am feared, and folk do what they think best to turn aside my wrath or my meddlings—and such doings are often the very deeds I hope they will do.”

“I believe,” Tabra said dryly, “I’d like a drink now. And some food to hold it down with.”

El chuckled. “Me, too. Nobly saving the world is such thirsty work.”

CHAPTER 7

A Feast to Die For

T
HE FEAST UNFOLDED STIFFLY AT FIRST, WITH AWKWARD SILENCES
and diners turning to begin conversing and then thinking better of it and holding silence. Yet a smilingly silent Myrmeen and a sweating Mirt—Manshoon had recognized him in an instant and given him a hard glare, but had said not a word—served forth the food as serenely as if there were no uncomfortable atmosphere at all. The viands proved superb and Lord Halaunt’s wine cellar strong, and as food and wine took effect, the diners relaxed, chatter and even laughter arose, and Alusair was moved to mindmurmur to El,
Convivial at last. I thought we’d
never
get there
.

When the first three dishes were done, Mirt had suggested everyone rise and partake of wine and chat while the table was cleared and fresh dishes were prepared—and wonder of wonders, all of these powerful, superior mages had obeyed as meekly as nuns acquiescing to something they secretly agreed with and looked forward to.

El hastened to make sure glasses were filled and everyone who wanted a cheese tart had one, and by then the mingling was in full swing again, Lord Halaunt’s chattering guests strolling around the feast hall. It was a grand, soaring room, much larger than the Red Receiving Room where they’d first gathered, with three tall bay windows looking south into Lord Halaunt’s woods. Each window commanded its own alcove, and if you turned away from the views, you beheld faded stag-hunting tapestries hanging everywhere that didn’t have a window or a fireplace and huge rising stone chimney.

Elminster found himself facing the patriarch of the Harpells of Longsaddle, who favored him with the easy smile of a friend or trusted colleague.

“Retired from serving Mystra to serve yon old coot?” Malchor murmured. “Don’t believe it. None of us do. You aren’t really expecting anyone to swallow that line, are you?”

El grinned. “Frankly, no.” Then he added very quietly, “Yet ye’ve no idea how tired I am of riding to the rescue of realm after realm, again and again. I’ve
so
much reading to get caught up on.”

Malchor nodded. “A condition I am not unfamiliar with. Well, may this ride end in victory for you.”

“Ye’re not really after the spell, are ye?” El asked.

Malchor smiled. “No. I’m more after making sure certain individuals don’t get it—and live to use it on the rest of us.”

And he saluted Elminster with his goblet and strolled away. Alastra turned and abandoned a conversation to follow the senior Harpell, drifting in his wake.

“How touching,” a voice that held an edge of steel commented from nearby. “Young and lost in love. I was like that, once. And gave myself to matchmaking, to make all my friends happy, one after another. Not all of those matches lasted.”

It was Calathlarra. Elminster managed not to look disbelieving, but she wasn’t fooled. “Oh, yes,” she said, giving him a very direct look. “I was young and devoted to serving others once. A long time ago.” She sounded almost wistful.

El gazed at her and tried to imagine Calathlarra as young and generous and self-sacrificingly helpful.

He failed.

“So, Chosen of Mystra,” she said challengingly, “is the Art
truly
useless to us here? Won’t it work at all?”

Elminster sighed. “Oh, it’ll work, I daresay. It just won’t do what ye intend it to do. A casting ye’ve worked a thousand times before will cause something utterly surprising and unintended, not what ye want it to. Perhaps deadly to all, perhaps so subtle ye’ll have to search to see what the magic wrought. I think.”

“You ‘think’? You’re not certain?”

“As I get older,” El replied, “I find certainty increasingly elusive. Don’t ye?”

“No,” Calathlarra replied flatly. “As the years pass, I eliminate more of my foes, and their schemes and strivings die with them, so certainty—for me—rises. And one certainty looms steadily nearer and clearer: the certainty of death. Whenever I deal it, I simplify matters, and certainty grows. Admit it, Elminster Aumar: the most convenient enemies are those who’ve become but memories. Destroyed, and therefore done.”

“And are ye planning any such simplifications, in the near future?”

“Planning? No. Yet I find myself increasingly fond of certainty,” Calathlarra purred, giving him a mirthless smile as she started to drift away. “
Cold
certainty.”

Elminster turned back to the sideboard and its decanters for a replenishment, then turned slowly on one heel to survey the room and see if anyone else felt the need to have their glass filled.

Yonder, Alastra was talking to Malchor at last, the two Elders of Nimbral seemed to have reached a decision about something and were heading in El’s direction, and Calathlarra had just said something to Shaaan that had made Manshoon shake his head and depart their company briskly.

Also heading for … Elminster.

Uh-oh.

Yet when the vampire reached El, all he did was hold out an empty wineglass and ask politely, “Anything very red and very dry left?”

El found him something suitable among the gleaming glass forest of decanters, poured, and Manshoon nodded thanks.

By which time the two Elders of Nimbral were standing at their elbows, waiting politely. El proffered the decanter he was holding, but they shook their heads.

“I wanted to ask you about the Sundering,” Skouloun said calmly to El, and then glanced at Manshoon and added, “But perhaps now is not a good time.”

The vampire gave him a polite smile and said, “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. I’m not the power-hungry tyrant many seem to think me.”

“Oh?” Yusendre asked him calmly, as if doing so was no boldness at all. “What are you, then?”

