Spellstorm (15 page)

Then Maraunth Torr reared his head back in haste as a lit candle seemed to leap from
its perch overhead, descend swiftly toward the table, and then swoop up again, pursuing
the sigh and passing right under the wizard’s nose.

“Parlor tricks, Aumar?” Shaaan spat, as she and Calathlarra tendered almost identical
expressions of cold reproof. Their faces contrasted with the wry smile now decorating
Tabra’s features. She, at least, was enjoying this.

“Enough,” the Runemaster snapped, standing up to lash out with a swift and mighty
dispelling enchantment that should have seared all
magic in at least half of the room—and through and beyond its walls in that direction
for quite some distance.

What it did instead was make brief flowers of magical radiance blossom and then burst
in a cluster in midair as a discordant tune of jangled harp-strings resounded—and
everything became a thin plume of pink smoke, drifting away to one side in a sudden
hurry.

Calathlarra glared at it as if she’d been personally betrayed, but the smoke seemed
unperturbed. Yusendre and Manshoon, seated on either side of the Runemaster, looked
up at her warily, undoubtedly wondering what she’d do next.

What she did was turn her rage and rising dismay on Elminster.

“Stop these childish pranks, Aumar! You demean yourself by such exhibitions!”

El gave her a raised eyebrow. “Oh? Which
particular
childish pranks?”

“The—this playing at being a ghost!”

“Yet I’m not, Calath, as it happens. And thy accusation is a bit much, coming from
a woman old enough to know better, who nonetheless is fresh from
playing
at casting a spell! Surely a Runemaster can manage a mere
dispelling
!”

Calathlarra went white with fury, and lashed out at Elminster this time, with a breathtaking
disregard for etiquette—or prudence, considering the deadly mastery of the Art commanded
by those at the table, many of whom were seated near the Sage of Shadowdale. Some
of them hissed out swift mantlings and wardings … only to falter and look taken aback.

The failure of magic—and powerful, brutal spells, at that—to do much of anything at
all was apparent to everyone in the room.

A frowning Skouloun of Nimbral spread his hands and then carefully worked a novice’s
cantrip with exacting care and frowning concentration.

And nothing at all happened.

The Elder’s face froze, and he turned and snapped at Yusendre, “We must away from
this place! Safety here, there is none, and …”

He acquired a frown, deep and dark, as his gaze went to Elminster. “No, it’s
you
, you snake! You’re our jailer, here in this prison! Wh—”

“Prison?” El asked. “How exactly are ye imprisoned, Elder of Nimbral? I’m retired
from the archmage business, remember? I now live and work here, whereas ye invited
thyself inside these halls. I haven’t worked a spell on ye—on anyone here—since thy
arrival.”

“You know what I mean! We all saw the Thayan’s fate!”

“Yet thine own spells brought ye here, and I bid ye up and leave if ye desire to!
So what, pray tell, saith ‘jailer’ to ye, in that?”

Yusendre of Nimbral sighed. “So magic truly is … ineffective, here in Oldspires.”

“For now,” Manshoon put in.

“Now is all that matters,” Malchor Harpell observed, “for if anyone has come to trust
overmuch in the strength of their Art, ‘now’ is all that may be left to them.”

“Speak for yourself,” Calathlarra snapped.

The patriarch of the Harpells gave her a gentle smile that did not reach his eyes.
“Oh, I do, Runemaster.”

That was all he said and quietly, too, yet it held sufficient sting of reproof to
make the Twisted Rune mage darken and hiss anger at him as she sat back. And said
not another word.

As a sudden silence fell over the table, that lone, lit candle flying upright through
the air was soaring serenely back to its perch in one of the maerifasturs. Everyone
watched it settle itself gently back into place.

And then, almost mockingly, wink out.

As Lord Halaunt came slowly back into the room, resumed his seat, and seemed to slump
instantly into slumber.

Maraunth Torr looked at the old noble, and then at Elminster. “So, is yon candle’s
flight your doing? I’m genuinely curious.”

