Cloak of Shadows asota-2 Page 16

  Haerarn hadn't managed to carry out more than one of these instructions before a dozen armed men boiled into the wardrobe, weapons drawn.

  "Thank you, gentle sirs," Mistress Iraeyna said serenely, "but it's all over now. You'd best check along the back passage, though, in case there are more lurking about."

  "The day that Swords of the Guard take orders from ladies' dressers," the oldest and burliest swordlord told her, his moustaches bristling, "is-"

  "Belt up and stow it, sirrah," she told him sweetly, causing some of the men who were goggling at the dead tentacled thing under her to look up and grin. "I give you orders by the High Lady's decree."

  "Oh, aye, and how did you manage that, with her at the other end o' the palace from here?"

  With a sigh, Mistress Iraeyna began to unlace her bodice again.

  12

  Marshaling the Madfolk For Battle

  Daggerdale, Kythorn 18

  Sharantyr held up the blade admiringly. Its blue outshone the moonlight and turned the center of the meadow into a ring of eerie beauty. Sylune flew out of the tree-gloom toward her, and Shar smiled in welcome and said, "Look what the Lady Mystra gave me!"

  Sylune danced around her in the air-the first time Sharantyr had ever seen her do so, rather than drifting or walking along upright-and then smiled and said, "I'm proud of you, Shar. Yet perhaps it'd better be sheathed instead of waved about, here in the wilds by night. What say you?"

  Sharantyr sighed and shook her head. "Foolish Shar. Back down to the everyday with a crash."

  Sylune chuckled. "Be not so downfallen, Shar. Have I called you 'child' yet?"

  "No."

  "Nor will I again," the Witch of Shadowdale told her, "now that you've faced a goddess and held your bladder."

  Shar grinned and shook her head but slid her new blade obediently into the scabbard at her side. Though it seemed far too large to fit there, it went in. Sylune shook her head.

  "No. Better back in its own sheath. Don't forget your own blade, either. It's served you well for years, and will again."

  Shar looked back at the blade she'd driven into the turf, standing forgotten in the moonlight, and blushed. "How could I-?"

  "Relax, lass," Sylune told her gently. "You've faced divinity and are apt to be mazed in the wits for a while yet. Recover your blade and draw the new one again. There's something I want you to see."

  Shar did as she was bid, and as she held the blue blade up again, she became aware of a flickering white ring in the trees that she was sure hadn't been there before. She pointed at it with the blade, which immediately gave off a satisfied-sounding little hum. "Is that what you wanted me to see?"

  "It is," Sylune said. "Use the blade to work it. Don't fear, for it will not take you far."

  Wondering, Shar approached the ring. It flickered, and the blue radiance of her blade pulsed as if in reply. As she stepped into the ring, white motes of light circled her, making her skin tingle. The blade pulsed again, as if asking her if she wanted to call on it.

  She willed the gate to take her wherever it went, and the sword flared a bright blue before her eyes.

  When the light faded, Shar looked hastily around. It was warmer-much warmer-but she seemed to be standing under the same moon, at night in an open ruin. The manor!

  She looked down and found herself standing in the midst of the campfire, which had been banked over with turf for the night. She sprang back hastily, boots scraping on the stone, and saw Sylune floating into view around a wall.

  "Some folk," Shar said sternly, waving her blade, "have a very strange thing where / carry a sense of humor."

  Sylune's light laughter tinkled on a night breeze, and a sleepy male voice said, "All day you have to gossip, and you must do it when honest men are trying to sleep?"

  "Belkram," Shar told him smugly, "there are no honest men here, only you and-"

  "What's that?" Belkram cried, pointing at her blade. "You didn't have that when I went to sleep!"

  "Fast, isn't he?" Sylune observed lightly.

  "Not half so fast as he's going to have to be, if I find he's awakened me for no good reason," a deeper, more sour voice said from another corner of the roofless room.

  "Well met, Itharr!" Shar said gaily, waving her blade at him.

  "Where'd she get that?" Itharr asked Belkram irritably. The Harpers, both propped up on their elbows in the moonlight, exchanged glances and shrugs.

  "I haven't a scrap of an answer to that," Belkram said testily. "Tomb-robbing, probably. That's usually how such baubles turn up. But she's been waving it around like a young maid displaying a doll at her birthday feast since I woke up!"

