Ed Greenwood - The Herald

The knife tumbled from the monk’s numbed hand-and Naerlus stopped trying to claw the hand that was strangling him away from his throat and used that hand to make a wild grab for his weapon.

A grab that became a lunge that dragged Elminster off his feet-but ended in a sagging stumble that became a slow collapse to the floor.

El saw blood welling between the monk’s fingers. His hand had been laid open on the edge of the knife.

The poisoned knife.

Even as El twisted around on one shoulder and scrambled to his feet, two monks came into the cavern, their faces hard and unfriendly. They took a few steps in opposite directions to get well apart from each other, planted their feet, and started to work spells.

Deadly spells that had the same obvious target.

Elminster Aumar had time enough to sigh.

"Stand aside,” the darkly handsome young man told the guards coldly. “As the son of Lamorak Tanthul and grandson of the Most High, it is my right to have an audience with my grandsire.”

The guards barring his way to the tall, closed doors of the palace at Thultanthar’s heart kept their faces impassive. “Even so,” the elder one replied, “our orders are clear. No one may pass.”

“ You have no right to stop me. I say again: stand aside. Or I shall do what is needful to clear my way to the Most High.”

“Calm yourself and wait here, while we send word of your arrival. It may be that the Most High will see you, but it is not within our power to freely admit you through these doors. Stand, please, while we-”

“No. Get out of the way!”

The guarded doors opened, and Prince Aglarel Tanthul looked out, his face like stone.

“Or what, Draethren Tanthul?” he asked. “Is there something wrong with your hearing, or your wits? ‘No one may pass’ seems clear and simple to me; why does it not to you?”

“As the son of your brother Lamorak, and a prince of Thultanthar in my own right, I demand audience with the Most High. So much is my right-and not something you can deny me. So you too, should stand aside.” Draethren raised one hand and moved his fingers in the weaving gesture that Shadovar used as a warning of their sorcerous power and their willingness to use it.

“Admittance denied,” Aglarel replied flatly, folding his arms across his chest. “I am aware of the strength of your sorcery-and of your temper. You are on the verge of raging right now. Why should I let you get one step closer to the High Prince?”

“Where did you get the idea that my loyalty to the Most High or Thultanthar is any less than yours?” the young prince snapped back. “How do I know you haven’t slain him and are just preventing me from discovering that? Now stand aside. My sorcery is more than sufficient to compel you-or destroy you.”

As if that threat had been the order for an often-practiced military maneuver, Aglarel and the two door guards spread out in front of the doors to get apart from each other, and raised their hands as if to cast spells.

“Your estimation of your own might, young prince,” Aglarel said quietly, “is more than mistaken.”

Draethren’s eyes blazed, but he backed up a step, darting glances at the three Shadovar arrayed against him.

“Stand aside and let Draethren, son of Lamorak, pass.”

That cold, calm, and unexpected voice came from the darkness behind Aglarel-who stiffened at the sound-through the open doors.

“I could not help but overhear the polite salutation Prince Draethren employed to seek audience,” Telamont Tanthul added.

The door guards stepped aside, and Aglarel turned to regard his father, who added gently, “It is always a mistake to dismiss the young and rash as of no account. For the day always comes when they are.”

Aglarel inclined his head with an expressionless nod, and stepped back to let a wisely silent Draethren step past.

Then he fell into step behind his triumphant nephew, to escort him into the chambers within, but the Most High of Thultanthar, already on his own way back down the passage to deeper chambers, met Aglarel’s eyes and commanded firmly, “Leave us.”

Aglarel lifted his head in a silent signal of surprise and reluctance, but stopped right where he was-until a silent inclination of his father’s head signaled him to advance and close an inner door.

Leaving Telamont Tanthul alone with Draethren, son of Lamorak.

Who was drinking in his first sight of the audience chamber without it being thronged with guards and more senior Shadovar. Deserted, it seemed both smaller and more imbued with watchful menace. Was it because of the towering seat of obsidian that seemed to loom over the entire room? Or the great black sphere-studded rod hovering upright in its corner?

Or the vast relief map that Draethren had never seen before. The metal table on the other side of the throne from the floating rod was bare, but its top was a single, irregularly sculpted black mass. A model of the lands between Anauroch and the Sea of Fallen Stars-complete with tiny floating cities hovering above it, and here and there little glows and lines of radiance that-Draethren peered-yes, denoted magical wards.

His grandfather regarded him with something that might have been wry amusement in his eyes. “You’ve never seen a map before?”

Nettled, Draethren shook his head and waved a hand as if to brush away both the question and all thought of maps, and burst out, “The city is moving !”

Telamont turned to study the map. “Our home is a flying city,” he replied mildly. “Flying cities … fly.”

“Yes, but why? My father set me the task of altering the life-drain spell to affect ward fields-and no sooner do I begin to achieve real progress than you whisk us away from the warded tomb of Anlathgrus, the only handy ward we can sacrifice. With every passing moment we get farther from the tomb, and my work is at a standstill!”

Once begun, the rage that had been simmering inside Draethren for too long boiled over. “Surely the finished ward-drain spell will enable us to use the portals, overwhelm the elves, and so take Myth Drannor in far less time and losing far fewer swords than wearing it down in a protracted siege! Is that not why you wanted a ward-drain spell?”

The Most High bent to peer closely at a particular city-possibly one of the Sembian ports-and asked, “Can it be that the son of Lamorak, the most vaunted sorcerer among the younger princes, has forgotten how to magically take himself from one place to another?”

Then he straightened, turned to face his grandson, and asked, “Why confront me, when you could simply return to the tomb and pursue your vital work?”

Draethren flushed. “I–I don’t want to be away from Thultanthar at this crucial time.”

“As the kin you most desire to destroy are all within it?”

The son of Lamorak slowly went pale. He opened his mouth to frame a cold and scornful protest, but found no words under the dark weight of Telamont’s knowing look.

“I have been aware of your intended treachery for some time, Draethren,” the Most High told him calmly, “but I should warn you that now is not the time for it. You will find my tolerance rather low.”

The air in the chamber suddenly darkened and swirled, until it seemed as if many vast cloaks were gliding soundlessly through the air, circling the young Shadovar sorcerer-cloaks that had fangs.

“W-what do you mean?” Draethren stammered, finding himself eyeing them and hastily forcing himself to look back at his grandfather.

“Every one of my sons, at one time or another, has judged the elders of this city cruel and ignorant fools whose deeds and policies will soon doom Thultanthar itself. In turn, all of my grandchildren have, quite independently, come to embrace the same views. I have grown quite used to it. Some, regrettably, grow imprudent in their actions. Did you never wonder what happened to your elder brother Tantoras?”