The Search For Magic

All For A Pint
Brian Murphy

Light from the tavern window illuminated the faces of the two wizards as they peered inside. Stynmar’s chubby cheeks rested against the pane of cracked glass and Grantheous’s beard tickled the adjacent frame. Fetlin, their apprentice, stood between them, staring into the tavern. All anxiously awaited the results.

Fetlin ran his fingers through his bright red hair and looked around. His masters shouldn’t be wandering around the docks of Palanthas, but they had to test the market and both had insisted on coming. Fetlin fingered the butcher’s knife he had thrust into his belt in case of trouble.

The Two-Handed Mug, like every other tavern located on the docks, smelled of salt and fish and sweat. The wood floors, made from slats of yellow pine, were discolored by blood and beer, reminding the patrons fondly of bar fights of old.

Inside, the raucous laughter of the sailors changed to cheers as two minotaurs kicked their chairs back and tossed a table aside. The minotaurs growled and snorted. Patrons jumped over the bar, where they could watch in relative safety, or ran out the front door, taking the fight as an opportunity to leave without paying.

The two minotaurs gave deafening roars and locked horns and arms. The mages looked at each other, worried. Stynmar shook his head disconsolately. Fetlin, who was supposed to be taking notes, had trouble telling the minotaurs apart. He saw that one had a scarred lip and the other a nose ring, and he wrote this down in case it later turned out to be important.

The minotaurs grunted and heaved, each testing the other’s strength and balance. With a sudden heave, Lip Scar flipped Nose Ring onto his back. The minotaurs rolled this way and that, knocking over chairs and tables and sailors, then Lip Scar gained the upper hand. Sitting on top of his opponent, Lip Scar raised his hands, fingers outstretched, and paused. Excitement hung heavy in the air. Sailors called out bets. Money changed hands. Lip Scar scanned the crowd, daring anyone to say anything. He sneered and, reaching down, began to tickle Nose Ring in the ribs.

Nose Ring started to laugh, and soon he was screaming from laughing so hard. He tickled Lip Scar, who snorted and guffawed. The two minotaurs were having a wonderful time. The sailors looked on, first in astonishment, then in disgust. They went back to their drinking.

Outside the tavern, Grantheous and Stynmar stared at each other in disbelief.

“Minotaurs tickling each other?” Stynmar gasped.

Grantheous frowned. “I didn’t even know minotaurs could be tickled. I don’t think anyone’s ever tried.”

“Or lived to tell about it,” said Fetlin.

The mages nodded and said, in unison, “Much too potent!”

The two walked off, heading for their next test.

Fetlin wrote the comment “too potent” on his piece of parchment and then fell in step behind his masters, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure no one followed them.

The mages saw many strange things that night. Their second test was an old man, known to all Palan-thas as Dour Dave because no one had seen him smile in the last fifty years. To their astonishment, Dour Dave dashed out of the tavern called the Seventh Lance, wiping foam from his mouth and laughing merrily.

Spying the mages, he called out, “Hey! You’re wizards! Can you get any magic from this moon?”

Dropping his pants, Dour Dave gave the shocked mages a good view of his backside, shining in the moonlight. He giggled, yanked up his pants and ran off around the corner, just as a Palanthian guard appeared.

“Still too much,” said Grantheous, stroking his beard.

Fetlin noted the determination on his parchment and followed the mages to the Crow’s Nest. Here they found the group of dwarves they’d been watching. In previous weeks, the dwarves groused and complained about the woes of the world, what with the gods departed and evil dragons lording it over the people of Ansa-lon. This night, however, the dwarves were cheerful.

“Dragons and Dark Knights and all the misery they bring cannot last forever, my brothers,” one was saying. “Nothing evil lasts forever! Lads, we must hold on. We will do our part to bring about change. Every little bit helps, eh?”

The other dwarves shouted in agreement. They raised their mugs to better times.

Grantheous and Stynmar looked at each other. They smiled. Stynmar wiped away a tear.

