majestically, the staff rose, turning in the air until it hung upright. The very air around it began to glow until it was surrounded by a bright aura. Tarth chanted on, fascinated and hopeful.
The staff rose above the stone, pulsing. Bright and then dim, bright and then dim again, its light almost faded entirely.
Behind the young wizard, at the edge of the circle, Elminster frowned. He crossed his arms as he stood watching.
The staff pulsed more quickly now, brighter and then completely dark before it became bright again. Its singing faded. Suddenly, it crumbled into nothing, and was gone, falling in ashes upon the stone.
Tarth's chant ended uncertainly. In the sudden silence, he turned to look at the Old Mage, almost angrily, 'Is that all? It seems a waste!'
Elminster smiled sadly. 'The waste, young master of Art,' the sage said softly, 'was thine, in spending the ring for so little.' He gestured, and there was a sudden flash in the air above the stone.
A staff hung there, dark and gleaming-and very familiar. It was Tarth's staff, the real one-that Tarth had left safely hidden in a study-cell in the nearest temple of Mystra, guarded by the most potent wards Tarth knew. Tarth gaped at it.
'The true staff, young hero,' Elminster said gently. 'Honesty is best, even in magic. But that is a lesson one must teach oneself. Start on it whene'er ye feel old and wise enough.' As he spoke, the staff turned in the air and glided down to rest upon the stone in utter silence, the knife leaping from the turf to join it. Elminster spread his hands questioningly, his eyes on Tarth's, then in an instant vanished, leaving only empty air behind.
Tarth stared at the fern-clad bank where the Old Mage had stood. Then he looked slowly all around, trembling. He was alone in the forest circle.
The path he had come here by ran invitingly away into green stillness amid old trees. Tarth looked down it and swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He took one hurried step toward the path, then looked back. His staff lay gleaming upon the stone. Tarth stood wavering an instant, then ran back and snatched it up.
Its familiar weight was reassuring in his hand. Tarth knew it all too well: It was his own staff, indeed, brought here by Elminster's magic. The young wizard held it raised for a moment as though to blast an unseen foe, then turned and dashed down the path.
As he ran, Elminster's parting words ran through Tarth's head. A lesson one must teach oneself… start on it whenever old and wise enough… Tarth came to a halt, panting. The staff was heavy in his hands. Sweat ran slowly down into his eyes.
Tarth blinked until he could see again. He stared wildly around at the trees. No one stood watching. There was no sound but his own breathing. He thought briefly of the spell in his memory that could take him in an instant far from this place, and it stirred in his mind. Tarth thrust it from his thoughts, stared down at the staff in his hands, and turned around. He started to walk slowly and deliberately back to the circle.
The knife lay on the stone. The clearing around remained empty and still. Tarth walked into the circle again and stopped. His breathing was loud and ragged in his ears. Raising the staff, the young wizard looked at it long and lovingly, feeling its heft and power in his hands. Then he sighed and stepped to the stone. It took a very long time to let go of the staff after he'd laid it down.
White-lipped, Tarth Hornwood stood alone in the circle for an even longer time. Then he stepped forward and softly spoke the charm that began the ritual all over again. Reaching for the knife, he never saw Elminster reappear on the bank behind him.
The Old Mage smiled and nodded approvingly.
The staff rose again. This time Tarth's tears flowed so freely that he could scarcely see the staff through them. He was filled with an aching sense of loss and a wrenching, weak feeling that grew worse in waves, in time with the pulsing of the staff.
It climbed above the stone. The singing was loud in Tarth's ears. Suddenly it flared into blinding brilliance. Tarth cried out, breaking off the chant. He fell helplessly to his knees amid the singing, and slid sideways to the turf, and beyond….
Cool air whispered past his brow. There were gentle hands on him… two, three-had the old sage grown more hands?
Tarth blinked and found himself looking at a clear blue sky and dancing leaves overhead. He was lying on his back on uneven ground. The aroma of warm tea came from somewhere very near at hand.
'With us again, lad?' Elminster's familiar voice rolled out. Tarth turned to look at the Old Mage, opening his mouth to reply. It stayed open for some time in utter astonishment.
The Old Mage was sitting on a stone, tea in hand. He wore a worn and patched cotton under robe above his battered old boots. Sitting with him was a slim, gray-eyed lady regarding Tarth with interest. She held two jacks of steaming tea in her hands and was clad only in Elminster's flowing outer robe.
'Well met,' she said, in a low, gentle voice.
Elminster grinned. 'Tarth Thunderstaff,' he said with gallant grandeur, indicating the lady, 'meet thy staff. The Lady Nimra. Known in her day as Nimra Ninehands, after a spell she favors.'
His grin broadened. 'Ye've been draining her strength to work thy Art these long years, so I had ye give much of thine back to her, ere ye destroyed her entirely. Now, I've wasted time enough. Evenfeast awaits ye both at my tower, when ye find the way thither. I imagine ye'll have much to say to one another.'
He chuckled at Tarth's stunned expression. 'Now, lad,' he reproved, ' 'tis not every day a wizard has a chance to speak so freely to his staff. Use that glib tongue of thine.' With that, Elminster waved a hand, and was gone.
Wordlessly the lady held a jack out to Tarth.
He took it gingerly, managing not to spill any on himself, and cleared his throat. 'Ah… well met!' he began uncertainly. A wavering smile spread itself hesitantly across his face…
Much later that night, Tarth sat again with the Old Mage amid the dusty stacks of parchment. 'How long have you known about her?' the young wizard asked curiously, gesturing upwards. The Lady Nimra slept in Elminster's bedchamber above them.
'Nimra was imprisoned in the form of a staff over seven hundred winters ago, by a rival in Myth Drannor,' Elminster said slowly. 'We never freed her, for her imprisonment let loose a number of fell creatures that had been in her power. They searched everywhere for her and would have found and destroyed her in the end, if she'd walked the Realms in her own form. Her imprisonment was the best disguise she could have found.'
'What happened to these creatures that search for her?'
'Destroyed in their turas, down the years,' the Old Mage replied. 'Nerndel slew more than one of them.'
'Master Nerndel? How did he come to have the staff?' Tarth asked in astonishment.
Elminster grinned. 'He was Nimra's rival. It was his trap that imprisoned her. He hoped one day to free her and woo her-but I laid spells on the staff, so that I could find it where'er it might be hid and so that its making could not be undone while Nimra's enemies yet lived. I also took from Nerndel the spells he used to entrap her- so ye are stuck with her, young Master Mage.'
'Stuck with her?' Tarth echoed, not understanding.
'Aye. She owed Nerndel six services, and the first he set her to do was to train him. The second was to undertake a certain ritual. It trapped her in the form of a staff, while her first task lay incomplete. She is not free of the web of spells he laid until she completes the training-of ye, since ye are Nerndel's heir.'
'Me?' Tarth asked, dumbfounded. 'But what then?'
Elminster shrugged. 'That is between the two of ye. She has served ye these past few years, willingly, even if ye knew it not, and I think likes ye. Thy ways may well am together a long time yet.'
'Together,' Tarth said wonderingly, looking up at the ceiling. 'But how should I treat her? What do I say to her? Should I try to make her do me the services that remain? If I try, what will she think of me? Need I fear her-ah, attacking me?'
