Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [47]
"I have no great violence in mind. I merely wish to reveal the efficacy of my magic by casting for you a spell I've recently perfected, which can compel any mortal whose name and likeness I know into my presence."
"Any mortal?"
"Any living mortal. Yet before you name some old foe you'd like to get your hands on, I want to show you the true power of the magic we wield here in Hastarl… the magic you've belittled as mere tricks and flame-balls to cow the common folk."
There was a strange, high ringing and clanking sound. "Behold this chain," came the cold voice of Neldryn Hawklyn, Mage Royal of Athalantar. "Set it down and withdraw; my thanks." There was a glassy shifting sound and then the receding tread of soft and hasty feet.
The clink of moving glass came again, and reflections of flame suddenly danced on the wall above Elminster. He peered at them narrowly and saw that a transparent chain was rising by itself from the floor, rising and coiling upward to hang in the air and turn slowly in a great spiral.
The cold voice of Hawklyn spoke again. "This is the Crystal Chain of Binding, wrought in Netheril long ages ago. Elves, dwarves, and men all searched for it and failed and thought it lost forever. I found it; behold the chain that can imprison any mage-and prevent his use of any magic. Beautiful, is it not?"
There were murmurs of response, and then the mightiest of the magelords continued. "Who is the mightiest mage in all Faerun, Havilyn?"
"You want me to say you, I suppose… in truth, I know not- you're the expert in matters magical, not me… this Mad Mage we hear about, I guess…"
"Nay, think greater than that. Recall you nothing of the teachings of Mystra?"
"Her? You plan a chain a goddess?"
"Nay; a mortal, I said, and it's a mortal I have in mind."
"Stop all this grand questioning and tell us," a sour voice said. "There's a time for cleverness and a time for plain talk-and I think we've fast reached the latter."
"Do you doubt my power?"
"Nay, Magelord, I believe you have magic to spare. I told you to stop lording it over us with arrogant word-games and behave more like a great mage and less like a boy trying to impress with his brilliance."
These words ended in a sudden cry of disgust, and a murmur followed. Elminster risked a quick glance above the parapet to peer down, and as quickly ducked back below it again. He'd seen a man sitting at the table gaping in horror at his plate-and on it had been a human head, staring unseeing at him.
"Behold the head of the last man who tried to steal from your warehouse, beheaded by a spell-blade I conjured. There, 'tis gone now. By all means enjoy the rest of your dinner, Nalith; it was only an illusion."
"I think you should tell us plainly, too, Hawklyn," said another, older voice. "Enough games."
"Well enough," the mage royal replied. "Watch, then, and keep silent."
There was a brief muttering, a flash of light, and a high-pitched sound like the jangle of clashing crystal or tiny ankle bells.
"Tell everyone who you are." There was cold triumph in Hawklyn's voice.
"I am called the Magister," came a new voice, calm but quavering with age. There were gasps from around the table, and Elminster could not restrain himself. This was the wizard who wore the mantle of Mystra's power. The greatest mage of all. He had to see. Slowly and cautiously he raised his head to peer over the parapet and froze, chilled by a sudden thought: if the mage-lords controlled the most powerful magic in all Faerun, how could he ever hope to defeat them?
Below stretched the long, gleaming feast table. All the men seated around it were staring at a thin, bearded and robed man who stood upright in an area of radiance a little way down the hall. The hitherto empty spiral of chain was now revolving slowly around him. Little lightnings leapt and played among its coils as it turned, fed by the radiance around