  "And still is," Itharr said, tossing his blanket aside. "Where'd you get it, Shar?"

  "In a tomb," Shar said lightly, tossing it from hand to hand. "Like it?"

  "Here," he replied, coming toward her, "let's have a look at it!"

  She sprang back, fetching up against a stone wall suddenly enough to make one of the horses snort in its sleep, and told him, "Looking is generally performed with the eyes, Itharr. Only thieves need to 'look' at things with their hands!"

  Belkram chuckled. "Right enough, Shar. Tell the man."

  Itharr halted, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Seriously, Shar… where've you been?"

  "In the Elven Court," she told him quietly, meeting his incredulous gaze with level eyes, "in a tomb somewhere dose to Myth Drannor."

  "And how did you find this tomb?" Belkram asked softly, disbelief heavy in his tone. Sharantyr saw his gaze dart to her empty blanket, to be sure he wasn't facing some apparition-or shapeshifter.

  "Mystra took me there," Sharantyr told him, wonder in her eyes, "and gave the sword to me. A weapon against the Malaugrym, she called it, and charged me to use it against them. Are you with me?"

  "Shar," Itharr said gently, "we've been with you since we met in a ruined castle by the desert, and watched a crazy old mage kissing a rotten old archlich. We're still with you." He tilted his head to regard her coolly. "But are you sure your wits are steady?"

  Sharantyr held up the blade. In response to her rising exultation, it blazed bright blue fire around her. "You think I'm imagining this?"

  "Well," Belkram told the nearest wall brightly, "it's certainly nice to share the same delusions as one's closest friends…"

  Sylune chuckled. "She's telling the truth, Harpers, and she's not crazed. Excited, yes, but meeting Mystra does that to one… as you should both remember."

  "I believe," Belkram said, getting up and folding his blanket.

  "We believe," Itharr corrected, going back to retrieve his own bedding. "So what now? You want us to follow that bright blade of yours through a gate into the castle of the Malaugrym and start dicing them up for morn-ingfeast?"

  "Yes," Shar said sweetly. Belkram rolled his eyes and groaned loudly, waking the horses.

  "Look… we're a mite leery of swords that appear in the night-even with you holding them-and strange tales that go with them, so tell us plainly what you intend."

  Itharr grunted. "And then we'll tell you plainly 'no.' Or at least, not until morning."

  Sharantyr and Sylune laughed together, making the horses snort and stamp. "Well said," Belkram told Itharr,

  "Thank you," the other Harper said, sketching a courtly bow.

  Shar drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly, "My apologies, friends," she said softly, "for rousing you. Mystra did tell me to wait until morning. There's a gate to the Castle of Shadows down by the bridge, where you felt so uneasy, Itharr. When it's drawn, this sword shows me any magical gates nearby, and works them if I reach them and will it to. Mystra told me, 'Take your companions and go and slay Malaugrym for me.' So here I am."

  "Now that I can believe," Belkram said with a shake of his head and a smile, "because it sounds so unbelievable that it must be what Mystra did."

  Itharr nodded, a rueful smile on his face, and said, "I'm forced to agree." He sighed. "They didn't tell me t
here'd be nights like this, back in Twilight Hall."

  They didn't tell me there'd be nights like this," Sylune told him, "back in Elminster's kitchen."

  "Elminster's kitchen? Didn't the man have enough class even to show you his bedchamber?" Belkram demanded.

  "Harper boy," Sylune told him severely, "I was referring to when I was a babe, and a different kitchen than the one you've seen. And spare me your jokes about Elminster and young babes, too."

  "I'm beginning to realize," Sharantyr said carefully, "just why so few Harpers live long. They get angry swords right through their clever tongues."

  Belkram and Itharr both looked hurt. "Critics," Itharr said, "everywhere we go in Faerun, we find ourselves surrounded by critics…"

  "Get some sleep," Sylune told him kindly. "We've a castle to conquer in the morning."

  Another forgotten ruin in the Savage Frontier, with a side trip to the Flame Void, then the sky somewhere over Thay, Kythorn 18

  "Nothing is worse than promises that are not meant and deeds that are not accomplished," Midnight said quietly. "I need folk who stand behind what they say and do. Such as Azuth-if he survives-and you."

