Realms of infamy a-2 Read online

  “Enough killing,” the eye tyrant hissed in a deep and terrible voice that brought the hall to sudden silence. “Let order be restored and all magic cease. Let all able councilors return to their seats-and I do mean all, Manshoon.”

  The first lord of Zhentil Keep froze in the midst of frantic spellweaving. Failing magic flashed and faded around him as he glared up at the beholder. Chess saw fear and hatred war with each other in Manshoon’s eyes.

  Fear won. For now.

  The second vote, taken with the beholder hanging dark over the terrified councilors, was not even close. The special powers requested by the first lord were denied.

  At the beholder’s bidding, Lord Chess was named “Watchlord of the Council.” His vote was stripped from him, along with any authority over the armsmen of Zhentil Keep. But he was made supreme in directing council affairs. None could now lawfully set aside the council to seize rule over the city… not even ambitious archmages.

  More than a few eyes saw Fzoul, the supposedly impartial high priest of Bane, turn white with fury. There was a general hiss of anger at his revealed connivance when Manshoon strode around the ring of benches to lean over the priest and murmur a few words. The price of the uncloaking was high, but the words needed to be said.

  “Make no defiance,” Manshoon breathed. His face was a calm mask; only his burning eyes betrayed the fear and rage that were almost choking him. “I was close with Chess once, and can be again… close enough, at least, to make him move at our bidding.”

  Whatever reply Fzoul might have made, his own eyes still dark and ugly with rage, was drowned out by the beholder’s cold, hissing voice. It had silently descended to hang close above the two men.

  “It is hoped among my kind,” the eye tyrant said with deep sarcasm, “that the events of today have taught you both the folly of such clumsy, drawn-swords villainy. Those who deal in rashness are changed by their dealing-and not for the better. The waste caused by the violence you began should make your lesson as clear and as painful to you as it has been to the rest of this council.”

  The beholder rose swiftly, eyestalks still trained in a deadly array on the two. Then it added almost bitterly, “But the curse of humans seems to be the nimbleness with which they forget.”

  Manshoon straightened, opening his mouth. His expression foretold words of proud defiance, but the beholder was already disappearing through a shattered window. Its parting words echoed around the hall. “Behave with rather more subtlety in the future, Manshoon, if you wish to enjoy our continued support!”

  Silence fell. The councilors sat frozen in fear of what the first lord might do in his rage.

  Manshoon stared up at the window for a very long time. Then he smiled thinly, raised one hand in what might have been a salute-or a wave of dismissal-and quietly walked out of the hall. Wordlessly the surviving Zhentarim rose and followed, their dark cloaks sweeping out like the wings of so many determined birds of prey.

  Lord Chess watched them go and let out a breath he’d been holding a long time. As he made his own way out, he was careful not to glance at Fzoul Chembryl. He could feel the cold weight of the priest’s gaze. The master of the Black Altar had been known to lash out in fury himself.

  Cold sweat was trickling down the newly appointed watchlord’s back by the time he strode out of the chamber and turned hastily aside to where hurled spells could not reach. He sighed then. There were still some chasms, it seemed, even the Zhentarim and the priests of Bane did not quite dare to hurl their spells across. Yet Chess sighed again and hurried away, keeping a wary watch behind as he went.

  Awe and terror filled the streets of Zhentil Keep when a beholder of gigantic size drifted, dark and silent, over the city in the brightness of highsun. Ignoring the startled folk below, it floated between spires and high turrets with menacing purpose. Coming at last to the clustered towers of a high, grand stone castle, it paused by a certain window.

  There it erupted in a puff of smoke that seemed to draw the window open. None below could see a robed, bearded man in the heart of the smoke. He stepped over the sill into the tower beyond. The beholder drifted away, its body beginning to dwindle, until it was only wisps of darkness that soon faded to nothing.

  It had been a long wait. Lord Amandon was breathing raggedly as the high window of his bedchamber squealed open and the chill north breeze slipped in. The surface of his scrying crystal misted over.

  Etreth started forward, sword drawn, when he met the challenging gaze of a white-bearded old man who stepped through the window and strode down empty air.

