Spellstorm (13 page)

Tabra frowned, and El added swiftly, “Aye, the Weave underlies all arcane spells,
but what I meant was this … what befell me when the Blue Fire came was near madness,
a loss of control; when I used the Art, unless other minds stabilized mine, I lost
my mind. Every time.”

Tabra’s eyes narrowed as she stared into Elminster’s own, trying to judge if he told
the truth.

“Not for good,” El told her, “but for long periods of witlessness. As all magic of
the Weave weakened and went wild, I fought to mend the Weave, and learned it more
deeply and in detail—because I dared not work spells—than I ever had before. By the
time Mystra returned and commanded me
once more, I was a Weavemaster.
The
Weavemaster; the one known, as the Srinshee was perhaps the only being to understand
it more fully. When I struck down Telamont, he was … overextended, but ablaze with
gathered power; he had just directed a magic all the arcanists who obeyed him had
contributed to, he had drained many enchanted items into himself, and he was seeking
to harness the mythal of Myth Drannor, all in obedience to Shar. The Weave was unstable,
and if I’d tried to look at him through it, I’d have been blinded—his gathered power
was that great.”

“So how—? How mighty are
you
?”

“As an archmage, hurling spells, not his equal. He had greater magic at his call,
by far. His weaknesses were arrogant overconfidence, and years of overmuch reliance
on the obedience of underlings without having to face all the betrayals, difficulties,
and wide variety of experiences that tutored me.”

“He was inexperienced, measured against you.”

“Aye. Yet if we’d stood against each other and traded spell after spell, he’d have
bested me. I was worn down, and he was fresh and empowered. I think we both knew it.”

“And so?”

“And so I used no spell, but the Weave. The magics he unleashed at me it drank, and
became that much more spellfire, fueling what I was directing the Weave to do.
He
empowered what I did to him.”

“So can you teach me this?”

El shook his head. “Ye could learn it the same way I did, through long work with the
Weave—if Mystra allowed thee, which is unlikely; the details of what I did are fading
from my mind fast, which suggests she’s taking it from me because she trusts no mortal
to carry it. And the Weave is Mystra, and Mystra is the Weave; each Mystra changes
the Weave to make it her own, and this one has changed it since her return, to guard
against what was done to her to bring on the Spellplague.”

He sighed. “More than that, the Weave is no longer as unstable, as awash with freed
and dangerous power, as it was that day—and I and all who serve Mystra are trying
to keep it from ever being so imperiled, so on the verge of utter collapse, as it
was then. Nor would ye face a foe so bloated with excess arcane energy that ye could
turn against him. I say again: I did not defeat the Most High of Thultanthar in a
spell duel. There was no duel. I slapped him down with the Weave, in a way he did
not believe
I or anyone had the ability to harness, and so he had no defense against it that he
could craft in time.”

“And if you had failed?”

“Both the Srinshee and Larloch could have done it, and would have done it. Thy former
master could probably have done it, too, but I know not if he could have grasped how
to wield the Weave swiftly enough to stop Telamont ere the Most High carried out its
destruction, as Shar had commanded. Ioulaum, last I knew, was … lost in his own contemplations.”

Tabra nodded sadly. “You describe him aptly. And I thank you for your candor. You
have not the weapon I seek.”

Elminster nodded. “And I hope never to have it again. The risk to us all, to the Art
we all use, is too great.”

“So,” Tabra said slowly, “in this place, here and now, where magic won’t obey us,
you can’t use the Weave in its place.”

El looked back at her gravely, and said nothing.

They regarded each other in silence for a long moment, among the chatter up and down
the room, ere Tabra observed quietly, “You’re not the prancing mighty spellhurler
most think you at all. You are as … misunderstood as my looks now make me misjudged.”

El gave her a wry smile. “Don’t tell, now! I’m in disguise! And that same prancing
mask I wear achieves much for me.”

Tabra crooked an eyebrow. The effect was grotesque, thanks to her misshapen face.
“More conquests? Females yielding to you?”

Elminster rolled his eyes. “That’s far more part of the pose than it is reality. I
meant
I further Mystra’s aims by playing the wise old fool so I am feared, and folk do
what they think best to turn aside my wrath or my meddlings—and such doings are often
the very deeds I hope they will do.”

