They cowered as he came howling at them, clapping their hands to their faces, but still, the air in front of Elminster was glowing and changing. He knew the two cowering mages had had no time to work other spells. So was there a third foe, hitherto hidden and-?
Wind or not, he was ensnared.
The air had become a net, formed in but a handful of instants.
Formed from the wards of Candlekeep, and by one of these two monks kneeling before him. A forming that had been done by calling on the Weave.
And as he felt the tightening net, its shape was all too familiar. It had been snatched so hastily into being by someone working with the Weave as Elminster himself had trained them to do.
Which meant one or both of these two monks almost had to be Chosen of Mystra he himself had trained.
He was nigh certainly facing one or two of the Seven Sisters.
El forced the net away with an ease he’d learned twelve centuries ago. Its creator fought him, but it was as if she was tugging vainly on the string of a kite he had clutched firmly to his chest. With the force of his will, El twisted the net inexorably into a magical wall against any other spells these two might send against him.
The struggle made the wall shimmer once or twice into visibility. Behind its protection, Elminster took on his own usual ancient and bearded shape.
And watched astonishment dawn across the faces of the two monks.
“Your turn,” he told them calmly.
Reluctantly, they took on their proper shapes too, and he found himself facing two tall women he’d treated as his daughters, long, long ago.
Sisters, tall and furious. Alustriel Silverhand and Laeral Silverhand Arunsun.
Laeral was the first to break the silence. “El,” she asked grimly, “why are you here? What are you up to?”
“I’m seeking Khelben’s writings, as ye very well know, to try to find out what he was up to. Because it’s time.”
“It’s past time,” Alustriel corrected. “It was past time the day you turned against Khelben, and we Moonstars.”
“I ‘turned against’ no one,” El replied sternly. “I followed the bidding of the Lady we all serve-or claim to.”
“We have all obeyed Mystra,” said Laeral, “and continue to do so. You reared us, El-do you not know how much we love you? Do you think we would have taken different paths without her blessing, and still remained her Chosen? You were closer to her than the rest of us, and know full well she revealed things to you and gave tasks to you that she did not share with us-can you not accept that she did the same with each of us, and that she chose not to reveal it to you?”
“Nor can any of us roll back the years and undo what has been done and said,” Alustriel added. “We three stand here now. Is it to be war between us, or common cause?”
“That will depend,” Elminster said wryly. “Are we agreed in this much: that Shar seeks to destroy Mystra and remake the Weave as her own? And that if she succeeds before the Sundering of Toril and Abeir is complete, she will be named the goddess of magic on the Tablets of Fate, and darkness and shadow will hold sway in the Realms forever?”
Both sisters nodded.
“We are,” Laeral confirmed, “and it is now our turn for asking, Elminster. I ask again: why are you here?”
It was time for full truth. El cleared his throat and began.
“I’ve worked with the Weave for more centuries than I care to remember, and have labored on it mightily these last seven years, mending and restoring it. Yet rifts and roilings recur in it constantly; it has not collapsed, but is forever in peril of doing so. Where I was the meddler among thrones, mansions, guildhalls, and cottages, Khelben was the Weavemaster. If there is a key to restoring the Weave to stability, to rebuilding it to be the strong and pervasive web we once enjoyed, Khelben knew that vital secret and recorded it-and one of the places he must have hidden that record is here, in the great library of Candlekeep. I must find that key, master it, and restore the Weave.”
He started to pace. “And if I can reason thus, so can any wise wizard. The Shadovar will come here-they have undoubtedly come here already, dwelling here as monks. While the wards stand, they can be rooted out and thwarted-but if the wards fall, the entire might of Thultanthar can be hurled against us, and all the lore stored here lost in the fray. I have slipped through these wards many a time, and know their strength, if not all their nuances. I can hold these wards up, if anyone can.”
He brought himself to an abrupt halt, regarded them both, and said flatly, “That is why I am here.”
Their frowns told him they were considering his words, but no more.
So he smiled and asked gently, “So why, ladies fair, are ye here? Posing as monks of Candlekeep, and moving or hiding all of the books I’ve sought? Are ye hiding the word of Khelben from the disguised Shadovar within these walls? Or just hiding from the Realms, as war rages, ravaging it?”
The two sisters looked at each other. Then Alustriel tossed her head and told him, “While you mastered the natures of all who dwell in Faerûn, and how best to sway and cozen them, and set about doing that so very well, Khelben foresaw the Sundering, and set about preparing for it.”
She looked again at Laeral, who nodded, so she went on. “We have been monks here for more than a century, after arranging matters so the wider Realms thought us dead. Itching to act in matters large and small, yet keeping our silence and our secrets and learning the cold price of patience, to serve the greater cause. Making copies of the tomes here Khelben did not write, and sending them forth to other libraries, so that they might survive what is soon to come. Watching and waiting for the moment we must destroy Candlekeep.”
“What?”
“What name do the elves have for us, El?”
“What do ye mean, ‘destroy Candlekeep’?”
“What name do the elves have for the Moonstars, El?”
“Answer my-Tel’Teukiira.”
“Yes, and what is written in Amagal’s Tome about the Tel’Teukiira?”
El frowned. “That’s one of the books I’ve been seeking these past days, and cannot find. I read it just once, centuries ago, and in great haste, seeking words of power that could compel elder dragons before they could ravage three kingdoms. I don’t remember! So tell me: what is written in Amagal’s Tome about the Tel’Teukiira?”
“The Tel’Teukiira will save us from the Three Who Wait in Darkness, the Prefects, and ourselves.”
El gave them his best quizzical raised eyebrow. “Even so-called ‘true prophets’ get things plainly wrong, despite their habit of writing and speaking cryptically, for the gods are all too fallible. Ye’ve both lived long enough and seen enough to know that. Even if Amagal could see the future with clear precision-as even the gods cannot-how do ye know this is the time? And who precisely, for certain, are the Three Who Wait in Darkness, the Prefects, and ‘ourselves’?”
“As it happens, Amagal did not see the future,” Laeral said dryly. “He merely passed on a more ancient foretelling, purportedly uttered by Chauntea at her birthing, when Toril itself came to be-and Amagal mangled it while doing so. That older prophecy is thus: ‘When worlds are sundered once more, and Toril itself stands in peril, only the Tel’Teukiira can save us from the Three Who Wait in Darkness, the Prefects, and ourselves.’ ”
“I can guess that the Shadovar have something to do with the Three Who Wait, but who are the Prefects? And who could Chauntea-if it was the Allmother-have meant by ‘ourselves’? The gods?”