"Who can promise you that?" The air around Khelben's head shimmered slightly, a hazy halo of stars coming into view. His eyes were rimmed with silver, and Maskar and Tsarra both gasped as Mystra's symbol manifested clearly for a breath before dissolving into the remnants of the sunbeam. "Very well," Maskar said. "What's the task-fully restoring Myth Drannor?" "No, though a few worthies of that realm may join us for the working. No, 'tis something older still. We need your wisdom as much as your knowledge of the Art for our ritual. Besides, you've little delight in these galas of overstuffed shirts. Join us at Malavar's Grasp, and help us tame magic that has slept for millennia."
"Getting away will take some doing, Blackstaff, especially if it needs to happen without undue notice. For me to disappear from my villa during a birthday feast in my honor will draw attention." "You're capable of slipping away without anyone the wiser, Maskar. Besides, it has been a score of years since you reminded people you're a wizard of power with many secrets they dare not invade." "Good point. My reputation is in need of repair, and it's been longer since I've been well and truly surprised by magic. What you're hinting at sounds too intriguing to miss. You have my promise to meet you at the Fallen One's Fingers, aye. I cannot break away earlier than daybreak on the Feast, but I shall meet you at Malavar's Grasp by moonrise, regardless of my family's wish for a three-day-revel." Lord Wands smiled as he shook both Khelben's and Tsarra's hands. "Are you well enough, Tsarra?
We need to move quickly now." Khelben helped her into a sitting position. "I think so," Tsarra said, standing up and stretching. Her balance was restored, and she readjusted her top to cover the belt again. "All right," Khelben said. "Many thanks, Lord Wands. It is now time we consulted with another god. I've a feeling there's much for us to learn at the feet of Oghma. Summon your tressym, Tsarra, and let us make haste for the Font of Knowledge. In the interests of both safety and propriety, we owe Sandrew the Wise a visit."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
29 Uktar, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
Raegar woke abruptly as the slap tore him from an exhausted slumber. What kept him conscious was the flesh-chilling cold from the lich's touch, the marble floor, and the many other pains across his body. The stunning effect had long worn off, but the beatings and lack of sleep were having a cumulative effect on him. The late afternoon sun lit the upper dome of the Stagsmere entry chamber through its shattered skylight, but the rays were intermittent as clouds still gathered overhead, as they had all through the night and morning.
While Raegar enjoyed the fleeting warmth of it, the afternoon sun in his eyes had lulled him to sleep for a time. Raegar hated feeling helpless, but he could only turn his head from left to right. The night before, the lich had summoned and morphed a trio of skeletons into a bone cage that anchored him spread-eagled on the floor. Turning his head away from the lich, he could see his broken short sword, two of his daggers, and his magical rings in a clump against one wall, tossed aside when the lich's spells overwhelmed and disarmed him. He couldn't see where the lich had taken the Diamondblade, but he was glad he didn't need to dodge any lightning because of it. "I realize you're not genteel, Raegar, but you must stop falling unconscious when I'm talking." The creature's skull loomed close to his face, its soulless features even more disturbing up close. "You're young, but Waterdhavians were made of sterner stuff in my day." Raegar spat a stream of invectives at the lich foul enough to make a Dock Ward sailor blanch. To his chagrin, no sound came from his throat due to a magic placed on him a few hours before. Raegar had been hurt many times by people and circumstances in the past. Never once had he ever felt so helpless. He pushed against the bone cage, but his efforts were less effective than they had been hours before. He was weak from exhaustion, but his hatred for his situation and his captor burned bright. The thief entertained methods of revenge and stored them away for more appropriate times to exact them. "Yes, this is better… much easier with you incapable of interrupting me," the lich gloated.
"Besides, don't you wish to learn more for those little scribes of the Font of Knowledge? Laughable, that they think themselves worthy to take for themselves the secrets wizardry has wrested from the cosmos.
At least this venture has proven fruitful with a number of new pawns and Rhaelnar's Legacy itself within my grasp." The lich paced around the chamber, sprinkling an area with powders and herbs, gesturing mystically at various points, and obviously focusing on a major work of magic while simultaneously torturing the captive Raegar. The lich had spent the past eighteen hours magically building something in this chamber and torturing Raegar for more information on Khelben and modern-day Waterdeep. The creature also lectured on the superiority of southern magic and the gentrific elegance that was the Shoon Imperium and its magical works. One thing the lich did not do was reveal his name to Raegar, which was fine. Raegar had more colorful names for him in his head. I would gladly kill this lich simply to spare anyone else the boredom and pain, Raegar mused to himself. At least he's taken off that skullcap and I'm able to think without him stealing my thoughts.
The thief shuddered when he felt the lich invade his mind and mine every detail of his life, significant or otherwise. His only pleasure came when the lich discovered how many insulting swear-word-filled names Raegar had silently given him. That rattled him enough to shout,
"Boy! You will fear the Fro-No. Very good, Raegar. Very good indeed.
You'd almost wheedled my name from me. No, I want Khelben to go mad wondering who brought his plans down around his ears. Not until I am assured of victory will I face the Blackstaff again." More hours passed, and the only sounds in the chamber were the lich's incantations and the whistle of the wind in the upper chamber around the broken masonry and skylight. The lich's robes stopped directly in front of Raegar, and he continued a particularly complex incantation for a few moments. Raegar turned to look up at the creature, breathing through his mouth so as not to smell the dusty and pungent smell that came off the lich. He almost wished the wizard would reactivate that harness, if only to mask the creature's smell and horrific looks. "Why are you smiling, Raegar?" the lich inquired. "Thinking up petty revenge? Well, you shall soon be free of my skeletrap and back in the City of Splendors. All I need do is temporarily reset my newest portal to link with Kerrigan's Gate that we used earlier. But first, a few preparations." The undead wizard knelt by Raegar's left hand and placed a ring on it-the one that had sparked when close to the Diamondblade. Raegar got a good look at it when the lich walked away.
The crude iron ring had an intricate silver emblem-a rack of antlers framing a tiny sword with a crescent moon for the sword-haft on the hilt. Raegar could not remember where he had seen this symbol in the past. He wondered why the lich would part with such a powerful item.
The lich returned with a pair of chain-mail gloves forged from four different metals. He cast a quick spell and touched Raegar's forehead twice, then stood up. He said one odd syllable, and the bone-cage around Raegar clattered into an inanimate pile. The thief knew better than to leap up, given how cramped and chilled his muscles were from lying on the cold marble all night and day. Raegar shook the bones off of him, never taking his eyes off the lich, and knelt while he stretched his arms and legs. The lich laughed his hollow laugh and tossed the metal-link gloves at him. Raegar let the gloves fall to his feet rather than catch them. "Put them on, puppet," snarled the lich.