  “Well met, Rorst Amandon,” the newcomer said in a voice both dry and deep.

  “Welcome, Elminster,” the old lord managed to gasp. Etreth came to a halt, openmouthed. Only then did he remember he held a sword.

  Elminster looked at him and, in tones that were not unkind, said, “Put that toy away.”

  Lord Amandon struggled to speak. “I’ve… no time left to waste words. That was well done, Lord Mage. You kept your word. My price is met. I’m glad I lived to see the bargain sealed.”

  Elminster bowed. “I shall keep my word in times to come. This I swear: neither Fzoul nor Manshoon shall die by my hand or spells… however much ill they work.” He bowed. “My payment, as agreed, for the names you gave.”

  Etreth stared from one old man to the other. Lord Amandon nodded. “I do not want Manshoon dead, whatever he may have done to me,” he said. “Zhentil Keep needs a strong leader against growing foes… But I did want him held back from becoming a tyrant, ruling over a city twisted into little more than a fortress.” His breath faltered. For a long moment the nobleman struggled to gather strength-and then spent it in a shrug. “So… even evil old men can be of use to you, eh?”

  “Aye,” Elminster said, watching the battlelord with something rather like sadness in his eyes. “I salute ye, Lord. It has been an honor to do battle against ye, all these years.”

  Lord Amandon lay back against his pillows and said faintly, “And now I fear it is ended, Elminster.” He turned his head to look into the eyes of his servant one last time. “Farewell, Etreth. Have my thanks-and all my wealth.” Then his gaze swept across his broadsword to the portrait of Lady Amandon. Elminster’s eyes followed.

  Tears welled up in Etreth’s eyes, so he never saw the mage lift a hand and murmur something, face very gentle.

  A moment later, the slim, demure lady in the painting seemed to turn, recognize her lord, and smile. The painting glowed as she stepped out of it, a figure outlined in faint white fire, face radiant with welcome as she extended loving arms to her lord.

  “Desil,” Lord Amandon quavered, tears in his voice. “Oh, Desil!” He raised his wasted arms with surprising speed, reaching for her.

  As she came to him, the old nobleman struggled up from the bed to meet her-and fell headlong, crumpling to the carpets without a sound.

  The radiant figure hung above him for a moment, looking down with a smile before fading away. Etreth made a convulsive moment toward his lord, then looked at Elminster. They both knew Amandon was dead.

  “Lady Amandon,” Etreth said, weeping. “Oh, the gods are merciful! She-” The faithful servant froze and brushed away his tears. ” ‘Twas thou conjured her up,” he said slowly. “Why? Why help one who stood against you down the years?”

  Elminster raised an eyebrow, but his voice was empty of sarcasm as he replied, “As your master said, even evil old men can be useful. Thy lord was useful to me as well as to his city… And as we old men know, if long years are to be ours, debts must be paid.”

  As the Old Mage turned toward the window, Etreth saw that his hands shook with weariness.

  One of those hands rose in a salute as Elminster gained the windowsill, turned, and added softly, “No matter how high the price.”

  The More Things Change

  Elaine Cunningham

  Whenever Elaith Craulnober wished to find his future wife, he knew precisely where to look He knew also what s
he would be doing. Although he didn’t entirely approve, he’d long ago abandoned any notion of taming the fierce elven lass.

  The young elflord hurried through the palace gardens and down a path that took him deep into Evermeet’s royal forest. He made his way to a grassy clearing shaded by a canopy of ancient trees. As sure as sunrise, Princess Amnestria was there, sword in hand and skirts kilted up around her knees. Her blue eyes blazed with concentration as she faced off against the finest swordmaster in the kingdom, and her pale face shone like a damp pearl. With both hands she clung to her practice sword-a long, broad blade that looked far too heavy for her slender strength. Her knuckles were white and her arms shook from the strain of balancing the oversized weapon.

  Elaith’s jaw firmed. He strode forward into the glen, determined to have a few words with the princess’s instructor.

  When Amnestria caught sight of the handsome, silver-haired elf, she dropped her sword and flew into his arms like a delighted child. Elaith caught the elfmaiden and swung her off her feet in an exuberant spin, delighting in the playful mood she always invoked in him. Theirs was an arranged marriage, but in this as in all things, Elaith considered himself the most fortunate of elves. He was extremely fond of the princess, and justly proud of the brilliant match.