“Just right,” Grantheous told Fetiin, who made a note.

Late that night, the two mages and their young apprentice sat around the table in their snug home in the presumably safe part of Palanthas, watching while Fetiin wrote out the spell neatly on a clean scroll. They had finally discovered the delicate combination of magic and beer that delivered the desired results. Grantheous was all for celebrating, but Stynmar looked a bit pensive.

Fetlin put on the teakettle then, seeing that the two wanted to be alone, went off to bed.

Grantheous poured out the hot water. “So, what is wrong, my friend?”

Stynmar wiped sweat from his chubby face and sighed. “I’m not sure we are doing the right thing.”

“Not doing the right thing?” Grantheous was shocked. “You bring this up now? On the eve of our success?”

“Now is the best time to bring up any doubts,” Stynmar replied. “This is our last moment, our final out. Once we cast the spell, there will be no going back.”

“So what’s wrong?” Grantheous asked.

“They have a right to know,” said Stynmar, gesturing to the window.

“What are you talking about?” asked Grantheous, understandably confused.

“The people have a right to know what they are purchasing,” said Stynmar. “If I were a customer and I found that a pair of mages were magicking my beer, I would be upset.”

“Yes,” said Grantheous, “and you would have every right to be upset if-and please mind that if-we were doing something ugly and nasty and evil to their beer. But Stynmar, we are helping these people.” He poked at his knobby knuckles, voice lowering. “You heard those dwarves. We’re doing good.”

“Do you realize how many evil things have been done in the name of good?” Stynmar argued. “The Kingpriest, for example.”

“Now, don’t get started on the Kingpriest again. Listen, Stynmar,” said Grantheous sternly, “since magic has started fading, some wizards have curled up their toes and died. Others are obsessed with scouring all of Ansalon for artifacts from previous ages, hoping to suck the magic from them. Stynmar, you are the only one who came up with this brilliant idea-take whatever magic we have left in these old bones and give it to the people. ‘A pint of hope’ you called it.”

“ ‘A pint for hope, a pint for love, a pint for faith,’ “ said Stynmar wistfully. “Yes. I know that’s what I said, but-”

“No buts!” said Grantheous. “After Dour Dave, I’ve seen enough butts for one night. You and I created this spell. With your knowledge of the arcane and my knowledge of spell components and herb lore, we have created that pint of hope. Perhaps I should say gallons of hope.”

“I still think that the customers should know,” Stynmar protested.

“Why?” Grantheous slammed his fist on the table. “Why should they know?”

“Did you see the minotaurs?” Stynmar shuddered.

“Bah!” Grantheous dismissed the tickling with a wave of his hand. “A minor setback. It was an experiment. Much too much briarroot. Incredibly binding, that stuff. That was a test. We had to know the exact effect of extreme potency. The final batch will not be that strong.”

“I know, it’s just that-”

“Haven’t you done something good for someone and kept it secret?” said Grantheous.

Stynmar nodded. “All the time. That’s why I chose the White Robes.” He sighed. “Back in the old days when colors had meaning.”

“And you’re still doing it,” Grantheous stated. “What would happen if they did find out that we have injected the hope and exuberance of youth into their beer? You know laymen. They would be suspicious of the magic. The brew might quickly sour in their mouths, leaving them upset and angry, mistrustful of everyone.”

Stynmar pondered this for a while, then conceded the point. Despite the deception, he was doing good. Surely that must outweigh everything else. Grantheous was right.

Grantheous winked at Stynmar. “And if we make a bit of steel on the deal, so much the better.”

Stynmar blanched. Magic for money? That might be all well and good for Grantheous, who had chosen the Red Robes of practicality, but White Robes were supposed to be charitable. Or did it matter anymore? Wasn’t it now a question of survival?

“Stynmar, the end is inevitable,” said Grantheous gently. “Perhaps a week from now, or a month from now, or a year from now. We have seen all the signs. The magic will die, and as it dies, we mages will be left naked and vulnerable to our enemies. We must do something!”