“No,” El replied gravely. “It’s not. Mystra be my witness and smite me if I speak
falsely: I had nothing to do with what you just saw that candle do.”

As he spoke, a chair that had been gliding across the floor from the row of seats
along the walls came to a sudden stop—and yet another chair began to move. The green
flames in the fireplace were silently fading back to more normal fiery hues.

Nicely done
, El thought in Alusair’s direction, without looking at her,
but don’t overdo it, now
. There was a time to prod the sleeping dragon, and a time to soothe and placate …

“As I recall,” Alastra Hathwinter said softly, “this house is said to be haunted.
The chairs that move by themselves, the candles … all that’s missing, if I remember
all the legends rightly, is the chalice.”

The table waited, but she said no more.

“The chalice?” Tabra finally asked.

“The chalice,” the Harper replied. “I’m waiting to see if—
ahhh
.”

She sounded more satisfied than apprehensive, and everyone at the table turned to
see where she was looking. In time to see a large old ornate metal chalice sail into
view, moving through the air at about chest height for an adult man—upside down.

“I didn’t want to say it’s always seen flying around inverted,” Alastra explained,
“in case all of this is some spell-mischief worked by one of us here, and I could
discover as much. You see, the scribe who wrote the definitive book on hauntings and
legends of Cormyr omitted that important de—”

“
Stop
, woman!” Skouloun of Nimbral bellowed, upsetting his chair as he shot to his feet
to lunge forward across the table, reaching for—

Calathlarra of the Twisted Rune. She snarled at him in frightened hatred, arms spread.
The gems adorning the rings she wore on both middle fingers were swung outward like
tiny doors, to reveal storage spaces beneath, and a few last grains of powder were
still spilling from one of them. She’d obviously seized the distraction of everyone
gazing at the chalice to empty something into the drinks of both Yusendre, seated
on one side of her, and Manshoon, on the other.

Tabra was on her feet and on the move. “Elder of Nimbral,” she snapped at Skouloun,
“you’re spilling drinks! No need to
grapple
with this foulness; we’ve all seen what she did!”

Mirt, who’d launched himself into a lumbering run from the kitchen door at the far
end of the room, slowed with a relieved wheeze, and the half-risen Elminster subsided
back into his seat. So, visibly furious and red-faced, did Skouloun.

Calathlarra tried to rise—but Tabra’s hands were on her shoulders, and held her in
place like unyielding manacles.

“Stay,”
Tabra hissed, “and face your perfidy. For once.”

And that was when Manshoon smiled, picked up his goblet, sniffed at its contents appreciatively—and
drank deeply.

There was an intake of breath from several throats, a rising chorus of apprehension.
Into which the darkly handsome founder of the Zhentarim turned, his smile growing
wider and more wry, and announced sardonically, “Ah, yes, maruskaereg. Dry and nutty;
unmistakable. One of my favorites. Swiftly fatal, if one hasn’t happened to sample
increasing doses of it for some years, so one can safely drink with those one intends
to slay. I’m practically immune to it now.”

“Maruskaereg!”
Yusendre spat, white to her lips. “You could have slain us all!” She tried to draw
back from Calathlarra, seated so close beside her, but her chair would only let her
shrink back so much, and no more.

Calathlarra hissed fury at her and tried to lunge at the Nimbran—but Tabra’s grip
remained unbroken, and the Runemaster could only tremble and quiver as she tried to
struggle free.

“Should we expect much more of this sort of thing?” Maraunth Torr inquired, almost
pettishly. “It’s not going to make for much in the way of
trust
, now, is it?”

By way of reply, Skouloun of Nimbral turned to face him, raised a reproving finger,
reeled for a moment in his seat, quite gray in the face—and pitched forward, nose
first into his emptied plate, his forehead upsetting several goblets across the table.

