Blackstaff

CHAPTER FORTY

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

Tsarra heard the sending meant only for Khelben's ears, which by necessity were hers at present: Khelben, hear me. I've known since yesterday, darling. Khelben, you never say good-bye when you die.

Khelben, let the fires heal your body again. Khelben, do not leave me, leave your children. Khelben! Not so soon. Not now… not now…. It shocked Tsarra to hear Laeral beg, and the despair in her sending tore at Tsarra's heart. It shocked her even more to see Khelben. He was just as distraught, but he did not respond at all. He slumped forward in his chair, his face hidden, his body wracked with sobs.

Tsarra understood, but it tore at her, the two archmages whose love outshone their power, and both trapped by fates beyond them. She reached toward Khelben, hoping to comfort him… and Ualair's image appeared in her way within the kiira-library. Ualair embraced Khelben, and the two images merged together. Ualair turned, and Tsarra saw he had traits of both wizards in his face and form. Tsarra, Khelben is in both of us now, as he must be for this final ritual. We shall ensure you survive this, even though Khelben and I cannot. It is the toll exacted to restore the City of Hope to the Realms. Can't I be the sacrifice in his place? No. This world needs its Blackstaff for reasons you shall learn in time. For now, that Blackstaff is you. Now come, and be the first half-elf ever to be a central caster in a High Magic Ritual of Myriad. Ualair leaned forward, and rested his hands on Tsarra's shoulders. She did the same, and when they brought their kiira together, a flash of blinding magic escaped and flashed from the pyre. The pyre wove itself in a pattern of fire, creating the massive Highfire Crown among the stories-tall flames.

Out on the High Moor, wizards, sorcerers, and priests stopped as the golden objects they wore began trembling and glowing brightly.

Through them, they heard a strange voice-an amalgam of voices speaking as one. The trinkets you wear are now sacrifices to bind the powers at work here, to restore a world's faith in brotherhood. The akhelben and many others made these sacrifices so that ye might aid a high magic without the cost of all your lives. Now, with these oblations, surrender yourselves into the high magic and help us build hope anew.

The restored fhaorn'quessir ask our aid with their city. Lend them and us your thoughts and hopes and magic to help build a city that shall not fall to treachery again. One reward for every soul is the knowledge that this city exists at all. For now, you shall be the only souls on this plane who can find your way here to the City of Hope.

This city shall be a dream of unity to draw people together. Those who truly embrace the brotherhood in Oacenth's Vow may be brought here or may find their own ways. The city shall accept only those worthy of her, and those with malice in their hearts shall not find their way here. For your courage and your aid, homes are being built here for every participant throughout the city, where you may better get to know our brethren in years to come. Now attend us with your hopes and dreams and magic. As the sending ended, every golden item borne by those of the Second, Third, and Fourth Circles dissolved into golden fireflies and buzzed around their former wielders. Magic filled every breath, every step, every moment of the waning day into the night. The Highfire Crown animated the pyre and above it, the once-sharn grand mages concluded their ritual. The grand mages of two realms guided the magic and drew on the emotional and magical support of everyone within the working.

Tsarra's body stood immobile, still cloaked in the illusion of Khelben's form, even though his essence resided with Ualair. The ancient grand mage maintained a stream of energy between his selu'kiira and Tsarra's kiira'n'vaelhar. She could feel the magic, even if she was still blocked from hearing the rituals or truly participating. What she was free to do was to cast about with magical senses everywhere the ritual touched. Tsarra used the enhanced senses of her tressym and the sharn, and they could find no corruption or darker magic that had tainted the land for so many millennia. Tsarra touched the lingering connections of the first ritual working, and she flitted from one participant's eyes to the next, seeing the effects of the third ritual from all angles. The loam, rock, and scrub wood of the High Moor folded and twisted itself into new forms. Magic permeated everything, and those who had been sharn worked to build their city as a unified vision in the craftsmanship of elf, dwarf, gnome, centaur, and human equally. All of them wielded magic and brought their wills to bear on the landscape. While much of the building material came from the Moor itself, Tsarra watched some sharn shed their oily black skins as they returned to their original forms, the nude Art-workers weaving their former skins into their new city.

