“Oh, I can be merciful, arcanist,” she told him, as gently as if she’d been telling him when the next washing day was. “Particularly if you tell me where I can find other arcanists.”
“You’re jesting,” he protested weakly. She leaned forward to stare into his eyes, and Malabrak winced and said hastily, “You’re not jesting.”
“No,” Tabra almost whispered, “my jesting days are done. Now, where else might I find arcanists? Or are they lined up downstairs, waiting for you to pillage whatever you can carry so it’ll be their turn?”
“N-no,” he managed to say. “I … I know that four arcanists, young and ambitious, were sent to a noble’s mansion in the countryside in eastern Cormyr. Oldspires, it’s called. They’ll be … magically disguised … of course.”
“Of course,” the disfigured woman murmured, as her long and many-times broken fingers closed around Malabrak’s throat.
“Aren’t you—aren’t you worried about my contingencies?” he gasped desperately.
“No,” she said bleakly. “I will welcome death. Though I’d much prefer to see every last arcanist of Thultanthar dead first. By my hands.”
Her fingers were tightening. Malabrak struggled to breathe, to will every last magic he wore or bore to erupt into life to force her off.
Some of them obeyed, bursting into crackling life.
Tabra smiled. “Ah, the pain! I’ve come to enjoy it, you know. That’s why I almost miss Telamont Tanthul. I never got the chance to share my agony with him.”
Malabrak strained for air, but knew by the way she shifted her cruel grip that she was going to break his neck before …
The last words he ever heard were Tabra’s calm murmur: “Oldspires. I shall go there and hunt them down, no matter what shape they take.”
KurrrakKKh .
M IRT HAD CHOSEN a less than savory corner of Suzail for wetting his gullet, but the dark and narrow alleyway was cleaner and safer than most other cities Elminster knew well. It was also, save for the occasional rat, empty.
Wherefore Elminster was alone when the voice that suddenly spoke softly and deeply in his mind made him stiffen in midstep, falter, and then sink down amid the refuse as if drunk.
Well met, trusted prince of Athalantar . That vibrant, rolling, and melodious thunder in the depths of his mind sounded almost … amused.
Well met, Mystra . El was genuinely glad at the mind touch of his goddess, though it almost certainly meant more work. Every meeting with her excited him, buoyed his spirits, and suffused him with energy. What cheer?
As impish as ever, Old Mage . A warm flood of pleasure this time. As you anticipate, I have a task for you .
I shall be honored .
Flirt. At the gathering at Oldspires, you must deal with my wayward Chosen .
Oh? Which one will be there? Or do you mean me?
Flirt, and jester now, too. I speak of Manshoon. You must either destroy him, or wrest from him something this particular clone of Manshoon carries within himself: An enchanted spindle that holds a spark of the fire of the goddess Mystryl. It is this divine essence that has allowed Manshoon to wield the Art far above his real mastery for centuries .
It’s inside his body?
Yes. And as I do not want to risk any more Chosen, you shall be the only one of my foremost servants at Oldspires—aside from Manshoon, of course .
A spindle .
A spindle . The image of what he was to look for—a long diamondlike shape that had been pulled by a blacksmith’s pincers at both ends, and drawn out long and slender—appeared in Elminster’s mind, so clear and firm and surrounded by Mystra’s blue-edged silver radiance that he knew she was emblazoning it among his memories forever. Cut it out of him if you must .
With pleasure , El thought, and meant it. He and I have been dancing around each other for far too long .
I would have wished matters otherwise, Mystra said sadly, then became brisk again. I have covertly allowed the wizards at Oldspires
“You’re jesting,” he protested weakly. She leaned forward to stare into his eyes, and Malabrak winced and said hastily, “You’re not jesting.”
“No,” Tabra almost whispered, “my jesting days are done. Now, where else might I find arcanists? Or are they lined up downstairs, waiting for you to pillage whatever you can carry so it’ll be their turn?”
“N-no,” he managed to say. “I … I know that four arcanists, young and ambitious, were sent to a noble’s mansion in the countryside in eastern Cormyr. Oldspires, it’s called. They’ll be … magically disguised … of course.”
“Of course,” the disfigured woman murmured, as her long and many-times broken fingers closed around Malabrak’s throat.
“Aren’t you—aren’t you worried about my contingencies?” he gasped desperately.
“No,” she said bleakly. “I will welcome death. Though I’d much prefer to see every last arcanist of Thultanthar dead first. By my hands.”
Her fingers were tightening. Malabrak struggled to breathe, to will every last magic he wore or bore to erupt into life to force her off.
Some of them obeyed, bursting into crackling life.
Tabra smiled. “Ah, the pain! I’ve come to enjoy it, you know. That’s why I almost miss Telamont Tanthul. I never got the chance to share my agony with him.”
Malabrak strained for air, but knew by the way she shifted her cruel grip that she was going to break his neck before …
The last words he ever heard were Tabra’s calm murmur: “Oldspires. I shall go there and hunt them down, no matter what shape they take.”
KurrrakKKh .
M IRT HAD CHOSEN a less than savory corner of Suzail for wetting his gullet, but the dark and narrow alleyway was cleaner and safer than most other cities Elminster knew well. It was also, save for the occasional rat, empty.
Wherefore Elminster was alone when the voice that suddenly spoke softly and deeply in his mind made him stiffen in midstep, falter, and then sink down amid the refuse as if drunk.
Well met, trusted prince of Athalantar . That vibrant, rolling, and melodious thunder in the depths of his mind sounded almost … amused.
Well met, Mystra . El was genuinely glad at the mind touch of his goddess, though it almost certainly meant more work. Every meeting with her excited him, buoyed his spirits, and suffused him with energy. What cheer?
As impish as ever, Old Mage . A warm flood of pleasure this time. As you anticipate, I have a task for you .
I shall be honored .
Flirt. At the gathering at Oldspires, you must deal with my wayward Chosen .
Oh? Which one will be there? Or do you mean me?
Flirt, and jester now, too. I speak of Manshoon. You must either destroy him, or wrest from him something this particular clone of Manshoon carries within himself: An enchanted spindle that holds a spark of the fire of the goddess Mystryl. It is this divine essence that has allowed Manshoon to wield the Art far above his real mastery for centuries .
It’s inside his body?
Yes. And as I do not want to risk any more Chosen, you shall be the only one of my foremost servants at Oldspires—aside from Manshoon, of course .
A spindle .
A spindle . The image of what he was to look for—a long diamondlike shape that had been pulled by a blacksmith’s pincers at both ends, and drawn out long and slender—appeared in Elminster’s mind, so clear and firm and surrounded by Mystra’s blue-edged silver radiance that he knew she was emblazoning it among his memories forever. Cut it out of him if you must .
With pleasure , El thought, and meant it. He and I have been dancing around each other for far too long .
I would have wished matters otherwise, Mystra said sadly, then became brisk again. I have covertly allowed the wizards at Oldspires
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