The Herald

CHAPTER 11

"Yes, oblivion. A trifle boastful,” The cold voice of Larloch added conversationally, “but such seems to be the style these days.”

The archlich laughed, mirth that was almost immediately drowned out by a mighty roar.

Alustriel and Laeral screamed, and-

Suddenly the tumult and the cavern in which it had been raging were both gone, and Elminster found himself whirling silently through an endless blue void, tumbling and plunging down, down, down … to a brief flare of silver fire that transfixed him in utter spasming, gasping agony.

That faded as abruptly as it had come, leaving him panting, pain free and whole, but staggeringly weak, standing on an unfamiliar cold and dusty stone floor.

A brown floor, belonging to a cavernous, high-vaulted hall of brown stone. The very air around El as he swayed was ale brown and eddying, stale and tainted with the unmistakable reek of mildew.

Elminster blinked. He was facing a tall and slender figure in black robes. It towered head and shoulders above him.

He stared up at it. Into fell, old, and knowing eyes like two black, bottomless pools, set deep in a long, slender skull. For an instant, El was reminded of a bare, staring ox skull.

Then those dark eyes sharpened, and it was more like being impaled on two dagger points.

“Be welcome,” said a dry voice from behind Elminster, “in the house of Larloch, the Shadow King.”

El didn’t turn to regard whoever had spoken-one of the Shadow King’s liches, no doubt, serving him as herald or steward-but kept his gaze fixed on the eyes of the legendary Larloch.

Who stood confident and casual, flanked by a black staff twice as tall as Elminster, floating upright at the archlich’s shoulder. It flared out from base to top, and was studded all along its length with the yellowing skulls of all sorts of creatures, from horned devils and demons down to small serpents.

A line of black-robed and glaring-eyed liches stood along the brown back wall of the chamber like the menacing members of a street gang, regarding Elminster as if he was a worm they itched to crush brutally in an instant.

Larloch made a casual gesture without turning to look at them, and they all hastily turned and filed out of the room through a modest door El hadn’t noticed until then, behind the archlich’s looming form.

“Your line, I believe, is ‘Where am I?’ ” Larloch informed El pleasantly.

The Sage of Shadowdale shook his head, and found he needed to clear his throat before he could speak. “I was going to begin with ‘Why did you save me?’ ”

Larloch smiled. “So we ride hard right at what is most important. Very well. I saved you, mage of Shadowdale, because you are the wisest and most capable of the Chosen-and always have been, with the possible exception of the Srinshee.”

“And so? You’ve taken to collecting wise and capable Chosen?”

Larloch’s smile went a trifle colder. “I need you, and the Realms needs you. You are the best tool at hand, to put it bluntly. And I cannot do this alone, for if just one spellcaster, in one spot, tries to call on the wards of Candlekeep to strengthen the Weave, the wards will surely collapse-like a man dropping and marring a long and heavy table he tries to carry from one end, whereas two men can readily manage the same transport, by lifting the table from both ends at once. The strengthening needs two of us, standing well apart, so we can draw on that part of the wards between us in a controlled manner, and so manage it.”

El nodded. “And what,” he asked carefully, “does the Shadow King-who weathered the Spellplague so handily-care about the Weave?”

Larloch tendered a cold, considering look, as if a pet had displeased him and he was reconsidering his acquisition of it.

And then he began to speak, leaning forward and speaking in earnest, as if El was a vital pupil who had to be clearly told something of utmost importance.

“Mystryl in my time, and two Mystras in yours, have been the goddess of magic-have been the Weave. The goddess Shar, in her pride and folly, believes that as Mystra is dead and there is still a Weave, the two are separate and can remain so. In this, she is wrong, but she also holds a belief that is correct: that control of the Weave, in the grasp of one with power enough, grants dominion over magic.”

Larloch started to pace, the floating staff moving with him to always hang just behind his right shoulder.

