Elminster in Hell tes-4 Read online

  "If any mage in the Realms can hold Mystra's might and live to see the burden passed on-and resist the hunger to master it and, in the doing, be mastered by it- 'tis Elminster of Shadowdale."

  Khelben did shiver, then, and turned a white face to look into Laeral's. His eyes were large and dark with fear. "Mine will be the task to take up what of his work I can- and gather all the strength I can, here. If the Art does master him, and he becomes as wild and cruel a rogue as Manshoon, mine will be the duty to destroy him."

  They held each other tightly in the large bed as tears fell. Neither could find words to comfort each other that were not empty.

  Nergal stirred. Are you trying to alert your friends, Elminster? Do you truly think such memories can reach them, to warn them of your captivity here? Give it up, fool — nothing leaves your mind but through me. I am the gate of fangs, the portal that opens not. Despair in my darkness and yield. Yield up to me your secrets, little mage, ere I grow restive and tear apart all in seeking what i desire.

  Silver flames, flowing…

  yes! more of that! show me, cringing human! nergal commands! more, or I'll snatch away your sanity with claws of fear!

  Cold fear in spellcasting, fear of going mad…

  Yes! wherefore yield! yield to nergal!

  Fear like a quavering flame in a dark room, where magic sputtered and failed in slender fingers…

  Illistyl drew a deep breath and tried the spell again. Nothing happened-again. Her hands shook.

  Magic had never failed her before. Oh, she'd failed it, a time or two, but always the error had been hers, something that more care or training could conquer. Not this wildness, tills unreliability of her every spell.

  Deep fear tasted like cold metal in her mouth. There was no Simbul here now, and Storm was half the dale away- there was only Illistyl Elventree, alone in a cold, dim stone room in the Twisted Tower.

  "What's happening?" she demanded of the Realms around her, bosom rising and falling as fear took hold. "What have we done, that magic fails us?"

  The door of the room resounded to a thunderous knocking, shook in its frame, and burst in upon her. She screamed.

  "Oh, gods look down?” Jhessail scolded her, sweeping into the room like a vengeful wind, robes swirling around her. "Must you work such pranks of Art? Half the guards below have just lost every buckle and plate of metal on them-and they're now scrambling around in their boots and under-rags, looking very embarrassed indeed!"

  Illistyl looked at her and burst into laughter… that soon dissolved into tears, and then twisted into laughter again. Jhessail held slim shoulders in her arms, cradling them, pulling her pupil close.

  "There, there, kitten." she soothed. "Shadowdale still stands around us-take heart. It could be worse."

  Illistyl drew a shuddering breath. "How? she demanded tremulously. "I can't work even the simplest spell!"

  Jhessail sighed. "Well," she said wryly, "all magic could fail us, and the gods could walk the Realms, and-"

  Illistyl's arms tightened around her waist fiercely. "Don't say that," she hissed into her mentor's ear. "Don't even think about it! Jhess, I'm scared. Scared."

  Jhessail Silvertree held the younger mage tenderly in her arms and said, "We all are, kitten. Even the gods, now. Elminster used to tell me, when I cried: Walk with fear a little while. Get to know it, and know thyself the more."

  Illistyl only sobbed in reply, and clung to her more tightly. "He's gone, too! Jhess-where is he?"

  Jhessail felt wetness welling up in her own eyes. "I don't know," she whispered back. They clung to each other in the darkness. In a voice that was not quite steady, she said, "We're all scared. We should be, now, if we know what's befallen-and are sane."

  Illistyl drew back and stared at her, eyes streaming. "You think mages are sane? You're crazy!"

  Jhessail laughed until she had to cling to Illistyl for support, and they laughed together awhile longer.

  There came the hurrying tread of booted feet, and Mourngrym rushed in, torches and guards at his back.

  "What now, women?" he demanded, sword naked in his hand.

  "The-sanity of mages," Jhessail gasped. "A… laughing matter, it seems."

  "I've often thought so," the lord of Shadowdale replied, sheathing his sword. "Though with Elminster about, I've never quite dared say it."