“I know. I know.” Stynmar sipped his tea unhappily. “You are right. I just wanted to clear this up before we start on the new batch of beer.”

Grantheous nodded. “Your dilemma is understandable, my friend, but perhaps, by spreading a little bit of magic into people’s daily lives it may help. Somehow.”

Even though the magic brew had been Stynmar’s idea, Grantheous had been the one to make it happen. He pushed Stynmar into working to find the correct combination of ingredients and spell components and rituals to perform on the beer casks. Grantheous truly hoped that good would come of it, and if that good had a solid form and a steely ring and would tide them over in their waning years, he saw nothing wrong in that.

“Won’t you miss it?” Stynmar asked.

“Yes,” said Grantheous. “The day magic dies will be the day I die. Oh, not physically, but part of me will be laid to rest. I will never be the same. None of us will.” He gazed into the distance, far beyond the walls of their humble kitchen, and lifted his teacup. “Here’s to a ripe old age.”

Stynmar raised his cup, then chuckled. “I was just thinking what our old mentor and master would say about our beer recipe.”

Grantheous snorted in derision. “Master Gerald? That old coot. Always talking about the sanctity of magic and how we must treat it with reverence. Hog-wash, I say. Magic is a tool. That is my motto. No need to pester the gods about it. You would never hear a smith praying over his hammer, would you?”

Stynmar shook his head. “No. I suppose not Still…”

“Still,” said Grantheous, glad to end the conversation, “it is a shame about Gerald’s death.”

“Quite so. Forced to work in the mines of Blode. No magic to save him.”

“May he rest in peace. And so should we.” Stynmar nodded. Tomorrow they would take their scroll, which young Fetlin had so expertly written out, and go to the warehouse where the rest of the barrels were stored. Once there, they would finish casting the spell that will help people view with hope.

Grantheous rubbed his hands. “Our future starts tomorrow.”

The two finished their tea and went to their well-deserved rest.

As it turned out, their future started somewhere around midnight.

“We’ve been robbed!” Fetlin shouted. “We’ve been robbed!” He held a candle high with one hand and banged on Grantheous’s door with the other. “Master Grantheous! Please wake! Master Stynmar! Wake up! We’ve been robbed!”

“What is this about, then?” Grantheous demanded, emerging from his room, his beard done up in a fine meshed net.

“Robbed?” Stynmar said as he struggled into his robes. “Who would rob us? We haven’t anything of value.”

“The laboratory,” cried Fetlin. “Come, quickly!”

The three raced down the stairs to the room Stynmar called the “laboratory,” which consisted of a battered table and a couple of bookcases filled with dusty books. Fetlin pointed to a broken window. A soft breeze blew the curtain in, then sucked it outside and then, as if changing its mind, blew it back in again.

Fetlin pointed to a casket that stood open on the table. A broken lock lay on the floor.

“I’m sorry, Masters. There were more than fifty pieces of steel in there. Your life savings.”

The two mages stared into the empty chest, then looked at each other. Stynmar went white. Grantheous staggered and had to hold onto the chair.

“I was getting up for a drink of water when I noticed the window. I remember quite clearly shutting it. I’m so sorry about the money-”

“It’s not the money!” Grantheous cried, his voice shaking.

“The scroll,” said Stynmar, quivering all over. “The scroll was in that casket!”

“Oh, is that all?” Fetlin relaxed. “I know that it will be a bit more work for me to rewrite it, but you and Grantheous have that spell memorized forward and backward, right?”

“True, Fetlin,” said Stynmar slowly. “We do know that recipe forward and backward.” He laid emphasis on the words. “That is the problem. Read forward, the spell bestows the positive energy of youth on the recipient. Makes him feel as if he were young again, with the whole world before him. Read backward-” He gulped. Grantheous groaned. “Read backward, it allows the caster to snuff out joy, weaken hearts, destroy hope. And if the caster is strong enough, the spell could even cause premature aging! Turn a hopeful young man into an old, embittered one.”

“An unfortunate byproduct,” said Stynmar. “It was unavoidable.”

