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"Elminster," the fourth man said crisply, as his boots touched the stone floor as lightly as a falling feather kisses the earth, "stand away from yon runes. Mystra forbids us to do what you are attempting."
A gasping Elminster had only just then recovered the power of speech. He turned with a stiff, awkward lurch, limbs trembling, and said sharply through lips that were thin and blue, "Mystra forbids us to do, never to look. Who are you?"
The man smiled slightly, and his eyes became two lances of magical fire, stabbing across the cavern at Saeraede. "Call me...Azuth," he replied.
"The spell failed again, l-lord," the man in robes said, his voice not quite steady.
The Lord Esbre Felmorel nodded curtly. "You have our leave to withdraw. Go not where we ca
"Lord, it shall be so," the wizard murmured. He did not...quite...break into a run as he left the chamber, but the eyes of both guards at the door flickered as he passed.
"Nasmaerae?"
Lady Felmorel lifted unhappy eyes to his and said, "This is none of my doing, lord. Prayers to Most Holy Azuth are as close as I come to the Art now. This I swear."
A large and hairy hand closed over hers. "Be at ease, lady. I ca
A smile touched his lips for a moment, and stole away again. "You frighten the men more now than you ever did when you ruled this castle by your sorcery, you know. They say you talk with Azuth every night."
"Esbre," his lady whispered, holding her eyes steady upon his despite the blush that had turned her face, throat, and beyond crimson, "I do. And I am more frightened right now than ever I was when Azuth stripped my Art from me before you. All magic is awry, all over the Realms. It will be down to the sharpest sword and the cu
"And what is so bad about trusting only in sharp swords and the strong arms and cu
"Esbre," the Lady Nasmaerae whispered, bringing her lips up to brush his...but too slowly for him to miss seeing the bright glimmer of unshed tears welling up in her eyes, "How long can you stand against foe after foe without the spells of our mages to hew them down for you? How many sharp swords and how much cu
A chiming as of many bells rang out across the chamber. It nearly deafened Elminster, as the chill wind that carried it raced through him, searing him once more into frozen immobility. The ghostly mist that had been Saeraede was spiraling about him, coiling and twining...seemingly unharmed by the beams of fire Azuth had hurled, that roared through her into Elminster.
Ice, then fire...fire that lifted him off his feet in a whirlwind of battling mist and flames and set him down again staggering, too overwhelmed to do more than bleat in wordless pain.
"Here," Tabarast mumbled, through lips that were white and trembling with fear, "that's our Elminster you're smiting, sir...Your, er, Divineness, sir!"
"Break free of her," the Harper who was Azuth said quietly, his gaze no longer flaming...but now bent on the pain-narrowed eyes of Elminster, "or you are doomed."
"I'd say you're doomed anyway," a sneering voice said from above...and five staves spat in unison, hurling a rending rain of doom down the shaft.
The Overmistress of the Acolytes strode through the black curtain of hanging chains with every inch of the cruel authority that made her so feared among the underclergy. The cruel barbed lash rode upon her shoulder, ready to snap forward at the slightest act or omission that displeased her, and her face beneath the horned black mask wore a smile of cruel anticipation. Even the two guardian Priestesses of the Chamber shrank back from her, she ignored them as she strode on, the metal-shod heels of her thigh-high black boots clicking on the tiles, and shouldered through the three curtains of fabric into the i
A figure moved in the gloom beyond the pool: a figure in a familiar horned headdress and deep purple mantle. Dread Sister Klalaerla went to her knees immediately, holding forth her lash in both hands.
With leisurely tread the Darklady came around the inky waters and took it from her. The Overmistress immediately bowed forward to kiss the knife-blade toes of the Darklady's boots, holding her tongue against the cold, bloodstained metal until the lash came down across her own back.
It burned, despite the webwork of crossed lacings that were part of her own garb, but it was a mark of pride not to flinch or gasp, she held firm, waiting for the second blow that would mark her superior's displeasure, or the rain of cuts that meant Avroana's fury was aroused.
None came, and with a smooth motion that almost managed to conceal her relief, she straightened to a sitting position once more, for Avroana to put the lash to her lips. She kissed it, received it back, and relaxed. The ritual was satisfied.
"Your Darkness?" she asked, as was the custom.
"Klalaerla," the Darklady said, almost urgently...her familiarity made the Overmistress stiffen with excitement..."I need you to do something for me. Despite Narlkond's assurances, those five Dreadspells are going to fail us. You must be the striking hand that rewards them for their misdeeds. If they betray the House of Holy Night, you must bring the justice of the House to them, whatever the danger to yourself. I demand it. The Flame of Darkness herself demands it. Dearest of my believers, will you do this for me?"
"Gladly," Klalaerla said, and meant it. To travel outside the House once more! To breathe the free winds of Faerun, out in the open, and see lands spread out before her once more! Oh, Avroana! "Lady most kind," she said, her voice trembling, "what must I do?"
The noise smote their ears like a blow. Dust curled up, the ground shuddered and heaved beneath their boots, and here and there around the ruins slabs of stone whirled aloft, thrust into the air by geysers of rocketing vapor.
The five Dreadspells exchanged awed, delighted glances, the roaring of their unleashed magic swallowing their shouts of excited approval, and poured down death until Elryn slapped at their arms and waved the scepters in his hands...weapons he'd snatched from his belt after his staff sputtered out.
When he had their attention, the senior Dark Brother aimed the scepters at an angle toward the floor beside the shaft. If their fire burst through into the cavern below, it would burn an angled path reaching to where Elryn's spying spell had shown him the staggering Chosen, near a throne and a ring or half-ring of runes that could perhaps, just perhaps, be made to explode.
The destruction of a Chosen was, after all, their holy mission. As Femter, Vaelam, and Hrelgrath aimed their staves with undaunted enthusiasm, Elryn stepped back a pace or two and saw Daluth, on the far side of the group, doing the same. They exchanged mirthless smiles. If there was a backlash, someone had to survive to take word to the distant Darklady...or, if it raced along the linkage she used to spy on them all, to see what fate she suffered. Perhaps it would even be one that would let two false wizards go their separate ways in Faerun, so heavily laden with enchanted items that they could barely stand.
A more prudent time for such moondreams would come later...when they weren't standing in a haunted ruin near sunset, at the heart of a killing forest emptied of life, with a known Chosen and a madman who thought he was a god and the ghost of a sorceress locked in battle somewhere close by under their feet, hurling spells around and over old and powerful spell runes cut into the stone floor for some old and very important purpose.