“Her Cycle of Night failed here, and Sune defeated her attempt to have the Shadowfell flood into Toril and give her mastery over the other gods-have you not noticed that the tremors that shook the ground beneath your feet have now died away? — so Shar now desires to be the goddess of magic, and use it as her sword and war hammer and whip, to cause chaos and loss and destruction upon her whim. She believes this will deliver her from Ao and the order of things, by shattering that order, so the world shall become her plaything, under her absolute-and of course arbitrary-reign. Those sages who insist that we are all the playthings of the gods will finally be correct, to their despair, as we all learn what it is to be not the pawns of a more or less balanced group of many deities with opposing interests and techniques, but the pawns of one goddess. Who is mad, cares nothing for mortals, and exults in causing torment in all lesser beings. Some folk hate and fear magic for its devastating power. If Shar has her way, we will all hate and fear it, be we village idiots with no talent for the Art or archmages who might presume to challenge gods in our mastery of it. And we shall be but an afterthought to the Mistress of the Night, to be cast down and toyed with after she serves the other gods we venerate likewise. She wants to see gods suffer and despair, and slay themselves and each other, until she is the only god left, and her supremacy can never be threatened.”

El nodded. This sounded like the Shar he knew, as much as any long-lived and alert mortal can come to know a deity.

Larloch came closer, his dark eyes still fixed on his guest as if they were blades or hooks that could pierce and hold sages of Shadowdale. “She will begin by subverting the least among the divine, while she manipulates the rest into making war on Ao. When he is destroyed or at least cast out of reach of our world, and the way he was sent sealed behind him, the ravaged survivors among the gods will become her toys, to be tormented at leisure, their destruction savored and prolonged. We mortals will be unregarded casualties in this endeavor, and only rise to her primary interest when there are no other gods-nor primordials, nor near-gods who might in time become gods-left, and the ways by which gods of other places might enter this world or influence it from afar are sealed or shattered.”

Larloch halted right in front of Elminster, and points of light winked into being in many of the hitherto dark eye sockets of the yellowing skulls encrusting the floating staff-many fell and silent gazes that fixed coldly on the Old Mage, gazes that seemed to hold accusation and scorn.

“And all of this madness and wanton destruction begins with seizing control of the Weave. Working through her mortal servants whose ambition far outstrips their reasoning faculties-or they’d see the mad all-destroying folly they’re attempting for what it is-yet who have skill enough in the Art to so serve. The arcanists of Thultanthar, who just might be numerous enough to achieve her first goal before they fail her or turn on her, as all of her previous magically mighty agents have done.”

The archlich fell silent, and he and Elminster regarded each other expressionlessly as the silence stretched and deepened between them.

Finally Larloch asked, “Well?”

“Thy every word rings true,” Elminster replied gently, “and I believe it. Yet what’s befallen me down the years has schooled me to be suspicious of everything. Know that I am fully mindful of thy great experience and brilliance at the Art, yet feel moved to ask: how know ye all of this?”

Larloch nodded, betraying not the slightest hint of anger. “Telamont Tanthul, the High Prince of Thultanthar, is a vain man. As are many rulers, not to mention all too many archmages and archsorcerers. To me, he is one more arrogant young fool-and there’s never been a shortage of those.”

“A judgment he’ll not welcome,” El said dryly.

“His cold reception of it would not make it one whit less true. This self-styled ‘Most High’ has a habit of collecting trophies from those he’s defeated-those he considers worthy foes, at least. One such is a ring he’s proud of and wears all the time, as a mark of his defeat and destruction of a fellow Chosen of Mystryl, Araundras Othaun.”

“And while he wears it, ye are closer to his thoughts than he knows,” El concluded.

Larloch nodded. “While he wears it, I can see and hear what he does, though not touch his thoughts.”

“And how came the ring to aid ye so?”

“A very long time ago, I doubted Othaun’s loyalty to the goddess we both served-without cause, as it turned out-and altered the magics of that ring so I could eavesdrop on him.” Larloch smiled mirthlessly. “Telamont has as yet not discerned this passive property of the ring. Much of his successes and survival, since Thultanthar’s return to Toril, have been covertly aided by me and by those who serve me, often in light of what I have seen and heard through the ring. I saw Shade as a useful hand to shake many throats that should have been shaken long ago, without involving myself directly and publicly in current matters. Now, though, I have come to see differently. Now I see that Telamont must be stopped.”

“As this shaking of throats will never end,” Elminster interpreted aloud. “Progressing from specific targets to anyone whose downfall will benefit the High Prince or Thultanthar, and then to shaking every throat the Mistress of Night fancies shaken … which will eventually encompass every last throat that can be found.”