“But,” Grantheous added, “we never worried about it, because the scroll was always kept locked under a magic ward when not in use.”

He pointed to the broken lock, decorated with silvery runes.

“But, Masters, the thief would have to be a wizard to

break that-” Fetlin understood at last. “Oh! Oh, dear.”

“We have to get that scroll back,” said Grantheous.

The two mages were all for running out into the night in pursuit of the thief. Fetlin convinced them to allow him to investigate, suggesting that they might want to use their magic to find out more about the theft. Stynmar brightened at this and, digging into the drawer, brought forth an amulet. He held it to the light.

“This is a bloodhound,” he stated.

“I don’t see how your birthstone is going to help us,” said Grantheous irritably.

“I didn’t say bloodstone. I said bloodhound. It hunts magic. This will help us to track the scroll.

“It’s glowing red. What does that mean?”

“Red means the scroll isn’t here.”

“I can see that for myself,” said Grantheous, his lip curled in scorn.

“When we get close to the scroll, the amulet will glow green,” Stynmar said.

“So all we have to do is walk the length and breadth of Ansalon and wait for the amulet to turn green? Wonderful,” said Grantheous, turning back to patching the broken window.

“I guess I should have thought this out further,” said Stynmar, peering thoughtfully at the amulet.

“Masters!” Fetlin shouted, running inside the laboratory. “I may have something! I discovered a most suspicious character lurking in our alley. At first, he claimed he hadn’t seen anything, but after a bit of persuasion”-Fetlin blushed self-consciously-”he admitted that he did see someone tumbling out our window. The person hurt himself in the fall, apparently, for he limped as he ran away.”

“Where did he go?” Grantheous demanded.

“Into the sewers, Masters,” said Fetlin.

“Of course,” said Stynmar sourly. “Where else would he go?”

The Palanthian sewer system was an excellent one, its tunnels leading to all parts of the city. They provided not only excellent drainage, but also an excellent highway for the local Thieves Guild.

“Well, there’s nothing for it,” said Grantheous, girding up his robes. “We must go after him.”

“Sirs!” said Fetlin, alarmed. “I think the man is a plant. He was placed there to lure you into following. He could be leading you into terrible danger!”

“Then we don’t want to disappoint him, do we?” said Stynmar.

Fetlin argued, but the two mages refused to listen to him. The sky was starting to lighten when they stalked out of their house, bent on recovering their scroll, armed with nothing but their waning magic, righteous indignation, and the glowing amulet. Fetlin was, himself, slightly better armed with a small crossbow.

The stranger still lurked in the alley. The moment the man sighted the two wizards, he took to his heels.

“Thank the gods he didn’t go into the sewer!” said Stynmar, wiping sweat from his face.

“Hurry, Masters,” said Fetlin, “if you want your scroll back, we must follow him!”

Not long ago, Fetlin had been known to the Palan-thian authorities as Fetlin the Felon, which was, in a roundabout way, how he had made the acquaintance of the two mages, who were now his masters and friends. Fetlin knew all the streets, corridors, and alleyways of Palanthas. He had skulked, slinked, and sneaked through every one of them. Although he now walked the straight and narrow path of honesty, he was pleased to find that he had not lost his touch for fast and fleeting furtive movements.

Unfortunately, he could not say the same for his masters.

Grantheous and Stynmar had not a sneaky bone in their bodies. They zigged when they should have zagged. They ran into carts, fell over garbage piles, small children, and their own feet. So inept were they that the stranger was forced on more than one occasion to halt so they could catch up. Deeply embarrassed, Fetlin hoped none of his old gang saw him.

The chase, such as it was, led up a lane and down several alleys, a left turn, a right turn, and then forward in the direction of the warehouse district and the docks.

The sinister man paused at the end of a street. He looked to make sure that the three saw him, then dashed across the street to a warehouse, where stood a man in flowing black robes. The man walked up to the black-robed figure. The two conferred, then both of them entered the warehouse, closing the door behind them. The one in the black robe walked with a decided limp.

