Spellstorm (14 page)

“A metaphor,” the vampire said dismissively.

“No. If Mystra had been utterly destroyed, her essence—her body, in mortal terms—scattered,
the Weave would have collapsed and all the old ways of wielding magic with it. We
came close to that.”

Manshoon shrugged. “The collapse, and the danger it posed to mages like myself, I
foresaw, which was why I decided to watch and not join in the fray. Being in the thick
of a battle when one goes mad and one’s spells go wild forever is no recipe for survival.
Yet if that fool Telamont Tanthul had succeeded in seizing the energies of both the
wards of Candlekeep and the mythal of Myth Drannor, I would have acted.”

“By gibbering as you reeled around randomly?” Skouloun asked. “Or something more decisive?”

“If I’d gone mad,” Manshoon told him coldly, “the other Manshoons that yet sleep would
have awakened, and read the brief missives I’d left them, and would have attacked.”

“Attacked
whom
?” Yusendre demanded.

“Whoever was trying to reshape the Weave and pass it to Shar,” Manshoon snapped. “And
I suspect there were other powerful wielders of the Art awaiting that same moment.
Do not think Tanthul or anyone else would have had more than a breath or two to gloat.”

“There were others,” El agreed. “Two stepped forth. Larloch was tempted out of his
own watching and biding by the power available to him—and the Srinshee then struck
out at him. Leaving the Weave in my hands, so I could use it against Tanthul.”

“I always wondered if mages told war stories that were essentially different than
those spouted by us coarse rogues and warriors, when they got together,” Mirt observed
from behind them, “but I guess not. Lords and Ladies of the Art, the next trio of
dishes have been served. Please resume your seats at table, for the fare won’t remain
hot and at its best forever.”

All over the vast room, other guests were doing just that, though El noticed one thing
amid all the movement, which made him smile grimly: the moment after Lord Halaunt
tensed and grimaced—despite his shielding, Alusair could still
feel
attempts to invade her mind, and the sensations were less than pleasant—Calathlarra
reeled and almost fell, clawing involuntarily at the nearest arm for support. It belonged
to Maraunth Torr, and he hastily pulled away, leaving her staggering.

As the aged Runemaster regained her balance, seething, Elminster bit back a sigh of
relief. What Mystra had taught him had not only protected the mind of Alusair within
the ravaged mind of Lord Halaunt from someone trying to take over their host, it had,
it seemed, delivered the gentlest of mind slaps to the would-be mental conqueror.
Hopefully it would prevent Calathlarra from trying again.

So that was one doom avoided. So long as he and the Weave held, none of these Lost
Spell–hungry archmages would be able to speak with Halaunt’s voice and so establish
authority over everyone gathered here. And no one would at a stroke learn where the
Lost Spell and all Halaunt’s other magic was, and precisely how to use it. Which meant
everyone else here might just live a little longer …

Myrmeen slipped past El then, and he turned and matched strides with her, holding
up his decanter as if asking her about it. What he really asked was, “Did ye see Calathlarra,
just now?”

The Cormyrean warrior nodded. “Someone stung her inside her head, by the looks of
it.”

“They did,” El agreed. “Have ye noticed anyone else acting as she did?”

Myrmeen shook her head. “No. If others caught such blows to their minds, I couldn’t
tell so from their faces.”

“All faces are masks,” El told her gently.

“I was born a day or even two before yestereve,” Myrmeen reminded him wryly. “And
have had many dealings with Vangey for … too long to count the years. Though thankfully,
not with any of our esteemed guests before. Nest of vipers. Now, unless you want a
kitchen fire to enliven the proceedings still further, I must get back in there
now
. So try not to start any big spell battles just yet; I wouldn’t want to miss that
sort of fun.”

“Indeed,” El agreed gravely, and turned back toward the great feast table.