Larloch’s smile held not the slightest trace of mirth. “Precisely. So let me show you how best to call on the wards-so your control of them will triumph over that of Alustriel, Laeral, and the Prefects of Candlekeep.”

“The Prefects …,” Elminster purred thoughtfully.

Rather than saying another word about the Prefects that so obviously intrigued his guest, Larloch smiled more widely and said, “Your mistake, thus far, has been thinking of the wards of Candlekeep as just local shackles that constrain the Weave into a specific order-which is, yes, what a mythal does. And, I’ll grant, how you augmented the wards when you made your little additions to them.”

Something overhead chimed very softly, but the archlich ignored it. “The wards seem to accomplish the same imposition of order that mythals do, but are far different in nature-being, for one thing, the untidy accumulated creation of so many diverse hands using differing methods and ways of seeing the world that no one examiner can now easily see how the wards accomplish what they do. So most individuals, if they can affect the wards at all beyond shifting matters from already-crafted setting to already-crafted setting, do as you have: they grasp whatever’s nearest of the wards and tug on it as if turning the Weave to their will. That works, crudely, but can be easily and utterly foiled by anyone who knows more of how to ‘work’ the wards, as the monks say. The real monks, that is; watching the unfolding dance of covert slayings and impersonations has afforded me true entertainment, these last few years. So the proper way to bend the wards to your will is to …”

He waved one bony hand, and a glowing, moving image appeared in the air between them, showing a smaller and more silent Larloch calling on the wards with a particular technique.

The real Larloch imitated the actions of his image, and gave his guest a sidelong look. Obediently Elminster joined in, and together they briefly practiced alongside the animated image.

A bony finger wagged, the image winked out, and the Shadow King commanded, “Now you try working the wards in that manner, without guidance. I’ll spin something that resembles the wards-thus. Now you grasp it and try to alter matters so the air of the warded area glows bright as day, and all sounds are muted.”

El did as he was bid, thrice over, until he and Larloch were both satisfied the Sage of Shadowdale had mastered the technique.

“We are almost ready to return to Candlekeep,” the archlich announced. “I can get us in through the wards without issue.”

“Oh? How?”

“Who do you think renewed and expanded them, centuries ago?” Larloch asked, eyes twinkling. “Of course, I took the opportunity to make a few changes for my own benefit, in case I ever wanted to peruse a tome or two at my leisure.”

“And have ye felt that want?”

“Many times, O man of many questions. Now, we’ll need to begin by getting the Shadovar and the Moonstars to fight each other rather than us, to win us time to work.”

“From what I know of both the Netherese and Khelben’s cabal, they’ll fight each other without any help from us,” El replied dryly, “but I take it ye mean determine precisely where they’re battling each other, so as not to see us-and attack us, on general principle.”

The archlich nodded. “Precisely. We’ll need to protect as many of the Prefects as we can too-the Keeper of the Tomes, the First Reader, the Great Readers and, only if they can be torn away from their duties without us spending overmuch time in doing so, the Chanter, the Guide, and the Gatewarden-because the more of them working with us, the more we can anchor and stabilize the Weave we’re repairing, and minimize the risk of Weavefire, and it all going wild.”

“Weavefire?”

Larloch sighed. “What did Mystra teach you and her other Chosen? Your Dove and your Storm prefer the sword to the Art, but the rest of you? I suppose, submerging herself into the Weave and becoming it, as Mystryl so long resisted doing, Mystra wanted no one to know that much about it, and so about her own vulnerabilities. Yes, Weavefire. Not like silver fire or the handfire novices conjure, nor yet spell-spawned walls of fire-Weavefire is when some part of the Weave is consumed by its own runaway energies, melting and shriveling like dry leaves in hot flame.”

The archlich waved a hand, and another moving midair image appeared, showing Elminster just that. It did not look pretty.

“When your Mystra took you as a lover,” Larloch told him, “she was putting the Weave into you. And she was putting you into it, making you a new anchor for the Weave. She did the same with the Simbul and others you never knew about. Using all of you because it was needful to keep the Realms from chaos. Just as you must now do what is needful. Which is to trust me a little more, and carry out my plan.”

“And that is?”