  They clasped hands then, the man and the goddess. Both were white, drenched with sweat, and shaking. Long they had lain side by side, hands clasped, while Elminster's memories-his long road with Mystra, and what of her secrets and power he held-poured into Midnight, and she grew old and wise in a day and most of a night.

  They walked out of the tomb together, an old, long-plundered tomb of Netheril whose stone biers had served the living as couches. If anyone saw them emerge, they did not tarry to offer a challenge.

  Midnight wiped her mouth as if she'd eaten something foul. "I… I've swallowed overmuch," she murmured. "I must go apart and think."

  "Seek Evereska, here," Elminster suggested, "or Ever-meet, over the water. The elves will let ye alone. When ye've thought, return and tell me your will. Until then, I'll spend my days as I've always done, darting here and there about Faerun, saying this and meddling with that, slaying here and building there… less grand than some godly servants, perhaps, but the tasks get done." He faced her, eye to eye, and said gently, "It may be, when ye return, that yell want me to lay down life and service together, and make room for your own style, and your own messengers."

  "No," Midnight said softly, and then again, more firmly, "No. I shall need your counsel in the ways of Faerun- and in plain common sense-to guide me for ages to come, or I shall be a worse wildheart than Talos, Lolth, Loviatar, and Malar have ever been, ruling by whim and wrecking all I touch, ending twisted and bitter, no doubt, or sinking down into madness and despair."

  Elminster bent his head. "Then I shall be here, Lady, for as long as ye need and want me. I and all the Chosen, some of them gentler and grander and better than I."

  Midnight smiled and laid a hand on his arm. Blue fire swirled briefly around them both. "Truly, I doubt that. You have walked the hard road, been the old gnarly rock, faced the worst moments. You did the work Mystra set you, and did it well. And in all Faerun, there's none of us, god or mortal, can do grander deeds than our duty."

  Elminster coughed. "Ye'll be turning my head, next, las-er, Mystra. Go, and do thy thinking, and I'll try to set thy temples in order so ye'll find a good gaggle of priests to chant ritual profanit-er, litanies yer way."

  Midnight giggled at him and then growled in mock severity, "By me ever-thunderin' vitals! Away with you, mortal! How canst I maintain my godly dignity when you mock me so?"

  Elminster grinned and scratched his head. "I've always wondered that, myself, lass, and-"

  He stopped, looked thoughtful, and said, "I'd not thought of this before, but ye could go to my Safehold. It's well away from the reach of any of these avatars and such, and has all the spells and potions and items ye're likely to want to play with. Two of its doors: the one into the wood with leaves tinged blue-that's Evermeet-and the one into the stone passage that leads into a cellar of my tower in Shadowdale, steps away from a flowshaft that'll take ye up to… ah, my bedchamber…"

  Midnight giggled again. "None of that. I'm Mystra now, remember?"

  Elminster rolled his eyes. "My reputation, I fear, has been somewhat enhanced by wagging tongues down the passing years."

  "Not from what I saw in your memories, it hasn't," the goddess told him tartly. "Take me to this Safehold, then. It sounds ideal."

  Elminster nodded, stroked his white beard for a moment, and then extended his hand. "I have but to cast this spell, and-"

  Abruptly they were somewhere else, but not the cozy room Elminster had been seeking. They were tumbling together in a void, a darkness lit by drifting stars. Midnight was curled up as a small child sleeps, eyes closed and mouth gaping open, face blank and hair streaming like night shadows around her. Elminster laid a comforting hand on her, but she did not stir. Magic that he could not break held her in thrall. The same titanic Art, presumably, that had twisted or broken his evasion spell to bring them here. "To the Flame Void," the Old Mage mused, "but how-?"

  "By my will, mortal mage," said a voice from close by. Elminster turned and saw a man whose hair and beard were whiter than his own, whose face was unremarkable, but whose eyes and robes were both a dark swirl of stars, so that he seemed to be the heart of the Flame Void.

  Elminster sighed. "And who, sir, are ye?" he asked mildly.

