Cloak of Shadows - Ed Greenwood [108]
When he stood below them, he held out one hand for the knife and raised the other. Around him, the gathered faithful of Eldath froze into utter stillness, and it was so quiet that a thin breeze could be heard rustling the leaves in distant trees.
"You have all seen the desecration of our holy Fastness, sacred place of Eldath," Ramtharage said, lifting his voice only a little. "Sacrifices of atonement cannot begin to make up the slight to our Lady. So evil an act can only be seen as the first blow in a war between two faiths that can no longer walk Faerun as friends. The Sundering has begun. Let it now proceed!"
He raised the smooth-polished knife so that it flashed back the sun, and tried not to notice how badly his hand trembled.
"Eldath calls upon her priests to refrain from slaying and the work of war," Ramtharage continued, "and so it may be that what I do now will cost me the favor of our blessed Lady… and my powers. Yet my duty is clear!"
He looked to the three rangers in their living bonds, and folded his arms, calling on that deep well of calm within him to quell his raging anger. He had to reach far deeper to find it than had ever been the case before.
But find it he did, and control with it, enough to work the spell and begin to rise from the tortured earth, a foot from the ground… and then another… ascending slowly until he was within striking distance of those he must sacrifice.
"This is not something I undertake lightly," he told them.
"Nor us," one of the helpless men told him grimly. "Nor us!"
The priest glared at the man who'd spoken. "Do not presume to profane this moment!"
"Ramthar," the eldest of the three asked him quietly, "why are you doing this?"
"Aye," the third ranger spoke. "What does shedding blood have to do with stones falling into pools?"
"Enough!" the priest spat at them. "Be still!" His hands were shaking again as he lifted the knife on high. "Your blood must be your payment for what you did here!" He whirled in the air to look down on the crowd and thundered, "Is this not right? Is this not just?"
"Aye" many voices thundered. But in the silence that followed that impressive shout, another voice spoke from the ranks of the faithful, a voice that was not raised, yet somehow carried easily to the ears of all present.
"Ramthar, I've never heard such idiotic raving in my life! What are ye, mad? Since when do priests of Eldath spill the blood of those who embrace other forest faiths? Does Eldath know what ye're about?"
"Blasphemer!" the priest thundered. "Who are you, to use Her name so lightly?"
The man who'd challenged him was rising now, rising into the air as Ramtharage had done, passing the shoulders of the staring worshipers. He was an old man with white hair and beard, who seemed familiar.
"Elminster of Shadowdale, I am," the old man told the assembly. "Perhaps ye've heard of me."
Ramtharage gulped and turned scarlet and gabbled, "Leave this place! This is not your affair! This is a just and fitting punishment for a wrong to holy-"
"Ahh, belt up and stow it," Elminster told him crisply. "It's murder, that's what it'll be, and I'll see that the swordcaptain hangs ye from yonder tree for it, if ye're foolish enough to go through with this nonsense!"
"Be still!" the Keeper of the Fastness thundered. "You have no right to speak here! Y-"
"Ye're wrong, Ramthar," Elminster said in a voice of cold iron. "All folk of Faerun should have the right to speak as they please, anywhere. 'Tis not the duty Eldath laid upon thee to forbid speech, or anything else. Thy task is to nurture and aid, not to restrict or punish. Ye forget thy proper place."
"You dare-?" Ramtharage was purple now and struggling for words. "I-silence him!" Struck by this sudden thought, he leaned forward and told the faithful, "Silence him! Strike him down!"
Angry voices rose in agreement, and fists waved in the air, but no one near the archmage quite dared to leap up and lay a hand on his