Tsarra marveled at the linking of the minds and perceptions of nineteen souls. She wondered just how much she could handle as three souls in one body. She had already gained much knowledge and power by taking up the mantle of Blackstaff. Still, she ached to fully understand the magic around her. The three grand mages cast another spell of their own above the Chosen-a high magic working within their own ritual. Tsarra tried to focus on what they did, but she went deaf and blind. A chorus of voices sent to her, These are Arts you cannot know. Mystra's fires may keep you safe from the akhelben's working, but to espy on high magic would destroy you utterly. You shall feel its touch soon, child, which shall be gift enow. Tsarra sat back, deflated. Khelben's working still sang all around her, but she prayed she could find a way to stave off what he deemed inevitable. It was then she heard the murmuring in Elvish, "Assemble… Assemble…
Assemble…" She tried to isolate the voice, but it circled the library. Each orbit, its call pulsed through the kiira: "Assemble..
Assemble… Assemble…" Tsarra followed the whisper around the room, and she spotted the selu'kiira floating about her own brow in the mirror. Within a moment of that realization, another selu'kiira arrived in a nimbus of red brilliance, and it too took up both the sending chant and an orbit around Tsarra's own gem. Tsarra stared at the two gems orbiting her own kiira, fascinated.
It was nearly highsun, but the sky remained storm-wrapped. Mentor coughed violently, much to his surprise. The bracer and the magic he controlled teased nutrients from the Weave and into the soil around him. The clouds and gray detritus of the life-poisons rose more swiftly, and the gray-green hue of the heath slowly became healthy soil for the first time in twelve thousand years. Unfortunately, the poisons took their tolls on the casters within it, and Mentor found blood on his sleeve when he wiped his mouth and nose. So be it, if that is our cost, he thought to himself. He sensed that the toxins surrounding them weakened some fellow casters. Maskar, Jhesiyra, Orjalun, and Ualair nearly succumbed, faltering and lying prone but still manipulating magic as the masters they were. All had reserves of power that defied age and infirmity, but the work sorely taxed their abilities to fight off death. Despite that, Mentor marveled at how well the plan had come together, that working he and his six comrades had inherited back in the Incanistaeum. Much had been rumored about the Seven Wizards of Myth Drannor, but their greatest secret had lain unguessed for centuries. Mentor was proud of his former student, the proud non-elf of elf's blood who had made quite a few names for himself since the Wintercloak had called him "Nameless." They had inherited the secret from others, who had carried it before them. The seven had believed they guarded the secrets of Uvaeren. It took Khelben to piece it all together and show even his own teachers that secrets within secrets provide a fertile loam in which much magic and mystery can grow. Unfortunately, the deeper they all dug and tilled the soil, the more virulent the venoms they unleashed into the storms.
Mentor and the eleven others of the Second Circle moved into the second stage of their working. They took their cues from Syndra Wands, who taught them the magic within Isyllmyth's Bracer. They all cast simultaneous spells, and they became pillars of lightning and flame.
The twelve pillars struck the clouds overhead, energies crackling in the ominous clouds. More lightning bolts erupted swiftly from the full-fledged Killing Storm, scoring the earth for miles around. Each strike left silvery flames in its wake, and the Second Circle also released its contained fires, allowing the High Moor to become awash in silver brushfires. They sent their glad tidings, best wishes, and magical thoughts with the fires, which merged with the others and built as the ground flames surged slowly across the heath. Inside the pillars, the twelve sighed in relief as the magic kept them safe from the poisons that threatened their lives. Each soul hoped such cures might be forthcoming for those who might fall into the Killing Storm's path before they could tame it. Ualair lived up to his name, keeping even his mind partially silent from the link among the Second Circle.
He sensed what most others could not-the building of high magic at the center of the working. He knew the costs that would be asked of them soon, and he prepared to pay them without a second's thought.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Feast of the Moon, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR)
Sandrew the Wise still could hardly believe his eyes and ears. All around him, the ground steamed and smoked, unleashing belches of olive-green smoke and ground fog. At various times, lightning bolts scored the ground and set it alight, though there was little heat from the flames. Sandrew had been praying for understanding of the previous day's encounters with Khelben when light filled his private chapel.
Oghma's glowing scroll appeared before him, its fore-edge shaped like a stairwell. Without hesitation, Sandrew answered the call of the Lorebinder and stepped boldly onto the scroll. Within him, Oghma left a simple message: You are called. Be my hands to mold old magic and lore into a new future. Sandrew continued his ascent and found himself joined on the stairs by Shaynara Tullaster of Candlekeep and Loremaster Cadathlyn of the House of Many Tomes, two other high-ranking priests among the Binder's faithful. Once all three greeted each other, they reached the end of their journey. Sandrew the Wise stepped onto the High Moor from the curving menhirs of Malavar's Grasp. Foremost among the people before him were the Blackstaff-restored and whole, though oddly wearing the green gem he had given his apprentice-and Raegar Stoneblade. Soon after, Sandrew accepted a golden circlet and donned it, fervently wishing his friend could accompany him. When he arrived atop a small rise, he looked around to find Raegar and the black tressym-which resembled Khelben, strangely- clambering or flying up the hill toward him. "Good to have you near, Raegar," Sandrew called. "Oghma wishes witnesses to this historic event." As he spoke, a lightning bolt struck the ground very near the three of them. An explosion of choking, poisonous smoke engulfed Raegar and the tressym, knocking them down. Sandrew slid down the gravel embankment and pulled them away from a vent of noxious gas.
Neither seemed to be breathing and both had a sickly olive pallor to them, their eyes a blackish-green. "Lorebinder, allow these beings to learn more yet. Do not close their books. Erase their names from the scrolls of the dying." Sandrew prayed earnestly, pouring healing energies into both of them at once. Their eyes returned to normal, as did their skin, and both revived, only to spend their waking moments vomiting black and green bile from their lungs and throats. Nameless thanked Sandrew by rubbing his head into his palm, while Raegar clapped his hands on the priest's shoulders in thanks. "I don't know if I'm worthy of this much of the Binder's attentions and energies within one tenday, sir." Raegar demurred, but Sandrew dismissed that notion by responding, "You may yet find your service increasing in the church, young Stoneblade." The trio climbed back atop the hillock, only to find the landscape around them filling with the horrid stench and deadly gases. All around, poisons cloaked the High Moor as the Killing Storms rose from slumber. "I thought we had it bad, but it looks worse at the center there." Raegar pointed at Malavar's Grasp, over a mile away and only visible as a tall pillar of flame and lightning brighter than the other flames and lightning bolts around it. The Second Circle had just become twelve pillars of lightning, and their storm ignited the ground scrub near them. They saw the gold flames of the Second Circle engulf the areas and grow outward, like a wildfire across the hills. "I hope Tsarra's all right in there,"