  Illistyl nodded. "And now that he's gone, who knows where …?" Her voice was only a whisper.

  Mourngrym looked at her. "I'm so afraid, lass, that if I stand still too long my bladder fills my boots right up to the tops. If you had any sense, you'd know that much fear, too."

  He wondered, then, why the laughter of both lady mages was so wild.

  My patience is not endless, man. Do you think showing me such things delays your fate? The unlocking and wielding of mystra's powers are what i seek, not these scenes from the eve of the madness of magic failing, no matter how much it mattered to you.

  I try to reveal all, Nergal. I try. Much is tangled here, when the old Mystra passed and her powers were thrust into me to carry. Here alone is the time when I understood what I wielded. Believe me.

  You make such belief less than easy, mage. Delay me less.

  ***

  "Lord?" Darthusk pulled back on his swing a moment before his sword tip would have found Mourngrym Amcathra's throat.

  The lord of Shadowdale stepped back, frowning. He shook his head as if trying to clear something out of It, staring at nothing.

  Darthusk waved his hand in an urgent signal. All of the guards around the room stopped their sword practice and fell silent, looking at their lord in concern. Was this some sort of Zhent trick, or-?

  Mourngrym shook himself again and caught up his belt rag to wipe the sweat from his face. "Strange," he said tersely as he raised his blade again, "but-'twas so vivid. A passing memory of our two lady wizards laughing until they were falling down. I went in to see why the noise, and…"

  He shook his head again, wonderingly and said, "Cry pardon, Darthusk. I-magic. Strange, always."

  "Aye, Lord," the guard said, as they crossed their blades to begin again. "Magic always is. I see it as a sword that burns at both ends-harming its wielder as well as the foe. It's a wonder to me that more mages don't end up aflame in earnest, screaming down in the Nine Hells!"

  Mourngrym stiffened again, frowning at Darthusk. “What did y-never mind." He tapped his sword against the guard's. They swung at each other with real force, and the spark-striking clang of steel rose again around them. Mourngrym shook his head and growled, "Aflame in the Nine Hells, aye. Use magic I must, but trust it? Never!"

  Their eyes met over their skirling blades, lord and guard, and they grinned and shouted in unison, "Never!"

  ***

  [frustration like flame… aye, a flame burning in Hell with a too-clever mage in the heart of it]

  What's that, little man? What's that thought of flame you're trying to hide from me? You think fire can harm me?

  Ah, no. "Never"

  Aye, so stall no more! Snow us more of that! There were guards, yes, with drawn sworos, and light-well?

  [hasty swirl of images]

  Brightness, long-barred doors opening, guards stepping warily back with naked swords bright in their hands, parting to let us stride forward…

  Ahead, into the light…

  About time.

  The blue-white light of the Art, of Mystra's power unleashed…

  Show me!

  Blue-white, and wavering… in a stone tower where an old man sat alone, spellweaving…

  The spell had never gone wrong before. It was such a simple tiling, the conjuring of light. Oh, wondrous to a farm boy, to be sure, the making of radiance where there had been none before-and a thing for a raw apprentice to be proud of. In the actual casting, mind, there was nothing very complex or difficult.

  Taern "Thunderspell" Hornblade, Harper and mage of the Palace Spellguard of Silvermoon, stood up suddenly, then sat down again, frowning in bewi
lderment. In his mind he went over what he had done again, seeing clearly the clean, careful, precise steps. No, he had made no error. The spell should have worked.

  He cast a detection spell, felt it range out from him. No fields or barriers, save those that were always in this place, met his probing. The scrying magic worked flawlessly, proof that no magic had been placed to drink or deny all Art. Everything seemed normal, the torches flickering in their braziers as they always did. Yet the spell had failed.

  Either someone who could not be seen or otherwise detected had acted to steal or dispel his Art-hardly likely-or something had happened to Mystra or to his standing in the eyes of Mystra… or he was going mad. Happy choices, all.

  With hands that shook only a little, Taern knelt in the stone-walled spell chamber and prayed to Mystra, his gray-bearded lips moving in entreaty. He felt as if a black gulf had suddenly opened beneath him, and he was helpless to avoid plunging into it, into oblivion. What had he done? What had happened to him?

