Then, a miracle happened.
The columns of smoke changed course and blew over the heads of the coughing crowd. The breeze pushed a pair of low-lying clouds together in front of the bright moon, and they darkened in seconds into impressive thunderheads. A fat, heavy drop of water splat-ted on Wiglafs head, and was joined by thousands more just instants later. The magnificent cloudburst sizzled out the torches and coals and drenched the suddenly jubilant people in the street. The sticky dough was wiping off easily in the cleansing rainstorm, and the goopy mass that moments ago had threatened Angrod's life was quickly turning into the world's biggest dumpling.
A gaunt, berobed figure in the middle of the street dropped his arms and ran his hands through a head of wet, snow-white hair before replacing his cowl.
Not a miracle at all. This storm had been manmade.
"Fenzig! Whe-, wha-, hoo-" sputtered Wiglaf when he reached his master's side.
"Spare me the hyperventilation," the mage sniffed in a voice too low for others to hear. "You actually thought I would let you out of my sight for an entire week? Though I must admit, I did underestimate you." He frowned at the street scene. "I didn't think such a level of disaster could possibly be created in a single day."
"I didn't mean-"
"Silence. I know what you meant. I've been watching you the entire time. You know just enough to be dangerous, lad, and precious little else. If you had applied yourself during our language classes, you would have been able to read the entire inscription on the parchment. That, youngling, was your undoing."
"But the Year of Plenty-"
"Achieved with your magic dough, yes, but the rest of that piece fed multitudes!"
"The other half?"
"It is written perfectly plainly in Thorass," Fenzig hissed. "One sprinkled pinch is sufficient to make the oversized loaves that ended that famine of antiquity. I could throttle you for causing this mess. And you're going to make amends. But now I have to put on the public face."
Against all reason, Fenzig put his arms around Wiglaf and walked him back toward the crowd, speaking at stage volume. "Thank you, Wiglaf, for extinguishing the fires," he intoned, "and what a grand gesture, giving the jar you found to your father in payment for his inconvenience."
"Fenzig, have you gone mad?" Wiglaf spoke out of the side of his mouth.
"No, son," his master spoke softly, "but I never cause my students ridicule in public. Bad for the professional image. Don't worry, you'll be doing plenty of penance when we get back home."
And so, while Fenzig and Sasha passed the time with Wiglafs parents, Wiglaf himself spent the rest of his Calimport vacation on janitorial duty. He emptied the bakery with rakes and shovels, and on hands and knees scrubbed it clean again from top to bottom-a job made even more difficult after just about every bird in Cal-imshan discovered the mammoth feast; a few judicious grease spells when nobody was looking helped the process immensely.
The bakers enjoyed a temporary holiday while Wiglaf cleaned up, and spent the days lounging in the sun and at the seashore.
"I'm sorry, Father," Wiglaf said on the third day, when Thorin brought him a lunch basket from home. "I'm sorry you had to close down."
"Don't worry, son," the baker said, looking around. "This place has never looked so clean before. And Fen-zig has shown me exactly how to use that jar of starter, so I should make up for the lost business in no time. In fact, this could turn out to be my most profitable season ever. And I owe that to you, son."
Wiglaf hugged his father for a long time. Things were right again. Things were normal again in Calim-port.
Except.
Those who were close enough to hear said the screams from the pasha's palace continued for many days thereafter.
Interlude
Wes began looking for something more to read. He had learned so much in this room, more than most of the monks knew, he was willing to wager. As his gaze traversed the room, his attention was caught by a thin, leather-bound tome, wedged behind a bookshelf. He hadn't noticed it before, but it seemed to be calling to him, begging him to pick it up and read.
His curiosity aroused, Wes carefully extracted the book from its unusual place and took it to the table. The book began with a history of when and why the library was built, and why here at Candlekeep.
The library was housed in a large stone edifice near the edge of the cliffs overlooking the Sea of Swords. The cliff-top position made the library easy to defend in its early days, when any kind of building was assumed to be a fortification. Indeed, parts of the library gave the appearance of a noble's castle.
Baldur's Gate lay a little over one hundred miles to the north, and there wasn't much of anything else close by. This was how the monks who ran the library preferred it. Study, meditation, and the copying of written works were not pursuits that leant themselves to the hustle and bustle of a busy city.
After a few pages of this dry history, Wes put the strange, slim tome aside and searched for another book. He discovered a tale from long before Candlekeep. In the ancient days of Netheril, there were floating cities, propelled by enormous magics, and defended by mages riding griffons…
Now, this looked interesting.
When Even Sky Cities Fall
J. Robert King
Peregrin rose beside the thunderhead. The sun glinted from his eagle eyes and shone warmly in his flashing feathers. His leonine body cast a darting shadow up the wall of cloud before him. With each surge of his wings, the griffon climbed, prying loose the covetous fingers of Faerun.
His rider hunched, light and expert, in the saddle.
Josiah was a mage, as were all the green-robed griffon riders of Tith Tilendrothael. Only a mage could be mind-bonded to a griffon. Josiah had been mind-bonded to Peregrin for eleven of the man's twenty-five years. He rode with the balance and grace of experience. His long black hair lashed in the wind.
Just a little higher, Peregrin.
Through Josiah's eyes, the mind-bonded griffon saw the rest of the cavalry-four hundred bird-lions and their riders-topping the gray-black wall of cloud above.
Peregrin responded with a lunging rush of wings and fresh speed. He watched as the hind claws of the last ranks disappeared over the cloud ridge. In three more wing beats, Peregrin followed, vaulting the coiling squall line of the storm.
A broad skyscape opened before him. The top of the thunderhead dipped slowly away into a great black sea that stretched to the horizon. Against that toiling expanse, the other griffons glinted in formation like ships in a golden regatta. The creatures looked tiny and fragile upon the angry cloud.
For Tith Tilendrothael, pledged Josiah.
His black hair whipped around him as he took one final look back at the floating city whence they had come. Tith Tilendrothael was barely visible through a dark valley, its ivory towers and golden streets glittering in sunshine.
Peregrin meanwhile focused his attention ahead. What are we looking for, he asked, this? He sent an image of lightning leaping jaggedly across a misty cauldron below. Or this? His vision shifted to where the vaporous sea curved into a black vortex. Or-this?
For a moment, they both fell silent, watching a ragged flock of crows straggle en masse just above the cloud top. The birds flew with the weary, hovering motion of sea gulls following a fishing boat.
That's it, Josiah agreed. Crows don't fly this high. They must be tailing the enclave, looking for scraps. The city should be hidden just below them, about there. He focused his eyes on the snaking darkness beneath the birds.