below.
Lightning cracked, raged white-hot in the air of the spell chamber and was gone again, leaving…when his streaming eyes could see again…a feebly flickering gray mist cringing and writhing in the air by the door.
Yintras drew in a deep breath and did one of the bravest and most foolish things in his life thus far. He took a step toward the mist, chuckled, then took another step, raising his arms despite the lack of lightning or any feeling of surging or lurking power.
The mist gathered itself as if to do battle with him, rising and thickening into a small but solid mass, like a ready-raised shield trailing away into formlessness. The old wizard took another step, and the strange mist seemed to tremble.
He stretched forth a hand as if to grasp it. In a sudden wash of frigid air and a chiming of tiny, bell-like sounds, the mist broke into a swirling stream and was gone out the door in a flash, leaving only a mournful snarl in its wake.
Yintras watched it go and stared at the emptiness where it had been for a long anxious time. When at last he believed that it was truly gone, he went to his knees again to speak his thanks. All that came out were sobs, in a quickening rush that he found himself powerless to stop.
He crept forward in the darkness on knees and fingertips, trying to at least shape Azuth's name. Then he froze in surprise and awe. Where his tears had fallen, candle after candle was springing to life by itself, in a silently growing string of dancing warmth.
'Azuth,' he managed to whisper at last. 'My thanks!'
All of the candles went out in unison, then flared into life again. Yintras knelt in their midst, touched by glory and grateful for it. Sadness laced the edges of his bright delight too, and beneath all, he felt empty, utterly drained. He touched the smudged chalk that had once been the outline of a pointing hand and started to cry like a child.
Eight: The Sundered Throne
A throne is a prize that petty and cruel folk most often fight over. Yet, on bright mornings, 'tis but a chair.
A shadow fell across the pages Elminster was frowning over. He did not have to look up to know who it was, even before a tress of glossy raven-black hair trailed across fading sketches and notations.
'Apprentice,' Dasumia said beside his ear, in melodious, gentle tones that made El stiffen in alarm, 'fetch the Orbrum, Prospaer on Nameless Horrors, and the Tome of Three Locks from my side table in the Blue Chamber, and bring them now to me in the Balcony Hall. Do off any items you may wear or carry that possess even the slightest dweomer, upon peril of your life.'
'Aye, Lady Master,' El murmured, glancing up to meet her eyes. She looked unusually stern, but there was no hint of anger or mischief about her eyes as she strode to a door that was seldom opened, stepped through it, and pulled it firmly closed behind her.
The solid click of its lock coincided with Elminster realizing he had to ask her what to do about the guardian of the Blue Chamber. Her spell-lock he could probably break…a test?…but the guardian would have to be slain if he was to do something so time-consuming as to cross the room, pick up three books, and attempt to carry them out again … or
If he slew it, she'd once told him, small malignant sentiences would be released from mirrors and orbs and tome' bindings all over the castle. They might rage for months before they were all recaptured and spellbound once more to obedience. Months of lost time she'd repay him for with the same duration of torment… and Elminster had tasted the Lady Dasumia's torments before.
Her favorite punishment seemed to be forcing him to fetch things on hands and knees that she'd thoroughly broken, so every movement was wobbling, grating agony, but sometimes…more often in recent days, as the Year of Mistmaidens abandoned spring for full summer…she preferred strapping El into a girdle of everhealing then stabbing him in succession with a slim sword tipped with poison, and a blade fashioned of jungle thorns as long as his forearm, dipped in flesh-eating acid. She seemed to enjoy the sounds of screaming.
These reflections took El only the few seconds needed to stride across the room and open the door Dasumia had passed through. Beyond it was the Long Gallery, a passage studded with alternating paintings and oval windows. It was an enclosed flying bridge the height of twenty men above a cobblestone courtyard, that linked the two tallest towers of the castle. Ever since two once-apprentices of the Lady had thought it a perfect venue for a duel and had slain each other amid conjured flames that threatened both attached towers, the Lady had caused the Gallery to be magic-dead: its very air quenched and quelled all spells, so Dasumia could do nothing but walk its considerable length, he'd have ample time to call out to her before she…
He snatched open the door, opened his mouth to speak…and stared in silence at a dark, lifeless, and very empty gallery.
Even if she'd been as swift as the fastest Calishite message-runners, and thrown dignity to the winds for a panting sprint the moment the door had closed, she'd have been no farther from him than mid-passage. There'd just not been time enough for anything else. Perhaps she'd banished the dead magic effect and not bothered to inform him. Perhaps…
He frowned and conjured light, directing it to appear at the midpoint of the passage. The casting was both simple and perfectly accomplished … but no light blossomed into being. The gallery was still death to magic.
Yet…no Lady Dasumia. Elminster turned away from that door looking very thoughtful.
El used the heavy, many-layered wards that the Lady had set upon the Blue Chamber to spin a modified maze spell that drew the guardian…a small, enthusiastic flying maelstrom of three barbed stingtails, raking claws, and a nasty disposition…into 'otherwhere' for a long handful of moments. He was out and down the hall, with the door safely closed and the books under his arm, before it won its furiously hissing freedom.
Twice cobwebs brushed his face on his brisk jaunt along the Long Gallery, telling him the Lady Master hadn't passed this way recently…certainly not mere minutes ago.
The doors of the Balcony Hall stood open, star-studded smoke swirling gently out, the Lady had spun a spell- shield to protect her castle. This was to be a test, then, or a duel in earnest. He held the books in a stack out before him as he entered, and murmured, 'I am come, Lady Master.'
The books floated up out of his grasp toward the balcony, and from its height Dasumia said softly, 'Close the doors and bar them, Apprentice.'
El glanced up as he turned back to the doors. She was wearing a mask, and her hair was stirring about her shoulders as if winds were blowing through it. Spell-globes floated above and behind her, El saw much of her jewelry hanging in one, and the books were heading for another. Real magic was to be unleashed here.
He settled the bar and secured its chains without haste, giving her the time she needed to be absolutely ready. When facing the spells of a sorceress who can destroy you at will, it's best to give her little cause for irritation.
When he turned back into the room, the last glowspell had dimmed to a row of glimmering lights around the balcony rail, he could no longer see the sorceress who stood somewhere above him.
'It is time, and past time, Elminster, for me to assay this. Defend yourself as you're able…and strike back to slay, not gently.'
Sudden light burst forth from on high: white, searing light that boiled forth at him from the face, bodice, and cupped hands of his Lady Master. Did she know of his treacheries?
Time enough to learn such things later … if he lived to enjoy a 'later.' El spun a hand vortex to catch it and sent it back at her, diving away when its fury proved too powerful for his defense, and broke his vortex apart in a snarling explosion that awakened shortlived fires here and there about the floor of the Hall. El spellsnatched one of