“I’ll send you back to Candlekeep with Telamont’s sigil and secret words, and make your voice sound like his and your eyes look like his. His agents will believe you to be him; I’ll give you their names and faces. Gather them and lead them into battle against the Moonstars, seeking to surround and contain Khelben’s agents. When the fray is well underway, I’ll snatch you out of it and back here-and we’ll return to Candlekeep together and use the wards to seal off the warring sides. Those barriers won’t last against determined spell hurlings, but should win us time enough to begin calling on the wards to mend the Weave.”

El stared at Larloch for a long, silent time, then nodded and said, “I’ll trust ye this far.”

“Thank you. If all things work out well, you won’t live to regret that trust. Rather, it will be time for Mystra’s Chosen to raise the cry of ‘All hail the Shadow King!’ Or more likely not, from what I know of you Chosen.”

And with those wry words, the lich stretched out a withered, long-fingered hand. “Receive, then, the names and faces you’ll need to know …”

The war wizard was younger than Mirt had expected, his face pockmarked by one of the minor diseases that afflicted the young. Yet he carried himself with the quiet self-assurance of someone who wields both power and authority comfortably.

And Mirt had traversed so many rooms and guard posts, and spoken to so many courtiers to reach this inner room of the sprawling royal court building-hmmph, it looked larger than the damned royal palace itself! — on this chilly morning, that this lad must have some standing. Despite his pimples.

“It is less than usual for audiences of this sort between outlanders and the Wizards of War,” the youngling began discouragingly, seating himself behind his desk and waving Mirt to a shorter, harder chair on the other side of it, “but-”

“It’s ‘less than usual’ because you diligent agents of the Crown tend to come looking for us first,” Mirt rumbled, glancing at the floor beneath the chair and the ceiling above it out of long habit, before settling himself into the seat with a grateful wheeze. “If we cause trouble, that is. From what I’ve seen hereabouts thus far, you lack resources enough to spy on everyone-common problem; had it myself-so the suspicious and known malcontents get most attention, and large-mouthed aging drunkards like me get dismissed as all wind and no dagger. A fairly accurate assessment, by the way.”

The young war wizard’s smile was a trifle pained. “We tend to prefer not to discuss specifics-”

“Courtiers behind desks never do. We all know-or tend to learn, the hard way-that words not said are easier to weasel out of. But come, lad, we’ll be speaking of preferences and unusuals and difficult-to-says all day if our backsides and these chairs hold out. Niceties have been observed, and you’ve sufficiently signaled yer inability to be blunt and yer superior position when dealing with outlanders. So to the point!

“Priests prate of the Sundering, and the world certainly seems in turmoil enough for nigh any doom crying to seem appropriate, even to the sea level rising to lap at the decking of yer docks down in the harbor here. And I’ve seen the turmoil among your troops. Purple Dragons marching out of the gates, armed Crown messengers riding in and out at all hours, guard posts reinforced everywhere … yet most of my evenings have been enlivened by sitting listening to nobles drink and dispute, and I’ve yet to hear one word out of any of them that suggests the palace is working with the nobility of the realm to strengthen Cormyr’s defenses as all of this gets worse.”

“Well, I hardly think these are the sort of matters they would discuss in front of an outlander. Still less are such topics appropriate for me to-”

“Oh, lad, lad, cut the free-flowing dung before it rises past your chin and chokes you! Even sitting here in Suzail, shuttling my backside between tavern, club, my rented rooms, and brothels, I’ve heard and seen enough to know there’s strife over the throne, and the taking of sides, and the armies of Cormyr are armed and at war here and there and riding hard to some other place. How can I be of help? How can yer nobles, young and restless, as well as old and idle, make the realm stronger? Why aren’t you using us?”

To Mirt’s complete lack of surprise, part of the dark-paneled wall behind the young Crown mage opened soundlessly and two older war wizards stepped into the room, one of them spreading his hand in a swift quelling gesture to prevent his young fellow seated at the desk from replying.

“Forgive us,” the visibly oldest of these two new arrivals-his hair was streaked white at both temples-greeted Mirt politely, “if we are skeptical of your motives. Defending the Forest Kingdom is our task. We ask ourselves, what aboveboard and honorable interest can an outlander, not loyal to the Dragon Throne, have in such matters? There are good reasons such individuals are not normally privy to our deliberations regarding the security of the realm.”