  He was still on his knees when one of the room's secret doors opened-the door that led to the chambers of Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon.

  So upset was Taern Thunderspell that he did not look up or cease his prayers, even when a gentle hand came down to rest on his shoulder. He did stop, amazed, at the grief-choked, kindly words that followed.

  "Make thy prayer a farewell and thanks to the Lady, Taern," Alustriel told him. "For she is gone forever."

  Taern looked up, dumbfounded, and saw that tears rolled unchecked down the cheeks of Silverymoon's queen. A blue-white aura of power curled about her long hair and spilled from her brimming eyes.

  "Lady?" Taern asked, reaching his hands up to her. “What do you mean?"

  Alustriel took his hands in her own, and Taern felt a tingling of power. Great Art, she had, more than he had ever sensed before.

  "Thy spell failed not by thy doing. It was lost, with all Art worked in Faerun in that breath, in the passing of Mystra."

  "Mystra is-dead? Destroyed?"

  "Destroyed, aye." Alustriel knelt on the stones beside him, her long gown rustling. "While ye are down here, Thunderspell, ye could join me in prayer to Azuth, to guide the living."

  "Living mages? Such as ye and I?" Taern was white-faced; the black gulf was all around him, and only the hands that clasped his kept him from sinking. Hands that glowed blue-white.

  Alustriel smiled through her tears, and said softly, "For one mage, aye. The one who holds Mystra's power now. It burns him inside, and we must all hope he bows not to the temptation to wield it. And for the one who comes after, the one who must rise and grow to take Mystra's place and power. They will need our prayers, and whatever help we can give, in the days ahead.''

  Taern wished desperately that he did not feel so old and tired, the days of his greatest power behind him. None of his apprentices were ready yet. None would serve in any battle to come.

  Alustriel put her arms around him and kissed his forehead. "Peace, Taern. The Lady's power has touched me; until it fades, I can see thy mind. Ye have done well, and it is thy wisdom, more than power of Art, that will be needed in the days ahead."

  From where she had kissed him, Taern felt power flooding through him, awakening and soothing at the same time. He stared at his queen in awe and wonder and wished again he were not so old.

  Alustriel's eyes held his in a steady, loving gaze.

  He colored suddenly and brought hands up to his burning cheeks. If she could read his thoughts…. Taern loved her very much then, for she caught one of his hands and brought it to her lips and did not laugh at him.

  More lovemaking. Do you humans do anything else?

  Aye. We scheme and fight and work treason almost as energetically as archdevils.

  Mock me not, elminster aumar. You are in my power, i have but to close my hand over you for you to be no more. Gone forever.

  Promises, promises.

  Do not presume to bandy words with me as an equal, human. My patience grows short indeed. Show me more of godly magic-now!

  Pain! Pain in Avernus, of a tentacle become a talon and thrust through the breast of a crawling man, leaving him to stiffen and gasp in agony as fresh blood flowed… then to sink back, gasping in ecstasy, as the withdrawing talon healed its own wound, leaving the naked old man to fall on his face, shaking with weakness and pain….

  Weakness, and gods, and magic…

  Yield unto me, little man!

  Ah. Weakness in magic among the gods. Aye, let it be remembered…

  "I am ashamed to say it," Noumea whispered, so faintly that mortal ears would have missed what she said, "but I am glad the Lady did not choose me. I would have failed her-and us all."

  She stood in a dark cavern, lit only by a tall, slim conical column of silvery gray light. It replied in an echoing mind-voice.

  Wherefore ye were not chosen. The Lady is-was- wise. Yet he not ashamed, Daughter. Differing natures decree different fates for us all.

  "What now, Lord?"

  The silvery cone flickered once. We go on as before. None must know what has befallen. This seems wisest.

  "Seems wisest?"

  I am not all wise or all knowing, Lady Magister. I can be sure only after I touch the mind of Elminster. It may become necessary, if the power he has taken twists him, that ye destroy him. Come with me now, as we speak mind to mind with the Old Mage. Merge with me.

