Evaereol Rathrane had not been bold when he dwelt in Jethaere, but the long, long waiting had changed something in him. He needed to act, to reach out-not to savage this woman of such achingly strong magic and drink her power, as his fellows sighed for, but to find more like her and ride the Weave that enwrapped her like a cloak wherever she went.
So he held back from striking at her, mastering his hunger when his fellow mage-wraiths could not. He saw them ravaged and yet invigorated by her counter spells, and in the wake of their defeat he saw his own chance. Forthwith he rode the spell-link between Laeral and Alustriel. Another she-wizard of blinding power! This one seemingly as yet undetected by others of his kind, so his alone!
When these mightiest of mortal mages translocated, the rush of exchanged energies gave Evaereol Rathrane power he could taste, lasting power that gave him more substance each time. This Laeral-she teleported often in her tower that blazed with an everpresent field of translocational magic, and every journey he took with her was a burst of ecstasy to Evaereol-real, lasting power.
Soon he'd dare to do more than lurk and drain the discharges of wild spells and decaying magics. Soon, he would Once, Ieiridauna Amalree had been alive. There was a dim and distant time when she'd lived and laughed in the lone, proud tower of the mages Nathra, her elf mother, and Phanturgost, her human father, and thought Water-deep the greatest shining place on Toril. That had ended when the sorcerers who treacherously slew her parents after coining as guests to eveningfeast had struck her down, too, with so many spells as she fled clutching precious magics that the explosions had trapped her sentience in the Weave. It had been long years ere she was aware of herself again and longer before she could perceive and materialize once more in the tower where she'd died.
It had become part of a large and rambling mansion in her lost years, the abode of a fat, shambling man who at first horrified and disgusted her. Then, ever so slowly, her feelings toward this Mirt had changed. It had begun after she became able to vocalize and show herself and seek to scare him as a 'haunting,' knowing what she'd become. She succeeded only in amusing him, then in awakening his pity. He sought to chat with her on long, lonely nights, and when she dared converse, he flirted with her, tried to befriend her, and asked what he could do to make her welcome and happy.
'Ye could get out of my house!' she'd shrieked at him that first time, centuries of rage and grief overwhelming her. She had been taken with shame when he pursued her weeping and sought to learn of her life. So had his lady, the impish Asper, who even invited her into their shared bed, betimes sought to play games with her, and seldom forgot to tell her gossip and unfolding news upon her every return to what now even Ieiridauna was pleased to call 'Mirt's Mansion.'
Other buildings, even in Waterdeep, had watchghosts, but Ieiridauna doubted many of them felt as happy as she.
Now, upon the heels of that unpleasant Athkatlan's visit, something dark and unseen had come into the house. Lurking near the Master and the Mistress and their friend, so subtle among the shielding magics that she'd not sensed it until it reached out, so silent and sinister…
With a shriek of rage and fear that her happiness was to be snatched away from her once more, Ieiridauna hurled herself from the forehall up the stairs to the office, whelming the protective magics of the house around her like a cloak of magic, armor and weapon both against this dark intruder.
He-somehow she knew it was a 'he'-sought to drink spells, to gorge himself on the magic she'd freed to empower herself, but Ieiridauna spun bright fire out of the energies surging through her, feeding it to him, then calling it back to her like savage claws to rake him and shred him. It took but a few whirling, shrieking seconds to drive him howling away…
Moaning and whimpering to himself in spinning silence, Evaereol Rathrane drifted torn and ravaged across Water-deep, helpless once more and hurting. Below him magic winked and flared, a field of glittering flames to his gaze. He gasped and let himself fall toward this well of so many magics, warring and flashing or slumbering on all sides. None of them so bright as the two ladies of the Weave, but one thing, at least, hadn't changed since nis aimry rem^niu^eu days in Jethaere: If you came too close, bright flames still burned you.
Before whatever it was had attacked him, slashing at him with too much power to master in so short a time, the Laeral-she had spoken with others about 'real power,' and the word 'spellfire' had been uttered. Now, that was something to seek, surely. An amount of power that the Laeral-she spoke of with respect must be great indeed… and just what he needed.
Yet his approach must be cautious, lest bright flames burn him once more.
The shadowy thing that had been Rathrane of Jethaere sank into the glittering carpet of small magics that was Waterdeep's Castle Ward, dreaming of spellfire… and greatness.
Death and Dark Surprises
Life holds moments of joy and glee and glory. Try to brand them into your memories, to take out and clutch close and comfort in when life serves up its far more abundant harvests: of fear, cold, loneliness, rage, death and dark surprises.
The wagons were rolling along the Trade Way into the bright morning of another day. Arauntar and the other guards spurred their horses up and down the rumbling line with renewed vigor after an uneventful night. The Black-rocks looked as wild and windswept and empty of beasts as ever on all sides of Voldovan's caravan, as Narm sat on the wagon-perch beside Shandril and gave her his four hundred and sixth anxious sidelong look since awakening.
This time, Shandril looked back at him and snapped, 'Are you going to do that all the way to Waterdeep? Tis me! Shan, not some crawling, shiny-scaled monster!'
'What's wrong?' he asked quietly, by way of reply.
Shandril abruptly looked away, saying nothing, and they sat side by side in silence for a time as the wagon bounced and rumbled on.
There came an especially violent crash and lurch, and Narm flung his arm around his lady as he always did. This time Shandril clung to him when the rocking of the wagon subsided and murmured into his chest, 'The spellfire: I'm starting to dream of it, now, just blazing away endlessly. It boils up in me, making me hot, and drives me awake… and when I waken, I find it leaking out of my fingers, as little flames.'
'I know,' Narm replied, even more quietly. 'That's why yon blanket was wet this morn. It started to smolder and woke me. I dunked it in the fire-bucket.'
'Without waking me? The bucket must've been right beside you!'
'That's where it's been these last few nights… ever since you scorched me.'
Shandril gasped and stared up into his face. 'I-you never told me!'
Narm gave her a thin smile. 'Why? To keep you awake worrying about it, or have you insist on sleeping outside the wagon or somewhere else where I couldn't touch you or guard you? How would that help either of us?'
They stared at each other for what seemed like a very long time, as the wagon rocked and rumbled, before Shandril asked pleadingly, 'Narm, what am I going to do?”
Narm opened his mouth twice, then closed it again before uttering a word. They both knew he had no answer to give her.
'Patience,' Korthauvar Hammantle murmured, leaning forward over a crystal ball that mirrored the whirling glow of his still-forming farscrying spell. 'The Cult warriors lie in wait, and the caravan has almost reached them. Whatever. befalls, our tarrying is almost at an end. It won't be long now.'
Hlael Toraunt threw up his hands with a loud sigh. 'Cult warriors!' he echoed. 'Swordheads who serve the Dragon-worshipers, not us! Drauthtar's not going to like this!'
