Sylune
There is death for most, undeath for some, and a wraithlike place beyond death for a few. I was going to say 'the favored few,' but increasingly I suspect some of them would coldly dispute such a judgment. May the gods, in time, show mercy upon them.
There came a cold and drifting time of nothingness that seemed to freeze her utterly, beyond gasping, and to go on forever … but she knew from what Elminster and Alassra had said that it in truth lasted so briefly that even those watching for it could not be sure it had befallen.
There was light then, and sound again, and she was somewhere unfamiliar, looking out of eyes that were not her own; these were male eyes. She had to be deft now, and patient, so as not to be noticed by this host. It was alert and angry, and its mind was dark with rage and evil. The mind is a powerful thing, and this one was very far from an abode Sylune of Shadowdale would ever be comfortable in. Her sentience had awakened in the tiny chip of stone Alustriel usually carried in her bodice, but had somehow managed to tangle unnoticed into this man's hair, knotting its fine strands securely around the stone.
She could only live, now, out of such stones-pieces of the fire-scarred flagstones of her now vanished hut. The Witch of Shadowdale was dead, and yet, through the grace of Mystra, not dead nor yet 'undead,' at least not in the chilling, feeding-on-the-living manner that carried most undeath onward through timeless days. When she walked in Shadowdale, 'twas true, her feet made no dint upon the grass, and folk could see through her, and termed her 'ghost,' and were fearful. Usually Sylune used a body made to look like her old, true one, or kept herself unseen, unless she wanted to scare.
Sylune sighed now, a sound only she could hear, and banished such dark thoughts. She had died and yet lived, through Mystra's love and aid. She should be ever joyful, but she had been human, and it is the way of humans to complain.
The Witch of Shadowdale shook the head she did not have, and briskly applied her thoughts to the here and now. It took mighty magic to send her from one stone to another when they were not touching, and she knew, somehow, that she was far from Shadowdale. Alustriel must have spent silver fire to weave such a spell. That meant this was a matter of great importance, but then her journeys were always matters of great importance. Sylune smiled with lips she no longer possessed. 'Twas time to save the world again.
She was in the mind of a man who knew Waterdeep well, by all the images of it crowding each other in his place-memories. He was a wealthy man, a merchant, linked to other beings by some sort of slumbering but recently awakened magic. The man was standing on a rocky, windy hillside where bell-hung goats wandered, a little way outside an arc of standing stones that stood like jutting monster teeth before a dark cave mouth.
This was the abode, the man knew, of a hermit priest shy;ess of Shar. He'd been here twice before, and both feared and was disgusted by the old and ugly crone who dwelt here, and stank so, ate things raw, and whose fingers were always stained with blood that was not her own. Meira the Dark was a thing of bones and malice, half hidden in rags and an improbable fall of long, glossy black hair.
The man moved forward reluctantly and drew forth his dagger, holding it by the blade, and through his eyes Sylune saw that he had clean fingers adorned with rings. He lifted the dagger to use its hilt to strike a door gong. His mind termed it such, though his eyes told her that it was a cracked iron skillet hanging from a weathered branch that had been thrust into a hole in one of the larger stones.
'Don't bother,' a voice sounded. The voice was sharp and a little rough, as if long unused. 'Come within. The ward of serpents is down.'
Though the voice seemed to come from someone near at hand, the man could see no one. He sheathed his dagger with a low growl of disgust and stepped cau shy;tiously forward through the grassy gap between the two tallest, center-most stones.
Something moved in the shadow of the cave mouth, sidling forward into the full light to squint up at her vis shy;itor. Meira was just as the man remembered her, fondling the yellowing curves of a squirrel skull necklace as she came forward to peer at her guest. 'So, what trouble is it this time?'
'Why should you assume I have trouble?'
The priestess snorted. 'Handsome, wealthy, charming Auvrarn Labraster has his pick of playpretties in half a dozen cities of Faerun, and more money than Meira has ever seen in all her life. Enough to hire spells from the Red Wizards he sports with, enough to think himself important indeed… and this would be the same Auvrarn Labraster who can barely conceal his disgust when he stands near old Meira. Trouble brings him here. Trouble is all that could bring him here.'
Sylune withdrew everything from the mind of the man she rode, clinging but to his eyes and ears so as to be as invisible to magic as she dared be. Labraster shifted his feet and replied stiffly, 'Yes, I have trouble, and need your swift aid.'
The hermit priestess snorted. 'Sit on yon rock and spill all. Even I haven't the patience to drag words out of you. Speak.'
'I've just used this ring-the only teleport ring I have-to escape Alustriel of Silverymoon. My hands were around her throat in her palace just minutes ago, and I called on the cycle. She fought and survived everyone in it to bring it back to me again. We left a room afire and several of her Spellguard mages knowing my likeness. I will be hunted a-'
Meira held up a hand with a hiss of anger. 'Perhaps traced already. Yet you do not need me to tell you what a fool you are. I can see that much in your eyes.'
She grunted, and drew a ring on a cord from some shy;where under the rags she wore. Holding it up, she hissed in annoyance, let it fall, and fumbled around in the vicin shy;ity of her bodice until another cord fell into view. She snatched up the ring and squinted at it, made a small, satisfied sound in her throat, and with a sudden wrench, broke its cord, sliding it onto one of her fingers. Lifting her eyes to Labraster's, she snapped, 'Take off your teleport ring.'
Slowly, he did so, holding it cupped in his hand. The priestess gestured with her head. 'Set it down on that rock, and step back outside my porch ring.'
When the merchant had done as he was bid, the priest shy;ess took the ring back off her own finger and set it down on another stone. She approached Labraster's ring and stooped to peer at it, seeming almost to sniff at it in sus shy;picion before she murmured a spell over it, watched the brief glow of her spell fade, then cast a second spell. After a moment, the ring quietly faded away.
'What did you do?' the merchant called out angrily. 'D'you know how much that cost me? Where's it gone?'
Meira regarded him over one hunched shoulder with some irritation, then beckoned him to approach. 'To an alleyway near the docks of Waterdeep, with a spell on it to keep someone from seeing or tracing you through it.'
'But it'll be lost! Someone will see it and snatch it up! I-'
The priestess nodded. 'A small price to pay for contin shy;ued life.
As Labraster gaped at her, she snapped, 'Now stand here-just here-and don't move, even after I stop cast shy;ing. I’ll need different spells for you and your clothes, so don't stir again until I say so.'
'Why?'
Meira squinted up at him. 'That,' she snarled, 'is one of the words I most hate; one of the reasons I don't stand in a temple teaching cruel young things to know the kisses of Shar. Utter it again, and you can face Alustriel alone.'
