The Summoning (25 page)

One of the phaerimm was moving as slowly as the elves, as much a victim of its companion’s powerful reality-altering magic as Ryence and the high mages. The caster of the spell was floating forward through the contingent of bodyguards, its four arms lashing out to rip open their throats as it bumped its way forward toward Ryence. Had Khelben believed the target to be Ryence alone, he would have tried mightily to save the elf, to blast the phaerimm with a death spell or banish it to the depths of the ninth hell.

But Ryence was not alone. He was with the high mages, and Khelben could not take the chance that his spell would be

reflected or absorbed by the phaerimm. He needed something powerful and direct, something that would burn through even a phaerimm’s natural magic resistance.

He needed his silver fire.

Not for the first time, Khelben cursed the name of Laerm Ryence. The phaerimm cleared the last of the guards, reaching for Ryence’s throat with one arm and for Bladuid with the other three. Khelben swooped down behind the creature, plummeting headfirst down from the sky, pointing one hand at the thing’s open mouth and summoning his silver fire. A blissful pain hissed through his body, gathered for an instant in the pit of his stomach, then left his arm in a long streak of roaring fire. The phaerimm spun toward the sound on its tail, and the silver flame shot straight down its gullet. The creature came apart in a halo of white flame.

The reality-altering spell ended with the thing’s death. Ryence and his high mages completed their falls, hitting the water with a loud series of splashes. Khelben wheeled toward the remaining phaerimm, frantically searching his mind for the safest way to destroy the thing quickly. It would take an hour for his body to reabsorb enough of Mystra’s raw magic to use his silver fire again, so he would have to chance a spell.

A thunderous chugging filled the air, and elves began to wail. A scintillating tornado of gem-colored light appeared below him and began to dance across the river, raking the bodyguards of the high mages with spinning tentacles of death-dealing radiance. Each color brought an end more terrible than the previous. Those struck by red erupted into flames. The flesh of anyone touched by green sizzled away in a cloud of emerald gas. Blue brought death by choking, yellow by the foulest of stinking diseases, orange by spontaneous bleeding from every pore. Those touched by a black tentacle oozed away putrid part by putrid part, while those caught by white froze solid and floated away in the cold current.

Khelben had never before seen such a war spell. Nearly half the bodyguards already lay dead or dying, and the other

half were scattering in every direction. The phaerimm itself did not seem to be aware of him, high in the air above it. Leaving the tornado to wander on its own, the creature glided toward the splashing forms of the high mages.

It was too late to be safe. Khelben stopped to hover and summoned to mind his most deadly spell. The phaerimm paused above a tangle of elf corpses, then reached down beside an ice-capped boulder to retrieve its companion’s shredded tail. Khelben turned his palm toward the creature and barked out a syllable.

The phaerimm did not wave its arms or try to swing itself upright, nor even to make a last, desperate counterattack. At the sound of Khelben’s voice, it simply teleported away, leaving his spell to splash harmlessly into the icy stream.

Damn, but they were fast.

28 Nightal, the Year of the Unstrung Harp

The celebration was an uneasy one, and not only because Elminster spent the evening glowering at Melegaunt. Galaeron kept glimpsing a dark shape just beyond the glowcircle, a stout little figure that vanished into the shadows the instant he turned to look upon it. Were it not for the agitation of the sentries, he would have dismissed the apparition as the product of a weary mind, but the night watchers kept flitting about up under the stars, swinging from tree to tree or rushing silently along barren limbs to scrutinize something on the ground. Still, they never gave the owl call, so perhaps it was no more than the playmagic of mischievous Wood elf children, and Galaeron was content to take his cue from his mother’s people.

The moon rose silver and bright, filling the wood

with a milky snowlight, and out came the starlutes. The melodies were airy and cheerful, as always among Wood elves. Takari made a show of dragging Galaeron away from his mother—and coincidentally also Melegaunt and Vala— and being the first to dance. Though the song would have been more suited to a feather step, she pressed herself into Galaeron’s arms and began a matched gambol.

“Don’t overdo it,” Galaeron said, struggling to stay in step as they skipped through the moonlit snow. “You still look weak.”

“I’m well enough.” Takari pursed her lips into a playful pout. “The only wound that troubles me is the one in my heart—the one you put there tonight.”

