Spellstorm (8 page)

“Laspeera’s work on him; that’s a tale I’d like to hear in more detail, someday,”
Mirt murmured.

“So would I,” Elminster replied dryly. “I suspect Myrmeen has told me less than half
of what went on—and Vangerdahast, of course, even less.”

“Was the ghost of Alusair in that fight, too?”

“Who do ye think saved Laspeera and Myrmeen?”

Mirt shook his head. “I thought Waterdeep was an all-too-exciting place at times,
but we only had crazed or evil humans and a few beholders scheming and running about …”

“Welcome to Cormyr, the Forest Kingdom, beautiful land of deep forests, verdant farms,
and enough trouble for any dozen realms,” Elminster replied. And smiled. “I love it.”

E
LURAUNT
M
ALABRAK SMILED
as the illusion of cracked and mold-covered wall sighed away into nothingness, and
left him looking at a doorway into a storage niche crammed with things that glowed
with magic.

His instincts had been right. This corner was where whatever wizard had once lorded
it over this crumbling, nameless ruin of a tower had decided to hide his items of
power. Now to decide which things to keep and hide elsewhere for himself, and which
to take back to the Three.

This bracer, now, looked damaged …

“Not
quite
so fast, arcanist.”

Eluraunt Malabrak flung up a hand to redouble his personal ward even before he spun
around.

And then froze, puzzled. A lone woman, as gaunt as a staff, barefoot and empty-handed
in a nightrobe?

“Put that down,” she commanded calmly. “It was a gift from Telamont Tanthul—and now
it is all I have to remember him by.”

“The Most H—who
are
you?”

Genuinely astonished, Malabrak surreptitiously activated the rings he wore as he set
down the half-melted bracer. He’d come to this decaying mage’s tower to seize or steal
magic on the orders of the Three, but obeyed them only because to do otherwise would
be to walk alone, renouncing all memory of great Thultanthar. He considered himself
their equal, if not more, in power; few wizards in Faerûn could hope to stand against
him for long.

“Tabra is my name, and this is my home.”

The name meant nothing to Malabrak, so he shrugged.

“I do not recall inviting you here,” she added, lurching a step closer. Into the full
light.

The arcanist felt his mouth tighten in disgust. She’d been disfigured by torture,
her body a mass of protruding scars, so deformed that her right eye rose above the
other, her head twisted out of shape. One breast was higher, and her hips tilted at
the opposite angle so that her lower breast sat just above. She was almost impossibly
gaunt, as thin as a maltreated slave. Yet her face, despite its twisted shape, was
beautiful. Beautiful and arresting in its sadness. Grief rode her.

“You didn’t,” Malabrak told her scornfully, “but I don’t think I need your invitation.”
He looked her up and down, lip curling. “I doubt you receive many.”

The disfigured woman smiled bitterly—and Malabrak felt and heard the faint, high-pitched
tinkling sigh of his wards falling away.

He gasped, and let fly with all the blasting might of his readied rings, holding nothing
back. Anyone who could do
that
to his war—

His own magics rebounded off something unseen and came roaring right back at him,
so swiftly that he hadn’t time to dodge or do anything before he was snatched off
his feet and flung the length of the room, back a long way to where a distant back
wall was waiting for him.

He struck it with a thunderous crash that broke bones and drove all the wind out of
him. As he writhed, stunned, the woman walked slowly toward him, lurching at every
step, her face impassive.

Malabrak fought to work the swift and simple spell that would whisk him away from
this place, returning him to—

He managed it, but all that happened was that his limbs quivered, the room seemed
to dance sideways for a moment, and … he was still against the wall, the real pain
beginning now, pinned in place.

“W-who are you?” he managed to gasp, tasting blood. By his last word, it was dripping
from his chin.

The woman came to a stop in front of him. “I,” she replied, “am the last apprentice
of Ioulaum. You Thultanthans captured me and tortured me, because your Most High desired
to learn Ioulaum’s longevity. I was confined and enslaved, as he invaded—ravaged—my
mind time and time again. He learned much, but saw glimpses of what I yet kept from
him. So he forced me into stasis when he got too busy, rather than slaying me. I was
freed by his death, left with the aches I’d become used to—and one new one.”

Malabrak shook his head, not wanting to ask what it was, as she lurched still closer.

“Now,” she told him softly, through that lopsided jaw, “I ache to destroy all arcanists
of Thultanthar.”

“N-no!” Malabrak gasped out, truly frightened for the first time since the day Thultanthar
had come crashing down. He’d been on his way back to the city then, to report, and
if he’d been just a trifle faster …

He shivered.

“You interrupted my snack,” Tabra added, “but I see you have two eyeballs, ripe for
the plucking …”

“
No
!” Malabrak screamed, spraying blood.

That earned him a lopsided smile. “Oh, I can be merciful, arcanist,” she told him,
as gently as if she’d been telling him when the next washing day was. “Particularly
if you tell me where I can find other arcanists.”