“Fair enough to your latter, though I’ve always found that some public talk of security makes the citizenry feel better about any necessary daily bullying and serves as a warning to those who would do mischief, both visitors and homebodies. As to my motives, tell me if you find fault with my reasoning on this … if Cormyr falls or is weakened into civil strife, every sane inhabitant of Toril is the lesser for it. Yes?”

“Of course, but-”

“Lad,” the unlovely mountain of man filling the chair on the supplicant’s side of the desk told the senior war wizard rather testily, “there is no ‘but’ about it. I am-or was-a ruling lord elsewhere, and I tell you the best rulers are those who care not just for their domain, but all lands. For strife and disaster anywhere has a way of spreading, and sharing its pain, and so does peace and prosperity. If yer so all-fired worried about my possible disloyalty-though from what I’ve overheard, I could hardly be worse than some of yer Cormyr-born-and-bred-these-umpteen-generations nobles-then give me work where treachery is impossible or could do no harm.”

“If we do, you’ll inevitably see and hear and learn too much for the security of Cormyr,” the second of the older war wizards replied flatly.

Mirt gave him an incredulous stare. “The Forest Kingdom’s safety is that shaky? Truly? Well, it would seem to me that you have far greater problems than worrying about the deeds or motives of any individual outlander. And if they arrive in armies, their motives are a trifle obvious.”

“Cormyr’s safety and security are nowhere near ‘shaky,’ as you put it,” the senior war wizard said coldly. “They are merely matters it is foolish to discuss, and needless to imperil in the slightest by involving outlanders.”

“Not so,” purred a new voice. “They are even weaker and more imperiled than Mirt suggests. I came to see to that, but found it unnecessary to do anything at all; the disaster has been waiting to happen here in Cormyr long before my arrival.”

Everyone turned and stared at the smirking, darkly handsome man leaning into the room through another hidden door in the paneling.

“Well met,” Manshoon added politely to Mirt. “Worry not; I’ll not be sending any magic your way this time. Unlike the Forest Kingdom’s Wizards of War, I learn lessons fast.”

He turned his gaze to the three war wizards, and added gently, “You should heed this old man, you know. He’s right. It’s probably too late for your kingdom, but you war wizards may yet surprise me. By doing the right thing for once, for instance.”

With a chuckle and a merry wave, he was gone, the paneling closed and looking as if there had never been a door there.

“Who-? How did he-?” the young war wizard stammered, but his elders were already starting to rush for the panel the unexpected visitor had disappeared through.

“Don’t,” Mirt growled, standing with unexpected haste to hurl his chair at the spot they were about to charge through. “He’ll have left a nasty little spell trap behind. If no one does a dispel on that door and the passage beyond it-”

The chair bounced and clattered, the foremost war wizard batted it aside with a snarl, tripped over it and fell heavily, then bounded to his feet and snatched open the door.

The ear-splitting crack of many lightning bolts erupting from the revealed passage was still echoing in the room when the Crown mage’s smoking body crashed off the far wall and fell to the floor, and the roast-boar-like smell of cooked human flesh started to fill the room.

Mirt sighed. “Men who say ‘I warned you’ are never popular, but I’m going to say it anyway. Idiots. I believe I’ll go find some nobles who’ll listen to me, and we can go and save Cormyr together.”

The guards before the tall, splendid, and firmly shut doors of the palace at the high heart of Thultanthar were barring her way, but the young and darkly beautiful Thultanthan striding up to them with sultry grace never slowed.

In the end, the guards were forced to sidestep toward each other, until their hips almost touched, to physically block her from bursting between them and reaching the doors to the audience chamber of the Most High.

“You may not enter, Lady,” one of them said sternly, raising a magical rod warningly.

She looked back at him steadily, and one raven-dark eyebrow arched in scornful disbelief-or feigned mockery of such emotion.

“Can it be that you do not know who I am?”

That goading question gained no answer, so the visitor said silkily, “I am Manarlume, granddaughter to the Most High. As such, I do not expect to find a door anywhere in Thultanthar closed to me. Ever.”

“And yet,” the other guard said gently, “we have our orders-and accordingly, this door remains closed. With all three of us on this side of it.”

