Ed Greenwood: Swords of Eveningstar

“What of the Arcrown?” Alapahondar asked. “I’ve heard folk in Daerlun are trading rumors that Gallusk has it, has discovered how to use it to pry into any man’s thoughts and even, some say, has begun to winnow out all in the land who dislike him or bear him grudges. If he defends himself with it-”

“He’ll be wielding a fantasy.” Vangerdahast’s smile was a wry, twisted thing. “There is no Arcrown, any more. The Blackstaff, Khelben Arunsun, came to hold it, and some years ago offered it up to Divine Mystra. She Herself destroyed it, as he watched, as an affront to magecraft everywhere.”

Alaphondar’s mouth dropped open. “But-but-all the rumors, your wizards scouring the realm…”

Vangerdahast studied his fingernails. “Falsehoods. Uttered by me, to shake the Wizards of War out of the complacency they are all too wont to sink into, and make them-to say nothing of the general populace-alert for treachery and unusual doings from end to end of the realm. I’ll let them search for some time yet.”

Filfaeril was smiling, but her husband seemed less than amused.

“Folk have died over this, Vangey! Confidence in the safety of the realm and the competence of the Dragon Throne has been assailed. And won’t Holy Mystra have something pointed to say to you?”

“Words and deeds that enhance the real or apparent power of magic, and the regard all have for it, are encouraged by the Lady of Mysteries,” Vangerdahast replied smoothly. “Their accuracy is beside the point. As for matters strictly Cormyrean, dangers to the realm are increasing. Wherefore I have made its citizens more wary and so stronger in their readiness to deal with any foe.” And with those words, he bowed, turned, and departed, striding out of the Soaring Dragon Room in a swirling of robes.

“I noticed,” Filfaeril observed, “our good Royal Magician failed to precisely answer your question, but rather offered Mystran doctrine.”

“I noticed that too,” Azoun agreed. “How many other direct questions does he evade these days, I wonder?”

The Swords of Eveningstar looked around-and blinked.

They stood in the midst of a noisy, crowded city, assailed by many stinks, with a mountain rising like a great wall ahead-and a scarcely less impressive fortress right in front of them, the cobbles under their boots less than a stride away from the stone steps that ascended to its closed front doors.

The curving stone wall of the tower looming above the Swords overhung the landing at the top of the steps, forming a porch of sorts-wherein a young woman in robes was rising from a chair and frowning down at them. She wore leather bracers, from each of which wands projected past her palms, held ready to be grasped in an instant.

“You stand before Blackstaff Tower,” she announced formally, then added curiously, “I don’t recall seeing any of you before. Were you apprentices of the master?”

“Yes,” Jhessail lied boldly. “Please take us to him.”

The young woman looked them over slowly, a slight frown on her face, and nodded. “Ascend and enter-but be aware that whoever’s scrying you will see nothing once you pass these doors. If you desire to communicate anything to them, do so now.”

“Scrying? We’re being watched?” Semoor snapped.

As the woman started to nod, Jhessail spread her hands with a flourish. “ ’Tis worse than I’d thought,” she whispered melodramatically. “Hurry!”

The Swords hastened up the steps. As the doorguard-apprentice stepped smoothly back out of reach, wands ready in both hands, the doors opened by themselves.

Boldly, Jhessail and Pennae together stepped into waiting darkness.

Horaundoon of the Zhentarim cursed.

As the Swords entered Blackstaff Tower, his scrying was blocked. Its dark doors seemingly shut out everything.

He plucked a wand from a drawer, leaned over the scrying orb, and whispered the spell that would steal power from it-and fed the surge of magic to his scrying.

Blackstaff Tower remained a dark and solid wall to his scrutiny-but the doorguard’s eyes narrowed.

Frowning, she sketched a circle in the air with her forefinger, raising one of her wands into it.

Hurriedly Horaundoon passed a hand over his orb, and departed the chamber that held it.

The explosion at his heels flung him across a passage, made the very floors and ceilings sway and shudder, and left him coughing in dust and clutching his head, his ears ringing from its roar.

He regained his feet and strode along the hall, hissing curses.

Only to stop, stunned anew. Reeling, he fell to his knees, clawing at his head this time and making the hargaunt chime in furious discordance.

It felt as if someone had just reached a fist into his head and torn something out. The mindworm link was simply-gone.

The Swords blinked again. They could see nothing inside Blackstaff Tower but impenetrable darkness, with a faintly glowing flagstone path running away into it.

Running a longer way, it seemed, than it should have been able to stretch, given the size of the tower… or at least, the size the tower had seemed on the outside.

Pennae held up her glowstone. Its faint radiance was strong enough to show her itself-just-but shone nothing on the gloom all around them.

They stood tense, a darker menace settling on the backs of their necks: a strong, constant feeling of being watched.

“Naed,” Pennae whispered. “Jhess, lead on.”

“Me?”

“ ’Twas your idea, lass, this marching right into the tower of the Blackstaff himself.”

“But-”

“ I’ll lead,” Florin said, stepping around them. “Keep your feet on the path, and don’t reach out into the dark.”

They watched him walk away from them. After only a few strides, he vanished, becoming part of the great darkness. All they could see of him were moving occlusions of the flagstones.

“Come,” Islif ordered the others, setting off after Florin. “Holy men, don’t go casting any spells.”

They all walked the path, and soon enough came to Florin, standing on a small cluster of glowing flagstones. In front of him, the path ended, and steps climbed on, each one floating alone in an apparent void.

Frowning, Pennae climbed the lowest step and cautiously reached out to either side-only to draw back her hands. “Cold, hard stone,” she murmured, “but I can’t see it.” She ran her hand over the hard nothingness to her right, seeing how far it extended-and then jerked her hand back with a hiss. Something small and unseen had bitten her, warningly.

“What is it?” Florin asked.

Pennae shook her head. “Just climb,” she said, “and keep your hands in close.”

They climbed.

The stair ended in darkness: a level, smooth stair stretching away they knew not how far. Cautiously Pennae advanced, tapping with her toes to make sure solid stone awaited her next step. “Keep still,” she snapped over her shoulder. “ Don’t go wandering.”

She took another two cautious steps-and suddenly, silently, without any fuss at all, vivid brightness sprang into being around her knees.

She was standing knee-deep in emerald green, dun brown, dark blue, and white-flecked gray: a glowing, incredibly lifelike map of Faerun floating in the room all around her. It seemed as if she were a striding colossus, standing at the heart of… the High Forest, with Waterdeep just here and Cormyr over there, Suzail a tiny glittering on its coast, and Arabel…