Blackstaff (39 page)

Raegar recognized the all-too-surprised face of Sandrew the Wise, who returned his grin. Twenty-five people soon filled the space within Malavar’s Grasp, but aside from brief nods among those familiar with each other, not a word was spoken for long moments.

“Are we too late? Nain and I found more friends for our party,” a woman’s voice broke the silence, and a hole seemed to draw itself in space.

Kyriani laughed as she stepped through, a floating disk bearing a large chest behind her. As she looked around at the faces of the assembled personages, even the ebullient mistress of Selûne’s Smile fell silent. Her right hand trailed behind her to lead Nain Keenwhistler, who held a blackstaff gingerly in his other hand. He stopped and stared agog at that aggregate of the powerful until the people behind him cleared their throats. Two hooded figures exited the open circle in the air, though only the female bore another blackstaff.

Lathander’s dawn streaked across the High Moor as the sun finally rose over the Gray Peaks. Khelben cleared his throat and said loudly to all assembled, “Gentles, we have waited centuries for this, and the time is upon us at last. If you would, step outside of Malavar’s Grasp so we may start our working.”

All but the three Chosen moved beyond the stone plinths, while the new arrival stepped forward with her blackstaff. Raegar and Nameless moved with Sandrew.

Inside the
kiira
, Tsarra saw a sketch appear of a lovely half-elf blonde woman with short-cropped hair before the woman let her hood drop open in the world beyond. Her name flashed on the tome’s right-hand page—Alvaerele Tasundrym.

The Silent Chosen? When was the last time four Chosen assembled for any working of the Art?
Tsarra wondered.

Khelben’s scrawl wrote on the page beneath her image:
When we sealed Hellgate Keep. Today we shall see five
.

Khelben, Laeral, and Alvaerele levitated their blackstaves into place, bridging the gaps between the tops of the
plinths and creating archways. Elminster blew a smoky hand, which drew a blackstaff from his cloak and settled it into place. A fifth blackstaff shimmered atop the plinths, turning Malavar’s Grasp into five curved archways. In like fashion, a shimmer of silver rain brought three figures into the palm of the Grasp. The silver rain coalesced into Alustriel Silverhand, Ualair the Silent, and a hulking mezzoloth.

Tsarra’s tome showed a pleasant gnome’s face in front of the mezzoloth’s chitinous insectoid head. He was identified as both Rhymallos and Parthar the Valiant.

Spells erupted from the crowd directly toward the mezzoloth, but a flare of energy from the orange gem on Ualair’s brow absorbed them all as Khelben yelled, “Stop!”

Arguments and murmurs rose and fell among the crowd, but Khelben continued, “I stand with a tragic hero of Myth Drannor and know that all who stand here today do so with purpose and warrant. Our brethren of the Pentad’s faith can certainly attest to that. Now, our final compatriots will arrive momentarily, and the Gathering will commence.”

B
eams of sunlight streaked out across the moor, reddening the still-thick clouds overhead and gilding the plinths and staves. Curtains of magic shimmered from the staves, and elves, humans, centaurs, and others walked into the building crowd, each face as astonished as the next. Friend greeted friend, and foes locked eyes but held their spells in check. The most hushed receptions came for the devil-cursed Tulrun of the Tent, the white-caped Mistmaster and his consort Azure, the sneering Sememmon and his lady Ashemmi, and the elf woman who transformed into the gold dragon Tlanchass as she exited the gateways. She sniffed loudly with disdain as her gaze fell upon Maaril, and she made a point to fly to the opposite side of the Grasp from him.

Whether previously instructed or simply patient, all attendees held their tongues after initial
grumbles and turned to look at Khelben. He stared at the archways, each still producing participants in the great working. Tsarra gasped as the roster of those assembled grew to more than seventy major and minor wielders of the Art from all across the Realms. As expected, many of the elves sequestered themselves together and away from most of the others. What struck Tsarra as strangest was that few gave any pause or attention to the struggling Frostrune, who remained bound and floating above them all, along with the sphere of force binding the lightning pyramid.

Once the golden glow diminished from all the staves and the plinths, Khelben cleared his throat.