  Even without her royal lineage, Amnestria was remarkable. She possessed rare spirit and inner fire, a pragmatic intelligence and unusual perceptivity. Her beauty was not yet in full flower, but already minstrels had begun comparing her to Hanali Celanil, the elven goddess of love. She had blue eyes flecked with gold, and the rarest hair color among moon elves: a deep, vibrant blue that the poets likened to spun sapphires. Her features were delicately molded, her form exquisite. Amnestria was the very embodiment of moon elven beauty.

  Yet something about her often struck Elaith as too… human. That was the only word for it. Despite her merry nature, the princess displayed the intensity of purpose and singular focus usually associated with that vigorous, shortlived race. Battlecraft was her passion, and she divided her spare time between her swordmaster and the war wizard who tutored her in battle magic.

  Remembering the source of his ire, Elaith set Amnestria down and prepared to castigate her swordmaster. The older elf, however, had discreetly slipped out of the clearing and was heading down the forest path, sympathy and nostalgia etched on his angular face.

  Amnestria noted his departure and wrinkled her nose. “My teacher is deserting me before I’m ready to stop,” she said. “Let’s have a match!”

  “A princess does not fence with the captain of the king’s guard,” Elaith said in the patient, gentle tone he used rather frequently with the girl.

  She dimpled, and her eyes mocked him. “You’re just afraid that I’ll best you, and then Father will turn your job over to me!”

  “The guard exists to protect you, my dear princess, not employ you. No member of the royal house has ever served in the ranks, and you’re not likely to change things,” he reminded her. “The king has too much regard for tradition.”

  Amnestria responded with an inelegant snort. ‘Tell me something I don’t know!”

  “You misread me, damia,” Elaith said earnestly, using an elven endearment directed to sweethearts or children. “I meant no disrespect to the king.”

  “Of course not.” Amnestria sighed heavily, but her dancing eyes still teased him. “That would be hoping for too much.”

  “What do you mean?” His tone was sharper now.

  “You’re a dear, Elaith, but sometimes I worry for you.” She paused, reflecting. “It’s the hardest thing to explain,” she mused.

  “Make an attempt,” he requested coolly.

  “You’re always so proper, and you follow the rules as if they were graven in alabaster. You’re-” Amnestria broke off, clearly at loss for an explanation. Her slender hands milled in small circles as if she could create an air current strong enough to draw out the right words. “You’re… you’re such an elf.”

  “Of course, damia,” he agreed, a little amusement creeping back into his voice. “What else would I be?”

  “But don’t you ever think about all this?” she persisted with the earnestness of the very young. Her slender hand traced an arc in the direction of the nearby palace, the wondrous moonstone castle that was the very heart of Evermeet. “I’ve never heard you wonder why, or question, or challenge anything. You just do whatever’s expected, and you do it better than anyone else. You’re the consummate elf,” she repeated. Her natural effervescence asserted itself, and the golden lights in her eyes danced like giddy fireflies. “An elf’s elf. The very epitome of elfdom,” she elaborated, then bubbled over into giggles.

  With another lightening change of mood, the girl snatched up her sword and whirled on her betrothed. “Fight with me!” The words were half request, half demand.

  Elaith made her a formal bow. “But Your Highness, is that not what we are doing?” The glint of humor in his amber eyes belied his words, and Amnestria let out another peal of laughter.

  “I suppose we are.” She struck a pose straight out of an ancient, illustrated tome: sword tip resting on the ground before her, one elegant hand extended. “My lord, let us make peace. You are my silver knight, and I your only love,” she said, mimicking the courtly language of an elven legend.

  Responding in kind, Elaith bent low over her hand and pressed it to his lips. With a sudden flash of insight, he realized that despite her lighthearted game Amnestria spoke simple truth. He loved this child-woman with all his heart. He averted his eyes from her frank gaze, lest he reveal emotions she was not yet ready to comprehend. For Amnestria’s sake, he tucked away the pang and the joy of this revelation, hoarding it like a red dragon guards its dearest treasure.

