combination that set Renaer on edge.
'Even if I can't cast spells,' Renaer replied, 'I know how to identify which spells mean property or personal damage, and which ones simply mean the caster desires information for which he is too uncouth to ask directly.'
The wizatd's head snapped toward him, and he pulled his hood back, glaring at Renaer. 'The merchant class has grown ruder since my time.' The man's hair, skin, and eyes were all varying shades of green, his hair and neatly ttimmed full beard a lighter mossy green than the rest of him.
'No ruder than you, ghost.' Renaer said. 'Now that you're done trying to distract me, why not test me? That's what you're here to do-test me to see if I'm worthy to accompany the Blackstaff inside her tower?'
'She's not the Blackstaff yet, nor are you protected by her hopes and promises,' the ghost replied, and he descended to the floot to face Renaer as if he walked down invisible steps. 'As for testing, let us commence with something simple. Who am I?'
'Krehlan Atunsun, son of Khelben and Laeral. You were never simple in life, and I doubt you are after death.'
The ghost's eyebrows furrowed, but then rose and he chuckled. 'Levity in the face of danger. You're a rare one, boy. How did you know me? I was dust before your father's birth.'
'I assumed the most likely candidates to haunt Blackstaff Tower were those who bore its burdens,' Renaer said, 'and as Krehlan's silver hair from birth made him the only Blackstaff with one solitary hue in beard and scalp, it was a simple guess.'
'Fairly deduced, Renaer Neverember,' Krehlan said, and he smiled at Renaer's surprise. 'Now, how do I know your name, if I have been dead and a ghost for two lifetimes or more?'
Renaer stopped and thought, then replied, 'I know your previous spell won't reveal my name to you. While you might have been one of the many spirits possessing Vajra over the past few days, only two managed to stay in control for more than a moment or two, so I suspect you never overheard my name. Thus, I'm left to consider that a Blackstaff would know the identity of anyone who walks inside the tower, whether such detection and identification magic can be felt by the target or not.'
'Well, which is it?'
'The last. I've read Maliantor's Eyes Open Always, which is considered the definitive tome on life in Blackstaff Tower in the fourteenth century. She talked about the Blackstaff knowing the location, identity, general mood, and intent of anyone inside the tower's walls, simply by his or her magical ties to the stones. I doubt that ended with your death, since at least a part of your spirit seems to remain here.'
'And how do you know I'm not fully haunting the tower, awaiting resurrection?'
'You once penned a treatise on elven kiira based on your study of the kiira n'vaelhar worn by Tsarra, Kyriani, and yourself until the Year of Staves Arcane. I've read it, and you describe how kiira create a spirit template to hold and personify knowledge within them. They're less the actual person's spirit than a permanent illusion. You obviously did something with the gem and the tower, as your image retains the green of the gem, even though you've not worn it for sixty-four years.'
Krehlan nodded, then waved Renaer toward another intersection of shelves. 'Very well. You're at least as smart as most of the agents who've trod the halls of the tower in the past century. Why don't you avail yourself of the library? Discover things you'll never again have the chance to read?'
'On any other day, this labytinth might have kept me enthralled for ages. But not today.'
'How can you resist? Surrounding you are books for which any wizard, sage, or halfwit would give both his arms and read using his feet! All you need do is reach out and read them.'
Renaer sighed. 'I've already lost two arms because of Ten-Rings. Their names were Faxhal and Vharem. They were friends. My right and left arms, according to some. They are dead and gone, and all I can do is make sure they didn't lose their lives in vain.'
'So what will you do?'
'Use what I alteady know. Your parents taught me that.' Renaer fought off a smile when he saw the shocked look on the ghost's face.
Krehlan regained his composure and asked, 'How did they teach you? You weren't alive in either of their lifetimes, and Father's spirit occupies another of your friends just now.'
Renaet waved his hand around, gesturing at the books. 'I've read any and all histories I can find about this city and its heroes. Your parents wrote at least seven books between them about the Waterdeep of their long lifetimes, and I own and have read five of them. I've even read Malchor Harpell's Two Mages' Legacies and SavengrifPs Swords, Spells, and Splendors. All of them taught me much about Khelben and how he thought, not to mention a few choice quotes that apply.'
Krehlan's left eyebrow rose, and he said, 'Indeed?'
'No, that one doesn't apply.' Renaer laughed as he walked past Krehlan and faced the nearest bookshelf. 'Your father said, 'The door to truth opens with knowledge. The door to knowledge opens when you admit you do not understand.' ' Renaer paused as he realized the shelf ahead of him now glowed slightly-ot at least around the decoration on the spine of a massive hand-thick tome. He reached forward and said, 'I don't know how to escape this room, but I'm willing to learn and accept such learning.'
He reached out, grabbed the decoration, turned it, and the entire bookshelf opened outward as if it were a door. Renaer stepped through it, despite the icy cold draft coming from it.
Behind him, Renaer heard Krehlan mutter, 'Stlaern. Took me seven years to realize that secret, and he figures it out in less than a day. He'll do just fine.'
CHAPTER 21
The golden-haired half-elf Ashemman carried his mother's grace, his father's guile, and Art both learned and innate. Many said the fifth Blackstaffoutshone all but the first in statecraft.
11 Nightal, Year of the Ageless One (1479 DR)
Laraelra found herself at the top of a stairway. Behind her, a chamberlain announced in a loud voice, 'The Honorable Guild Master Malaerigo Harsard and retinue.'
Laraelra was shocked to note her friends were gone, and she was on the right arm of her father, his other arm attached to Yrhyra, his latest companion, a giggly and short but buxom auburn-haired lass several years younger than her. Malaerigo held tightly to Laraelra's arm, leading her into one of her most hated arenas-a noble's feast. She recognized the green-marbled setting as the Ralnarth noble manse off of Vhezoar Street.
Laraelra found herself wearing a summer-weight gown of deep purple with black and red highlights, her boots replaced by heeled shoes of crimson that made her ankles ache in three steps. Her long black hair no longer hung loose and straight down her back, but was up high above her head in an elaborate Mulhorandi headdress. Her dress was immodestly cut and tight, its front dipping far lower than Laraelra liked, as she normally disguised her slender- to-gaunt figure in layers of clothes. Yrhyra in contrast reveled in the attention her nearly exposed and more curvaceous front garnered her.
Malaerigo also had dressed up beyond his usual attire, slicking his normally unkempt brown hair back on his head and shaving, which exposed the line of moles down his right cheek. Laraelra knew this was an illusion, despite all the evidence-including the proper smells and sounds-merely because her father had always been too cheap to own such well-tailored clothing of red silk and black leather.
Laraelra looked around the crowd surrounding them, not resisting the hold her father had for now. She searched for familiar faces-specifically those with whom she had come to Blackstaff Tower. Perhaps they might have answers. While Malaerigo whispered this or that wrong someone in the crowd had done to him, Laraelra spotted Vajra off to one side.
