Brian Thomsen - Realms of the Arcane

Aerindel found herself sobbing, clinging to the comforting arms around her as she shuddered-and then kissing the half-seen face above her wildly, joy surging through her. Her skin was smooth and young again, her body her own!

"Ye see," that kind voice rumbled by her ear. "These things work out. Mystra does provide. Ye have only to trust, and think clearly, and do as she guides."

"And how will I know her directives?" the Lady of Dusklake asked, brushing hair aside from shining eyes to meet his gaze.

Elminster pointed down again. Something gleamed amid skeletal dust, far below. Aerindel saw it only for an instant before the lightning of a spell that no mortal had cast erupted along the cliff across from where they stood, and sent a huge fall of stones rolling down to bury the Whispering Crown.

As the dust rose up toward them, Elminster replied solemnly, "She whispers to us always."

"Elminster," Aerindel said with a tremulous smile, "aid me!"

Interlude

Wes finished reading about the Whispering Crown and turned again to the strange, slim tome he'd found behind the bookcase. Something told him to read more of it. He picked up the book and continued.

It said that the library was originally a little less than half its current size, the northern end of the building being the oldest part. Several times over the past centuries, the monks had added extra rooms until, from the outside, the building looked like an evil baron's castle from a child's nightmare. Inside, the main book rooms and most of the reading rooms were easy enough to locate, for the library had been built around them. Not so the vaults, where many of the works were stored. They were all over the library, utilizing any spare space.

The monks' living areas and accommodation for visiting scholars were in the southeast corner, and all the cooking was done in an outbuilding to keep the smoke and cooking odors away from the books and scrolls.

Many rooms were set up for scribes, and each monk spent a large part of his day copying scrolls and books. It was the abbot's wish that the library hold at least three copies of each work, both to allow several scholars to peruse a work at once, and to protect the works against theft or the privations of age or fire.

The way the library had grown over the centuries made it difficult to tell from the outside where one room started and another ended. Even from the passageways inside, it could be difficult to tell which room was on the other side of a wall. As a result, the library was a very easy place to get lost in.

Wes put the tome aside again. It wasn't getting any more interesting, and there were still several dozen works he hadn't looked at yet. He got up from the table and began looking for something to match the story of the Whispering Crown.

An old scroll caught his eye. He pulled it gently from its home and unrolled it. It was a map, with some roughly scrawled notes around the edges. Between the dim light and the bad writing, Wes couldn't make out the whole story, but it appeared to show the location of a treasure hoard that belonged to a dragon. Judging by the age of the scroll, Wes thought the dragon must be long dead, and the treasure probably found by some group of adventurers.

For the third time, his attention was drawn to the strange tome, and Wes found himself picking it up again.

The history lesson was over. Now Wes read a story of a young man who worked in the library of Candlekeep, a probationary novice many years ago, and who was known to have disappeared without a trace. Jeffrey, the probationary novice, had been bawled out by one of the monks for being lazy and good-for-nothing, and had been sent by the abbot to the north corner of the library to clean an old reading room for some scholars who were expected the next day.

In sudden fear, Wes pushed the book away.

"No!" he rasped, "this cannot be. That story is about me, but a long time ago."

He looked around nervously. He wanted to leave, then and there, but the abbot's orders had been clear enough. He dared not disobey.

Take a deep breath, Wes, he told himself. You've just gotten spooked-that's all. No need to look at that slim volume anymore. Back to cleaning the reading room…

On the other hand, a peek at a few more books couldn't hurt much, now could it?

It was the vile smell that triggered the defensive twitch that saved the archwizard's life. The stream of deadly venom sprayed from the mouth of the huge, snakelike thing and fell to the floor, sizzling away into a fetid green vapor. The archwizard Shadow spun on his heel and brought his hands up, his fingers moving through a fast and complex series of patterns. The words he shouted at the beast meant nothing, but held great power.

The blast of fire singed Shadow's eyebrows, and the naga screamed in agony. The ball of orange flame was gone as fast as Shadow had conjured it, and smoke poured off the creature that was its target. The naga's rough, spiky hide was already black, and now it smelted scorched.

Shadow took three long strides backward, starting to smile, nearly bumping into the corner of his big four-poster bed. He stopped in front of the seldom-used dressing table when the damned thing laughed.

"Painful…" it hissed, its voice like gravel being scraped across steel.

Shadow's blood went cold. He hadn't been prepared for another assassination attempt today. It was a bad time.

The naga slithered forward, scraping huge furrows in the expensive wood floor, now scorched from the intense heat of the fireball. The poison still dripped from the corners of its mouth. Four huge gray-yellow fangs filled the gaping maw, and were too big to let it close its mouth all the way. When the poison hit the floor, there was more sizzling, more awful smell, more damage to the woodwork.

The archwizard's fireball had set the curtains behind the naga ablaze. A little dusty wooden sculpture of a dancing woman had fallen off the windowsill and was also on fire.

Shadow reached down to his long black boot and fumbled for the knife there. He had been given the knife for just this sort of eventuality.

The naga drew its hideous face back and seemed to grin as its throat filled with more of the poison.

Shadow actually gasped the word, "No!" and the knife was in his hand. The blue-silver blade seemed to scream through the air, but Shadow knew he hadn't actually thrown it that hard. It crossed the span of his bedchamber faster than a crossbow bolt and sank into the naga's tough black hide with a wet cracking sound. When the naga screamed, the poison welled out of its mouth in a nauseating gurgle and drenched the thing's still-smoking body with the deadly liquid. It screamed again, louder this time. The knife was buried to its golden hilt, about halfway down the thing's twelve-foot body.

"Turn!" Shadow shouted, and something made the naga look down.

The knife twisted in the tight wound, and a quiver of pain and surprise ruffled through the naga's body. It grunted this time instead of screaming and called Shadow something that must have been a terrible insult in whatever dark pit the naga and its kin called home. The thing's blood was a pasty red, so dark it was almost as black as its charred skin.

'Turn!" Shadow shouted again, standing to face the naga and taking another step back away from it. He bumped the little nightstand, and it fell over. A glass shattered on the floor, and a bit of water started to mix with the droplets of blood that were beading on the floorboards.

The knife started to turn again and the blood seemed to pop out. The naga didn't scream this time either. It twisted its head down and latched onto the enchanted blade with its jagged fangs. The snake body quivered again with the pain of pulling it out. When the enchanted blade fell free of the wound, it was followed by a fast torrent of blood.