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In Silverymoon, a simple spell to light the recesses of a dark cellar brought down the tower above it. The astonished caster was High Lady Alustriel, herself.
In Waterdeep, an apprentice's prank involving a dog charmed to fetch and carry pretty passing girls in to meet the lonely caster went wrong. Everyone the dog touched was transformed into another creature-serpent or rooster or centipede, When one became a hissing wyvern, the dog fled in terror. Nearby mages, alerted to the clanger, cast spells to slay the monster. The enchantments instead brought down a rain of fire from the sky, turned gray stone buildings pink and translucent (mightily pleasing the owner of one, for it was a high-class brothel), and caused the street to be riddled with holes. The wyvern escaped, flying to the top of Mount Waterdeep. There, Khelben Blackstaffs spells restored it to its former shape: that of a terrified noble lady. Even his Art, though, twisted awry. Instead of clothes, the hysterical lady was covered with feathers of a vivid blue.
In Calimport, two female slaves with barbed whips dueled to the death for the amusement of their cruel sultan owners-and to settle a bet. Both weakened, panting and staggering, sweat beading their oiled bodies like clusters of gems. A watching wizard decided to aid his master's slave with a secretive spell. His furtive Art, designed to make her a shade faster, instead transformed her into a raging red dragon. In a trice, she devoured or smashed flat the sultans, the unfortunate wizard, and many of their servants. She then beckoned the other slave onto her back, and they flew away, northeast, toward the Marching Mountains.
All across the Realms, magic was going wild. Even in the High Dale, amid the chaos of weakening magic, fateful changes came. Perhaps the gods willed it, perhaps it was the deliberate work of Mystra... or perhaps it was mere chance. Heladar Longspear never had time to find out.
Heladar longspear? What care i for human warriors in the pigsty kingdoms of toril? For that matter, what cared mystara for him?
She was-is-a goddess. She cared. If ye ca
Lecture me not, puling human! [brutal mental bolt] i think not!
[pain; gasping, helpless, twisting servant to the pain]
How crow you now, elminster? Is clever sneering still your tone?
Show me the next memory mystra gave to you. No tricks, no delay. Give it. Now. [dark glare]
A dark head, glaring...
A dark, floating sphere amid racing shadows…
Shadows falling away before torchlight, and old stone vaulting, and a room that had need of neither...
Khelben sighed and sat back from the crystal ball. It was three times the size of his head, glossy-smooth, and as dark and lifeless as death. There came an answering, feminine sigh.
Around them, the dome of the spell chamber winked and sparkled with stars-as it always did, no matter what the time of day or weather outside Blackstaff Tower.
He shook his head slowly, staring again at the empty crystal ball. "Nothing."
Laeral laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Easy, my lord. The fault is not yours. Magic seems to have gone rogue everywhere in the Realms."
Khelben Arunsun rose to pace the chamber. "It's not that, love. My Art held, I believe. I reached Lhaeo, the Old Mage's scribe, but Lhaeo knows not where Elminster may be."
Khelben shrugged. "He suspects-hopes-that a lady: ranger of the Knights of Myth Dra
Laeral glided up behind him and stroked his shoulders. "I expected no better result than this, and I'll be very surprised if you tell me in truth that you did. We can only keep trying and hope."
She gravely studied the man who was her lord, love, and master. "You are troubled more deeply, Lord-there is something more. I would know it, if you will."
Khelben turned and took her in his arms, unsmiling. Behind him, a star fell across the dark, unending void of the chamber. "I have tried to reach Azuth and the Lady, both. I have felt them. They are here, in the Realms, with us. Azuth's power bums but dimly, a mere glow where once there was a fire, and I ca
Laeral turned her dark, beautiful eyes up to his. "Yet that is not what really troubles you. Is it the Lady?"
Khelben met her gaze and nodded grimly. "She is a captive. Magic imprisons her and drinks of her power- magic such as I have never felt before and do not yet understand."
Laeral stared at him in horror. "Who in all Faerun has the power to hold Great Mystra captive?"
Khelben smiled bitterly. "Why, another god, of course."
So, you give me more of your friends worried about your absence. How touching. Well, then, clever wizard: give me another of mystra's memories, wherein we see some of these friends of yours trying to work magic to find you. Then, perhaps, we'll get somewhere in this sword play of crossed and clashing remembrances that amuses you so....
As ye wish.
Mock me not, wizard! [mental slap]
I never mock, devil, [mental slap returned]
[pain; astonishment] you dare?
No, Lord Nergal. But Mystra does.
[confusion... fear] she's aware, with you... Within you?
Not now. But she can be, if ye disturb the right-excuse me, the wrong-memory. Then she will come, and all thy work will be undone.
[fear, anger] no. She can have no power over me here. Devils rule in hell.
Of course. Nice throne, by the way.
[red fires of anger] so you never mock, little man?
Never. Try to remember that.
[dark glare] unfold the memory, elminster aumar.
"The gods alone know where they are, by now," Storm said quietly. "I think Elminster wandered westward-but he could have passed through any of a dozen secret gates. With a single step he could have reached the other side of Faerun... or even another plane."
"A cheery thought," Shaerl observed sardonically. "Shall I tell Mourngrym to revise dale defenses to include a dozen unknown, invisible, but all-too-exposed gates that invading armies can rush through?"
"Easy, wench," Jhessail told her, patting her hand. "Have some more firequench." She pushed the decanter of ruby-red liqueur across the table. Illistyl made a silent grab for it as it moved away from her and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Jhessail. She returned it, with interest.
"Ladies, ladies," Storm sighed, shifting her feet down from atop the table. "Must we spit and snarl like rival kittens?"
Illistyl shrugged. "It's what we've always done before," she observed with impish serenity.
Shaerl giggled. A breath later, others joined her. The Lady of Shadowdale had brought the two sorceresses to Storm's farmhouse late, after most of the men in the Twisted Tower-including her man, Lord Mourngrym- were abed. Afternoon was a more usual time for these tongue-wag sessions, but they'd all been too restless to sleep and had met by chance, padding barefoot around the tower in their nightcloaks.
Storm Silverhand had also been awake when they'd come calling. As they approached, the three had heard her talking softly to someone, but when they'd gone through her open door, she'd been alone, a lute idle across her lap.