  The Magister looked at the cone in puzzlement. "Merge, Lord Azuth?"

  Step into the space I now occupy, and stay entirely within this conical form. It is all that is left to me since the Fall. I must be ready to shield thee if Elminster has been… changed.

  Noumea shivered. She had not known that anything could bring fear into the voice of a god-especially her all wise, imperturbable teacher, the Lord of Wizardry himself.

  Hurriedly she stepped forward and plunged-with a momentary, shocking chill-into the silvery cone, all that remained of the High One. Already his mind reached out like an uncoiling snake, lashing across great distances toward the slightly leaning stone tower in Shadowdale.

  Full of tricks, aren't you? A flagon brimming over with deceit. Nearly as devilish as one of us. You know full well i seek what you recall of mystra, don't you? Don't you? [searing fire]

  [pain] Aye. [shuddering pain]

  Show me, then, something she left in your mind-or i'll tear and rend your wits in earnest, wise old elminster!

  As ye command, Lord Nergal.

  Do you dare to mock me? [furious lashing fires]

  [pain] Not I, Lord. Gods, not I!

  Tears running down the sky from the dark, watchful eyes of the Lady of Mysteries, on a night before her powers failed, and she could only behold what befell as magic failed, all across Faerun….

  The day was warm and bright-but all was decidedly not well in the Realms.

  In Chessenta, the Sceptanar screamed in rage as three of his high wizards battled to control the wild transformations their Art had brought to certain ladies of the court. It was the Sceptanar's wont to have noble consorts altered by magic, to tint their skins with exotic hues, enhance their height and features, and give them something different- scales, or serpentine tails, claws, or even gossamer wings. This morn, the spells had gone horribly wrong. They brought on changes, yes-changes that continued, faster and faster, altering the ladies into monstrous things that screamed, bellowed, or burbled at the pain and stress of their shifting. The Sceptanar's most powerful high wizards scurried and cast spells and puzzled, hurling all they could find. No magic could stop these fell transformations.

  Moreover, rumors of the gods walking the Realms grew ever more detailed with the passing days. The Sceptanar was beginning to grow very afraid indeed.

  "Lady?" Taern's voice was rough with concern, and he half-rose from his stool under the lamp.

  In the pool where Alustriel bathed, amid the spell glows and scented oils applied by deft servants, she had stiffened and gasped. She sat bolt upright, ripples racing
away across the waters. She clutched at her head as if something had caught fire within.

  "Lady Taern almost shouted. "Are you well?" Alustriel raised a hand to stay his cry, and then asked, "Taern, did any memories come into your mind just now? Of the two of us, perhaps, on the night when the Art seemed to fail?"

  Taern shook his head, his eyes large and dark. "The night I felt Mystra's power within you?" he whispered, heedless of the listening servants and the little murmur of wordless excitement that spread from them. I’ll never forget that night, Lady. Yet I tell you truth: It comes to me now, as you speak of it, but nothing until then. I was thinking of nothing but the ledgers and coins we'd been discussing."

  "Nothing of Azuth, or the Magister, or far Chessenta?" Taern shook his head. "No, Lady," he said in a low, wondering voice. “Why would I?"

  "Aye," the lady wizard echoed, sinking back into the pool until the rippling waters lapped at her magnificent throat. "Why would I?"

  ***

  [images spinning on, in the blood-red gloom of Hell]

  In Aglarond, the Simbul forbade the use of magic against Thayan raiders, telling her men to trust instead in their swords. When the Red Wizards leading the strike against Aglarond tried to hurl lightning against the Simbul's men, their spells instead brought forth falls of flowers, crystal spheres, and mud. In the end, a Red Wizard sought escape by giving the raiders' stolen boat the power of flight, but his Art instead turned it to old and crumbling cheese, and it fell apart beneath them. They sank into the cold waters of the Sea of Dhurg. Only a handful emerged to the embrace of the Simbul's spell chains.

  In Silverymoon, a simple spell to light the recesses of a dark cellar brought down the tower above it. The astonished caster was High Lady Alustriel, herself.