“That’s… it,” said Stynmar, coming thankfully to a halt. He was gasping for breath, puffing and wheezing. “That… Black Robe… stole… our scroll.”

“Yes,” said Grantheous, gulping air. “We should go… get it back.”

The two looked at each other.

“When… we’ve rested,” said Stynmar, brightening. “Look! A tavern!”

“The very place,” said Grantheous. “We’ll come up with a plan, Fetlin. You stay here and keep watch. Let us know if he leaves.”

The two mages bolted for the tavern. They were in such a hurry that they did not notice the faded wood sign hanging above the entrance, nor did they notice the yellow pine floor stained with beer and blood.

Fetlin noticed. He would have warned them, but he’d been told to stand guard. He could only hope his masters figured it out before it was too late.

The two found a table near the back, as far from the windows as possible.

“What do we do now?” Grantheous asked.

“Have a drink,” said Stynmar. “I can’t think when I’m thirsty. My dear?’” he sang, summoning the serving wench.

“I’m not your dear, old man. What do you two want?” she demanded, placing one hand on her hip. “Prune juice?”

“Beer,” said Grantheous with dignity. “Your best brew.” He pulled out a steel coin, one of the few they had left.

She eyed it suspiciously, then flounced off. She brought back two tall, almost-clean flagons. Chasing and sneaking and intrigue was thirsty work. The mages drank deeply.

“Wonderful stuff,” said Stynmar, chugging his flagon.

“Tastes vaguely familiar,” said Grantheous, wiping the foam from his beard.

“We’ll have another!” both called out.

“So what is our plan of action?” asked Grantheous.

Stynmar polished off his second beer. “We go in after him!”

Grantheous stared down into his own pint, as if the solution to the riddle lay somewhere in its bubbly, amber depths. “But we don’t know for certain that the Black Robe stole it.”

“He fits the description. I say we confront this mystery man and his sinister minion. See what they know.”

“Threaten them, you mean?” said Grantheous.

“He stole from our home,” said Stynmar. “We know he did. We go into the warehouse-”

“The warehouse across yonder?” asked the barmaid, plunking down two more beers.

“Yes,” said Stynmar, looking at the barmaid in doration. “You are the loveliest thing I’ve seen in years, my dear.”

“Bah! They all say that.” But she looked flattered.

“Have you seen a black-robed man sneak into that building?” asked Grantheous.

“Have I seen him? The ugly bastard’s been in here the past three nights.” She twirled a string of hair, coaxing it to curl, and leered at Stynmar.

“What’s he like?” Stynmar asked hesitantly. “Strong? Powerful? Fiery eyes? A dark smile?”

“Hah! He’s older than you two, skinny and bony. I could wring his neck like a chicken.”

“Many thanks, m’lady,” Stynmar said as he slid forth the last of his steel coins.

She grinned, bit on it to make sure it was good, then returned to the bar.

“He is ancient!” said Stynmar.

“And he is weak,” said Grantheous.

“We go in the front!” the two said together.

They raised their glasses and tossed back the remnants of their third pint.

“One more round before we take on the evil man who has stolen from us,” said Grantheous.

“One more round before we take back that which is ours,” said Stynmar.

“Masters!’ cried a voice. “What are you doing?”

“It’s Fetlin,” said Grantheous. “Our trusted apprentice.”

“Have a drink, lad,” said Stynmar. “Great stuff. Almost as good as our own.”

“Masters!” Fetlin groaned. “It is your own!”

The two looked down, looked up, and looked down again. Looked into their empty flagons.

Grantheous raised a ghastly face. “We have just drunk three pints of our own enhanced brew.”

“The strongest of the batch,” Stynmar whispered in horror. “The Minotaur Tickler!”

“What do we do now?” Grantheous asked.

Stynmar rose. He reached out, grabbed the barmaid, and kissed her. “We go in the front!” he said.

Grantheous rose. He, too, kissed the barmaid. “We go in the front!”

