Intriguing as it was, I knew I should discard the invitation. Yet I was suddenly loath to return to the safe confines of my tower. I had heard of the Crow's Nest. It was a rough tavern on the riverfront, a dangerous place. Yet was I not the greatest wizard in Iriaebor? I thought with a sharp smile. What did I have to fear? Before I knew what I was doing, I grabbed my dusk-gray cloak from a hook in the entry chamber. I shut the door of my tower, rebinding the enchantments with a wave of my hand, and headed into the deepening night.
I moved quickly down the twisting Street of Runes. The numberless towers of the Old City loomed above, plunging the winding ways below into thick shadow. Soon I came to the edge of the labyrinth and, following a steep road cut into the face of the Tor, made my way down into the sprawling New City below. Here the streets were broader and more open than in the Old City, lined by bright torches.
I was just on the edge of a shabby, less savory section of the city when I was accosted by the girl.
"Would you like to buy some magic, milord?" she asked in a pert voice. A grin lit up her grimy face as she pulled something from her tattered clothes.
"So this is magic, is it?" I asked solemnly, accepting the proffered object. It was a small tube woven of straw.
The urchin nodded enthusiastically. "If someone puts his fingers in each end, he won't be able to pull them out. And the harder he pulls, the more stuck his fingers will be. That's the enchantment."
A low laugh escaped my lips. "And a powerful one it is." No doubt this girl was an orphan, and under the power of some petty thief. If she failed to sell her wares, it was likely she would be beaten. I drew out a silver coin and flipped it to the girl.
"Thank you, milord!" she cried as she snatched up the coin and vanished into the gloom. I tucked the cheap finger-trick into a pocket and, wearing a faint smile, continued on my way.
I reached the Crow's Nest just as the pale orb of Selune lifted itself above the city's sentinel towers. Moonrise. The ramshackle tavern stood on an old quay thrust out into the turgid waters of the Chionthar River. The scents of fish and garbage hung on the air. I opened the tavern's door and stepped into the murky space beyond.
A dozen eyes fell upon me, then just as quickly looked away. This was a violent place. Its clientele were murderers, pirates, and thieves. But all knew a wizard when they saw one. Drunk as most were, none were fools enough to think their fists or knives a match for true magic. They hunkered over their ale pots and returned to their talk. The palm of my left hand tingled, and I rubbed it absently. My fingers traced the familiar pattern of an old, puckered scar: the Rune of Magic, which had branded me a wizard long ago.
I scanned the smoky interior. In one corner sat a man, pale and nervous, fidgeting with-but not drinking from- a dented flagon. It could be no other. Zeth. He was older than I had guessed. His thin face was sharply lined though not unhandsome, and gray flecked his dark hair. Drab clothes hung loosely upon his lean frame. At once I knew he was no mage. I wended my way through the tavern and sat opposite him. He glanced up, his expression one of surprise. Yet it seemed a strange smugness shone in his dark eyes.
"I didn't think you'd come," he said in a hoarse voice.
"Yet, here I am," I countered smoothly.
He fumbled with the flagon. "Would you like a drink?"
"No," I replied.
Silence settled between us. The first move was up to him. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I can feel it radiating from you, you know." A hunger filled his voice. "Magic, I mean. It's… it must be… intoxicating."
With these words, I knew him. Without doubt, Zeth was one of those few who are utterly dead to the touch of magic-what some mages cruelly called geldings. Their kind was rare, but had been known for centuries. Occasionally, masters encountered students who, no matter their intelligence or effort, could not learn even the simplest of spells. For reason unknown, they could neither sense nor channel the forces of magic. Most geldings gave up their arcane studies and turned to other pursuits, leading normal lives. Yet I had heard tales of geldings who had been driven mad by their ill-fated desire to wield magic.
"I'm sorry," I said, speaking the first words that came to my mind.
Anger flared in his eyes. "Save your apologies, Morhion Gen'dahar," he hissed. He clenched his hand into a trembling fist. "I want your power, not your pity."
I gazed at him unflinchingly. "I cannot give it to you, Zeth."
He slowly unclenched his hand. His thin shoulders slumped. "No, I suppose you can't," he whispered. He stared despondently at the table. "I had hoped that maybe you would know a way to help me. I should have known better."
This must be torture for him, I realized. He must be drawn to mages even as he loathed and resented them. It was a cruel illness, but one of which I could not cure him, one which I would only inflame with my presence. "I believe I will go now, Zeth," I said quietly.
He nodded jerkily, still staring at the table, then looked up as I started to rise. "Please," he choked. "Let me at least shake your hand before you go-so that I can say I have indeed met the great wizard Morhion Gen'dahar."
I hesitated. It seemed wrong to aid his delusions in any way. Yet such was the haunted look in his dark eyes that I could not resist. "Very well," I replied finally.
He stood and held out his hand-his left, rather than his right. This was odd, but I thought little of it. I reached my left hand toward him.
"May Mystra guide you-" I started to speak. The words faltered on my lips.
An intricate symbol was tattooed on the back of his left hand. The glyph filled me with a sudden inexplicable dread. I tried to snatch my hand back, but it was too late. Zeth's fingers closed around mine. Agony raced up my arm like white fire. I arched my spine, throwing my head back as a scream ripped itself from my lungs. There was a brilliant flash, and the reek of lightning filled the air. At last, Zeth released my hand. I reeled backward, stumbling weakly against a wall. I stared at him in pain-clouded confusion. Strangely, he was laughing.
"You cannot give it to me," he said mockingly, "but I can take it from you." He held up his left hand. On the palm was a puckered scar, as if from a hot brand. It was a symbol I knew welclass="underline" the Rune of Magic. His laughter rose to a maddening din in my ears. I clutched at the wall, trying to keep my feet. Then the room spun around me, and I fell down into darkness.
By the tune I regained consciousness, Zeth was gone.
I blinked, trying to make out the blurred faces that hovered over me. Crimson light pulsed behind them, in time to the sharp throbbing inside my skull. A wave of nausea crashed through me. I retched into the sour straw that covered the tavern floor, coughed, then managed to draw in a gasping breath. At last, the faces came into focus. A half-dozen thugs loomed over me, leering expressions on their coarse faces.
"I guess he ain't dead after all," one of them grunted.
"Well, he ain't much alive, either," another replied, baring yellowed teeth. "That other fellow did something to him before he skipped out of here. Something nasty. I say we see what he's got."
Alarm cut through the haze of pain. No longer were the ruffians looking at me with fear and awe in their eyes. I tried to pull myself off the floor, but my limbs were as heavy as stone. I slumped back against the wall. I felt weak, hollow-as if part of me had been torn away. What had Zeth done to me?