“Welcome, one and all. Our time is short, but all will be revealed soon. Many of you know only fragments of why you are here, while others understand our true purpose. Some are here by power of the Art. Others are here by secrets within their blood—powers hidden in your ancestry. Still more attend by their gods’ faith in them. Know this—regardless of races or pasts or beliefs, we all do divine Art today. This work spans twelve millennia of plans and sacrifice. Today, we all work together to cleanse this place and these peoples and ready it for the Art they will unveil.”

A murmur rose among the crowds, especially among the elves who realized upon what desecrated ground they stood.

“What peoples, Blackstaff? Which of us?” The voice came from a black cat, which morphed into a slim, black-haired woman, much to the surprise of the man who had picked up the small feline earlier.

“Elsura Dauniir and all ye gentles of the Art, meet our hosts, allies, and soon to be restored friends. We stand among
quessir’Miyeritaari
.”

Khelben gestured outward, and everyone found the plains around them were dotted with dark figures in the recognizable shapes of dwarves, gnomes, centaurs, and elves. Randomly interspersed among them were the teardrop shapes of the sharn as well. The blackness that clung
to the plinths slid off into a black moat completely encircling Malavar’s Grasp and leaving the Chosen, Ualair, and Rhymallos separated from the crowd.

The sharn also flowed over the chests Kyriani and Nain bore and dissipated them in a flurry of purple sparks. The morning sun glinted off dozens of golden rings, bracers, and circlets floating on the air. They hovered for a short time before they all drifted down toward the black moat. The items sank beneath the surface quickly until no more gold was visible.

“Each of you will take up one of those items. Those items link you to the working and take you to your appointed task. This working has three central circles and nine smaller circles comprising the fourth perimeter. Some circles span so large a space that you may seem to be alone, but know you are not. Each role is crucial, no matter where you make your contribution. Many have sacrificed much to reach this point. The Gathering will be complete once all are in their places, and our hosts will attend to that.”

The assembled sharn dissolved into liquid, forming hundreds of black pools and streams all over the High Moor. One tri-headed creature remained, hovering above the black moat around the Grasp. It reached into itself and pulled out a dagger apparently carved from a single ruby. It cut its own finger and let some blood drops fall to the surface of the moat.

“Very well. Our task is before us. If you would approach and do as it does, blood chooses our roles.”

With much formality, the mezzoloth within the Grasp lumbered forward and cracked its own shell open on a claw. A breath after one blood drop hit the black surface, a shimmering bracer floated up to the surface. He picked it up, clamped it into place on his tail, since his forearms were too large, and blinked away to his designated spot.

With similar ceremony, sixty wizards, mages, sorcerers, and notables of the Art stepped toward the black moat and dripped their blood into it. Each time, a golden item bobbed to the surface of the moat and each took up the linking
item that would bind them to the working. Most nodded to Khelben as they donned rings, circlets, or bracers, and Tsarra was able to spot more famous faces and names as each joined the working: Malchor Harpell, Phaerl Hawksong, Maskar Wands, Fourth Reader Shaynara Tullastar of Candlekeep, Luvon Greencloak, and a bronze dragon of near venerable years named Essioanawrath the Elder. Tsarra sent a fervent wish of good luck to Raegar and Nameless, as they glittered away with a circlet-clad Sandrew.

By the time the sun cleared the Gray Peaks and tucked its blazing glory beneath the blanket of heavy clouds, all those assembled had shed their blood and taken their places. All, that is, save some of the elves, including those who bore their family’s moonblade with them. Tsarra happily noted that Yaereene Ilbaereth had been among the first to take her place in the working, so she was not one who questioned the rightness of it all.

The tallest elf said to Khelben, “It is not your place to command this working, Blackstaff. None of you, even as Mystra’s Chosen, should usurp the honor that is the elves’ alone. Let that venerable elf help us restore this place to right and we shall be his first two circles.” The elf acknowledged Ualair the Silent, but it was obvious he knew him not. “You and your fellow
n’tel’quess
can serve as our bulwarks in the lesser circles. Spare us the insult of having half-breeds, horse-men, and demons within our rituals.”

Khelben glared at all the elves.

“Gods, what an arrogant cuss …” Laeral muttered.

Alustriel rolled her eyes, Elminster inscrutably puffed on his pipe, and Alvaerele laughed in response.