“I’m sorry.” Galaeron’s apology was sincere, for he had been so absorbed with Elminster, Turlang, and the rest that he had not even thought of inquiring as to whether Takari had arrived. “I should have stopped by your nesting as we came in.”

“My nesting?” Takari raked her heel down his shin. “I’m talking about Vala, ore nose! What’s wrong with you, taking a human for your mate … over me?”

“Vala?” Galaeron’s foot nearly slipped from beneath him. “I haven’t taken her!”

Takari gave him a doubtful look. “Not even once?”

Now Galaeron did slip, stumbling over a half-buried log and bringing them both down in the snow The fall drew a chorus of laughter, and the musicians embarrassed them further by slipping into a slow meter.

“Not even once,” Galaeron whispered, lying in the snow. “Though it’s not really your business who I take.”

Takari gave him a frisky smile. “But it could be.” With that, she leaped to her feet and took a good-natured bow, then stretched a hand toward Vala. “Come help me, human. This one is such a hoof-foot it will take two to keep him in step.”

Before Vala could object, Morgwais pushed her out to join Takari and Galaeron, and soon the three of them were

whirling around the glowcircle arm-in-arm. Vala could keep even the quickest meter, but her steps were heavy and conspicuous by elf standards. Nevertheless, their antics proved inspirational, and soon the rest of the Wood elves were gliding about the glowcircle in whirling trios, stomping the beat and pumping their knees like centaurs on parade. Even Lady Morgwais joined the merriment, slipping one arm around Elminster’s waist and the other around Melegaunt’s—no easy task, given the girth of the pair.

Sometime during the festivities, Aris dropped a six-foot boulder next to the Honor Chair and set to work, hammering and clinking to the music. The boulder quickly assumed the rough shape of three whirling bodies, and it was not long before dancers began to spin past to check his progress. The figures emerged as if by magic, the giant not so much giving them form as finding it within the stone, and it soon grew apparent Aris would be leaving his hosts with a treasure worthy of Rheitheillaethor’s greatest masters.

Half a night later, the eyes of the humans began to droop, as did Galaeron’s. Not wishing to admit publicly that he now felt the need to sleep, he excused himself on the pretext of showing his companions to someplace they could rest— Takari was quick to volunteer her nesting—and they fell asleep to the sound of Aris’s clinking and elven star lutes.

Galaeron awoke to darkness and silence, no snoring from Melegaunt’s corner, no more of Vala murmuring her son’s name in her sleep, no star lutes in the distance, none of Aris’s hammering. There was only the breeze rustling against the walls and the creaking trees, and, farther off, the Heartblood gurgling down its channel. A hand touched his shoulder and gave it a tentative shake. Galaeron opened his eyes, then found his dark sight blurred by a thin film of mucus and wiped his eyes. That was one of the many hard things for him to accept about sleeping, the half second of thinking he was going blind whenever he woke.

When his sight cleared, he found Takari kneeling beside him, the corners of her cupid’s bow mouth turned up in a slight sneer. There was no one else in the nesting.

“The others are outside,” she explained, following his gaze. “They needed time to get down quietly, and I wanted to watch you sleep.”

Galaeron grimaced. He had seen drool running from the corner of human mouths often enough to know what sleep looked like. “Not a pretty sight.”

“Awful,” Takari agreed, twisting her nose up. “Why do you do it?”

Why indeed? Galaeron wondered. “A bad habit I picked up from Melegaunt, I think.” He sat up and shrugged, then found himself running his palms over his face the way humans sometimes did. He tore his hands down. “What’s going on?”

“There are beholders coming.”

Galaeron was on his feet and instantly awake. “But the owl calls—”

“The night watchers don’t know yet.” Though Takari wore her tomb guard’s cloak, she made no move to rise as he shrugged into his chain mail. “Your frog-eyed friend warned me.”

“Frog-eyed friend?”

“I think his name was Malik,” Takari said. “Why didn’t you bring him to the celebration?”

“I didn’t know he was still with us,” Galaeron confessed, struggling to make sense of what he was hearing. “Did he mention phaerimm?”

“He said there was one. Melegaunt thought it best to leave quietly and draw them into the Dire Wood.”

