Elminster in Hell

They'd sung a song or two, tossed around gossip of the dale's doings, and come at last to Elminster's sudden absence.

Illistyl had been surprised to see unshed tears standing in Storm's eyes. The lady bard had said little and continued to do so-but her sadness lay like a shadow in the room, enfolding them all. Illistyl felt it as keenly as any other but could think of no kind way to shake it away. Her gaze flicked down the table to find Storm's knowing eyes upon her.

Illistyl burst out, "Storm, what's wrong? I'd like to help, but I don't even know just-"

She broke off, startled, as a bat as large and black as a cloak flapped heavily in through the open doorway, circled low over the table, and writhed in the air in front of the fireplace. An instant later, it had become a tall, gaunt woman in a black, tattered gown. Her hair and eyes both danced wildly, and a fierce pride leaped in her face as she glided toward them.

"Sister!" Storm greeted her with a welcoming smile. "Will you take some firequench with us?"

The Simbul shivered like a cat after a fright. "Later," she said, taking a seat at the table. "After I try to learn what we both want to know."

"All of us, here," Storm replied quietly. "I've sent two wood men out after them, too. Two who harp." Across the room, the strings of her harp seemed to sing faintly.

The Simbul looked around at them all, not smiling, nodded to each, and without pause bent her head and began whispering words of Art.

A heavy tension grew in the room. The candle flames shrank to steady, watching pinpoints. The Simbul sat at the center of the gathered power, black and unmoving. Her shoulders shook. She gasped, and the candle flames leaped and flickered again. The room was somehow brighter-and yet, Illistyl thought, looking at the Simbul's forlorn and ravaged face-it seemed no safer or warmer.

The Witch-Queen of Aglarond looked around at them all and said simply, "I'll need your help, all of you. Join hands with me, and I'll try again."

Without hesitation the women leaned forward around the table, the liqueur decanter standing like a red flame before them. The Simbul closed her eyes, shuddered again, and began to gather her will. As before, the room grew dim.

"Think," she muttered, "think of Sharantyr. Picture her face, her voice, what she looks like when she moves. We must key upon her, for Elminster is cloaked to seeking magic."

Obediently, they thought of Shar. Jhessail's eyes closed, her face calm. Illistyl and Shaerl both frowned, eyes scamched in concentration. Linked to the Simbul, they could feel her draw in her power, feeding on their thoughts, emotions, and yearnings.

Power swirled around the room. Then the Simbul hurled her questing, searching thought outward, a long way. Like a fisher's hook into dark waters, she fell into a void of seeking where those linked to her could not follow.

After a long, tense silence, the Simbul shook herself like a dog coming up out of water. "We need more. All is twisted, all gone wild. Sylune... please?"

Three pairs of wondering eyes saw Storm and the Simbul's fingers part. Out of the smoky air between them, two slim, faintly glowing hands seemed to grow, gaining substance in ghostly silence. Each clasped a living hand.

A gentle whisper said, "I am here. Try now, Sister."

Shaerl, Jhessail, and Illistyl looked at each other for a frightened moment, stared at the half-seen, ghostly figure between Storm and the Simbul, closed their eyes, and threw themselves into seeking Sharantyr.

An eternity passed. The candles burned lower. They breathed as one, low and deep. Toril, with awesome slowness, rolled steadily beneath them.

They heard someone whimper, and the circle was broken.

Storm held only empty air, and the Simbul fell heavily facedown on the table, upsetting the decanter.

"Storm?" Shaerl asked anxiously, half rising. "Is she-?"

"Exhausted," the Bard of Shadowdale said faintly, leaning back in her chair. "As I am. It's a magic few know-thankfully, or there'd be mindless mages across half Faerun, in short order."

Jhessail rescued the decanter and silently held it out to Storm. Storm stared at it dully for a breath or two, then deliberately took it, unstopped it, and took a long pull. When she replaced the stopper again and handed it back, it was almost empty.

"Storm," Illistyl asked quietly, her voice almost steady, "was that-?"

"Our sister, Sylune,' Storm answered, as quietly. "Yes. It was, and what we tried did more harm to her than to either of us."

She turned dark eyes up to theirs, and added, "So now you know. Take up die weight of another secret, for the good of the dale."

Three pairs of serious eyes met hers, and three intent faces nodded silently.

The Simbul stirred. She spoke into the table her cheek was pressed against, "Is there any of that firequench swill left?"

After the laughter died away, Illistyl dared to lay tender, helping hands on perhaps the most powerful sorceress alive in Faerun, raising her and wiping her sweat-soaked brow. The Simbul smiled silent thanks, looked at them all, and said, "Well-you know we failed. There's worse news."

Jhessail and Shaerl both looked at her sharply. "Tell," the Lady of Shadowdale said simply.

"All Art in the Realms is going rogue," the Simbul answered plainly. "Everywhere, and for all who wield it- we can unleash it, but our control slips and snatches and most of the time is lacking entirely. Magic has gone wild, and we ca

Dread came and went on her white face. She reached thoughtfully for the decanter. "Across Faerun," she added, "not a single mage, archmage, or hedge-wizard can rely on spells anymore."

Illistyl, Shaerl, and Jhessail exchanged looks. Illistyl and Shaerl spoke together, framing the same question as one. "In die name of all the gods, why?"

Storm answered softly, eyes on the flame of the nearest candle, "That's just why-all the gods. They've been cast down into the Realms, to contend among us, struggling and striving as we do; Mystra among them. It's why Elminster's gone away."

"Cast down?" Illistyl almost whispered. "By whom? Who has such power?"

Storm spread her hands. "In the oldest writings, he was called the Overgod, Nowadays, to those who know of him at all, he is 'The One Who is Hidden.' " She smiled. "If you meet him, you might ask his true name and aims-there are a lot of souls, mortal and divine alike, who'd like to know."

Illistyl drew a deep, ragged breath, and then smiled. "I'll get straight to work on it." Her hands trembled as they reached for the decanter. It held far less when she put it back down.

Shaerl shook her head. "Easy, lass, or we'll have to carry you back to the tower again."

Illistyl crooked an eyebrow. "Who, wench, will be carrying whom?"

Jhessail rose. "Come, ladies," she said. "We've done enough harm this night. Storm needs her sleep, even if we do not."

Storm thanked the mage with her eyes. Jhessail read the look and swept her companions swiftly out into the night.

As the candles died, one by one, the two sisters sat at the table unmoving, eyes faraway.

At last Storm moved unwilling lips. "Did you see or feel anything when you reached for Shar? Anything at all?"

"No," the Simbul said, staring down at her empty hands. "Nothing. I was like the worst apprentice I have ever had-alone, wavering, helpless in the dark."

"I saw three things, Sister," came the eerie voice they had not expected to hear again. "Fire, and tears, and stars-overhead, it seemed, though they were all mixed together. Our stars."

Storm raised her head, and there were tears in her eyes. "Sylune," she said softly, "my thanks. They are not dead, then."

"Yet," came the voice of Sylune's ghost dryly, "yet."