She frowned, alone in the darkness, though in this place, she was never truly alone. "Sister?" she asked the empty air.
Sylune's touch was like the gentlest of breezes on her cheek and shoulder. Aye, the ghostly mind-voice came, I just recalled that night, too. I wonder why.
***
"Oh, love," Laeral whispered tremulously, arms tight about Khelben in the starry darkness of their bedchamber, "I could feel his pain. What a horrible thing to happen, to be stripped of all Art!"
"Aye." Laeral felt the Lord Mage of Waterdeep tense in her arms. With iron control, he stifled a shudder. He moved to quell her fear first, with the kind strength she loved him for. "I'd not wish that fate on anyone, even one who wore the robes of Thay or of Manshoon's serpents- and yet, love, our Lady chose him. He is the strongest of us all. Great An has raged against him before, and clone much damage-and he is still here, this day, to tell of it."
"If any mage in the Realms can hold Mystra's might and live to see the burden passed on-and resist the hunger to master it and, in the doing, be mastered by it- 'tis Elminster of Shadowdale."
Khelben did shiver, then, and turned a white face to look into Laeral's. His eyes were large and dark with fear. "Mine will be the task to take up what of his work I can- and gather all the strength I can, here. If the Art does master him, and he becomes as wild and cruel a rogue as Manshoon, mine will be the duty to destroy him."
They held each other tightly in the large bed as tears fell. Neither could find words to comfort each other that were not empty.
Nergal stirred. Are you trying to alert your friends, Elminster? Do you truly think such memories can reach them, to warn them of your captivity here? Give it up, fool — nothing leaves your mind but through me. I am the gate of fangs, the portal that opens not. Despair in my darkness and yield. Yield up to me your secrets, little mage, ere I grow restive and tear apart all in seeking what i desire.
Silver flames, flowing…
yes! more of that! show me, cringing human! nergal commands! more, or I'll snatch away your sanity with claws of fear!
Cold fear in spellcasting, fear of going mad…
Yes! wherefore yield! yield to nergal!
Fear like a quavering flame in a dark room, where magic sputtered and failed in slender fingers…
Illistyl drew a deep breath and tried the spell again. Nothing happened-again. Her hands shook.
Magic had never failed her before. Oh, she'd failed it, a time or two, but always the error had been hers, something that more care or training could conquer. Not this wildness, tills unreliability of her every spell.
Deep fear tasted like cold metal in her mouth. There was no Simbul here now, and Storm was half the dale away- there was only Illistyl Elventree, alone in a cold, dim stone room in the Twisted Tower.
"What's happening?" she demanded of the Realms around her, bosom rising and falling as fear took hold. "What have we done, that magic fails us?"
The door of the room resounded to a thunderous knocking, shook in its frame, and burst in upon her. She screamed.
"Oh, gods look down?” Jhessail scolded her, sweeping into the room like a vengeful wind, robes swirling around her. "Must you work such pranks of Art? Half the guards below have just lost every buckle and plate of metal on them-and they're now scrambling around in their boots and under-rags, looking very embarrassed indeed!"
Illistyl looked at her and burst into laughter… that soon dissolved into tears, and then twisted into laughter again. Jhessail held slim shoulders in her arms, cradling them, pulling her pupil close.
"There, there, kitten." she soothed. "Shadowdale still stands around us-take heart. It could be worse."
Illistyl drew a shuddering breath. "How? she demanded tremulously. "I can't work even the simplest spell!"
Jhessail sighed. "Well," she said wryly, "all magic could fail us, and the gods could walk the Realms, and-"
Illistyl's arms tightened around her waist fiercely. "Don't say that," she hissed into her mentor's ear. "Don't even think about it! Jhess, I'm scared. Scared."
Jhessail Silvertree held the younger mage tenderly in her arms and said, "We all are, kitten. Even the gods, now. Elminster used to tell me, when I cried: Walk with fear a little while. Get to know it, and know thyself the more."
Illistyl only sobbed in reply, and clung to her more tightly. "He's gone, too! Jhess-where is he?"
Jhessail felt wetness welling up in her own eyes. "I don't know," she whispered back. They clung to each other in the darkness. In a voice that was not quite steady, she said, "We're all scared. We should be, now, if we know what's befallen-and are sane."
Illistyl drew back and stared at her, eyes streaming. "You think mages are sane? You're crazy!"
Jhessail laughed until she had to cling to Illistyl for support, and they laughed together awhile longer.
There came the hurrying tread of booted feet, and Mourngrym rushed in, torches and guards at his back.
"What now, women?" he demanded, sword naked in his hand.
"The-sanity of mages," Jhessail gasped. "A… laughing matter, it seems."
"I've often thought so," the lord of Shadowdale replied, sheathing his sword. "Though with Elminster about, I've never quite dared say it."
Illistyl nodded. "And now that he's gone, who knows where …?" Her voice was only a whisper.
Mourngrym looked at her. "I'm so afraid, lass, that if I stand still too long my bladder fills my boots right up to the tops. If you had any sense, you'd know that much fear, too."
He wondered, then, why the laughter of both lady mages was so wild.
My patience is not endless, man. Do you think showing me such things delays your fate? The unlocking and wielding of mystra's powers are what i seek, not these scenes from the eve of the madness of magic failing, no matter how much it mattered to you.
I try to reveal all, Nergal. I try. Much is tangled here, when the old Mystra passed and her powers were thrust into me to carry. Here alone is the time when I understood what I wielded. Believe me.
You make such belief less than easy, mage. Delay me less.
***
"Lord?" Darthusk pulled back on his swing a moment before his sword tip would have found Mourngrym Amcathra's throat.
The lord of Shadowdale stepped back, frowning. He shook his head as if trying to clear something out of It, staring at nothing.
Darthusk waved his hand in an urgent signal. All of the guards around the room stopped their sword practice and fell silent, looking at their lord in concern. Was this some sort of Zhent trick, or-?
Mourngrym shook himself again and caught up his belt rag to wipe the sweat from his face. "Strange," he said tersely as he raised his blade again, "but-'twas so vivid. A passing memory of our two lady wizards laughing until they were falling down. I went in to see why the noise, and…"
He shook his head again, wonderingly and said, "Cry pardon, Darthusk. I-magic. Strange, always."
"Aye, Lord," the guard said, as they crossed their blades to begin again. "Magic always is. I see it as a sword that burns at both ends-harming its wielder as well as the foe. It's a wonder to me that more mages don't end up aflame in earnest, screaming down in the Nine Hells!"
Mourngrym stiffened again, frowning at Darthusk. “What did y-never mind." He tapped his sword against the guard's. They swung at each other with real force, and the spark-striking clang of steel rose again around them. Mourngrym shook his head and growled, "Aflame in the Nine Hells, aye. Use magic I must, but trust it? Never!"