“I believe,” Tabra said dryly, “I’d like a drink now. And some food to hold it down
with.”

El chuckled. “Me, too. Nobly saving the world is such thirsty work.”

T
HE FEAST UNFOLDED STIFFLY AT FIRST, WITH AWKWARD SILENCES
and diners turning to begin conversing and then thinking better of it and holding
silence. Yet a smilingly silent Myrmeen and a sweating Mirt—Manshoon had recognized
him in an instant and given him a hard glare, but had said not a word—served forth
the food as serenely as if there were no uncomfortable atmosphere at all. The viands
proved superb and Lord Halaunt’s wine cellar strong, and as food and wine took effect,
the diners relaxed, chatter and even laughter arose, and Alusair was moved to mindmurmur
to El,
Convivial at last. I thought we’d
never
get there
.

When the first three dishes were done, Mirt had suggested everyone rise and partake
of wine and chat while the table was cleared and fresh dishes were prepared—and wonder
of wonders, all of these powerful, superior mages had obeyed as meekly as nuns acquiescing
to something they secretly agreed with and looked forward to.

El hastened to make sure glasses were filled and everyone who wanted a cheese tart
had one, and by then the mingling was in full swing again, Lord Halaunt’s chattering
guests strolling around the feast hall. It was a grand, soaring room, much larger
than the Red Receiving Room where they’d first gathered, with three tall bay windows
looking south into Lord Halaunt’s woods. Each window commanded its own alcove, and
if you turned away from the views, you beheld faded stag-hunting tapestries hanging
everywhere that didn’t have a window or a fireplace and huge rising stone chimney.

Elminster found himself facing the patriarch of the Harpells of Longsaddle, who favored
him with the easy smile of a friend or trusted colleague.

“Retired from serving Mystra to serve yon old coot?” Malchor murmured. “Don’t believe
it. None of us do. You aren’t really expecting anyone to swallow that line, are you?”

El grinned. “Frankly, no.” Then he added very quietly, “Yet ye’ve no idea how tired
I am of riding to the rescue of realm after realm, again and again. I’ve
so
much reading to get caught up on.”

Malchor nodded. “A condition I am not unfamiliar with. Well, may this ride end in
victory for you.”

“Ye’re not really after the spell, are ye?” El asked.

Malchor smiled. “No. I’m more after making sure certain individuals don’t get it—and
live to use it on the rest of us.”

And he saluted Elminster with his goblet and strolled away. Alastra turned and abandoned
a conversation to follow the senior Harpell, drifting in his wake.

“How touching,” a voice that held an edge of steel commented from nearby. “Young and
lost in love. I was like that, once. And gave myself to matchmaking, to make all my
friends happy, one after another. Not all of those matches lasted.”

It was Calathlarra. Elminster managed not to look disbelieving, but she wasn’t fooled.
“Oh, yes,” she said, giving him a very direct look. “I was young and devoted to serving
others once. A long time ago.” She sounded almost wistful.

El gazed at her and tried to imagine Calathlarra as young and generous and self-sacrificingly
helpful.

He failed.

“So, Chosen of Mystra,” she said challengingly, “is the Art
truly
useless to us here? Won’t it work at all?”

Elminster sighed. “Oh, it’ll work, I daresay. It just won’t do what ye intend it to
do. A casting ye’ve worked a thousand times before will cause something utterly surprising
and unintended, not what ye want it to. Perhaps deadly to all, perhaps so subtle ye’ll
have to search to see what the magic wrought. I think.”

“You ‘think’? You’re not certain?”

“As I get older,” El replied, “I find certainty increasingly elusive. Don’t ye?”

“No,” Calathlarra replied flatly. “As the years pass, I eliminate more of my foes,
and their schemes and strivings die with them, so certainty—for me—rises. And one
certainty looms steadily nearer and clearer: the certainty of death. Whenever I deal
it, I simplify matters, and certainty grows. Admit it, Elminster Aumar: the most convenient
enemies are those who’ve become but memories. Destroyed, and therefore done.”

“And are ye planning any such simplifications, in the near future?”

“Planning? No. Yet I find myself increasingly fond of certainty,” Calathlarra purred,
giving him a mirthless smile as she started to drift away. “
Cold
certainty.”

