A questing shadow shifted through a doorway and rose up to regard the gem, which chimed again and began to spin slowly, a pulsing light awakening in its lower depths. The watching shadow thickened swiftly as others joined it, and then sharpened suddenly into the large but human face of Dhalgrave. Staring calmly at the gem that no one should have awakened, he asked, "Who is it?"
And from out of the heart of the winking gem, a voice he knew said, "Milhvar of the blood of Malaug, Shadow-master High. There is a plan I must lay before you."
"Say on," Dhalgrave replied, his face and tone unreadable.
"There are other gems like this one in Faerun, hidden away in vaults that have survived since the fall of Netheril. Many more spells sit in grimoires and items all over Toril, and we have seldom dared to seek them out. The deaths that the Simbul caused underscore the prudence of this caution, but our younger blood grows ever more restive, and you rightly chose this opportunity of the godstrife to send them after the Great Foe. Yet I fear not just he, but all of Mystra's Chosen are our foes-as the Simbul is. We stand little chance of survival unless we can find some means of warding off their seeking magic, and the spells they send to slay us. The time is right for us to devote all of our skills-together, not as warring individuals-into crafting a cloak of concealing spells."
The voice paused, and then went on more strongly, "If such a thing can be woven, we could make forays into Faerun and seize the magic long denied to us. If the Chosen confronted us there, we could fight them as equals- and better-and no harm would come to this castle around us. I have heard many kin speculating aloud as to how they'd lure Elminster here, and overwhelm him with our massed might and the power of shadows we can call on. I'd rather not see such a battle, with all its unavoidable damage, occur in our very home." Milhvar's voice fell silent.
"You have my permission and support for all you've said thus far," Dhalgrave said without hesitation, "but I sense you've more to propose. Say on."
"There is a grave danger in this proposal, a danger to one being. You."
"I know this," Dhalgrave replied patiently. "Go on."
"Our trust in each other must soon be absolute," Milhvar said, as casually if he were discussing the weather in Faerun, "and I am prepared to submit to all of the scrying magic you care to use. When the concealing cloak of spells is shown to work against the wrath of one of the Chosen, it must also be demonstrated to all that the Shadowmaster High has the means to remove the cloak without warning, leaving the being who was using it vulnerable, I fear this demonstration will cost us one of our more ambitious-not to say rebellious-younglings. By this action you will reaffirm your power and quell the inevitable moves by the younger blood to go their own ways in the planes, armed with cloaks of our devising."
'Your words please me," Dhalgrave responded. "Will you submit to my probing immediately?"
"Of course," the voice replied. "Bring me through."
The Shadowmaster's head didn't appear to do anything, but the floating gem flashed brightly, and the slim man-form of Milhvar stood beside the pool in the chamber. He opened his mouth to speak, but sudden lightnings raged around him, stiffening him into immobility, and a singing, droning sound awakened in the gem, rising in pitch and volume until it abruptly ceased.
Dhalgrave nodded. "You spoke truth to me. I confess I am surprised and pleased. Your loyalty is rare indeed. Know that I have established scrying links to you that govern your very life. Go now and do as you have proposed. If you need my authority to call your team of spell-crafters together, use it."
"My thanks, Shadowmaster High. You shall not regret this."
Dhalgrave nodded curtly, the gem flashed again, and his visitor was gone. Silence returned to that hidden chamber as the floating head frowned at the space where Milhvar had stood. There had been just a shade too much triumph in that parting smile.
Daggerdale, Kythorn 16
The milky mists of approaching dawn had come again to Daggerdale, and Sharantyr shivered once as she stripped away the last of her clothing and stared down at the headless body, contemplating the grisly task ahead. Belkram deftly took the well-worn cotton halter and clout she handed him, as he'd taken her leathers before.
"Don't look," she commanded both Harpers with mock severity.
"Of course not," they replied with identical grins, keeping their eyes carefully on hers. Then they turned around together, walking well away around one soot-blackened wall.
Sharantyr watched them go, took a deep breath, and reluctantly let her eyes fall to the cold form at her feet. She swallowed and then knelt beside it, taking up her newly sharpened knife. This was not going to be easy.
"Be easy, sister-in-arms," nothing spoke, close by her ear. Shar nodded and smiled wanly as the voice of Sylune went on. "Place your longest finger on the ribs, on the right side. Feel them? Move up one… and another.
There. Take the knife and make a mark large enough to see clearly."
Shar swallowed. Then, deliberately, she did as she had been told, feeling her gorge rise alarmingly within her, a sudden hotness in her throat.
"If you spew on the body," Sylune said in dry but somehow sympathetic tones, "you'll make the job a lot more distasteful."
Shar nodded irritably, wiping sudden sweat from her brow with one swipe of her forearm. Cutting a foe in the heat and swiftness of battle was one thing, but…
How did chirurgeons-and butchers, for that matter- do it?
The stone is deep," Sylune said calmly, steadying her. Shar thanked her with another smile, ran the knife point down Old Elminster's side almost to the ground, and then drove it in.
Blood flowed, more and faster than she'd have thought, bathing her fingers in warm stickiness. Sharantyr's stomach lurched.
Involuntarily her eyes traveled to where Elminster's head should be and was not, and a moment later she flung herself to one side and emptied her gut onto the turf, her own ribs aching as she shuddered and heaved uncontrollably.
"It'll be harder if you wait," Sylune said soothingly, but Sharantyr sung back to the bleeding body with an angry snarl, face white, and dug her blade in as if striking a blow in battle.
Her arms and breast were soon dripping, and she nearly squirted herself in the eye twice. One glimpse of her matted, dangling hair made her wish she'd tied it back before starting this, but she couldn't think of everything, by all the gods, and…
There. It slipped out easily into her fingers: a gray, unremarkable stone from Sylune's hut, the focus that allowed the undead Sister to speak, to be, this far from the place of her death. The means by which she'd been able to make this spell-crafted body move and speak and perceive-and ape Elminster so well.
The impersonation had been masterful, Shar reminded herself as she took another deep breath, her stomach a loose and floating thing, and got up grimly from her knees, the stone tightly clutched in her fist. Blood ran down her arms and dripped off her elbows as she headed for where the two Harpers stood talking. Modesty was just going to have to be abandoned for the nonce; she had to get clean!
"Goodsirs," she said tightly, "I must…
"Close your eyes and trust in us," Itharr said gently. "We won't lose the stone; just hold it out."
Sharantyr did as she was bid and felt the stone taken from her fingers, followed by a warm stinging on them and on her eyelids, face, and body as someone washed her carefully with… zzar!
She wrinkled her nose at the unmistakable almond scent, and someone chuckled. Before she could draw breath to speak, Belkram said, "Sorry, Shar. 'Tis all we could think of in haste." After a moment, he offered slyly, "We could lick you clean, after."