“The gods help us,” said Fetlin.

Grantheous and Stynmar walked straight toward the warehouse. Fetlin did his best to stop them, but they were in no mood to listen.

“We will be neither diverted nor discouraged,” said Grantheous.

“With or without magic, we will fight the good fight to the end,” said Stynmar. “We must not allow our recipe to be used for evil.”

“Damn right,” said Grantheous, and hiccuped.

Fetlin checked the small crossbow and loaded his only bolt. Stynmar adjusted his white robes and then aided Grantheous in tucking away his chest-length beard.

“Best not to allow the enemy any advantage,” he said solemnly.

Grantheous and Stynmar stopped in the middle of the street to do a few stretches, limbering up their calves, thighs, and chests.

“Nothing worse than getting a leg cramp in the midst of chasing down evil and pummeling it,” said Grantheous.

Fetlin could have sat down and wept.

Exercises completed, the two strolled, with strides of importance and purpose, the final distance to the warehouse.

“Nothing can overcome the stuff our courage is made of,” announced Stynmar.

“Hops and barley,” Fetlin muttered.

The two stopped outside the warehouse door. They turned to one another and shook hands.

“We will win today,” said Grantheous, exuding confidence.

Cool and levelheaded, Stynmar agreed. “Even if we die, we will win, for this day we fight Evil.”

“Evil that is the bane of the existence of mankind-”

“Oh, get on with it, sirs!” Fetlin pleaded.

Stynmar took a few steps back and then, putting his shoulder into it, charged the door at ramming speed, just as the sinister man opened it.

Stynmar was almost halfway across the warehouse before he could stop himself. Turning, regaining his dignity, he looked about to see that he was standing in a dusty warehouse confronting a black-cloaked old man who was laughing at him.

The old man had a face that hadn’t laughed at much, seemingly-a face that was so wrinkled that his wide open, laughing mouth broke the face into mismatched laughing pieces. Stynmar closed his eyes, hoping that if he opened them again, the old man would turn out to be an illusion.

That didn’t happen.

“Gerald!” Stynmar gasped. He sidled over to stand beside Grantheous.

Grantheous didn’t say anything at all. He simply stared, his mouth open.

“Since when do you call your superiors by their first name?” growled Gerald, scowling. “You will call me Archmagus, as you used to do.”

“Yes, Archmagus,” said the two mages, cringing.

“We heard your were dead, Archmagus,” Stynmar added.

“You sound disappointed,” replied Gerald.

“Well, maybe a little,” Grantheous admitted.

“No, no,” Stynmar babbled, stepping on his friend’s foot. “We’re glad you weren’t eaten by ogres-”

“Oh, shut up,” snapped the Archmagus. He waggled a bony finger at them. “You two have been disobedient. Broken all the rules. Using magic to sell beer!” He snorted. “Come now. Speak up and be quick about it. I am not getting any younger.”

“You stole our scroll!” Grantheous cried.

Gerald scowled. “Of course.”

“But why?” Stynmar wailed. “We worked over a year on that recipe.”

Gerald shook his head. “I don’t care if you worked a hundred years on it. It was foolish, and I will not abide by such behavior.” He adjusted his robes and, almost as if it were an afterthought, said, “And tell that scrawny apprentice to come out from his hiding place.”

Fetlin crawled through a side window and stood there, crossbow in hand, feeling foolish.

Grantheous twisted his beard and shuffled his feet. His voice rose an octave. He might have been the young student again. “Master, begging your pardon, but what we do with our magic does not concern you.”

“We want our scroll back. Now,” said Stynmar with a blustering attempt at defiance that was spoiled by the fact that he kept trying to suck in his sagging gut.

“Please,” Grantheous added.

“You must give them back the scroll, sir,” said Fetlin sternly, and he raised the crossbow.

Archmagus Gerald laughed. He hacked and wheezed until he nearly fell over. “Apprentice,” he said to Fetlin, “the scroll is gone.”

“What?” Simultaneous gasps of horror and shock.