Galaeron nodded, then pulled his cloak over his shoulders and reached for his sword belt. Having seen what the creatures had done to Thousand Faces, Galaeron was not eager to have a battle fought in Rheitheillaethor—not even with the great Elminster there to help.

Takari caught his hand. “Melegaunt said he can go without you. The rest would do you good.”

“That doesn’t sound like Melegaunt. Are you sure?”

“Look at yourself,” said Takari, not answering. “You’re turning into a human, sleeping half the night and struggling with something inside. Lady Morgwais isn’t far wrong, you know Maybe you are falling in love with Vala.”

“Hardly.” Galaeron’s voice was sharper than he meant. He freed his belt from her grasp and started for the door. “But I do need to see this through with the humans. I’m the one who breached the Sharn Wall.”

“You were doing your duty.”

Galaeron slipped through the door without answering.

Takari followed him out onto the branch. “And you weren’t the only one there.”

In the creamy moonlight, Galaeron could see the edge of her leather scout’s armor showing above the collar of her cloak. “You’re still not strong enough. And if Melegaunt doesn’t need me, he doesn’t need you.”

“He certainly does.” Takari sprang off the limb and caught a rope, then slid toward the snowy ground. “Unless you think you can find the Dire Wood?”

Galaeron knew by how she had asked the question that he could not. As an elf, he felt reasonably at home in most forests, but he also knew how maddening it could be to navigate through an endless expanse of trees—especially if one’s goal happened to be concealed by protective magic. Offering no further argument, he caught hold of the rope, then started down after Takari.

They touched ground not far from the glowcircle, where Melegaunt, Vala, and Malik stood waiting beside Aris and his sculpture. The statue depicted Galaeron dancing with Vala and Takari, and it was every bit the masterpiece he had expected—if a little embarrassing. Vala’s body was pressed close against his, her scabbard and legs almost horizontal as she whirled on his hip. Her chin was raised slightly, as though

they were about to kiss, and the smile on her face seemed both beguiling and tender. On Galaeron’s other side, Takari was wrapped into his arm, their bodies not quite touching, her head thrown back in wild abandon. Though her mouth was open in laughter, there was a wistfulness to her expression that Galaeron had seen on a Wood elf’s face only once, when his mother called the family together to tell how her heart ached to return to Rheitheillaethor.

Galaeron’s own smile seemed lost and lonely, his gaze fixed a short distance away Though caught physically between the two women, he was separated from them in mood by a lowered brow and narrowed eyes. The expression made him look sullen and hinted at a darker struggle within, but it was impossible to say whether Aris had actually captured this or whether Galaeron was reading it into the work on his own.

Takari circled the statue for a long time, then finally stopped at Vala’s side and took her hand. Vala cocked her brow and looked down at their intertwined fingers, but did not try to free herself.

“It’s remarkable!” Takari gasped. She turned to Aris and, finding herself staring at his knee, tipped her head back. “That is the most beautiful stone I have ever seen!”

This drew a meager smile from the stone giant. “The beauty was in the dance.” Though he did not speak loudly, his deep voice rolled through the trees like thunder. “It is only a small matter to capture what one sees.”

Melegaunt held his finger to his lips. “Quiet, or we will be what is captured.” He turned to Takari. “Unless Elminster left?”

“Have no fear of him,” said Malik. “Elminster will not be waking soon.”

Melegaunt’s face grew alarmed. “What? You didn’t do anything—”

“Me? An assassin?” scoffed Malik. “I cannot even tell a decent lie! I mean only that he is asleep in the stormlodge.”

“Asleep?” Melegaunt frowned at this. “You’re sure it was Elminster?”

“Of course I am sure,” said Malik. “I saw him myself, tucked under his furs with two women.”

“Triplewild will do that to a man,” chuckled Takari.

Galaeron was not quite so amused. “Elf women?” A cold anger was welling up inside him. “Which women?”

The jealousy in his voice drew a frown from Takari. “Not your mother. I saw Lady Morgwais leave for her nesting alone.”

“That means nothing.” The words slipped from Galaeron’s mouth almost before he realized he was speaking. “She might have sneaked back.”

Takari’s scowl changed from disapproval to shock, but it was Melegaunt who spoke.