Spellstorm (8 page)

“Was the ghost of Alusair in that fight, too?”

“Who do ye think saved Laspeera and Myrmeen?”

Mirt shook his head. “I thought Waterdeep was an all-too-exciting place at times, but we only had crazed or evil humans and a few beholders scheming and running about …”

“Welcome to Cormyr, the Forest Kingdom, beautiful land of deep forests, verdant farms, and enough trouble for any dozen realms,” Elminster replied. And smiled. “I love it.”

E
LURAUNT
M
ALABRAK SMILED
as the illusion of cracked and mold-covered wall sighed away into nothingness, and left him looking at a doorway into a storage niche crammed with things that glowed with magic.

His instincts had been right. This corner was where whatever wizard had once lorded it over this crumbling, nameless ruin of a tower had decided to hide his items of power. Now to decide which things to keep and hide elsewhere for himself, and which to take back to the Three.

This bracer, now, looked damaged …

“Not
quite
so fast, arcanist.”

Eluraunt Malabrak flung up a hand to redouble his personal ward even before he spun around.

And then froze, puzzled. A lone woman, as gaunt as a staff, barefoot and empty-handed in a nightrobe?

“Put that down,” she commanded calmly. “It was a gift from Telamont Tanthul—and now it is all I have to remember him by.”

“The Most H—who
are
you?”

Genuinely astonished, Malabrak surreptitiously activated the rings he wore as he set down the half-melted bracer. He’d come to this decaying mage’s tower to seize or steal magic on the orders of the Three, but obeyed them only because to do otherwise would be to walk alone, renouncing all memory of great Thultanthar. He considered himself their equal, if not more, in power; few wizards in Faerûn could hope to stand against him for long.

“Tabra is my name, and this is my home.”

The name meant nothing to Malabrak, so he shrugged.

“I do not recall inviting you here,” she added, lurching a step closer. Into the full light.

The arcanist felt his mouth tighten in disgust. She’d been disfigured by torture, her body a mass of protruding scars, so deformed that her right eye rose above the other, her head twisted out of shape. One breast was higher, and her hips tilted at the opposite angle so that her lower breast sat just above. She was almost impossibly gaunt, as thin as a maltreated slave. Yet her face, despite its twisted shape, was beautiful. Beautiful and arresting in its sadness. Grief rode her.

“You didn’t,” Malabrak told her scornfully, “but I don’t think I need your invitation.” He looked her up and down, lip curling. “I doubt you receive many.”

The disfigured woman smiled bitterly—and Malabrak felt and heard the faint, high-pitched tinkling sigh of his wards falling away.

He gasped, and let fly with all the blasting might of his readied rings, holding nothing back. Anyone who could do
that
to his war—

His own magics rebounded off something unseen and came roaring right back at him, so swiftly that he hadn’t time to dodge or do anything before he was snatched off his feet and flung the length of the room, back a long way to where a distant back wall was waiting for him.

He struck it with a thunderous crash that broke bones and drove all the wind out of him. As he writhed, stunned, the woman walked slowly toward him, lurching at every step, her face impassive.

Malabrak fought to work the swift and simple spell that would whisk him away from this place, returning him to—

He managed it, but all that happened was that his limbs quivered, the room seemed to dance sideways for a moment, and … he was still against the wall, the real pain beginning now, pinned in place.

“W-who are you?” he managed to gasp, tasting blood. By his last word, it was dripping from his chin.

The woman came to a stop in front of him. “I,” she replied, “am the last apprentice of Ioulaum. You Thultanthans captured me and tortured me, because your Most High desired to learn Ioulaum’s longevity. I was confined and enslaved, as he invaded—ravaged—my mind time and time again. He learned much, but saw glimpses of what I yet kept from him. So he forced me into stasis when he got too busy, rather than slaying me. I was freed by his death, left with the aches I’d become used to—and one new one.”

Malabrak shook his head, not wanting to ask what it was, as she lurched still closer.

“Now,” she told him softly, through that lopsided jaw, “I ache to destroy all arcanists of Thultanthar.”

“N-no!” Malabrak gasped out, truly frightened for the first time since the day Thultanthar had come crashing down. He’d been on his way back to the city then, to report, and if he’d been just a trifle faster …

He shivered.

“You interrupted my snack,” Tabra added, “but I see you have two eyeballs, ripe for the plucking …”

“
No
!” Malabrak screamed, spraying blood.

That earned him a lopsided smile. “Oh, I can be merciful, arcanist,” she told him, as gently as if she’d been telling him when the next washing day was. “Particularly if you tell me where I can find other arcanists.”

“You’re jesting,” he protested weakly. She leaned forward to stare into his eyes, and Malabrak winced and said hastily, “You’re not jesting.”

“No,” Tabra almost whispered, “my jesting days are done. Now, where else might I find arcanists? Or are they lined up downstairs, waiting for you to pillage whatever you can carry so it’ll be their turn?”

