Jhessail Silvertree held the younger mage tenderly in her arms and said, "We all are, kitten. Even the gods, now. Elminster used to tell me, when I cried: Walk with fear a little while. Get to know it, and know thyself the more."
Illistyl only sobbed in reply, and clung to her more tightly. "He's gone, too! Jhess-where is he?"
Jhessail felt wetness welling up in her own eyes. "I don't know," she whispered back. They clung to each other in the darkness. In a voice that was not quite steady, she said, "We're all scared. We should be, now, if we know what's befallen-and are sane."
Illistyl drew back and stared at her, eyes streaming. "You think mages are sane? You're crazy!"
Jhessail laughed until she had to cling to Illistyl for support, and they laughed together awhile longer.
There came the hurrying tread of booted feet, and Mourngrym rushed in, torches and guards at his back.
"What now, women?" he demanded, sword naked in his hand.
"The-sanity of mages," Jhessail gasped. "A... laughing matter, it seems."
"I've often thought so," the lord of Shadowdale replied, sheathing his sword. "Though with Elminster about, I've never quite dared say it."
Illistyl nodded. "And now that he's gone, who knows where … ?" Her voice was only a whisper.
Mourngrym looked at her. "I'm so afraid, lass, that if I stand still too long my bladder fills my boots right up to the tops. If you had any sense, you'd know that much fear, too."
He wondered, then, why the laughter of both lady mages was so wild.
My patience is not endless, man. Do you think showing me such things delays your fate? The unlocking and wielding of mystra's powers are what i seek, not these scenes from the eve of the madness of magic failing, no matter how much it mattered to you.
I try to reveal all, Nergal. I try. Much is tangled here, when the old Mystra passed and her powers were thrust into me to carry. Here alone is the time when I understood what I wielded. Believe me.
You make such belief less than easy, mage. Delay me less.
***
"Lord?" Darthusk pulled back on his swing a moment before his sword tip would have found Mourngrym Amcathra's throat.
The lord of Shadowdale stepped back, frowning. He shook his head as if trying to clear something out of It, staring at nothing.
Darthusk waved his hand in an urgent signal. All of the guards around the room stopped their sword practice and fell silent, looking at their lord in concern. Was this some sort of Zhent trick, or-?
Mourngrym shook himself again and caught up his belt rag to wipe the sweat from his face. "Strange," he said tersely as he raised his blade again, "but-'twas so vivid. A passing memory of our two lady wizards laughing until they were falling down. I went in to see why the noise, and..."
He shook his head again, wonderingly and said, "Cry pardon, Darthusk. I-magic. Strange, always."
"Aye, Lord," the guard said, as they crossed their blades to begin again. "Magic always is. I see it as a sword that burns at both ends-harming its wielder as well as the foe. It's a wonder to me that more mages don't end up aflame in earnest, screaming down in the Nine Hells!"
Mourngrym stiffened again, frowning at Darthusk. “What did y-never mind." He tapped his sword against the guard's. They swung at each other with real force, and the spark-striking clang of steel rose again around them. Mourngrym shook his head and growled, "Aflame in the Nine Hells, aye. Use magic I must, but trust it? Never!"
Their eyes met over their skirling blades, lord and guard, and they grinned and shouted in unison, "Never!"
***
[frustration like flame... aye, a flame burning in Hell with a too-clever mage in the heart of it]
What's that, little man? What's that thought of flame you're trying to hide from me? You think fire can harm me?
Ah, no. "Never"
Aye, so stall no more! Snow us more of that! There were guards, yes, with drawn sworos, and light-well?
[hasty swirl of images]
Brightness, long-barred doors opening, guards stepping warily back with naked swords bright in their hands, parting to let us stride forward...
Ahead, into the light...
About time.
The blue-white light of the Art, of Mystra's power unleashed...
Show me!
Blue-white, and wavering... in a stone tower where an old man sat alone, spellweaving...
The spell had never gone wrong before. It was such a simple tiling, the conjuring of light. Oh, wondrous to a farm boy, to be sure, the making of radiance where there had been none before-and a thing for a raw apprentice to be proud of. In the actual casting, mind, there was nothing very complex or difficult.
Taern "Thunderspell" Hornblade, Harper and mage of the Palace Spellguard of Silvermoon, stood up suddenly, then sat down again, frowning in bewilderment. In his mind he went over what he had done again, seeing clearly the clean, careful, precise steps. No, he had made no error. The spell should have worked.
He cast a detection spell, felt it range out from him. No fields or barriers, save those that were always in this place, met his probing. The scrying magic worked flawlessly, proof that no magic had been placed to drink or deny all Art. Everything seemed normal, the torches flickering in their braziers as they always did. Yet the spell had failed.
Either someone who could not be seen or otherwise detected had acted to steal or dispel his Art-hardly likely-or something had happened to Mystra or to his standing in the eyes of Mystra... or he was going mad. Happy choices, all.
With hands that shook only a little, Taern knelt in the stone-walled spell chamber and prayed to Mystra, his gray-bearded lips moving in entreaty. He felt as if a black gulf had suddenly opened beneath him, and he was helpless to avoid plunging into it, into oblivion. What had he done? What had happened to him?
He was still on his knees when one of the room's secret doors opened-the door that led to the chambers of Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon.
So upset was Taern Thunderspell that he did not look up or cease his prayers, even when a gentle hand came down to rest on his shoulder. He did stop, amazed, at the grief-choked, kindly words that followed.
"Make thy prayer a farewell and thanks to the Lady, Taern," Alustriel told him. "For she is gone forever."
Taern looked up, dumbfounded, and saw that tears rolled unchecked down the cheeks of Silverymoon's queen. A blue-white aura of power curled about her long hair and spilled from her brimming eyes.
"Lady?" Taern asked, reaching his hands up to her. “What do you mean?"
Alustriel took his hands in her own, and Taern felt a tingling of power. Great Art, she had, more than he had ever sensed before.
"Thy spell failed not by thy doing. It was lost, with all Art worked in Faerun in that breath, in the passing of Mystra."
"Mystra is-dead? Destroyed?"
"Destroyed, aye." Alustriel knelt on the stones beside him, her long gown rustling. "While ye are down here, Thunderspell, ye could join me in prayer to Azuth, to guide the living."
"Living mages? Such as ye and I?" Taern was white-faced; the black gulf was all around him, and only the hands that clasped his kept him from sinking. Hands that glowed blue-white.
Alustriel smiled through her tears, and said softly, "For one mage, aye. The one who holds Mystra's power now. It burns him inside, and we must all hope he bows not to the temptation to wield it. And for the one who comes after, the one who must rise and grow to take Mystra's place and power. They will need our prayers, and whatever help we can give, in the days ahead.''