“Who gave you those orders?”

“The Most High himself.”

Manarlume sighed, reaching a hand into her bodice, drew something forth, slid its chain over her head, and held it up.

“You do recognize this?”

She had the satisfaction of seeing one guard’s jaw drop, and the other blink and then stare hard.

Small wonder. There were perhaps a dozen of these tokens in existence, small many-horned metal pendants bearing enchantments that could be felt-as a crawling, clawing presence-from some feet away. Given in secret by the hand of Telamont Tanthul himself, they granted immediate access to the High Prince of Thultanthar at any time, without dispute, explanation, or delay.

One of the guards did as he was supposed to-reach out and touch the token with a cautious fingertip, so its enchantment would show him the image of Telamont and affirm what it meant-but the other asked suspiciously, “How came you by this, Lady?”

“The Most High gave it to me, so I could reach him without delay or dispute if ever I saw the need,” she replied crisply, “as I do right now.”

The two guards stared at Manarlume, then at each other. The one who’d touched the token reached behind his back, to the dagger sheathed at his belt there, and firmly depressed the stone set in its pommel.

That gem glowed momentarily as its magic flashed forth-a silent summons for the prince who oversaw the guards.

Aglarel arrived very quickly, cloak swirling. He was frowning as he strode, his hand on his sword. When he saw the token, he took it, jerked his head in a signal to the guards to open the doors-and as they swung open, stepped through the doorway, beckoning Manarlume to follow.

He ushered her to her grandfather in silent haste, gliding to a stop to stand watchfully right behind her, ignoring the hand she held out for the token’s return.

The audience chamber looked different. It was still sparsely furnished with the high seat, the large and bare table, and the great black rod studded down its length with black spheres enclosing dark, empty glass globes, floating vertically off the floor in its corner. However, the High Prince of Thultanthar was busy watching the siege of distant Myth Drannor, gazing at a usually bare wall of the chamber.

The wall was aglow from corner to corner with many images, all of them views that looked down on the elf city from various heights. Scenes that were constantly moving-sometimes swooping. It was swiftly apparent to Manarlume that her grandfather was using spells to look through the eyes of birds flying over the besieged city.

Ah, of course. Scryings couldn’t pierce the city’s mythal from without.

Telamont turned from this glowing spell-spun tapestry of scenes, raising his brows in a silent question.

Manarlume met his gaze, then turned and pointedly looked at Aglarel-and then back at Telamont.

Who almost smiled. “Speak freely.”

“Most High, among many petty transgressions and minor treacheries, we’ve found an immediate danger. The arcanist Gwelt.”

“And he is dangerous why, exactly?”

“He’s recruiting fellow arcanists who feel the ambition to replace princes of Shade!”

“As I told him to. Does he know you’ve discovered this?”

“No. That is, he may have his suspicions, but …”

“That explains the spell he cast on you. It’s gone now.”

“You told him to? But-”

“Granddaughter, you passed the test. Don’t as swiftly lessen your standing in my eyes.”

“Of course, Most High,” Manarlume replied, and she looked at the floor.

“Aglarel, give her back my token. She’ll have cause to need it again, I have no doubt.”

As Aglarel did so, Telamont raised a hand to catch Manarlume’s attention, and asked, “Tell me, what do your amorous arcanists say of two called Helgore and Maerandor?”

“That they are gone, undoubtedly on some secret mission or other for you, Most High. Most expect them to perish very swiftly-if they are not dead already.”

Telamont’s face betrayed no reaction. “Your arcanists are wiser than I’d thought.”

Elminster found himself in a room he knew in Candlekeep, a lofty chamber whose walls bore gallery above gallery, each marking where an upper floor passed along the wall of the tall room.

He was standing face to face with Maerandor of Thultanthar. Who was busily snapping commands at his fellow Shadovar, telling them to seek here and there and over there for Saerlar Stormwyvern. The half-elf Moonstar was nowhere to be seen, and had evidently vanished during the brief darkness accompanying the earthquake, as they’d all been charging at him.

“Most High?” Maerandor gasped. Then his face hardened, he snapped, “Can’t be!” and his hands swept up to hurl slaying magic.

Elminster calmly drew the sigil Larloch had shown him in midair, and murmured one of the secret phrases.

This had better work.