The first pulsed and winked on Dhalgrave's brow, darkness glimmering and sparkling in an endless, deadly chaos as it let him read the thoughts of any of the blood of Malaug he locked gazes with. More than that, it was the center of a web of spells and counterspells that waited to defend Dhalgrave against attack, or were set to howl through the castle at his death; and it gave him other powers whose secrets were much rumored but little known.
It was not reverence of Dhalgrave or respect for the Shadowcrown that had gathered most of the kin here today in answer to his summons. It was fear of the Doom-stars.
They circled his left wrist endlessly, as they always did: four spherical stones of winking pale blue radiance, trailing motes of light as they orbited the bracer whose mighty spells-secrets lost with Malaug's death-tied them together, focusing their power into a weapon no shapeshifter could withstand.
The slightest touch of the rays-a dozen or more at a time-that Dhalgrave could call forth from the Doomstars could hold a Malaugrym unmoving, a powerless captive. With an extra caress of fear, some of the assembled clan recalled memories of an earlier disastrous treason-battle that had been settled in this manner. Properly wielded, the Doomstar rays could force a shapeshifter into any form Dhalgrave chose, from worm to mushroom, and bind the victim in that form forever by stripping away the power to shapeshift.
"Hear me, blood of Malaug," their ruler said formally, his old and wise voice rolling out deep and confident.
"Speak, O Shadowmaster High," the ritual response came raggedly, from most throats in his audience.
"You know the time left to me grows short," Dhalgrave said flatly. "Some of you have schemed to make that time even shorter. Thalart was one such schemer, though he saw the error of his designs and volunteered to serve the Shadow Throne by destroying the mortal wizard Elminster… a task in which, regrettably, he failed."
The throne turned slightly at Dhalgrave's bidding, as he looked about at them all. "I say 'regrettably' because his failure leaves that task undone, for one of you to accomplish. Hear this. My successor as Shadowmaster Supreme, head of House Malaugrym, shall be the one who accomplishes the utter and final destruction of the mortal of Faerun known as Elminster of Shadowdale, once Elminster Aumar of Athalantar, and the wearer of many other names in the years between. He is the greatest foe of this house, and I shall not go into the final shadow until I have seen him o'erthrown."
He looked around again, as if waiting for someone to fill the silence he'd left them… but no one did.
"There is a practical reason for this slaying, beyond the pride and passion of avenging the fallen of this house- too many, by far-he's destroyed down the years. An archlich of Faerun, one Saharel, ceased to exist in a battle not long past. Her ending leaves Elminster, as far as we know, the only being besides myself who knows how to wield, empower, or destroy the Crown and Stars of Malaug I wear. He is, therefore, the only foe who can break our power over shadow and end the life all of us have known.
"For the younger and more arrogant among us, hear me and believe. Not only our dreams of greater power in Faerun and in the Etherimm would be swept away-but all the lesser foes the Malaugrym have made down the ages would rise, here in the shadows and elsewhere, and rend us. You'd not then be striving with each other to decide who'd replace me, but fleeing as far and as fast as you could just to cling to life-existence, locked in some shape of lesser power that would begin as a disguise and might soon become a prison."
Dhalgrave rose to stand on air in front of the Shadow Throne. He grew taller, his ivory skin darkening as the batlike beginnings of wings stirred at his shoulders. He raised his left hand to show them all the fast-flashing, bright Doomstars dancing excitedly about it, and snarled, "Elminster must die! This wizard must be de-strayed!"
Several of the senior family members echoed in thunderous unison, "This wizard must be destroyed!" and the very pillars of the castle flashed with sudden light as the Doomstars tolled once more. The ripple of chaos that burst from the circling gems and rolled outward in all directions through the shadows threw many of the assembled Malaugrym to their knees and terrified many of the younger kin-who'd never felt such power before — by clawing them, rudely and with casual ease, out of their carefully chosen shapes.
"If you would rule the house and realm of Malaug, Dhalgrave's voice boomed out over them all, augmented by the Shadowcrown until the echoes were painful in their ears, "go and slay Elminster, and speedily. For if I pass and he yet lives, the hand that wields this Crown and these Stars may be his, and doom will come to us all! Go, and work his death!"
"Death!" they cried in chorus and rushed off into the shadows, thrust away by the power of the Crown's compulsion, growing wings and tails and claws as they went.
Dhalgrave sat, his chin on his hand, and through his Crown watched them from afar. Where the compulsion faded, the younger ones sped on, hunger and fury in their faces. But many of the older kin slowed, and shifted shapes thoughtfully, and shook their heads.
Dhalgrave smiled a cold smile but did not use the Crown to further compel or rebuke them. Deep within, he felt as they did.
Many times that he could recall, Elminster's final and utter death had been a breath away, no more; but always he'd slipped away, cloaked in trickery and distractions and luck. Mystra's Luck. The favor of the goddess who watched over him, doted on him as he grew older and more bent to her will, a crabbed shadow of a man who served her with helpless loyalty. Always she shielded him and sent aid to snatch him back from his final doom.
Yet now her own power was failing, and her own foes were on the move. Bane for one. If only a small part of that one's schemes were accomplished, there'd be a time when the mortal wizard would be left to stand alone- and at last, at long last, Elminster's Doom could be accomplished.
It was time for the Malaugrym to earn their long-awaited victory, and past time for them to win and enjoy it. Then he could rest, his essence stealing into the Shadow-crown to join the other elders there, awakening only when he desired to, with the thoughts of the Shadow-master his to whisper in and all the accumulated memories his to sort and seize upon, until the wearer of the crown saw things his way, and did as he bid… as even now he did the bidding of the whispering elders who'd worn the crown before him.
From time to time, Dhalgrave wondered, as they did, just what had befallen Malaug, the father and founder of them all. Dead, it was said, and by Elminster's hand, others held. Yet none of the elders had any memories of that death, only of a disappearance and many rumors cloaking it, like the fabled Cloak of Shadows, Malaug's lost secret, whose wearer would lead the house to true greatness.
He was looking forward to seeing that.
Shadowdale, Kythorn 14
"And you just left it there, all blood and tentacles, for Jhaele and her boys to clean up, and Shar and my two young blades to explain away?"
Storm Silverhand shook her head in disbelief, one shapely eyebrow raised, as she came around the table with a platter of fresh cheese-laced cornbread hot in her hands.
Elminster nodded as he reached for a slice. "Well, aye," he said, "but-" As he'd expected, she steered the platter deftly out of his reach to offer it first to the Simbul.
The Queen of Aglarond, hair and robes as wild as always, was frowning fiercely and muttering under her breath as she added a fourth layer of shielding spells to those she'd already woven around Storm's farm. She waved her sister away without even looking at the platter.
The lady bard sighed, rolled her eyes, and thrust the platter at Elminster. He smiled serenely, bowed with courtly politeness and, with delicate fingers, took a single slice. Storm set the platter down on the table and slid into the nearest chair to get out of the way. As she'd expected, she had sat down just in time to get clear of the flight of a pewter butter-crock and a knife, gliding in from the pantry to see to the slice he'd selected… as well as another dozen or so slices that rose one by one from the platter as the knife approached.