Lynn Abbey - The Nether Scroll

Dru considered the possibilities. Gods had walked Faerun in recent years and wrought the havoc only their kind could inflict on mortal folk. A year ago, priests of every stripe emerged from their temples to assure those who'd survived that the gods had returned to their proper places and were forbidden to return. Gods in general weren't known for their obedience, but a man had to believe something and Druhallen had believed that he'd get safely to his grave without meeting one on the road, or in the Weathercote glade.

To the best of his knowledge, he'd never met a dragon, but Ansoain had drilled him and Galimer on their salient traits. He replied to Tiep with a shake of his head, "Her magic's different. I can't describe it easily and, Mystra knows, I'm no archmage, but my gut says this lady's on another path altogether. She's tampered with our memories-just reached out and rearranged what we remember. We don't know what actually happened-"

Dru reconsidered. Lady Wyndyfarh had left the impression of a hawk in his memory, but he hadn't suspected actual shapeshifting. "Each of us is having a different experience of this place. We don't know what Galimer experienced-I don't know if what I remember him saying is what he truly said. He might not know or remember himself-"

Dru paused uncomfortably. Rozt'a had fixed him in a bleak and withering stare.

"He's alive, Roz."

She radiated disbelief without so much as opening her mouth or raising an eyebrow.

"We've spent too much time together-too much time making magic, or trying to. I'd feel the loss. There's a distance, as if he's on the other side of imagination, but he's there. I'd know. I knew with Ansoain; we both did."

Rozt'a wanted to be relieved. She tried another sigh, but her breath caught in her throat and she hurried away coughing.

"What're we going to do?" Tiep asked when she was out of earshot.

"We're not doing anything. I'm waiting until the sun's under my feet and I've got the wherewithal to study up some spells again; Rozt'a's worried sick about Galimer, and you're going to do what I say and stay out of trouble."

The boy shrank again. "It's not right. None of this is right. It shouldn't have happened."

"But it has and what's cut, stays cut."

Tiep twisted the hem of his shirt around his fingers. It was a habit he'd had from the beginning at the Chauntean temple. This time the exercise loosened the stolen amber. The lump bounced to the ground between them and lay there like sin.

"I'm sorry," Tiep said with his arm reaching halfway to the amber. "I didn't-"

Dru cut him off. "Not another word beyond 'sorry.' It's not enough-" The wizard shook his head, at a loss for words himself. "Anything more is too much."

He walked away. Tiep took a few strides after him but, wisely, realized that was a bad idea. Rozt'a had found herself a resting place with a view of the glassy stone behind the waterfall. Dru found a different one at the hilltop where they'd first seen the grove and its marble temple. Tiep took longest to find a spot to sit and wait, but when he did it was on the opposite side of the pool from Dru and on the border between the moss and the trees. Without benefit of conversation, they'd formed themselves into the largest triangle the nearly circular clearing could contain.

Water was no problem-except that they had to drink from Lady Wyndyfarh's pool. For food they had the supplies prudent hikers would carry into the forest: stale bread, smoked meat, slabs of wax-dipped cheese, and such fruits as the local orchards and vines provided in late summer. The quantities would keep their stomachs quiet for a day; not much longer. Druhallen had flint and steel in his folding box, not to mention the script for a spell that would coax flames from swamp wood. He had the makings of snares, as well, though nothing this side of death would induce him to set a trap in Weathercote Wood.

Their waiting time was limited. It took all Dru's strength not to begin the downward spiral of wondering what he'd do, how he'd feel, when it came to an end.

Twice, as a long afternoon slumped toward twilight, the air quickened and Dru dared a hope that the next act of their isolated drama had begun. Twice the aura faded without any of the other actors appearing on the stage. The clear air cooled quickly once the sun had slipped behind the trees. They'd carried cloaks-extra cloth was as prudent as water, food, or steel. Dru wrapped his tight and hunkered down with his folding box opened on his knees.

A wizard could study magic whenever he chose, but Mystra's dictates for casting spells were rigid and inviolable. A wizard's mind could accommodate only so much magic. The exact amount varied from one wizard to the next and, generally, grew larger with time and practice, but every wizard knew his or her limit intimately. Dru had cast himself to an exhaustion that wasn't measured in his muscles and he had hours to wait before he could hope to replenish his mental trove of spells.

For Dru and Galimer, the moments when they could open their spellbooks and make magic with the words they read there began precisely at midnight-the moment when tomorrow's dawn was as distant in time as yesterday's sunset. Druhallen knew other wizards who experienced Mystra's dictates differently, but he and Galimer had had only one teacher in their formative years and they experienced the dictates exactly the way Ansoain had experienced them.

Wizards were a superstitious, conservative lot; they clung to reliable routines and shunned change for its own sake. Dru envied wizards who could effectively rest and restore their spell-casting vigor at any time of the day or night, but he'd never been tempted to emulate their habits. Except at midnight, Dru read his spells with his intellect alone and hoped for subtle insights that would enhance his spell-casting acumen.

In Wyndyfarh's glade, even Dru's intellect was weary. He couldn't concentrate on the faintly luminous words carved into the wood of his combination spellbook and reagent box. Her magic hung on every leaf and flower, dusting it with pale green-light. Amber markers, like the one Tiep had stolen, circled the pool and highlighted the marble arches of her small sanctuary. All in all, Wyndyfarh's glade was a beautiful place, but beauty was the last thing Druhallen wanted to contemplate.

He closed his eyes and set himself adrift in his memories. Barring his childhood, Dru had very few memories that didn't include his friend. He'd taken it for granted that they'd die or grow old together. It had never occurred to him that he might have to mourn for Ansoain's son.

Midnight was hours away when mist crept into the grove. It dampened Dru's cloak, not his mind, and seemed a natural mist-as natural as anything in Weathercote Wood. Druhallen folded his box and went for a walk around the glade. Tiep was curled up in an untroubled sleep. Dru stood over him, torn between anger and envy. A part of him wanted to use the boy's head as a battering ram on the glassy black stone, but that was a lesser part. The greater part offered absolution in pure self-interest; his heart couldn't contemplate another loss.

Rozt'a hadn't moved from her post outside the sealed cave. Not surprisingly, the mist was thickest there. At arm's length, Druhallen could scarcely see her face in the faint amber-and-green light. He didn't need to. Her sunken silhouette told him everything he needed to know.

"We'll find a way," he promised softly.

She answered with silence, and Dru completed his circuit the same way. The midnight moment came without warning, as it always did. His mind was once again receptive to magical instruction. He unfolded his box. If true learning had been the order of the night, Druhallen would have been in a bad way, but for his tried-and-true spells-his gloomy pall and the various types of fire-habit sufficed. Intention alone was almost enough. Someday, some midnight, he'd manage to recall them without opening the box… but not this night. This night Druhallen left nothing to chance.