He was in time to see Lord Halaunt, in the act of sitting down in his highbacked chair
at the end of the table while discussing something
with Tabra, waver and then fall the rest of the way into his seat, face momentarily
gone tight and pained.

Quickly, El tried to look around at every guest, in hopes of seeing which one was
feeling a mind slap. There! Manshoon was shuddering in his seat and wincing. It seemed
the longer game involved a step taken forward right now …

The platters ranged down the table were steaming, and the aromas arising from them
made his mouth water.

El resolved to eat heartily and well. For if things went bad within these walls, who
knew when his next meal might come? And what it would be like?

He’d come a long, long way from the rat pies of his youth in Hastarl, but along that
journey had been countless bad situations. “Bad” as in bloodshed and dark unfolding
consequences.

And he couldn’t shake the feeling that those sort of dark moments lay ahead, here
in Oldspires. Very bad, and very soon.

T
HE CANDLES RANGED
down the table were burning low, and everyone was full. Only the bowls of nuts and
fruits were still being touched, between sips from wineglasses that had been filled
and refilled again many times. There had been three clearings of the table now, and
El was beginning to wonder if Mirt and Myrmeen had smuggled a small army of cooks
into the kitchens, and were determined to empty the manor larders at one go. Another
guest—Skouloun of Nimbral—had reeled in his seat between the undoming of the roast
bustard and the serving of the woodwing hash, but Mystra was still standing vigilant
guard over the mind of Lord Halaunt. It would be amusing to see who else tried to
assail the old noble; El’s money was on Maraunth Torr, but probably not in front of
everyone. The man would have to be a dullard not to have noticed at least one of the
attempts, to conclude that there was some sort of protection he had to breach and
overcome, and he would want to be alone for some elaborate spellcastings.

Around the table, there’d been a fair bit of verbal fencing as to who should be trusted
with the Lost Spell, assuming the various would-be
purchasers made Lord Halaunt the same or almost the same monetary offer. Who was worthy
to wield such a mighty magic—and who clearly was not?

And how could Elminster be considered a worthy judge, given his past history with
more than a few of the guests?

El smiled. He’d fought Manshoon and Shaaan more than once, separately; Alastra was
his former apprentice, and he and Malchor, though they’d never been close, had been
friends for a long time now …

He was still smiling when Maraunth Torr picked up one of the spoons set for his place
at the table, examined its workmanship idly, and asked it, “And why shouldn’t every
guest here in this hall arise in unison and smite Elminster and Halaunt both, and
just
take
the Lost Spell?”

“Because if anything befalls me,” Lord Halaunt said softly, “none of you will ever
get it.”

“And because if ye try,” Elminster added, affecting an almost jovial manner, “ye’ll
discover just what lengths a Chosen of Mystra who doesn’t much care how much longer
he lives will go to, to slay wielders of the Art who don’t much deserve to go on infesting
Faerûn much longer. I’ve had years upon years of dallying in Cormyr to prepare more
traps than ye’ll ever find—scores of them in this house alone.”

His last seven words were an utter falsehood, but more than one guest up and down
that long table winced, obviously believing him.

“However,” Manshoon remarked pleasantly, “let us suppose you haven’t prepared any
traps at all, and are doing what you usually do, Elminster Aumar: improvising as you
go, bluffing and hinting and threatening … when you almost have to be just as helpless
at the Art in this place as the rest of us.”

There was an almost tangible easing, up and down the table, a relaxing.

El matched his longtime rival’s pleasant drawl, and his eyes were merry rather than
glaring out death, as he replied, “Well, of course ye
could
suppose that. It is rather a gamble, if ye go too far—being as ye hazard thy
life
. Most of us only get one life, so it’s precious to us. Ye, of course, can afford
to risk everything—because if ye perish, it’s not the end … is it?”

The wary tension was back, hanging as heavy in the room as if the relief of a moment
earlier had never happened.

Manshoon shrugged. “You seem to belittle the fact that when I
die
, Sage of Shadowdale, I die. My next self lacks the memories of what my last one did;
everything is lost and wasted.”

