El grinned. “All too often,” he told that inner voice, “I felt it, too. Usually the lash of a spell, but sometimes the kiss of a blade.”
“The Thunder Peaks,” he confirmed. Those routes appealed for another reason, too. They crossed and crisscrossed, and ultimately came to the surface in a dozen different caverns or more. There was always a good chance not all of those caves would be blocked, occupied, or guarded.
Aye, he’d seek them, to arrive in the borderlands of Cormyr and there, far from Suzail and the watchful eyes of Manshoon, or for that matter Vangerdahast or Glathra, seek to join the war wizards under another name. Either in this new body, explaining it away as the result of a magical mishap-a lost spell duel, perhaps-or in another one, if a human body somehow became available. Then he’d take the slower but better road, making friends among them so as to rise in respect and usefulness, and spread his influence that way.
“So do I,” El murmured, as he went cautiously on down the passage, well aware of the perils facing any lone creature on the move in the Underdark.
Surprisingly, he felt not the slightest foreboding, and his earlier rage had vanished. Now, he was almost merry; happier and more carefree than he’d felt in a long time.
My, Symrustar was swift.
He grinned, and found himself saying, “Well, I’m back at work, serving Mystra-and that striving is what my life holds to, and accomplishes.”
He walked along humming silently to himself, utterly contented.
Though he’d been lonely and longing for someone-anyone-to visit, to speak with him, to just to say his name, Rorskryn Mreldrake was less than happy now that it had happened. He was scared.
Just one cowled man had entered Mreldrake’s prison, though he’d glimpsed-been shown-a man-high roiling darkness through the briefly half-open door that warned him his visitor was not alone.
It was one of the hooded wizards. He’d brought a sack heavy with cloth bags and small, fragile clay jars-no glass, nothing metal that could be used to cut or pierce-and set it down with the words: “The magical needs you so
Mreldrake had flushed at that, remembering his own angry shouts through the locked and bolted door. He’d lacked this and that-and any measure of patience, too.
Yet any mage as excited as he was over his work would be impatient to get on with it. For the first time in his life, he was creating something useful and important. Something more than a mere clever variant of a spell crafted by someone else, centuries ago. Something … new. Something his captors were interested in, which confirmed his suspicion that they were magically spying on him.
His visitor leaned back against the wall, folded his arms across his chest-his hands were male, and human, and looked strong but not young-and announced, “Time for a little demonstration, Mreldrake. Show us what you’ve accomplished thus far.”
Mreldrake found himself sweating. “It … it’s not much.”
His visitor sighed. “I do, as it happens, possess some nodding familiarity with magical experimentation and creation. I understand matters can proceed slowly, and achievements may be small. Nevertheless, I am interested in what
“I … yes, of course.” Mreldrake went to his notes, wiped his forehead on one sleeve, drew in a deep breath, and blurted out, “Well, you know I’m seeking to make air hard, like the well-known wall of force, but to have a keen cutting edge. Eventually giving me an invisible blade that can strike from afar, but I do mean eventually, and-”
“Words I can hear anywhere,” the cowled man said softly. “Show me.”
Mreldrake nodded wildly, gabbled assent, and peered at his notes again. Then he pointed across the room to where he’d set up his threads, pulled from the hem of his robes and secured to the top and bottom of an open- frame chair back with drops of wax from the candle lanterns.
“Observe,” he gasped. “I-” He threw up his hands and abandoned all explanations, to stammer out an incantation as he carefully touched the things his captor had brought, one after another: down feathers from a she-duck, the shard of glass, the flake of metal from a sword blade that had drawn blood in battle, a human hair, and a drop of elf blood. He folded his touching finger into his palm as he sliced the air with the edge of his other hand, as if swinging a sword at the distant threads.
One of them obligingly parted, the severed ends dancing in the wake of the unseen force that had sundered them.
Mreldrake watched them, breathing hard. He was determined to make himself-a living, whole Rorskryn Mreldrake-part of this magic, somehow, so his captors couldn’t simply dispose of him once he perfected the spell. Yet now, before he’d achieved that, he
That thought brought him right back to what had so puzzled him in the first place. He
“I–I can’t … the magic fades swiftly with distance from the components, and I haven’t yet begun to try to extend its reach.” He panted, aware that he was drenched in sweat. He had provided the hair, and so was personally linked to the magic; would the man leaning against the wall suspect that he was deliberately trying to bind himself to the spell?
Whatever his captor knew or suspected, the man seemed pleased. “You’ve certainly been busy, Mreldrake. Keep at it, and
As Mreldrake froze, chilled by those drawled words, the cowled man strolled to the door, adding over his shoulder, “Let us know if you feel the need for a break in this work. We’ll fill it by discussing with you details of the wizards of war, and daily life in the royal palace of Suzail.”
“W-w-why?” Mreldrake dared to ask.
The cowled man stopped, turned unhurriedly to face his captive before tendering an elaborate shrug, and replied softly, “As wizards mightier than either of us have said before, it’s always nice to learn new things.”
CHAPTER SIX
Lurth’s Trading was not a shop in which Suzail’s haughtier highnoses cared to be seen. “Squalid” was a fair description of its dingy, dusty interior, a dark labyrinth heaped with stolen, broken, and well-worn wares of all sorts, from rusty saws and cleavers to rags that had been fine gowns thirty summers ago. Trade was brisk, because “used sundry” needs always outstrip ready coin, but few patrons ventured beyond the front of the shop, where the lantern-wielding proprietor and his two scarred and leering young fetchhands met anyone who stepped through the front door.
Very few visitors ventured through the door adjacent to the front entrance of Lurth’s mercantile palace, let alone mounted the steep flight of dark and narrow stairs to reach the upper rooms of the building: the offices of Thurbrand and Arley, Wendra of the Willing Whips, and Splendors of the Shining Sea Importations.
Perhaps this was because the building was located in the poorer, rougher western part of Suzail. Or perhaps this was because Thurbrand had been dead for more than the decade that Arley had been a guest of the Crown dungeons, or because Wendra was older than many grandmothers and looked it, besides being less willing to taste her own lashes than she’d once been. Yet again, it might have had something to do with the fact that the Splendors had flourished importing illicit physics and powders that were now easily obtained at scores of Suzailan shops, and
