Blackstaff

Nain saw their work at hand as his vantage point rose. He guessed that by the time they were done with the tor and the waters settled, Highstar Lake would be at least a mile wider and longer, a tower in its midst left inaccessible by land. The magic merged with the casters as the tor grew. They drew apart as the tower grew wider, but stony duplicates of their own forms linked hands with them as the width of their circle grew. By the time they stopped rising, twenty figures linked hands atop the tor. The merlons and crenelations looked like five duplicates of each caster forming the upper battlements here.

Kroloth had a personal vision. He knew that his destiny would be to command this outpost that rose with them. In his mind, he saw the moonblade purified into a crystalline broadsword. He knew it and its eight brethren sacrificed at the other eight Sentinel Tor sites would be called hope-blades. Kroloth beamed-it was his duty to wield the hopeblade of Tor Arsuor as its commander. Ynshael had never before left the safety of Neverwinter Woods. She responded to Yaereene's call when it intertwined with a vision from the Moonbow herself. She gasped as she realized the mate for whom she had prayed to Sehanine stood near. He was a human and had shining dark hair long past his shoulders, and hair on his face and chest. His build was elfin-whip-strong and wiry, but not as muscular as some humans.

Ynshael realized that she had seen his eyes-a pale green like the snow lettuce growing in her garden-and she found those same eyes in Nain Keenwhistler. Stranger still, Ynshael saw what Nain didn't seem to notice-his restoration. His hair grew within the fiery magic, darkening to a chestnut brown and becoming more lustrous. Nain's scraggly beard thickened and lengthened down to his chest, and all that darkened as well. The only white hair he kept were twin stripes of white along his temples and in his beard where sideburns would be in a clean-shaven man. Ynshael smiled and gripped his hand harder. Her patron goddess had shown her a path, and while she never expected to live beyond Neverwinter's boughs, she believed her home to be with that man. The both of them, often underestimated by themselves and others, would come together to fulfill destinies they dared never dream of before.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Feast of the Moon, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) Tsarra heard four whispers whirling about her library, each chanting, "Assemble…" Ghostly elves entered her sanctum and summoned thrones for themselves around her. They studied her mutely, some with open disdain. The sendings grew one by one, and so did those assembled before her. She tried to talk with the elves, but she only ever got a one word sending: Patience. Tsarra hated the mystery, and grew frustrated when even her tome would not or could not identify the figures invading her sanctum. She examined the library and found that every book in Khelben's true collection had a simulacrum there as well. She looked for books discussing high magic, in hopes of understanding those rituals, both the one with Khelben at the center and the second one under the direction of the grand mages of Miyeritar. Khelben's working was incredibly powerful, but it wasn't high magic. It cleansed and prepared the High Moor for the return of its people, destroyed that last taints of the Killing Storms, and raised the city's defensive towers as they were twelve thousand years ago. After hours of the droning chant, Tsarra jumped as the elves suddenly stopped. Magic crackled around the sanctum. Nine additional thrones rose swiftly, and within a few moments, elves appeared in them. All smiled broadly. Tsarra felt suddenly powerful, and she approached the mirror. Thirteen gems swirled and circled around Tsarra's head, leaving trails of arcane fire behind themselves and lighting up her own kiira and tattoos. The fires and the gem's pulses suggested the hints of a crown around her head, and Tsarra recognized it-and the degree of power in the working. At the same time, all thirteen elves stood as one. The first to arrive drew Tsarra into the center of both circles and embraced her. He gestured, snapped his fingers, and Khelben's image joined them in the library as well. He too was embraced. The thirteen bowed their heads and their collective sending went out with a pulse of power: The Highfire Crown is worn once more, and we bless the Weave and the People as one!

A sending rang through the head of everyone bearing a golden item for the Gathering. Later, people would remark that the voice sounded like a mixture of Tsarra, Khelben, Danthra the Dreamer, and sixteen other elves of various tones and timbres. Hearken ye, and hear the People's thanks. Nine tors rise without, our guards and our sentinels.

Our home rises within, our symbol and our hope. All your actions and sacrifices shall be rewarded. Remain united yet retain your differences. Be brethren in intent, if not in blood. Honor knowledge and ability without judgement. These are the hallmarks of Oacenth's Vow, of the Promise of Cormanthor, of every hope for unity from Silverymoon to this place. The Central Caster sparked the flame. The First Circle lit the pyre. The Second Circle restored warmth and light. The Third Circle awakened understanding. The Fourth Circles raised awareness and vigilance. Your work is done. The land is risen and restored. All Circles now join in fire and friendship. All Circles shall see Miyeritaar restored in Rhymanthiin, the Hidden City. The city and its denizens, its secrets-keepers, its loyalists, and ye, its saviors all-ye shall be restored to health and happiness, if that be your wish. Now begins the Rejuvenation. Tsarra found herself seeing and feeling a flurry of images and sensations as ninety-five souls felt the play of magic that used the links of the first ritual intertwined into another more primal, more powerful ritual. She felt the magical co