  "Some men call me the Overgod… others, the Hidden One." "Ao," Elminster named him, leaning forward with interest. "I've much to ask ye-"

  The Overgod frowned. "I am not here to give ye answers, presumptuous mortal. Ye have tried to hasten the elevation to full powers of my choice for Mystra's replacement, and take her from Faerun!"

  "Magic goes wild across the lands," Elminster said sternly, "and I would restore as much peace and order as I can. 'Tis bad enough for the common folk, what ye've wrought, with hordes and brigands and avatars on the loose, earthquakes and eruptions and typhoons and all. For magic to be stable again, we must needs have a Goddess of Magic. Must I point such an obvious thing out to ye? I sought to take her to my Safehold, to sit and think… and learn. Rare for a god, I know, but long overdu-"

  "Such temerity!" Ao thundered.

  "Is the way of mankind," Elminster replied gently, spreading his hands. "Have ye not seen this?"

  Ao sighed, and then chuckled. "Enough. So you meant well. So have many tyrants-and gods-before working their worst."

  He raised a hand to point at Elminster and said in a voice of doom, "Midnight I am returning to Faerun. She will forget what you gave to her, for a time. You I charge never to speak of this, or what she will become, until the Testing is done. And to keep you busy, oh most energetic of mages, I send you to deal with-this!"

  And the world changed again. Ao, Midnight, and the Flame Void were gone, and Elminster found himself falling through the night sky of Faerun, somewhere east of the Sea of Fallen Stars, where a wall of mountains rose around vast plateaus, and… Thay!

  "Thay?" Elminster said in disgust. "The Land of Mad Mages? If Ao's sent me here, it must be to deal with some idiot mage who's trying to make himself a god, or set up some particularly nasty doom for all of us under cover of all these Troubles. Ah, blast all gods and their Overgods, too!"

  And then something rose up through the clouds and stretched out shadowy arms to claim him.

  Elminster saw how many miles its arms spanned, and swallowed. As he felt for his least powerful means of flight, he said through his teeth, "Allfather Ao, if I live through this little affray, ye and I will be having words!"

  And then the shadowy figure howled, and from its mouth leapt ravening magics to claim him. Ah. Of course. Two spells at once, to his one. Just another little job for Elminster.

  The Old Mage snarled and selected the best spells he could think of, under the circumstances. And then the shadowy hands closed in around him.

  The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 18

  Another three Malaugrym stood waiting impati
ently, striking dramatic poses, hefting their forearms, and patting at where their weapons rode, as Milhvar delivered his little speech.

  "The Shadowmaster High had great hopes for this project. Try not to let him down, but above all else we want you back safely. If anything goes awry-anything-touch your belt buckles and will yourselves back to us. Even if the foe is within your reach, or you're just a blow away from a victorious finish, break off rather than be taken or slain. There will be other forays, other chances."

  The three kin nodded curtly and went on with their restless posturings. Milhvar smiled bleakly. If nothing else, testing this cloak of spells would temper some of the untried blades among the blood of Malaug, and break off others before they wasted much more of the time and attention of their betters.

  Out of this lot? They were all so arrogant, they just might make it. Or considering the way they swaggered through things, they might all perish at the hand of some half-asleep mortal guard with a rusty halberd. Taernil was a lean, dangerous type, and knew it. If he lived, if he stayed Huerbara's partner, they could be trouble together… or the best pair of Shadowmasters to rise in a long time.

  Balatar was simply a bad, wild one, who loved cruelty and killing too much and taking orders too little. He was the only one, so far, who'd openly sneered when Milhvar invoked the memory of Dhalgrave. Hmmph. To the waiting grave with him!

  Jarthree was a cold, controlled one. She always looked through you as if she knew just what you were about, and had already planned your doom, but it was all manner and nothing behind it. Yet.

  Keeping his face bland and his voice calm, Milhvar instructed them to willingly draw at least a drop of their own blood with some sharp part of the shape they wore, and signaled the Shadowmaster mages to weave the cloaks.

  The lengthy chanting and gesturing began. Milhvar watched the three carefully, wondering who'd perish-or prevail-on this foray. They were off to Blackstaff Tower this time, a far stiffer challenge than the first three had faced. The cloak of spells hadn't helped a whit against simple guards and servants who happened to have luck-the luck of a little silver weapon-on their side. This time, it'd be more magic against magic.