parting to let us stride forward…
Ahead, into the light…
The blue-white light of the Art, of Mystra's power unleashed…
Blue-white, and wavering… in a stone tower where an old man sat alone, spellweaving…
The spell had never gone wrong before. It was such a simple tiling, the conjuring of light. Oh, wondrous to a farm boy, to be sure, the making of radiance where there had been none before-and a thing for a raw apprentice to be proud of. In the actual casting, mind, there was nothing very complex or difficult.
Taern 'Thunderspell' Hornblade, Harper and mage of the Palace Spellguard of Silvermoon, stood up suddenly, then sat down again, frowning in bewilderment. In his mind he went over what he had done again, seeing clearly the clean, careful, precise steps. No, he had made no error. The spell should have worked.
He cast a detection spell, felt it range out from him. No fields or barriers, save those that were always in this place, met his probing. The scrying magic worked flawlessly, proof that no magic had been placed to drink or deny all Art. Everything seemed normal, the torches flickering in their braziers as they always did. Yet the spell had failed.
Either someone who could not be seen or otherwise detected had acted to steal or dispel his Art-hardly likely-or something had happened to Mystra or to his standing in the eyes of Mystra… or he was going mad. Happy choices, all.
With hands that shook only a little, Taern knelt in the stone-walled spell chamber and prayed to Mystra, his gray-bearded lips moving in entreaty. He felt as if a black gulf had suddenly opened beneath him, and he was helpless to avoid plunging into it, into oblivion. What had he done? What had happened to him?
He was still on his knees when one of the room's secret doors opened-the door that led to the chambers of Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon.
So upset was Taern Thunderspell that he did not look up or cease his prayers, even when a gentle hand came down to rest on his shoulder. He did stop, amazed, at the grief-choked, kindly words that followed.
'Make thy prayer a farewell and thanks to the Lady, Taern,' Alustriel told him. 'For she is gone forever.'
Taern looked up, dumbfounded, and saw that tears rolled unchecked down the cheeks of Silverymoon's queen. A blue-white aura of power curled about her long hair and spilled from her brimming eyes.
'Lady?' Taern asked, reaching his hands up to her. “What do you mean?'
Alustriel took his hands in her own, and Taern felt a tingling of power. Great Art, she had, more than he had ever sensed before.
'Thy spell failed not by thy doing. It was lost, with all Art worked in Faerun in that breath, in the passing of Mystra.'
'Mystra is-dead? Destroyed?'
'Destroyed, aye.' Alustriel knelt on the stones beside him, her long gown rustling. 'While ye are down here, Thunderspell, ye could join me in prayer to Azuth, to guide the living.'
'Living mages? Such as ye and I?' Taern was white-faced; the black gulf was all around him, and only the hands that clasped his kept him from sinking. Hands that glowed blue-white.
Alustriel smiled through her tears, and said softly, 'For one mage, aye. The one who holds Mystra's power now. It burns him inside, and we must all hope he bows not to the temptation to wield it. And for the one who comes after, the one who must rise and grow to take Mystra's place and power. They will need our prayers, and whatever help we can give, in the days ahead.''
Taern wished desperately that he did not feel so old and tired, the days of his greatest power behind him. None of his apprentices were ready yet. None would serve in any battle to come.
Alustriel put her arms around him and kissed his forehead. 'Peace, Taern. The Lady's power has touched me; until it fades, I can see thy mind. Ye have done well, and it is thy wisdom, more than power of Art, that will be needed in the days ahead.'
From where she had kissed him, Taern felt power flooding through him, awakening and soothing at the same time. He stared at his queen in awe and wonder and wished again he were not so old.
Alustriel's eyes held his in a steady, loving gaze.
He colored suddenly and brought hands up to his burning cheeks. If she could read his thoughts…. Taern loved her very much then, for she caught one of his hands and brought it to her lips and did not laugh at him.
Pain! Pain in Avernus, of a tentacle become a talon and thrust through the breast of a crawling man, leaving him to stiffen and gasp in agony as fresh blood flowed… then to sink back, gasping in ecstasy, as the withdrawing talon healed its own wound, leaving the naked old man to fall on his face, shaking with weakness and pain….
Weakness, and gods, and magic…
Ah. Weakness in magic among the gods. Aye, let it be remembered…
'I am ashamed to say it,' Noumea whispered, so faintly that mortal ears would have missed what she said, 'but I am glad the Lady did not choose me. I would have failed her-and us all.'
She stood in a dark cavern, lit only by a tall, slim conical column of silvery gray light. It replied in an echoing mind-voice.
'What now, Lord?'
The silvery cone flickered once.
'Seems wisest?'
The Magister looked at the cone in puzzlement. 'Merge, Lord Azuth?'
Noumea shivered. She had not known that anything could bring fear into the voice of a god-especially her all wise, imperturbable teacher, the Lord of Wizardry himself.
Hurriedly she stepped forward and plunged-with a momentary, shocking chill-into the silvery cone, all that remained of the High One. Already his mind reached out like an uncoiling snake, lashing across great distances toward the slightly leaning stone tower in Shadowdale.
[pain]