Manshoon’s answering smile was silky. “One who plays a longer game, Lady. I’ve learned one lesson too many times over, now: spell-hurling and marching armies often mar the prizes being fought for. Why fight, when by the right manipulations—often such small things that I’ve learned by
watching Elminster here, for centuries now—can bring about what is sought without all the bloodshed? Every death can mean a feud, and more enemies. I’ve already had to learn patience. Now I’m learning … slyness.”

“What, all over again?” Skouloun asked gently—and then unflinchingly endured the level, heavy gaze Manshoon gave him.

“Ask, then,” Elminster prompted the Nimbran, a bare instant after Manshoon shrugged, smiled, and relaxed.

“The Sundering,” Skouloun asked, “is it done? In your opinion.”

Elminster smiled. “Its consequences shall be with us henceforth, but the sorting of what is Toril unto Toril, and what is of Abeir to Abeir—that’s done, yes. The two worlds are now sundered, and the Era of Upheaval is ended. Or so Mystra tells me.”

“So who or what caused the Sundering?” Yusendre asked.

El shrugged. “Strife among the gods, some say, or displeasing the Overgod, or the death of Mystra, or merely that it was time; Abeir and Toril have comingled before and shall again. Thy guess is as good as mine.”

“Oh, come, come,” Skouloun objected. “We all know Chosen of Mystra like to speak cryptically and cloak themselves in an aura of mystery, in veneration of Our Lady of Mysteries, but surely—”

“I know more?” El smiled. “I know what Mystra tells me, and what I saw and heard myself when working with the Weave. Yet how much of that can I trust, really?”

“Mystra tells one wizard one thing,” Manshoon murmured, “and another mage another thing. As I know from personal experience.”

“Just as every god or goddess tells their Chosen what they want their Chosen to believe,” El added. “Seeking to manipulate them to act thus and so, and thereby gain power through the deeds, worldly strength, and numbers of their Chosen, these last few years. All of the fighting that raged across Faerûn—that yet rages, in many places—was no accident.”

“So who won?” Skouloun demanded.

Elminster shrugged. “Those deities we thought dead and gone, who have returned. The great dance among the gods continues, the intrigues and the fighting. Shar lost, this time around, for a great measure of order has been restored, and Mystra is goddess of magic, so there is still a Weave and not the great night of ongoing chaos Shar hungers to bring about.”

“You tell us nothing we do not already know, or have heard, or guessed,” Skouloun observed with a frown. “Do you intend to tell us nothing?”

The Sage of Shadowdale shrugged again. “We can talk for days, and I can tell ye many things, but certainties are few. All I can be sure of is that I and Storm and others worked to anchor and repair the Weave when Mystra was silent—”

“Dead,” Manshoon corrected. “Dead and gone.”

El shook his head. “Dead but
not
gone, only silent. For Mystra is the Weave, and throughout all of this, there was always a Weave, however weak and damaged and imperiled.”

“A metaphor,” the vampire said dismissively.

“No. If Mystra had been utterly destroyed, her essence—her body, in mortal terms—scattered, the Weave would have collapsed and all the old ways of wielding magic with it. We came close to that.”

Manshoon shrugged. “The collapse, and the danger it posed to mages like myself, I foresaw, which was why I decided to watch and not join in the fray. Being in the thick of a battle when one goes mad and one’s spells go wild forever is no recipe for survival. Yet if that fool Telamont Tanthul had succeeded in seizing the energies of both the wards of Candlekeep and the mythal of Myth Drannor, I would have acted.”

“By gibbering as you reeled around randomly?” Skouloun asked. “Or something more decisive?”

“If I’d gone mad,” Manshoon told him coldly, “the other Manshoons that yet sleep would have awakened, and read the brief missives I’d left them, and would have attacked.”

“Attacked
whom
?” Yusendre demanded.

“Whoever was trying to reshape the Weave and pass it to Shar,” Manshoon snapped. “And I suspect there were other powerful wielders of the Art awaiting that same moment. Do not think Tanthul or anyone else would have had more than a breath or two to gloat.”

“There were others,” El agreed. “Two stepped forth. Larloch was tempted out of his own watching and biding by the power available to him—and the Srinshee then struck out at him. Leaving the Weave in my hands, so I could use it against Tanthul.”

“I always wondered if mages told war stories that were essentially different than those spouted by us coarse rogues and warriors, when they got together,” Mirt observed from behind them, “but I guess not. Lords and Ladies of the Art, the next trio of dishes have been served. Please resume your seats at table, for the fare won’t remain hot and at its best forever.”

All over the vast room, other guests were doing just that, though El noticed one thing amid all the movement, which made him smile grimly: the moment after Lord Halaunt tensed and grimaced—despite his shielding, Alusair could still
feel
attempts to invade her mind, and the sensations were less than pleasant—Calathlarra reeled and almost fell, clawing involuntarily at the nearest arm for support. It belonged to Maraunth Torr, and he hastily pulled away, leaving her staggering.

As the aged Runemaster regained her balance, seething, Elminster bit back a sigh of relief. What Mystra had taught him had not only protected the mind of Alusair within the ravaged mind of Lord Halaunt from someone trying to take over their host, it had, it seemed, delivered the gentlest of mind slaps to the would-be mental conqueror. Hopefully it would prevent Calathlarra from trying again.

So that was one doom avoided. So long as he and the Weave held, none of these Lost Spell–hungry archmages would be able to speak with Halaunt’s voice and so establish authority over everyone gathered here. And no one would at a stroke learn where the Lost Spell and all Halaunt’s other magic was, and precisely how to use it. Which meant everyone else here might just live a little longer …