R. Salvatore: Realms of Magic

The elder mage paused in his lecture, as if just remembering Jehan was still there, leaking his blood into the wall. He looked at his battered companion and added, "So, child, you still think everyone in Waterdeep should have smoke powder?"

Jehan looked at the flaming wreckage of the warehouse. Already the locals had responded and were forming bucket brigades from nearby cisterns. Everyone was ignoring the two mages-more magic of the Old Spider, no doubt.

"I think," Jehan started, too tired and battered to be properly respectful or afraid, "I think you just can't blow up the future and hide in the past. Somewhere, someone is going to get past you, and you need to be ready for the day. You can't stop progress."

That was when Khelben surprised the young mage. He laughed-a sharp, staccato chuckle. "Ah, so at least we agree on something. You are right: we can't stop progress. Smoke powder, the printed word, new forms of magic-it's all coming. But we can slow it down from a run to a walk, so at least we can be ready for it. So we can be its master, instead of it being ours."

Jehan groaned. "You think the Old Rel… Maskar will dismiss me for this?"

Khelben nodded at the wreckage. "Well, he no longer changes apprentices into newts for forgetting the lemon in his morning tea… but yes, this is pretty serious. I could put a good word in for you. Or perhaps…"

Jehan looked at Khelben, but his eyes refused to focus properly. "Perhaps?" was the best the youth could manage.

"I could use another youth to scrub the pots, sweep the conjuring floor, and learn what snippets of magic I deign to teach. And an adventurous youth would be suitable, since I think my Gerald persona should leave town for a while." The Old Spider chuckled again. "And Maskar would be relieved of having to face your parents with your latest escapade."

Jehan tried to smile, but the effort broke his last bit of willpower. He fell into soft, warm darkness.

The young mage awoke at home, the healer speaking to his parents in the next room in quiet, relaxed tones-the tones of one confident the patient will recover without further interference. Jehan's shoulder and leg were still sore, but it was the soreness of strained muscles and bruises as opposed to ripped and bloodied flesh.

His parents wavered between anger at him risking his life in some damned-fool adventure and pride in the impression he had apparently made on the great Black-staff, who had brought him home and spoken of his heroism. Even now, they said, Khelben was talking with Uncle Maskar about taking Jehan under his wing. Imagine, one of the Wands family learning from the Old Spider himself. But of course, regardless of the outcome, he should not have taken up with that sinister merchant in the first place.

His parents were still trying to determine if they were angry at Jehan or proud of him as he drifted back to sleep.

He awoke much later, having slept through the entire day. Beyond his open window, Waterdeep lay spread out before him with a thousand flickering lights, marching southward toward the sea.

Suddenly there was a series of bright flashes, down by the wharves. A moment passed, then another, then at last the staccato of small explosions reached his ears. Khelben probably had found the rest of the smoke powder stashes, Jehan thought. The ripple of thunder sounded like Khel-ben's chuckle.

Jehan sat there for a long time, looking out over the darkened city, but the effect did not repeat itself. The young mage wondered, Is Khelben rewarding me by making me his apprentice, or punishing me?

Or is he up to something else entirely?

Jehan was still trying to figure this out, the first of many puzzles Blackstaff would pose to him, when sleep finally reclaimed him.

I am penning this story as a warning, so that it will not happen to another as it happened to me. My first mistake upon meeting the thief was that I pitied him. But then I have always pitied his kind: those who have longed all their lives to become wizards but-by some cruel trick of birth or accident-are incapable of touching or shaping the ethereal substance of magic. How easy it was for me, so comfortable in my wizard's mantle of power, to feel pity for such a man. Yet pity can be a weakness. And as I have learned, it is not my only one. Here then is my tale.

It was just after sunset when I received the curious invitation.

Outside the window of my study, the last day of autumn had died its golden death, and twilight wove its gray fabric around the countless spires of the Old City. I sighed and set down my quill pen next to the sheaf of parchment I had been filling with musings of magic. As it had with growing frequency of late, a peculiar restlessness had fallen upon me. Absently, I gazed about my sanctuary. Thick Sembian carpets covered the floor. A fire burned brightly in a copper brazier. The walls were lined with shelves of rich wood, laden with books, scrolls, and crystal vials. Everything about my study bespoke learning, and comfort, and quiet dignity. I decorated it myself, if I do say so.

I took a sip of wine from a silver goblet, wondering at the source of my unease. Certainly nothing could harm me here in the haven of my tower. Over the years I had bound walls, doors, and windows with protective magics and charms of warding. No one could enter the tower without my leave. I was utterly and perfectly safe.

I set down the goblet and caught a reflection of a man in its silver surface. He was tall and regal, clad in garb of pearl gray. His handsome face was unlined, and his eyes gleamed like blue ice. A long mane of golden hair tumbled about his shoulders. The man looked far younger than his true years. Yet magic can have a preservative effect on those who wield it.

This I knew, for the man was me. Morhion Gen'dahar. The greatest wizard in the city of Iriaebor.

I shook my head, for I had not chosen this title. True, years ago I had traveled on perilous adventures. I had helped defeat beings of ancient and terrible evil. Perhaps, in those days, I had known something of greatness. Yet what had I done since then? Nothing, save keep to the peaceful fastness of my tower. I was secure, and comfortable, and safe. Yes, safe. That was the word, and suddenly it was like a curse to me. I clenched a fist in anger.

After a moment I blinked. Bitter laughter escaped my lips. If this tower was a prison, I had wrought it for myself. Drawing in a resigned breath, I reached for my quill pen once more.

I halted at the magical chiming of a small bronze bell. Someone stood upon the front steps of my tower. Curious, for I had few visitors these days, I hurried from my study and descended a spiral staircase to the tower's entry chamber. Belatedly I waved a hand, dismissing the spells that bound the door-which otherwise would have given me a nasty shock-and flung open the portal.

There was no one there.

The path that led from the Street of Runes to my tower was empty in the gloaming. Oddly disappointed, I started to shut the door. I paused as something caught my eye. It was a piece of paper resting on the stone steps. I bent down to retrieve the paper. A message was written upon it in a spidery hand:

I wish to meet you. Come to the Crow's Nest at moon-rise. I believe there is much we can gain from one another.

— Zeth

I gazed at the words in mild interest. It was hardly the first such invitation I had received. Usually they came from would-be apprentices, wandering mages seeking knowledge, or-on occasion-brash young wizards wishing to challenge me to a duel of magic. I studied the paper, wondering to which category this Zeth belonged. That last line was unusual. Most wanted something of me. Yet this man seemed to believe I had something to gain from him.