Larloch’s smile held not the slightest trace of mirth. “Precisely. So let me show you how best to call on the wards-so your control of them will triumph over that of Alustriel, Laeral, and the Prefects of Candlekeep.”
“The Prefects …,” Elminster purred thoughtfully.
Rather than saying another word about the Prefects that so obviously intrigued his guest, Larloch smiled more widely and said, “Your mistake, thus far, has been thinking of the wards of Candlekeep as just local shackles that constrain the Weave into a specific order-which is, yes, what a mythal does. And, I’ll grant, how you augmented the wards when you made your little additions to them.”
Something overhead chimed very softly, but the archlich ignored it. “The wards seem to accomplish the same imposition of order that mythals do, but are far different in nature-being, for one thing, the untidy accumulated creation of so many diverse hands using differing methods and ways of seeing the world that no one examiner can now easily see how the wards accomplish what they do. So most individuals, if they can affect the wards at all beyond shifting matters from already-crafted setting to already-crafted setting, do as you have: they grasp whatever’s nearest of the wards and tug on it as if turning the Weave to their will. That works, crudely, but can be easily and utterly foiled by anyone who knows more of how to ‘work’ the wards, as the monks say. The real monks, that is; watching the unfolding dance of covert slayings and impersonations has afforded me true entertainment, these last few years. So the proper way to bend the wards to your will is to …”
He waved one bony hand, and a glowing, moving image appeared in the air between them, showing a smaller and more silent Larloch calling on the wards with a particular technique.
The real Larloch imitated the actions of his image, and gave his guest a sidelong look. Obediently Elminster joined in, and together they briefly practiced alongside the animated image.
A bony finger wagged, the image winked out, and the Shadow King commanded, “Now you try working the wards in that manner, without guidance. I’ll spin something that resembles the wards-thus. Now you grasp it and try to alter matters so the air of the warded area glows bright as day, and all sounds are muted.”
El did as he was bid, thrice over, until he and Larloch were both satisfied the Sage of Shadowdale had mastered the technique.
“We are almost ready to return to Candlekeep,” the archlich announced. “I can get us in through the wards without issue.”
“Oh? How?”
“Who do you think renewed and expanded them, centuries ago?” Larloch asked, eyes twinkling. “Of course, I took the opportunity to make a few changes for my own benefit, in case I ever wanted to peruse a tome or two at my leisure.”
“And have ye felt that want?”
“Many times, O man of many questions. Now, we’ll need to begin by getting the Shadovar and the Moonstars to fight each other rather than us, to win us time to work.”
“From what I know of both the Netherese and Khelben’s cabal, they’ll fight each other without any help from us,” El replied dryly, “but I take it ye mean determine precisely where they’re battling each other, so as not to see us-and attack us, on general principle.”
The archlich nodded. “Precisely. We’ll need to protect as many of the Prefects as we can too-the Keeper of the Tomes, the First Reader, the Great Readers and, only if they can be torn away from their duties without us spending overmuch time in doing so, the Chanter, the Guide, and the Gatewarden-because the more of them working with us, the more we can anchor and stabilize the Weave we’re repairing, and minimize the risk of Weavefire, and it all going wild.”
“Weavefire?”
Larloch sighed. “What did Mystra teach you and her other Chosen? Your Dove and your Storm prefer the sword to the Art, but the rest of you? I suppose, submerging herself into the Weave and becoming it, as Mystryl so long resisted doing, Mystra wanted no one to know that much about it, and so about her own vulnerabilities. Yes, Weavefire. Not like silver fire or the handfire novices conjure, nor yet spell-spawned walls of fire-Weavefire is when some part of the Weave is consumed by its own runaway energies, melting and shriveling like dry leaves in hot flame.”
The archlich waved a hand, and another moving midair image appeared, showing Elminster just that. It did not look pretty.
“When your Mystra took you as a lover,” Larloch told him, “she was putting the Weave into you. And she was putting you into it, making you a new anchor for the Weave. She did the same with the Simbul and others you never knew about. Using all of you because it was needful to keep the Realms from chaos. Just as you must now do what is needful. Which is to trust me a little more, and carry out my plan.”
“And that is?”
“I’ll send you back to Candlekeep with Telamont’s sigil and secret words, and make your voice sound like his and your eyes look like his. His agents will believe you to be him; I’ll give you their names and faces. Gather them and lead them into battle against the Moonstars, seeking to surround and contain Khelben’s agents. When the fray is well underway, I’ll snatch you out of it and back here-and we’ll return to Candlekeep together and use the wards to seal off the warring sides. Those barriers won’t last against determined spell hurlings, but should win us time enough to begin calling on the wards to mend the Weave.”
El stared at Larloch for a long, silent time, then nodded and said, “I’ll trust ye this far.”
“Thank you. If all things work out well, you won’t live to regret that trust. Rather, it will be time for Mystra’s Chosen to raise the cry of ‘All hail the Shadow King!’ Or more likely not, from what I know of you Chosen.”
And with those wry words, the lich stretched out a withered, long-fingered hand. “Receive, then, the names and faces you’ll need to know …”
The war wizard was younger than Mirt had expected, his face pockmarked by one of the minor diseases that afflicted the young. Yet he carried himself with the quiet self-assurance of someone who wields both power and authority comfortably.
And Mirt had traversed so many rooms and guard posts, and spoken to so many courtiers to reach this inner room of the sprawling royal court building-hmmph, it looked larger than the damned royal palace itself! — on this chilly morning, that this lad must have some standing. Despite his pimples.
“It is less than usual for audiences of this sort between outlanders and the Wizards of War,” the youngling began discouragingly, seating himself behind his desk and waving Mirt to a shorter, harder chair on the other side of it, “but-”
“It’s ‘less than usual’ because you diligent agents of the Crown tend to come looking for us first,” Mirt rumbled, glancing at the floor beneath the chair and the ceiling above it out of long habit, before settling himself into the seat with a grateful wheeze. “If we cause trouble, that is. From what I’ve seen hereabouts thus far, you lack resources enough to spy on everyone-common problem; had it myself-so the suspicious and known malcontents get most attention, and large-mouthed aging drunkards like me get dismissed as all wind and no dagger. A fairly accurate assessment, by the way.”
The young war wizard’s smile was a trifle pained. “We tend to prefer not to discuss specifics-”
“Courtiers behind desks never do. We all know-or tend to learn, the hard way-that words not said are easier to weasel out of. But come, lad, we’ll be speaking of preferences and unusuals and difficult-to-says all day if our backsides and these chairs hold out. Niceties have been observed, and you’ve sufficiently signaled yer inability to be blunt and yer superior position when dealing with outlanders. So to the point!