  “Why are you practicing an ancient fighting technique?” he asked, turning the conversation to the subject dearest to her heart. “Are you performing in an historical masque for the midsummer entertainments?”

  “No! This is swordcraft, not play,” she told him in a stern voice.

  “Then why?”

  Her dimples flashed again. “You’ve met my great-aunt Thasitalia?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly. The elfwoman was a free-sword who’d traveled widely, debasing her ancient moonblade by lending her skills to anyone who could offer gold and adventure. The mercenary’s tales enthralled Amnestria, and Elaith considered Thasitalia a bad influence on the restless princess. Still, he had to give the elfwoman credit. Moonblades were rare and so powerful that few could wield them. As the last in his family line, Elaith stood to inherit such a blade from his grandsire. He considered this his greatest honor, a mark of his heritage no less cherished than the elven princess he loved.

  “Thasitalia made me her blade-heir!” Amnestria announced, holding out both hands to him. “Now we will each have a moonblade. Isn’t that marvelous!”

  “It is indeed,” he said with genuine warmth, taking her hands and giving them a little squeeze.

  “We’ll need to have scads of children, so we can choose the strongest among them as blade-heirs,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone that brought heat to Elaith’s cheeks. Seeing this, the maiden rolled her eyes and dropped his hands. She arranged her face in a lugubrious pose and intoned, “It is not seemly to speak of such matters, Your Highness,” in a wicked imitation of Elaith’s precise, mellifluous tones.

  “But anyway,” she continued in her own voice, ‘Thasitalia told me to start practicing with a two-handed grip and a heavy sword. Her moonblade’s magic adds unusual speed and power to the strike, and she says that I must develop strength and quick reflexes, or I won’t be able to control the sword.”

  “So you’re in training, preparing to inherit a moonblade?”

  “Of course. Aren’t you?”

  Smiling, Elaith touched the shoulder of the white uniform of King Zaor’s elite guard. The insignia there proclaimed his rank, and finely wrought pins attested to his expertise in a number of arts and weapons. “All my life
I have prepared.”

  Directly across the street from Waterdeep’s southernmost docks stood a ramshackle barn of a tavern, optimistically named the Tumbled Wench. The tavern was frequented by sailors and dockhands, free-swords in search of adventure, merchant captains, bored local dandies, and bemused travelers from a hundred ports and a dozen races. Local wisdom had it that the Tumbled Wench wove as good a picture of Waterdeep as a visitor was likely to get: a chaotic tapestry of splendor and squalor.

  Exotic smoke filled the air with fragrant haze, and business deals mingled with bawdy laughter in cheerful cacophony. Wealthy merchants and noblefolk with a taste for gritty adventure bumped elbows with low-rent escorts and tattered street people. The prospect served the needs and tastes of all: for a few coppers, patrons could eat their fill or drown their miseries. Efficient barmaids bustled about with trenchers of seafood stew and tankards of foaming ale. More expensive libations were available, and the kitchen would roast herb-stuffed fowl to order, but patrons seldom lingered.

  Oblivious to the bustle around him, a dazed young efflord sat at the long wooden bar, nursing a single glass of Ever-eska sparkling water. His choice of beverage, so unusual in the rough taverns of the Dock Ward, caused more than one patron to smirk and nudge his neighbor. The snide witticisms were spoken softly, though, for few seasoned fighters offered open challenge to a well-armed elf.

  Elaith sipped at his water, and the vague sickness that had haunted him throughout his long and unaccustomed sea voyage slipped away. As his discomfort ebbed, he was all the more aware of the aching void that both filled and consumed him. Evermeet had been his life, Amnestria his love, and he had chosen to leave them both. His meeting with the princess in the forest glade had been their last; that very night his grandsire’s spirit had passed on to Arvanaith, and the Craulnober moonblade had become Elaith’s to claim.

  Never would Elaith forget the horror of watching the pale light of the moonstone, the magic-bearing gem in the hilt of his inherited sword, fade to the dead, milky whiteness of a blinded eye. The moonblade had rejected him, choosing dormancy over an unworthy heir.