Thus, much of the architecture took on a variety of darkened hues, though it lacked any malevolence in its demeanor despite that. The first to emerge complete and intact were the streets and outer walls, very dwarflike and orderly with clean lines and heavy block constructions. These would last untold generations, and they laid out the city in the shape of a circular wheel. The central court plaza surrounded the Counciltor, atop which the pyre would eternally burn.

From that point, nine major trade roads split the city like spokes, each directly aligned with the nine sentinel towers twenty-five miles distant in each direction. Five broad roads provided a circumference for the city just inside the walls and each equidistant from the others down to the smallest of the ring roads that encircled the Court Plaza. The streets and defensive walls kept the black-as-pitch hue of the sharn, and Tsarra knew that any malefactors on those streets would face the three-mawed avengers that could form from any wall or street.

The full moon shone brightly over Rhymanthiin as it grew in the night.

More than ninety minds and souls lent their energy to the high magic, while many hundreds more labored directly and under the mystical direction of their own ruling grand mages. Tsarra stared in amazement as buildings of various styles and shapes and sizes grew along the skeleton of the major and minor roadways. She laughed as perfect duplicates of the Eightower, Blackstaff Tower, and the Dragontower rose from the loam in various places throughout the circled city. The magic continued into the night until Highmoon and the end of the Feast of the Moon. To those attuned to it, the City of Hope was a marvel.

Tsarra reined in her senses as she felt the ritual wane. She returned to her body at the center of the pyre, more than fifty feet above the ground and atop the Counciltor of Rhymanthiin. As she returned, she saw the only participants still attending the high magic ritual-Elminster, Alvaerele, Alustriel, Laeral, and the three grand mages of Rhymanthiin stood in a circle around the silver and green flames. Tsarra willed herself back into her body, and the pain and sorrow hit her all over again. She couldn't feel Khelben's presence in her gem at all. She barely felt the touch of Ualair on her shoulders, as he seemed almost entirely mystic flame, rather than flesh. The thirteen selu'kiira still formed the Highfire Crown on her brow, and she pleaded once more with them before the power left her. Please, noble ones, is there no way to save him? There's no other way? Only if you would sacrifice all you have built. The chorus of voices was cold, impassive, and without emotion. Khelben's voice snapped Tsarra from her sorrow. Tsarra, let me go. Ualair and I must close the ritual in the only way possible. You once told me death is not a viable solution to a conundrum, damn you! Tsarra yelled at Khelben, but she lacked the will to stay angry. Do you realize how painful this is for the rest of us? Yes. I've seen death from both sides, and it's nothing to fear, only to endure and learn from. What is more painful is a world losing its hope. Let us go. Ualair and I both can feel Arvandor's call, and our work is complete, but you hold us here. I'm not ready, Khelben!

How can I be the Blackstaff? The minute your enemies realize you'reYou shall have my counsel always. If you truly need me, I'll be there in spirit. Everything I could teach you is within you already. The blackstaves and the tower are yours. I have no body, and my soul aches for rest. Please, Tsarra, save your love for the one with whom you'll make your life whole. Ualair's voice also came into her head. Child, you feel magic rather than think it, and your emotions binds us to you. We have become our final spell, and we must be cast. Be the Blackstaff and do what you must. Tsarra opened her physical eyes and realized she stood alone among the flames. The selu'kiira of the Highfire Crown remained with her, but she knew they remained only to cement the final magic in place. She reached out with her powers and her emotions, unifying her will and her heart to this action. With one word, she cast her mentor's final wish with a whispered, "Indeed."

Tsarra never saw the fountain of silver light erupt from the pyre. She didn't see thirteen gems spiral around the city, trailing fireflies of magic. She certainly didn't see the constellations above winking in agreement and sympathy with the spells permeating Rhymanthiin. All she saw were her own tears and those of Laeral, as she walked from the flames and into her arms.

The procession wound through the streets of the new city and every soul wished to pay his or her respects. Elminster and Alvaerele stood before the gates, a rose-quartz globe floating between them in mid-air. More than a thousand souls touched it, leaving their memories and thanks to he who was the Blackstaff, Khelben Arunsun. Even while the city was vibrant with new life, it too paid homage to the one whose sacrifice made their lives again possible. Many of the mourners looked around to console his widow, to no avail. She stood alone, apart from them all, looking down from the balcony of the blackest tower in Rhymanthiin. This solitary spire lacked the green marbling and ivy that scrawled across all other buildings. Its forebidding starkness once suited its builder, and he built it once more before he passed from life. She planned to keep N'Vaerymanth as Khelben would have. Without him there, Blackstaff Tower could never be home, Laeral told herself. The City of Hope would be her home for the near future.