“You’re jesting,” he protested weakly. She leaned forward to stare into his eyes,
and Malabrak winced and said hastily, “You’re not jesting.”

“No,” Tabra almost whispered, “my jesting days are done. Now, where else might I find
arcanists? Or are they lined up downstairs, waiting for you to pillage whatever you
can carry so it’ll be their turn?”

“N-no,” he managed to say. “I … I know that four arcanists, young and ambitious, were
sent to a noble’s mansion in the countryside in eastern Cormyr. Oldspires, it’s called.
They’ll be … magically disguised … of course.”

“Of course,” the disfigured woman murmured, as her long and many-times broken fingers
closed around Malabrak’s throat.

“Aren’t you—aren’t you worried about my contingencies?” he gasped desperately.

“No,” she said bleakly. “I will welcome death. Though I’d much prefer to see every
last arcanist of Thultanthar dead first. By my hands.”

Her fingers were tightening. Malabrak struggled to breathe, to will every last magic
he wore or bore to erupt into life to force her off.

Some of them obeyed, bursting into crackling life.

Tabra smiled. “Ah, the pain! I’ve come to enjoy it, you know. That’s why I almost
miss Telamont Tanthul. I never got the chance to share my agony with him.”

Malabrak strained for air, but knew by the way she shifted her cruel grip that she
was going to break his neck before …

The last words he ever heard were Tabra’s calm murmur: “Oldspires. I shall go there
and hunt them down, no matter what shape they take.”

KurrrakKKh
.

M
IRT HAD CHOSEN
a less than savory corner of Suzail for wetting his gullet, but the dark and narrow
alleyway was cleaner and safer than most other cities Elminster knew well. It was
also, save for the occasional rat, empty.

Wherefore Elminster was alone when the voice that suddenly spoke softly and deeply
in his mind made him stiffen in midstep, falter, and then sink down amid the refuse
as if drunk.

Well met, trusted prince of Athalantar
. That vibrant, rolling, and melodious thunder in the depths of his mind sounded almost … amused.

Well met, Mystra
. El was genuinely glad at the mind touch of his goddess, though it almost certainly
meant more work. Every meeting with her excited him, buoyed his spirits, and suffused
him with energy.
What cheer?

As impish as ever, Old Mage
. A warm flood of pleasure this time.
As you anticipate, I have a task for you
.

I shall be honored
.

Flirt. At the gathering at Oldspires, you must deal with my wayward Chosen
.

Oh? Which one will be there? Or do you mean me?

Flirt, and jester now, too. I speak of Manshoon. You must either destroy him, or wrest
from him something this particular clone of Manshoon carries within himself: An enchanted
spindle that holds a spark of the fire of the goddess Mystryl. It is this divine essence
that has allowed Manshoon to wield the Art far above his real mastery for centuries
.

It’s inside his body?

Yes. And as I do not want to risk any more Chosen, you shall be the only one of my
foremost servants at Oldspires—aside from Manshoon, of course
.

A spindle
.

A spindle
. The image of what he was to look for—a long diamondlike shape that had been pulled
by a blacksmith’s pincers at both ends, and drawn out long and slender—appeared in
Elminster’s mind, so clear and firm and surrounded by Mystra’s blue-edged silver radiance
that he knew she was emblazoning it among his memories forever.
Cut it out of him if you must
.

With pleasure
, El thought, and meant it.
He and I have been dancing around each other for far too long
.

I would have wished matters otherwise, Mystra said sadly, then became brisk again.
I have covertly allowed the wizards at Oldspires and headed there to learn some things
that will lure them more strongly. Rumors of items in Lord Halaunt’s possession they
personally covet, and the gates Oldspires houses and hides. Some of the attending
mages know that dragons they are in league with, who dwell in the worlds beyond the
gates, can be brought to Toril if the correct rituals are performed. More than this,
I shall not do
.

“No?” Elminster asked aloud, meaning it sarcastically. A young skulker who’d started
warily down the alley toward him, dagger drawn, hesitated, and then ducked low and
froze.

“Other than showing you how to shield the mind of Lord Halaunt to prevent any of the
guests speaking through him, I won’t be protecting anyone, or causing anything to
happen aside from controlling the barrier,” Mystra told Elminster, both in his mind
and in a voice that thrilled the skulker into slack-jawed, trembling rapture, on his
knees and staring around in wonder. “It’s all up to you, old friend.”

“Of course,” Elminster told the dark air with a shrug and a wry smile. “Isn’t it always?”

I
T WAS A
small room, even for this inn, but it was private, and its door fitted better than
most, so no one standing just outside should see any betraying flashes of light.

Creeeek
.

Oh, yes, and it had that creaking floorboard outside the door, so you could tell when
someone
was
standing right outside.

“Lady Nightcloak, are you decent?”