talk so freely to someone who'll understand, and more seldom yet that I find someone I dare say such things to. All too-'
And then the very air around him danced with blue sparks, and Elminster saw the bartender freeze in mid- step, mouth hanging open to speak, eyes fixed on nothingness. The front door groaned.
Elminster found that he could still move in that surging web of magic-more than he'd ever felt unleashed before-so he turned toward the door to see who'd wrought it. He might as well see whatever god his words had angered, before they destroyed him.
A thin woman in a black gown was just closing the door behind her. She was alone, and her raven-dark hair, red-and-black eyes, and ivory skin made her look like a vampire. Her gait and movements, too, echoed the sultry, almost pouting manner of many she-vampires Elminster had met, but her eyes were somber as she walked toward the Old Mage.
'Your words have saved you,' she said quietly, 'and found me the teacher I need-and need to trust. Well met, Elminster.'
'Well met, lady,' Elminster said, bowing to her. 'Who are you?'
'Midnight is the name I am known to most by, but you may call me… Mystra. We must talk.'
11
The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 18
The three Malaugrym stood waiting like patient statues as Milhvar said, 'The Shadowmaster High had great hopes for this project. Try not to let him down. But above all else, we want you back safely. If anything goes wrong — anything — use the power of your belt buckles to get back to us. Even if the foe is under your blade or in your hands, break off rather than be taken — or slain. There will be other forays, and other chances.'
The three kin nodded, and one of them added a visibly nervous swallow. Milhvar did not smile or shrug. If they lived through this, perhaps they'd grow into Shadow-masters of some use. Huerbara almost was already, only her inability to bridle a too-oft-blazing temper holding her back. But Kuervyn and Andraut were nothings, all swagger and undisciplined thrill-seeking. They still found nightly fun in shapeshifting their ways through Faerunian brothels, and took their greatest satisfaction in leaving without paying!
Dead growth, the pair of them. Milhvar let nothing of this judgment show as he told them all to willingly draw at least a drop of their own blood with a talon, claw, body spur, or other part of their own shape, and signaled the team of Shadowmaster mages to begin weaving the cloaks.
He'd deliberately woven the chain of interlocked spells to be more complex than it need be, take longer — and require more mages — than it needed to, and to be more than a little unstable. He'd no wish to unleash an army of unbeatable flamebrains like Kuervyn and Andraut on Faerun or anywhere else.
When the long chanting and gesturing was done, and a shimmering and dark singing in the air above the three told him the spell-cloaks were done, he stepped forward and added the 'secret spell' that linked each magical construct to its wearer, through the drop of blood. This false enchantment added nothing useful to the process, but kept Milhvar essential to the Grafting of every spell-cloak of the Malaugrym. A useful, if dangerous, status to hold.
But then, there were no safe positions to hold in the ranks of the blood of Malaug. Milhvar lifted his lip in a mirthless grin at the thought-and seeing this, Kuervyn toppled over, fainting dead away.
Milhvar laughed aloud as he strode toward the fallen Malaugrym, ignoring the smoking glare Huerbara gave him. There were still amusements to be found, if one waited patiently for them. It would be funnier still if these three went into Faerun and found Elminster waiting for them. Perhaps he could arrange it sometime.
Daggerdale, then Myth Drannor, Kythorn 18
The face bending over her was a ghostly mask. 'Shar,' the familiar voice said kindly in her mind. 'Shar, awaken. Quietly, lass. There is a deed you alone must do.'
'Sylune?' she whispered.
'As always.' The voice was warm and reassuring. Shar sat up and looked around at the blue, moonlit dimness. One of the horses shifted slightly, but the two Harpers lay still, breathing softly, a blanket thrown over each of them. Sylune stood beside her, a pale wisp of shifting nothingness in the night, like the memory of a white flame. Something called in the woods off to the north, something small and mournful that she didn't recognize. Shar laid aside her blanket, took up her blade-its grip cold and hard, bringing her fully awake-and got up as quietly as she could.
The ghostly figure beside her reached out, offering something to her. A ring. 'Put this on.'
Shar did so, her fingers tingling as they touched what was left of the Witch of Shadowdale. Sylune smiled at her reassuringly. 'Come.'
'I don't know why I do these things,' Shar breathed as they walked west into the woods. 'I get into more trouble…'
Sylune, her bare feet walking in utter silence an inch or so off the ground, turned and smiled at her reassuringly. Shar rolled her eyes in response but followed, blade at the ready.
Far, far away ahead of her, a wolf howled. It was answered, from somewhere much nearer, off to the left. Shar shivered and cast another look all around her at moonlit Daggerdale. She must be crazy, to follow a ghost into the woods, away from their camp. She looked back at it searchingly, half-expecting to see another ghostly form standing guard over it while some false shade led her to a horrible, lonely doom.
'Be not afraid,' Sylune said softly, as if reading her mind. 'Just go well out into that meadow, there, and touch the ring with your free hand.'
Sharantyr looked ahead at the moonlit clearing and then back at the ghostly face beside her. 'Will I see you- and Belk and Itharr-again?' she asked.
Sylune smiled. 'Of course. We all need to get a lot more work out of you yet.'
Shar made a face. 'Of course,' she replied, a grin playing about her lips. 'Silly of me…'
' 'Twas, yes.'
Shar shook her head at that, lifted her hand in salute-Sylune returned it-and walked away into the meadow. The moonlight was bright on the grass, and the night was very beautiful. Shar looked around at it, drew a deep breath, and smiled. Some folk never get to see this.
Sylune's voice came to her, as if borne on an unseen wind. 'Plant your blade in the ground before you touch the ring. Don't take it with you.'
She found a spot she liked and stopped, planting her booted feet firmly. Then she looked back over her shoulder.
Sylune was still standing there, a frozen flame floating in the nightdark under the trees.
Shar took another deep breath, thrust her sword upright into the turf, watched moonlight gleam down its length-and laid her fingers over the ring.
There was a wink, and the world changed. She was standing in a smaller, darker glade, dim blue moonlight filtering down to her through the tangles and mossy boughs of huge, gnarled trees much older than the woods she'd left in Daggerdale. It smelled… like the Elven Court woods, near Myth Drannor.
She looked around, not moving. Mosses glowed eerily here and there, and the trees stretched away into utter darkness all around. She was in the heart of a large forest.
Something winked, softly, between two trees. She stared at it, shifting slightly to get a better view, and obligingly it drifted nearer, sparkling as it came.
A will o' wisp, beautiful but deadly. Her hand went to her empty scabbard and then drew back. She hadn't a hope, even with her sword. Scrabbling after daggers and boot-knives just didn't seem worthwhile. She hoped Sylune hadn't made a mistake, and that her awakener had been Sylune. Could a Malaugrym take a ghost shape?
Why not?
Too late to wonder now. The will o' wisp, blue-white and awesomely beautiful, shone like a little star in front