Gerald wagged his finger again. “I tried to instill certain lessons into these two over-grown children, but all my teachings seem to have fallen on deaf ears. I should have held them back, to be honest.”

Grantheous and Stynmar bowed their heads and shuffled their feet.

“That scroll was their work and my work,” said Fetlin. “You have no right to it, Black Robe!”

“Black robe?” Gerald glanced down at his cloak. “Oh, this. Nonsense.” He whipped off the black cloak to reveal dingy white robes. “I have every right to the scroll, Apprentice. I taught Grantheous and Stynmar everything they knew when they were no older than you.”

“But that doesn’t make you responsible for everything they do!” Fetlin protested.

“You’d think so,” said Gerald with a sigh. “But life doesn’t work that way. If they were to slay a dragon or solve the riddle of the dying magic, they would be proclaimed heroes. Would anyone say of them, ‘Heroes taught by the great Archmagus Gerald himself? No. Not a word. But if they had gone through with this dunderheaded plan, all you would hear would be: ‘What do you expect? They were taught by that supreme idiot, Archmagus Gerald.’ “

Grantheous and Stynmar both protested, but a cold look from Master Gerald sealed their lips.

“I told them this Immortal Truth many years ago, and I will repeat it again, for apparently these two are slow at learning. Apprentice,” he said to Fetlin, “you listen, too, and remember. Magic is serious business to be pursued by serious-minded people. The last thing a proper wizard should do is go about magicking beer. And as for you”-he pointed a bony finger at Srynmar- “keep to the courage of your convictions. You knew this was wrong, yet you let yourself be persuaded by a mixture of self-righteous claptrap and filthy lucre.

“And you.” The bony finger went to Grantheous. “ ‘I’ll die when the magic dies,’ he whines. Bosh! You’ve other talents, inner resources. I can’t think what they are, right now, but you must have something.”

Grantheous and Stynmar hung their heads.

“Wh-what did you do with our scroll, Archmagus?” Stynmar asked meekly. “Did you rip it up or burn it?”

Gerald shook his head. “No, no. I told you that I wanted to teach you a lesson.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I cast the spell.”

“Where? On what?” The two gasped.

“The Palanthian City well, of course,” said Archmagus Gerald. He pointed to the window. “And it seems to be having quite an interesting effect.”

That day, in the city of Palanthas, something strange and wonderful began to happen. It was as if the gods had cast down a fiery mountain of revelry, a Cataclysm of Hope, directly on the city of Palanthas.

And none could escape its effects.

Children ran through the streets, giggling and playing. Adults ran through the streets, laughing and cavorting with the children. The rich decided that they owned too much for their own good and opened their doors to the poor. Gnomes made sense. Render emptied their pouches. Innkeepers erased debts. Politicians spoke the truth. Dark Knights of Neraka played hopscotch. Everyone began dancing in the streets. Mages forgot that their beloved Art was dying and joined in the celebration. With what little power they had left, they tossed magical fireworks into the air to mark the festivities with a shower of blue and gold sparks and images of water lilies and lilacs.

And while everyone was in the streets having the time of their lives, the members of the Thieves Guild sneaked into the empty houses-but only to return items they’d stolen in the past with little notes of apology.

The two mages and their apprentice wended their way through the mob and finally, after much hugging and kissing and pounding on the back, Grantheous, Stynmar, and Fetlin reached their house. Racing inside, they bolted the door and, then and there, took a solemn vow to destroy their notes for their recipe for hope, distilled into the perfect pint.

The frenzied celebration ended at dawn. People rubbed their eyes and went to their beds. When they awoke, a day and a night later, they went back to doing what they had been doing, but each knew in his or her heart, that for a brief moment in time there had been true peace in their world. It had left them with heartburn and sore feet, but also a more kindly feeling toward their fellow men, though no one could remember a thing about what had happened.

No one except for two aging mages and their apprentice, who, after witnessing the effects of their best intentions, resolutely refused to drink anything other than plain milk from then on.

Just in case.