His children should be born here in his other legacy to the Realms. He would like that, indeed.

Well past midnight, Raegar wandered up the Third Ring, gazing in awe at the glistening black and green stonework and carvings that he had watched grow from the High Moor itself. Blue-and-white fireflies floated in the air above him, lighting the streets in a flickering soft glow. Raegar had left Sandrew at the Hightome Tor, Oghma's temple within Rhymanthiin. While he felt a tugging leading him toward a small, inobtrusive building near the temple, he found himself looking intently for Tsarra. Finally, he realized he had a way to find her.

"Nameless, think you can help me find your mistress?" The tressym took off like a shot, and even with Raegar running behind him, Nameless had to loop back and growl at him for falling behind. The city was nearly the size of Waterdeep, but what was strange was the relative lack of people. There were people wandering the streets-gnomes and centaurs, dwarves and elves alike, everyone beaming and obviously overjoyed at their restored lives. Some remained nude, while others had found or formed clothes to their liking. Raegar never studied clothing in his historical readings, but he recognized some styles of formal robes on the elves he had only seen on tapestries or in carvings. Many waved to him, a few stopped and kissed him, wishing him to linger a while. He thanked them and moved on, Nameless leading him into a street off the Second Ring. Raegar was almost relieved that the street seemed empty, and he stopped to take a closer look at an archway of two rearing centaurs, their hooves meeting at the keystone. Or where a keystone would be, if it weren't a solid piece of stonework. What amazed him more was the lack of a single chiselmark on the stone carvings. He hadn't even noticed that Nameless had left his side until he heard a happy purr come from him in the distance. Raegar turned and raced after him. "Where are you, you thrice-damned cat?" Raegar growled after him, and Nameless trilled at him from atop a low archway carved to resemble a rearing centaur. Raegar was fairly certain he was being mocked, but he didn't care. The courtyard into which he walked held a broad and apparently deep pool, a small fountain set into one end coming from the horns of nude male and female sea elves. A balcony encircled the courtyard, and golden lights lit a broad chamber at the far end of it. The lights silhouetted Tsarra, but even in the darkness, Raegar couldn't believe how beautiful she looked. Tsarra called down to him, "I've yet to thank you for saving my life, Raegar.

I've been waiting for you to find me. Some spy you are." Raegar feigned being wounded, and Tsarra gave him a wink. "Welcome to my home. Come up, after you've cleaned up first." Raegar dived into the pool, happy to rinse off the grime from the High Moor. He resurfaced and stripped off his shirt. "I'm glad to see you finally apart from Khelben," he said. "I was wondering if I'd ever get you away from the Blackstaff." He didn't hear her whisper, "No, you won't." Raegar clambered out, leaving his sodden shirt and boots alongside the pool.

Then he climbed the stairs two at a time. "Aren't you tired, after all the chaos of the past three days?" He couldn't read the look on her face, but he suddenly felt very unsure how to approach her. She solved that problem by rushing forward and kissing him fiercely. "Life's too short. Tomorrow, we'll see your chambers and explore the city. I'll fill you in on other things. Tonight, I just want to feel alive,"

Tsarra said, leading him inside by the hand. "Indeed," he said with a grin. about the author Born in 1967, Steven E. Schend fell into the fantastic worlds of L. Frank Baum's Oz and Edgar Rice Burroughs's Barsoom. All that fantasy helped, as Steven worked for over fifteen years with TSR, Inc., Wizards of the Coast, and other game companies. He has been an editor, a designer, a developer, an assistant manager, and world builder. He's also worked as a teacher, landscaper, street sweeper, and concrete curb builder. After all's said and done, his favorite job has always been as the mouthpiece and chronicler for the denizens of the Realms. There is, however, no truth to the rumors that Steven has actually assumed Khelben's identity, or he his. It just seems that way more and more since Steven grew a beard.