Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood [139]
The cloud that had been the old mage rose like smoke from a fire, and became white, then blinding. The white strands still linking it to the others in the ring glowed with fire of their own.
White flames like tongues of snow soared up to the riven ceiling of the Chamber of the Court, as the bodies of all in the ring suddenly burst into white fire.
The Cormanthans crowded into the hall gasped in unison.
"What is it? Are they dying?" the Lady Duilya Even-dusk cried, wringing her hands. Her lord put his own hands on her shoulders in silent reassurance, as Beldroth leaned toward her and said, "Mythanthar is dead-or his body is. He will become our Mythal, when 'tis done."
"What?" Elves were crowding forward on all sides to hear.
Beldroth lifted his head and his voice to tell them all, "The others should live, though the spell is stealing something of the force of life from all of them now. They'll begin to weave special powers-one chosen by each-into it soon, and we'll start to hear a sort of drone, or singing."
He looked back up at the rising, arching web of white fire, and discovered that tears were streaming down his face. A small hand crept into his, and squeezed reassuringly. He looked down into the eyes of an elf-child he did not know. Her face was very solemn, even when she was smiling back up at him. He squeezed her hand back in thanks, and went on holding it.
* * * * *
In a little glade where a fountain laughed endlessly down into a pool of dancing fish, Ithrythra Mornmist straightened suddenly and looked at her lord.
His scrying-globe and papers tumbled from his lap, forgotten, as he stood up. No, he was rising off the ground, his eyes fixed on something far away!
"What is it, Nelaer?" Ithrythra cried, running over to him. "Are you… well?"
"Oh, yes," Lord Mornmist gasped, his eyes still fixed on nothingness. "Oh, gods, yes. It's beautiful… it's wonderful!"
"What is it?" Ithrythra cried. "What's happening?"
"The Mythal," Nelaeryn Mornmist said, his voice sounding as if he wanted to cry. "Oh, how could we all have been so blind? We should have done this centuries ago!"
And then he started to sing-an endless, wordless song.
His lady stared at him for some minutes, her face white with worry. He drifted a little higher, his bare feet rising past her chin, and in sudden fright she clutched at his ankles, and clung.
The song washed through her, and with it all that he was feeling. And so it was that Ithrythra Mornmist was the first non-mage in Cormanthor to feel what a mythal was. When a servant found them a few minutes later, Lady Mornmist was wrapped around her lord's feet, trembling, her face bright with awe.
Alaglossa Tornglara stiffened and sat up in Satyr-dance Pool, water streaming from her every curve. She said to the servant who knelt beside her with scents and brushes, "Something's happening. Can you feel it?"
The servant did not reply. Tingling to her very fingertips now, the Lady Tornglara turned to speak sharply to her maid, and stared instead.
The lass was floating in the air, still bent forward with a scent-bottle in her hand, and her eyes were staring. Tiny lightnings flickered and played about them, and darted in and out of her open mouth. She started to moan, then, as if aroused, and the sound changed to a low, wordless, endless song.
Alaglossa started to scream, and then, as the servant-Nlaea was her name, yes, that was it-started to drift higher, she reached out to take hold of the Nlaea's arm.
The servant who heard the scream and sprinted all the long way through the gardens fetched up panting at the pool, and stared at them both: the floating servant and the noble lady who was staring up at her, eyes wide and fixed on something else. They were both nude, and moaning a chant. He looked at them in some detail, swallowed, and then hastened away again. He'd be in trouble if they came back from