Both sisters shrugged.
El regarded them sourly. “All right, who did Khelben think ‘ourselves’ meant? And how did he-or the two of ye-come to conclude ye must destroy Candlekeep?”
“Do not think we have not debated this down the years, El,” Alustriel told him ruefully. “Confronting Khelben, when we still could, as fiercely as you are confronting us now.”
“More than once,” Laeral put in sadly, “I wasted time disputing when we were abed together. Time I would give almost anything to have back now.”
“We have argued it and argued it,” Alustriel added, “and asked Mystra as much as we dared, and pieced together every hint we could find in what all the gods have said-Jergal in particular, hinted much-and threw all we could learn at Khelben. And he stood fast.”
“So what, by the Lady’s Secrets, did he believe?”
“That ‘ourselves’ meant those of us alive at the time, and the follies and mistaken beliefs that will lead us astray. The Prefects were what the senior officers of Candlekeep were collectively called by the monks beneath them in rank, at its founding; a term that soon faded into disuse and was forgotten. And we agree with you that the Three Who Wait in Darkness are probably Shadovar-and are certainly agents of Shar, for she is ‘the Darkness.’ ”
Elminster nodded. “I find myself still waiting for a good reason Candlekeep must be destroyed. I have spent my life preserving lore so that the Art will not be forgotten, but flourish. If I am not to fall upon anyone seeking to smash this great storehouse of lore and destroy them utterly, the reason for my forbearance had better be good.”
“Candlekeep’s wards are the mightiest surviving wards on or under Toril. Myth Drannor’s mythal is the greatest extant mythal. They are the greatest sources of stored magical energy in all the Realms-and both must be destroyed to keep their energies from Shar, and Telamont Tanthul, her most capable agent.”
“Myth Drannor now, too? The mythal I helped raise so long ago, with so many dear to me who are now gone? Lus, Laer, have ye both gone mad?”
“We may well sound so, El, and believe me it grieves us to think of such great and lasting magics thrown down too … but hear us out.”
“My ears attend ye,” Elminster told them dryly. “Make it good.”
Laeral gave him a sigh, then a smile, and then the words, “The elves of Cormanthor are a proud and truly noble people, but that pride is what it has always been-their greatest weakness. Most of them can’t believe mere human arcanists, however skilled in sorcery, can defeat them. Yet they will never hold their city against what the Shadovar can muster against them. The monks in this great fortress around us are just as deluded; they trust in the wardings alone for defense. Telamont will seize the power here, then that of the mythal, and with it will tame the Weave and remake it into a true ‘Shadow Weave.’ And with that, Shar will finally become the greatest goddess she has so often boasted of being.”
Elminster lifted his head as if to say something, but Laeral raised a forefinger to forestall him and added, “With the Weave augmenting the Shadow Weave and controlled by it, Shar will have a Shadow Weave that is more than an echo of the Weave we have served and strengthened for so long-she will govern the world with her Shadow Weave, and will be able to transform it into what she seeks. Oblivion. The world we know will become an endless night of hunting and slaughter, with all order and lore destroyed-and Shar exulting in the continual loss of life and all history forgotten, only the hounds that serve her knowing what they destroyed, and keeping those secrets within the ranks of those who serve her. It will be eternal nightmare.”
“So you see,” Alustriel added, “we must destroy the great wards here, and the Last Mythal there, rather than let them fall into Telamont’s hands.”
El shook his head. “Ye deem the elves weak, thanks to their pride, yet spare Telamont the same judgment. He has pride and overconfidence enough for any score of archmages.”
“I know it will take some time to come around to seeing things as Khelben did,” Laeral added gently. “It took us years. Years I’m afraid you don’t have.”
“Ladies, I very much doubt there are enough years ahead for us all, for there to be enough to bring me to thinking the old stiffnec-the Blackstaff was right in this. The old saying about ‘defending the castle so fiercely that it was destroyed in the defending’ comes to mind. In short, I have not heard such utter madness since Khelben was alive.”
Laeral winced. “It has not been so long, El, that his death does not pain me. Please listen-”
“Ye please listen, the both of ye. Ye speak of destroying two of the greatest surviving magical treasures of our world, achievements that may never be replaced once they are gone, to say nothing of surpassed. Even if that vandalism means nothing to ye, consider the danger ye plunge all the Realms into if they are destroyed. Two great storehouses of active Art, brought down, will inevitably release such a flood of magical energies that the Weave would be torn to shreds. Every bit of it to fail would become wild magic, a spreading chaos that could well banish governable magic from the world. If ye thought the Spellplague was bad, imagine Toril and Abeir awash in unleashed and roiling power, yet with every last sentient being powerless to wield or steer any of it, because ‘magic’ as we know it has failed utterly. A second and greater Spellplague!”
Laeral shook her head and opened her mouth to speak, but El held up a forestalling finger and swept on.
“The two worlds will separate, aye, are sundering even now-and with the Weave gone, there will be nothing to safeguard any stability at all. Toril and Abeir were rocked by the first Spellplague, but what was left of the Weave still protected Toril then, like a tattered suit of armor. A suit, may I remind ye, that I have spent centuries strengthening and patching and fastening together ever more securely, which is why it survived at all when Mystra fell.”
Elminster started to pace in his agitation, waving his arms like an exasperated tutor. “Without any protection at all, order cannot hold! The raging chaos of magic will strike all the Art stored in items-paltry sparks, but there are thousands upon thousands of them! — and all that unbridled energy must go somewhere! If the Srinshee is right-and I believe she is-both worlds will most likely collapse into uncounted shards, with all life on them swept away in tumult and agony. Do ye not care about our world, and everyone in it? What price victory, if we all die-and the Realms with us? What sort of triumph is that?”
“That will not happen, Old Mage,” Alustriel snapped, “if we do as Khelben saw we must. You conjure dire fantasies, when you should face the truth. The Blackstaff studied this for centuries, and at first thought as you do, but then-”
“Made another of his misjudgments? The Lady knows I’ve made a generous share of grave mistakes, but Khelben made more of them, and stubbornly stood by what he’d decided, even after his folly became clear to all, longer than any mage not green and young I ever met. His stubbornness was his hallmark-”
“And his strength.” Laeral’s voice was as firm as a forge hammer striking iron. “Nor is this a contest of who’s more worthy or more ‘right.’ In this case, this most important case of all, Khelben studied longer and harder than any of us, and reluctantly came to this one conclusion, and we agree with him. And you yourself have spoken of how the Srinshee promised to return in Myth Drannor’s hour of need-so where is she, if that gravest hour of need is truly upon us?”
Alustriel spoke again, before Elminster could. “El, hear me: we have spent more than a century confined here, constraining our lives down to reading and writing and praying, to silence and holding back, to acting roles that chafe us, because we love the Realms too much to fail it. We will not be turned from this. The wards of Candlekeep and the mythal of Myth Drannor must be destroyed. Whether you stand with us or against us, this must be done.”