Elminster in hell - Ed Greenwood [16]
Their eyes met over their skirling blades, lord and guard, and they grinned and shouted in unison, "Never!"
***
[frustration like flame… aye, a flame burning in Hell with a too-clever mage in the heart of it]
What's that, little man? What's that thought of flame you're trying to hide from me? You think fire can harm me?
Ah, no. "Never"
Aye, so stall no more! Snow us more of that! There were guards, yes, with drawn sworos, and light-well?
[hasty swirl of images]
Brightness, long-barred doors opening, guards stepping warily back with naked swords bright in their hands, parting to let us stride forward…
Ahead, into the light…
About time.
The blue-white light of the Art, of Mystra's power unleashed…
Show me!
Blue-white, and wavering… in a stone tower where an old man sat alone, spellweaving…
The spell had never gone wrong before. It was such a simple tiling, the conjuring of light. Oh, wondrous to a farm boy, to be sure, the making of radiance where there had been none before-and a thing for a raw apprentice to be proud of. In the actual casting, mind, there was nothing very complex or difficult.
Taern "Thunderspell" Hornblade, Harper and mage of the Palace Spellguard of Silvermoon, stood up suddenly, then sat down again, frowning in bewilderment. In his mind he went over what he had done again, seeing clearly the clean, careful, precise steps. No, he had made no error. The spell should have worked.
He cast a detection spell, felt it range out from him. No fields or barriers, save those that were always in this place, met his probing. The scrying magic worked flawlessly, proof that no magic had been placed to drink or deny all Art. Everything seemed normal, the torches flickering in their braziers as they always did. Yet the spell had failed.
Either someone who could not be seen or otherwise detected had acted to steal or dispel his Art-hardly likely-or something had happened to Mystra or to his standing in the eyes of Mystra… or he was going mad. Happy choices, all.
With hands that shook only a little, Taern knelt in the stone-walled spell chamber and prayed to Mystra, his gray-bearded lips moving in entreaty. He felt as if a black gulf had suddenly opened beneath him, and he was helpless to avoid plunging into it, into oblivion. What had he done? What had happened to him?
He was still on his knees when one of the room's secret doors opened-the door that led to the chambers of Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon.
So upset was Taern Thunderspell that he did not look up or cease his prayers, even when a gentle hand came down to rest on his shoulder. He did stop, amazed, at the grief-choked, kindly words that followed.
"Make thy prayer a farewell and thanks to the Lady, Taern," Alustriel told him. "For she is gone forever."
Taern looked up, dumbfounded, and saw that tears rolled unchecked down the cheeks of Silverymoon's queen. A blue-white aura of power curled about her long hair and spilled from her brimming eyes.
"Lady?" Taern asked, reaching his hands up to her. “What do you mean?"
Alustriel took his hands in her own, and Taern felt a tingling of power. Great Art, she had, more than he had ever sensed before.
"Thy spell failed not by thy doing. It was lost, with all Art worked in Faerun in that breath, in the passing of Mystra."
"Mystra is-dead? Destroyed?"
"Destroyed, aye." Alustriel knelt on the stones beside him, her long gown rustling. "While ye are down here, Thunderspell, ye could join me in prayer to Azuth, to guide the living."
"Living mages? Such as ye and I?" Taern was white-faced; the black gulf was all around him, and only the hands that clasped his kept him from sinking. Hands that glowed blue-white.
Alustriel smiled through her tears, and said softly, "For one mage, aye. The one who holds Mystra's power now. It burns him inside, and we must all hope he bows not to the temptation to wield it. And for the one who comes after, the one who must rise and grow to take Mystra's place and power. They will need our prayers, and whatever help we can give, in the days ahead.''
Taern