“You’re banishing half-breeds now, Araermal Phyallandar? Care to know how many of your by-blows exceeded your accomplishments, half-breeds or no? They spread far beyond your home in Shilmista.”

Araermal glared at the half-elf woman, who only tapped one finger on the massive volume hovering near her.

Ualair walked over to the black moat’s edge, nicked his finger with a dagger, and let a blood drop fall into the pool.
The ripples shimmered with many-colored magic, and a bracer bubbled up to the surface. The ancient elf gestured, and the bracer flew up onto his arms. As his form dissolved into purple sparks, one final magic erupted from his
kiira
, and a flaming Espruarn sigil declared, “Shame.”

“Apparently, you have failed to sway Myth Drannor’s grand mage, Araermal. The mentor of my mentor has taken up the role five gods and the
fhaorn’quessir
would have him shoulder,” Khelben said solemnly.

“This is how you dishonor elvenkind, Blackstaff?” Teharissa Ulongyr howled, tears streaming down her face. “For small slights that stung in your youth but tempered you into becoming the archmage you are now? You demand we sacrifice priceless moonblades to this working and you insult us by having us work beneath you? This is high magic, and there is no elf within the center circles. We share history, last Maerdrym, but you do not share the true nature of the elves necessary for this work.”

“For all we know,” Araermal sneered, “you Chosen have enchanted all these linking items to favor your own agents and gods over ours.”

Khelben glowered at Araermal. “Given our history, Araermal, you should choose your words more carefully. Were it not for the specific need of your bloodline, I would not ask you to cast a fishing line.”

His eyes turned and locked on the Lady Ulongyr’s and his words stung the air. “My dear, I spent five and a half centuries trying my all to be the best elf I could imagine. All I learned was my grandsire’s and my House’s approval would never be mine. I also learned something crucial about the blood I share with more than a few here. Elves are quite good at planning, thinking, and philosophizing, but they stubbornly resist any change. Humanity, on the other hand, is all about action and transformation. For this, I accepted my mother’s heritage over that of my father. While the legacy we awaken here is elf by birth, it should well be apparent that Rhymanthiin will be something far more extraordinary than all of us combined.”

The elves blanched or grew red-faced at Khelben’s reproof until calmer heads looked skyward. From the clouds came a multitude of fireflies, which swirled around them all but more around Khelben. Murmurs of, “a sign from Oacenth!” and, “Corellon allows a message from Arvandor!” swept through the elves. Even Ualair’s sigil dissipated into fireflies as well.

Slowly, with resentment or resignation, the elves approached the moat and repeated Ualair’s actions. Each drop of blood elicited a golden ring bobbing to the surface of the pool, and each elf knelt and put on the ring presented. Within moments, only the two objectors remained as they stared at the two circlets floating on the black liquid.

A cleared throat and a light cough drew everyone’s attention. “Few are those among us,” Elminster intoned, “who remember what Eltargrim’s laugh sounded like. Please, think of that as we work and the friendship that laugh held for all. Bitter words and resentment are not the foundation on which to restore what many have forgotten.”

With tears streaming down their faces, the two elves donned their circlets and disappeared, teleporting to their rightful places in the great working.

“Carrots and sticks, Blackstaff,” Elminster said, chuckling. “I know you loathe carrots, but you wield far too much stick to foster friendships where they are needed.”

Khelben said, “Enough jokes and delays. The Gathering is complete. It’s time to raise the hope of the Realms by reviving its worst nightmares. We must unleash the Killing Storms.”

T
sarra paced around the kiira-library, and she jumped when Khelben suddenly appeared by the fireplace. She followed him to the case that held the jagged blackstaff with the wolf’s head axe at its top. Khelben placed a flat palm against the glass, and it popped like a soap bubble. He reached in and grabbed the rough staff.

Tsarra felt the rush of emotions and a flood of memories go through him as he performed that simple action. She braced herself and focused, not allowing the flow of recollection to drag her under. What she saw nearly did anyway. She saw Khelben’s sacrifice in Anauroch, the blade point even closer to her eye in Stornanter, a shattering door giving way beneath a flurry of troll claws, the trident of an archdevil stabbing him through her midsection—and she screamed in pain as she felt,
as he did, the pain of a dozen deaths all at once.