“N-no,” he managed to say. “I … I know that four arcanists, young and ambitious, were sent to a noble’s mansion in the countryside in eastern Cormyr. Oldspires, it’s called. They’ll be … magically disguised … of course.”

“Of course,” the disfigured woman murmured, as her long and many-times broken fingers closed around Malabrak’s throat.

“Aren’t you—aren’t you worried about my contingencies?” he gasped desperately.

“No,” she said bleakly. “I will welcome death. Though I’d much prefer to see every last arcanist of Thultanthar dead first. By my hands.”

Her fingers were tightening. Malabrak struggled to breathe, to will every last magic he wore or bore to erupt into life to force her off.

Some of them obeyed, bursting into crackling life.

Tabra smiled. “Ah, the pain! I’ve come to enjoy it, you know. That’s why I almost miss Telamont Tanthul. I never got the chance to share my agony with him.”

Malabrak strained for air, but knew by the way she shifted her cruel grip that she was going to break his neck before …

The last words he ever heard were Tabra’s calm murmur: “Oldspires. I shall go there and hunt them down, no matter what shape they take.”

KurrrakKKh
.

M
IRT HAD CHOSEN
a less than savory corner of Suzail for wetting his gullet, but the dark and narrow alleyway was cleaner and safer than most other cities Elminster knew well. It was also, save for the occasional rat, empty.

Wherefore Elminster was alone when the voice that suddenly spoke softly and deeply in his mind made him stiffen in midstep, falter, and then sink down amid the refuse as if drunk.

Well met, trusted prince of Athalantar
. That vibrant, rolling, and melodious thunder in the depths of his mind sounded almost … amused.

Well met, Mystra
. El was genuinely glad at the mind touch of his goddess, though it almost certainly meant more work. Every meeting with her excited him, buoyed his spirits, and suffused him with energy.
What cheer?

As impish as ever, Old Mage
. A warm flood of pleasure this time.
As you anticipate, I have a task for you
.

I shall be honored
.

Flirt. At the gathering at Oldspires, you must deal with my wayward Chosen
.

Oh? Which one will be there? Or do you mean me?

Flirt, and jester now, too. I speak of Manshoon. You must either destroy him, or wrest from him something this particular clone of Manshoon carries within himself: An enchanted spindle that holds a spark of the fire of the goddess Mystryl. It is this divine essence that has allowed Manshoon to wield the Art far above his real mastery for centuries
.

It’s inside his body?

Yes. And as I do not want to risk any more Chosen, you shall be the only one of my foremost servants at Oldspires—aside from Manshoon, of course
.

A spindle
.

A spindle
. The image of what he was to look for—a long diamondlike shape that had been pulled by a blacksmith’s pincers at both ends, and drawn out long and slender—appeared in Elminster’s mind, so clear and firm and surrounded by Mystra’s blue-edged silver radiance that he knew she was emblazoning it among his memories forever.
Cut it out of him if you must
.

With pleasure
, El thought, and meant it.
He and I have been dancing around each other for far too long
.

I would have wished matters otherwise, Mystra said sadly, then became brisk again. I have covertly allowed the wizards at Oldspires and headed there to learn some things that will lure them more strongly. Rumors of items in Lord Halaunt’s possession they personally covet, and the gates Oldspires houses and hides. Some of the attending mages know that dragons they are in league with, who dwell in the worlds beyond the gates, can be brought to Toril if the correct rituals are performed. More than this, I shall not do
.

“No?” Elminster asked aloud, meaning it sarcastically. A young skulker who’d started warily down the alley toward him, dagger drawn, hesitated, and then ducked low and froze.

“Other than showing you how to shield the mind of Lord Halaunt to prevent any of the guests speaking through him, I won’t be protecting anyone, or causing anything to happen aside from controlling the barrier,” Mystra told Elminster, both in his mind and in a voice that thrilled the skulker into slack-jawed, trembling rapture, on his knees and staring around in wonder. “It’s all up to you, old friend.”

“Of course,” Elminster told the dark air with a shrug and a wry smile. “Isn’t it always?”

I
T WAS A
small room, even for this inn, but it was private, and its door fitted better than most, so no one standing just outside should see any betraying flashes of light.

Creeeek
.

Oh, yes, and it had that creaking floorboard outside the door, so you could tell when someone
was
standing right outside.

“Lady Nightcloak, are you decent?”

“Never,” Alastra Hathwinter called back through the door, amused, as she passed her hand through the air to banish the scene from afar she’d conjured up and had been watching. Obligingly it fell into nothingness in a flashing instant. “But you can come in.”

It had been almost a century since she’d left the Night Cloak festhall in Longsaddle, but the nickname clung to her like a tail to a cat. Proud, sleek felines lazed and prowled everywhere in this inn. The maid bustled in.

“It’s potato and leek soup capped by roast venison tonight, and then sugared tarts, Lady—unless you prefer the fish?”