“Save that those ye slew are still dead, and the effects of the things ye did still
mar Faerûn, and all the memories ye’ve stored in gems and put with thy clones are
not lost,” El replied calmly. “Wherefore I weep not overmuch on thy account.”

Manshoon regarded him balefully. “Did you ever?”

“Weep? No. Thy choices were thy follies. I betimes reflected sadly on those ye made,
yes. Ye could have been so much more.”

Manshoon shrugged. “I’m not done yet, old man. Just as you aren’t done misjudging
me. I am no longer the man you saw rise to lordship in Zhentil Keep.”

“Well, thank all the gods for
that
,” Alastra commented, draining her glass. “The ambition and vandalously frenetic strivings
of all those magelings you sent rushing to their dooms got to be more than tiresome,
after a while.”

Manshoon gave her a cold sneer.

That made her chuckle. “Still?
Still
the oh-so-menacing hauteur?
How
many times have the Zhentarim reached out to conquer or despoil—and failed? Tell
me, Manshoon of the Zhentarim, exactly what have you achieved, with all the years
you’ve had, to feel oh-so-superior about?”

Manshoon’s sneer turned to a cold, malevolent stare. “More, little minx, than you
shall ever know, or have the wits and mastery of the Art to appreciate.”

Alastra chuckled again. “That the best crushing rejoinder you can muster?” She turned
away, but not before Manshoon—and Elminster, and everyone else seated nearby—saw the
merry contempt in her eyes.

Little minx, El thought, amused. And then found himself wondering when the last occasion
was when he’d seen a
big
minx. Truly, the world changed whenever his back was turned, these days …

Another contest of sneers and biting sarcasm erupted from just beyond Manshoon, among
the two Elders of Nimbral, Calathlarra, and Shaaan.

This
, Alusair’s voice said in Elminster’s head,
grows tiresome, and more than tiresome. The more they drink, the more their true hostile
and repulsive natures are revealed. It’s high time these arrogant, so-certain-they-know-it-all
archmages got a little … unsettled
.

Lass
, Elminster inquired almost sternly,
what’re ye up to?

Oh, a-haunting I shall go
, Alusair sang impishly.
And none of your admonitions, Old Mage. I am, after all, a ghost—and I do believe
it’s time to reveal my true hostile and repulsive nature
.

Heh. Be careful, Luse
, El told her fondly, watching Lord Halaunt quietly depart his seat and head for the
door that led to the kitchen, and a certain capacious cupboard in the butlery, beyond.
Don’t burn the place down with all of us in it, now!

Oooh, El, don’t give me
ideas!

Luse!

Folk who’ve had a scare are sometimes more biddable
, the princess replied, from behind Halaunt’s unreadable face.
This just might help
.

El sent a mental snort her way, and sat back to enjoy the fun. He did not have long
to wait.

And she was doing what he’d intended. No accord could possibly hold if grudges were
uneased, fury unspoken, and everything bottled up and simmering behind polite masks,
as happened at too many courts across Faerûn. All of the petty grievances and irritants
had to be aired, before the real getting to know others, and finding common ground
with them, could begin.

The feast hall darkened abruptly as candles winked out in the maerifasturs overhead,
the flames dying as if starved for air. The diners looked up, frowning, and Elminster
was careful to join in this visible unease—as various of the unused chairs ranged
neatly against the tapestried walls all around the room started to move by themselves,
and the fire in one of the fireplaces went from orange flames to bright green ones
in a flickering instant.

Manshoon and Maraunth Torr both flung looks of withering scorn at El, who feigned
innocent dumbfoundedness as he gazed back at them, held up empty hands, and shrugged.
Judging by their expressions, that cut no ice, but their attention wavered when a
loud and mournful sigh seemed to emanate from the air above the table—and rushed down
the length of it ere it faded.