seen had been those two pale eyes, watching him. Yes, exactly like a pale, quivering monster, padding softly through the darkness…
Fallen By The Wayside
Ah, yes, spellspun gates. Portals, some call them. 'Death-doors' is the term I prefer. The reason? Well, each step through one is a step closer to the time when your death is standing waiting for you on the other side- with a big cold grin on its face and a sword in its hand you'll have no time nor chance to avoid. 'Tis like any adventuring life, but shorter.
'As I see it,' Hlael said gloomily, 'we're doomed if we face spellfire-and just as doomed if we fail and our superiors hear of it. Unless we can change our shapes and hide so well as to never be traced or found-or win spellfire for ourselves, and with it remove every last one of our superiors from the unfolding tapestry of life without anyone else in all Faerun seeing or guessing that we have spellfire… we're dead men. Somehow neither of those events seems very likely.'
'Enough,' Korthauvar Hammantle snapped. 'Move carefully, as we agreed to do, avoid mistakes, and see what befalls. Slowly and carefully, not like the ever-growing army of fool-headed magelings all falling over each other to impress Manshoon! Some of Fzoul's upperpriests have been working on tasks he set them for years and have thus far accomplished nothing that the rest of us can see-and yet live still and hold their places in councils!'
'Places we've never been offered,' Hlael returned, slamming shut a spellbook in a momentary show of anger.
'Hlael! Bane take you! You've enough gloom in you for any dozen old men in a tavern! Have we not woven a splendid plan-brilliant enough to please old Iceglare himself? Have I not just recast no less than four spells of power and had all of them w.ork successfully? Just one more, and we're on our way!'
'Hear my joy and rejoicing,' Hlael Toraunt of the Zhentarim told the ceiling, quiet sarcasm dripping from every syllable.
Korthauvar gave him a glare as hot as any red dragon's baleful regard, and lowered his head once more to the old and crumbling grimoire in front of him. Its theft had cost six men their lives-blood well spent, as far as he was concerned, and what use had those dolts of Candlekeep for such lore anyway? 'Twas not as if they ever used it for anything useful… Now, if this incantation was twisted thus, and that awakening borrowed from the farscry spell crafted by Ilibrin of Old Impiltur, so-he scribbled a few notes and circled the word haethin; 'twould be necessary to work that into the unfolding of the enchantment, after the charge to… yes.
He read over his notes, rewrote them into something formal, nodded in satisfaction, and began to gather candles, several powders, two small stones he'd carried in a pouch whilst teleporting, and another, slightly larger piece of stone that had once formed the threshold of a gate in Teshwave. This should work. It might fail against certain gates, depending on the portal enchantments, but should do no harm in any event.
'Hlael,' he said gently, 'I believe we're ready. Read you this.'
The shorter wizard shook himself all over, perhaps to hide a shiver. He stepped forward, read Korthauvar's newly drafted incantation in frowning silence, then nodded. 'After the third candle?'
'Yes. Shall we?'
Hlael nodded again, and the casting began. Quiet, careful, and slow-paced the spell-weaving went, as the two wizards spread powders in a careful design around three closed circles. Placing the fragment of former threshold in the central one, they took up positions on either side of it, in the outermost circles, held up their written incantations, and began to chant- at first in unison, then in turns.
'Haethin drur athaumalae, ringra don'' With a flourish Korthauvar finished, drawing his hand gracefully closed. In slow magnificence, his newly crafted magic spread out from his circle, along the pattern of powders.
Hlael breathed a deep sigh of relief and satisfaction as the spellglow rose around them. 'Well done,' he said, and meant it. Blood of Bane, five new magics crafted in a day! All of them cobbled together from existing spells, to be sure, but nonetheless newly honed and focused, like tools no one had ever made before, forged from chisels by a blacksmith to do specific tasks.
Korthauvar beamed like a lion that has made a kill he's hunted for a whole season, his smile bright in the gloomy chamber, and spread his hands.
'Now let us see what we shall see,' he said delightedly. 'This may all be so much wasted time, but I can't think Lady Lord Winter would dare to send the wench and her bumbling mage of a man right into our clutches in the Stonelands, or through Tunland, alone-or even risk them on a caravan to Amn or Iriaebor, where they know our watch is vigilant.'
'A gate or portal, of course,' Hlael agreed, 'but of those that she might possibly send them through, we've only used three-and I know there are that many again in Suzail and Marsember, probably one in the King's Forest, and two or even as many as six in Westgate or thereabouts. If she didn't go through with them, we can't trace them even if they dance back and forth through one of our three.'
'So we look at the three we can, and hope she did. If we find nothing, it's back to spies and farscrying-for a month or two, if it takes that long. It's not as if we dare turn to anything else, uut-there! Hah^First blood, first try! Tombgate!'
Hlael shook his head in delighted disbelief. It had been long odds, indeed, with them able to trace so little- only gates he and Korthauvar had passed through, and only Tessaril Winter because they had some of her blood from clothing cut off her by a Zhentilar warrior who'd tried to slay her while she was riding the roads, and failed. And yet-and yet, by Bane and Mystra both!
The most recent passage through Tombgate had been by three living creatures, one of them Tessaril.
'Narm Tamaraith and Shandril Shessair,' Korthauvar said slowly. 'It must be!'
'So we-?'
'So we make sure, if we want to keep our heads. Scornubel is the place to look, if they are the two we seek-but first to make sure of that. The same blood will serve us, if we use that spell you traded to me last year…'
'To eavesdrop on Lady Lord Tessaril Winter,' Hlael said smugly. 'Let me cast this one; your weavings so far this day must've impressed Divine Mystra herself!'
He opened his spellbook, plucked up the stained scrap of undertunic that was their link to the distant Cormyrean officer, and cast his spell. Almost immediately he reeled back, wincing, as the scrying smoke that had begun to rotate around him roared up in a sudden flash of light and vanished.
'She's with the King,' he said grimly, 'and has strong shielding spells up around them both.'
Korthauvar's grin was not quite a leer. 'Exchanging state secrets, no doubt.'
'So do we wait for them to finish? He might tarry for the morrow or even longer!'
The taller Zhentarim shook his head, stroking the dagger-like edges of beard that ran sleekly along the edge of his chin to end in two tufts. 'We gamble,' he said slowly. 'Yonder I've a tallchest full of unwashed tankards, bloodstained dressings, and scraps of clothing, hacked-off scraps of leather war-harness. Kindly avert your eyes.'
He strode to one of several looming tallchests of dark wood on the far wall, touched it in certain places while mumbling certain things, and stepped back as its door swung open. A row of shallow drawers was revealed; he slid open the fourth, selected three scraps of cloth, and said, 'These belong to Highknights who almost gave their lives for their King but escaped us. I only hope one of them is with Azoun now-and that if he is, he knows something useful. Surely Lady Winter couldn't just slip off to take two people through a gate without a Highknight noticing-prying is what they do.'