Elminster turned back to the sideboard and its decanters for a replenishment, then
turned slowly on one heel to survey the room and see if anyone else felt the need
to have their glass filled.

Yonder, Alastra was talking to Malchor at last, the two Elders of Nimbral seemed to
have reached a decision about something and were heading in El’s direction, and Calathlarra
had just said something to Shaaan that had made Manshoon shake his head and depart
their company briskly.

Also heading for … Elminster.

Uh-oh.

Yet when the vampire reached El, all he did was hold out an empty wineglass and ask
politely, “Anything very red and very dry left?”

El found him something suitable among the gleaming glass forest of decanters, poured,
and Manshoon nodded thanks.

By which time the two Elders of Nimbral were standing at their elbows, waiting politely.
El proffered the decanter he was holding, but they shook their heads.

“I wanted to ask you about the Sundering,” Skouloun said calmly to El, and then glanced
at Manshoon and added, “But perhaps now is not a good time.”

The vampire gave him a polite smile and said, “I don’t see why it shouldn’t be. I’m
not the power-hungry tyrant many seem to think me.”

“Oh?” Yusendre asked him calmly, as if doing so was no boldness at all. “What are
you, then?”

Manshoon’s answering smile was silky. “One who plays a longer game, Lady. I’ve learned
one lesson too many times over, now: spell-hurling and marching armies often mar the
prizes being fought for. Why fight, when by the right manipulations—often such small
things that I’ve learned by
watching Elminster here, for centuries now—can bring about what is sought without
all the bloodshed? Every death can mean a feud, and more enemies. I’ve already had
to learn patience. Now I’m learning … slyness.”

“What, all over again?” Skouloun asked gently—and then unflinchingly endured the level,
heavy gaze Manshoon gave him.

“Ask, then,” Elminster prompted the Nimbran, a bare instant after Manshoon shrugged,
smiled, and relaxed.

“The Sundering,” Skouloun asked, “is it done? In your opinion.”

Elminster smiled. “Its consequences shall be with us henceforth, but the sorting of
what is Toril unto Toril, and what is of Abeir to Abeir—that’s done, yes. The two
worlds are now sundered, and the Era of Upheaval is ended. Or so Mystra tells me.”

“So who or what caused the Sundering?” Yusendre asked.

El shrugged. “Strife among the gods, some say, or displeasing the Overgod, or the
death of Mystra, or merely that it was time; Abeir and Toril have comingled before
and shall again. Thy guess is as good as mine.”

“Oh, come, come,” Skouloun objected. “We all know Chosen of Mystra like to speak cryptically
and cloak themselves in an aura of mystery, in veneration of Our Lady of Mysteries,
but surely—”

“I know more?” El smiled. “I know what Mystra tells me, and what I saw and heard myself
when working with the Weave. Yet how much of that can I trust, really?”

“Mystra tells one wizard one thing,” Manshoon murmured, “and another mage another
thing. As I know from personal experience.”

“Just as every god or goddess tells their Chosen what they want their Chosen to believe,”
El added. “Seeking to manipulate them to act thus and so, and thereby gain power through
the deeds, worldly strength, and numbers of their Chosen, these last few years. All
of the fighting that raged across Faerûn—that yet rages, in many places—was no accident.”

“So who won?” Skouloun demanded.

Elminster shrugged. “Those deities we thought dead and gone, who have returned. The
great dance among the gods continues, the intrigues and the fighting. Shar lost, this
time around, for a great measure of order has been restored, and Mystra is goddess
of magic, so there is still a Weave and not the great night of ongoing chaos Shar
hungers to bring about.”

“You tell us nothing we do not already know, or have heard, or guessed,” Skouloun
observed with a frown. “Do you intend to tell us nothing?”

The Sage of Shadowdale shrugged again. “We can talk for days, and I can tell ye many
things, but certainties are few. All I can be sure of is that I and Storm and others
worked to anchor and repair the Weave when Mystra was silent—”

“Dead,” Manshoon corrected. “Dead and gone.”

El shook his head. “Dead but
not
gone, only silent. For Mystra is the Weave, and throughout all of this, there was
always a Weave, however weak and damaged and imperiled.”