“Poison, poison,” Manshoon murmured mockingly, quoting a popular old play. “Oceans
of poison …”

“So,” Shaaan snarled at Calathlarra, “you’ve claimed your first victim!
Murderess!
”

The Runemaster gaped back at her.

Looking, Elminster couldn’t help but notice, astonished.

I
—I—I
DID NOT
,” C
ALATHLARRA STAMMERED, SURPRISE GIVING WAY TO
fury and fear, “have anything to do with … that man.” Her arms firmly held by Tabra
in a shoulder grip El recognized as one that would pinch nerves and leave the Runemaster’s
limbs burningly numb, she moved the only bit of her she could—and gestured with her
head in Skouloun’s direction.

At about the same time, Mirt reached the facedown Nimbran and plucked him back up
to a sitting position. The Elder’s head lolled; slack-jawed and unseeingly staring.
Eerily, his eyes gazed at separate nothings, the left orb peering up and the right
one glancing down.

Definitely not maruskaereg, El thought to himself. Rymmthan? Ortolella? And then he
told himself firmly: Later. There were many, many poisons it could be.

Just now, he had another murder—well, “another” if Skouloun was dead, and he certainly
looked it—to prevent. The faces around the table wore ugly expressions as they glared
at the Runemaster.

Not that she’d be much loss to the greater good of Toril, but Mystra had ordered him
to
try
for accord, and—

“This is not,” Lord Halaunt said severely, scowling down the table—for Alusair liked
Calathlarra and Shaaan, of this assembly, least of all—“the behavior I expect of my
guests. Even outlanders … and even powerful mages. Poisoning someone at
my
table? ’Tis not
done
, woman! Now, what shall we do with you?”

“Kill her,” Maraunth Torr drawled at the backs of his fingernails. Then, becoming
aware of a stiffening tension up and down the table, he looked up and amended, “
Execute
her, if you prefer.”

“And how does another death profit us?” Malchor murmured.

“By preventing her from
ever
trying anything like that to any of the
rest
of us,” Shaaan snapped. “Simpleton.”

Malchor merely looked back at her in expressionless calm.

“Justice,” Yusendre said heavily, “she must face. Now or later.”

Calathlarra glared around at them all, fear bright in her eyes, and said nothing.

“Now, if this were
my
manor,” Manshoon observed, nodding gravely to Lord Halaunt, “I’d give the Runemaster
the choice of being forced out into the spellstorm right now—and taking her chances—or
agreeing to be locked into a bedchamber for now, to face justice later.” He raised
his eyes and gave Elminster a look that was a clear challenge, but El nodded and said,
“Losing her mind now, or answering for her deeds. Seems fair enough.”

“I did not
do
anything to him!” Calathlarra protested. Mirt peered around Skouloun’s head to survey
the vacant face with its misaimed eyes, and then looked at her, in meaningful silence.

“I did
not
!” she cried.

“Your choice,” Malchor said gently, “stands.”

Calathlarra glared wildly around from face to face, then turned her head as swiftly
as any striking snake and sought to bite one of Tabra’s restraining hands. That earned
her a slap across the face from Yusendre, so hard and furious that the echo of the
smack rebounded off a far wall at about the same time as the Runemaster’s head snapped
back.

“I hate you all!” the woman of the Twisted Rune hissed, her eyes now aflame.

“Really? Yet you hide it so well,” Manshoon purred. “Your choice stands.”

“Mindlessness or incarceration; a clear choice,” Maraunth Torr observed. “Yes, Runemaster,
it stands.”

“So say we all,” Yusendre agreed.

Calathlarra looked from face to face, teeth bared, then spat, “The room, then! I would
prefer to face the consequences of something I did rather than something I had nothing
whatsoever to do with, but—”

“You will,” Yusendre said grimly. “Oh, you will.”

“T
HE GARDEROBE
,”
SHE
’
D
made Lord Halaunt growl, as he departed the feast hall for the last time that evening.
Alusair sighed. This deceiving business was a lot of
work
.