Blackstaff

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Feast of the Moon, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)

Tsarra heard four whispers whirling about her library, each chanting, "Assemble…" Ghostly elves entered her sanctum and summoned thrones for themselves around her. They studied her mutely, some with open disdain. The sendings grew one by one, and so did those assembled before her. She tried to talk with the elves, but she only ever got a one word sending: Patience. Tsarra hated the mystery, and grew frustrated when even her tome would not or could not identify the figures invading her sanctum. She examined the library and found that every book in Khelben's true collection had a simulacrum there as well. She looked for books discussing high magic, in hopes of understanding those rituals, both the one with Khelben at the center and the second one under the direction of the grand mages of Miyeritar. Khelben's working was incredibly powerful, but it wasn't high magic. It cleansed and prepared the High Moor for the return of its people, destroyed that last taints of the Killing Storms, and raised the city's defensive towers as they were twelve thousand years ago. After hours of the droning chant, Tsarra jumped as the elves suddenly stopped. Magic crackled around the sanctum. Nine additional thrones rose swiftly, and within a few moments, elves appeared in them. All smiled broadly. Tsarra felt suddenly powerful, and she approached the mirror. Thirteen gems swirled and circled around Tsarra's head, leaving trails of arcane fire behind themselves and lighting up her own kiira and tattoos. The fires and the gem's pulses suggested the hints of a crown around her head, and Tsarra recognized it-and the degree of power in the working. At the same time, all thirteen elves stood as one. The first to arrive drew Tsarra into the center of both circles and embraced her. He gestured, snapped his fingers, and Khelben's image joined them in the library as well. He too was embraced. The thirteen bowed their heads and their collective sending went out with a pulse of power: The Highfire Crown is worn once more, and we bless the Weave and the People as one!

A sending rang through the head of everyone bearing a golden item for the Gathering. Later, people would remark that the voice sounded like a mixture of Tsarra, Khelben, Danthra the Dreamer, and sixteen other elves of various tones and timbres. Hearken ye, and hear the People's thanks. Nine tors rise without, our guards and our sentinels.

Our home rises within, our symbol and our hope. All your actions and sacrifices shall be rewarded. Remain united yet retain your differences. Be brethren in intent, if not in blood. Honor knowledge and ability without judgement. These are the hallmarks of Oacenth's Vow, of the Promise of Cormanthor, of every hope for unity from Silverymoon to this place. The Central Caster sparked the flame. The First Circle lit the pyre. The Second Circle restored warmth and light. The Third Circle awakened understanding. The Fourth Circles raised awareness and vigilance. Your work is done. The land is risen and restored. All Circles now join in fire and friendship. All Circles shall see Miyeritaar restored in Rhymanthiin, the Hidden City. The city and its denizens, its secrets-keepers, its loyalists, and ye, its saviors all-ye shall be restored to health and happiness, if that be your wish. Now begins the Rejuvenation. Tsarra found herself seeing and feeling a flurry of images and sensations as ninety-five souls felt the play of magic that used the links of the first ritual intertwined into another more primal, more powerful ritual. She felt the magical connection she and Khelben had with the sharn, and she realized it was the trio of grand mages at work. She readied herself to add her spirit to theirs, but the elves surrounding her in the sanctum shook their heads. Watch and learn. Your strength is needed next. She realized the thirteen were the high mages of Myth Drannor manifested as the Highfire Crown. She and Khelben both turned to the mirror to watch the other participants who gave their spirit and magic to the ritual. Gamalon felt a tingling in his left eyesocket but bowed his head and sent a prayer to Mystra, "Let me honor Mynda's sacrifice by bearing that scar." When he opened his eyes, he realized his Lady had answered his prayer with a new gift. His left eye showed him a green world awash in magic, just as he had seen with his magical gem-eye for more than forty winters. Rhymallos cried tears of joy as the chitinous armor fell around him in pieces, and he stood a gnome once more. To feel soft loam and grass beneath his bare feet and the rush of breeze and magic across his skin was a blessing after seven hundred years as a demon. His role to infiltrate the armies fighting Myth Drannor was long over, and he danced gleefully to have a life again in a place of new hope as Cormanthor was in its day. Numerous cries of joy echoed through the links as those who had long lived under curses or enchantments found their burdens gone. Tulrun laughed his deep, booming laugh at his restored youth and humanity. Ashemmi wept as the foul contortions Manshoon had once placed on her soul were shattered, and she found her love unchanged for Sememmon, knowing he struggled toward the light of his own will. Many chose to drink in youth and vigor from the ritual, the energy freely given by the grand mages. Hundreds of sharn sloughed off their shimmering black skins, and many Faertelmin stepped from the darkness to reclaim lives as elves, humans, dwarves, centaurs, and others. Their skins slid across the smoldering plains, slithering toward the central pyre or a closer sentinel tower. All the beings caught up in the eldritch flames heard a new sending as they marveled at the magic at play: Know there are yet sharn in the Realms. There are those of Miyeritar who would become dhaerow with the Corellon's Descent, should they become n'fhaorn'quessir. They choose to remain as Rhymanthiin's defenders as well as defenders against corrupt magic across the Realms. Tsarra and others wept for their sacrifice.

His imprisoned form hovering near yet conspicuously untouched by the flames, Frostrune struggled, but not even his hatred could break the bonds his own magecraft built. How could the Rune have betrayed him so, sharing his greatest spell with his worst enemy? How did they dare defy his obvious superiority? Frostrune's self-absorption kept him from noticing the buzzing flies and hazy brown air that rose from the High Moor toward him. The ochre- and olive-drab rain and poisons also rose on the winds whipped up by the Second and Third Circles. It wasn't until the poisonous matter was heavy enough to fill out the lich's form for the first time in more than a hundred years that he realized what was happening. The magic pulled the poisons and infestations and killing magic from the soil, the sharn, the plants, and the air. Worse yet, they imprisoned those poisons in his own form, and they proved virulent enough to eat away further at his form and the energies that bound his soul to it. As the sun crawled toward dusk, all that remained of Priamon "Frostrune" Rakesk was a partial skull without a jawbone and a few spinal bones. The Killing Storm had rotted his form and also undid much of the necromantic magic that kept him active. Still, while he had feared he would be destroyed, he knew his phylactery was safe. He had contingencies in place, and he would have laughed if he could speak. He had but to wait patiently, a skill natural to liches. When the swarming fireflies obscured his sight, Priamon felt a subtle shift. He had been teleported away from his enemies. Priamon found his head being turned around by someone holding it. His eyesockets aligned with darting and twitching eyes set in a wrinkled bald face. Priamon discovered that even the blackest of hearts can be broken by the unexpected. "Khelben was right," the Mad Mage of Undermountain gloated. "I owe you a grievance, Priamon Rakesk, for pains ye visited upon me five years agone." In his other hand, Halaster Blackcloak idly toyed with a rod of Shoon trade rings, a collection of seventeen gold coins looped onto a platinum rod-Priamon's phylactery. Screams echo unceasingly in the halls of Undermountain. The same can be said within the minds of those without hope.