"Yesss," its whispering voice was hissing as she raised it past her face. But then another voice burst from it, desperate and alone, echoing in strident despair.
"Elminster, aid me!"
Her father's cry was louder than before.
Aerindel stared at the crown, hearing it snarl angrily. Under those angry growls the cries of others came faintly to her ears. Those who died wearing it. Its other victims.
"Farewell, Father," she said, voice trembling. She turned on her heel and threw the Whispering Crown hard and high.
Out, out over Glimmerdown Pass it flew, howling in angry despair. It spat out lightning at her as it fell- lightning that clawed at the rocks by her feet and then fell far short as the crown tumbled from view.
The moonlight seemed brighter as Aerindel turned into the cool breeze, squinted at the wizard, and asked timidly, "Elminster?"
The bearded man gave her a smile that lit up his face. He took her hand. "The right choice, Aerindel. Ye used yon crown for what Mystra put it into your hands for… and let it go when she wanted you to. Come, now. Mystra will protect ye; ye shall learn magic as thy father did."
An amber light whirled up around their joined hands, to shroud them both in a whirling cloud-a cloud that flashed blue-white and faded, leaving the mountaintop bare.
An instant later, lightning crashed down on the mountaintop, hurling what stones they did not scorch high into the air. The night crackled and glowed with the fury of that strike.
"There's no way they could have survived that," the Lord of Grand Thentor said with satisfaction, looking up from where he stood among the tumbled rocks that now choked Glimmerdown Pass. His men were under all this, somewhere-but who needed warriors in a land where one was the only wielder of magic?
"I wonder who that wizard was," Rammast mused aloud as he clapped his hands together and prepared to cast a flying spell, to whisk him over the rocks into Dusklake. He shrugged-well, he'd fly up over the mountaintop, just to be sure the mysterious mage was no more than ashes and memories now.
It was a pity about Aerindel, but he had her likeness fixed in an evermirror spell, and could alter the shape of some hired wench or other to take her place. Even if word got out, there'd be none to stand against him ere Dusklake joined Grand Thentor, and he looked to richer lands to the west, like Marbrin and Drimmath. Why, he could be ruling an empire in four winters' ti-
Amber light flared momentarily atop the mountain, high above. Frowning, Rammast peered up at it.
Something clanged on the rocks nearby, and bounced past his foot with a metallic clang. The crown!
His lightning must have blasted it from her head!
Smiling, Rammast snatched it up. Gods, but it had given her power enough! With this, Rammast Tarangar would be well-nigh invincible!
He'd call his realm Tarangara, when it stretched from the Great Water to the Inland Sea, and from the High Forest to the hot lands… Yes, by Mystr-
He was still smiling broadly as he settled the Whispering Crown onto his head.
"Look ye now," Elminster said gravely. One of his arms was around her shoulders. He pointed with the other, down at the tumbled stones where there had once been a pass. Down at a lone, gloating man: Rammast, Lord of Grand Thentor. He was-putting on the Whispering Crown!
Aerindel bit her lip and tried to blink away the tears that had been falling since she'd realized what the crown had done to her. She was old, and wrinkled, her life stolen from her… and all for magic. "Mystra will protect ye." Hah.
So Rammast would die, unless the goddess had played one last trick on her… but no. He was falling, dwindling into a dark and twisted thing, skin hanging on a skeleton that was toppling into cinnamon-hued dust… and sweet, surging energies were welling up in her, raising her, making her gasp and tremble in a rapture more intense than anything she'd ever felt before.
Aerindel found herself sobbing, clinging to the comforting arms around her as she shuddered-and then kissing the half-seen face above her wildly, joy surging through her. Her skin was smooth and young again, her body her own!
"Ye see," that kind voice rumbled by her ear. "These things work out. Mystra does provide. Ye have only to trust, and think clearly, and do as she guides."
"And how will I know her directives?" the Lady of Dusklake asked, brushing hair aside from shining eyes to meet his gaze.
Elminster pointed down again. Something gleamed amid skeletal dust, far below. Aerindel saw it only for an instant before the lightning of a spell that no mortal had cast erupted along the cliff across from where they stood, and sent a huge fall of stones rolling down to bury the Whispering Crown.
As the dust rose up toward them, Elminster replied solemnly, "She whispers to us always."
"Elminster," Aerindel said with a tremulous smile, "aid me!"
Interlude
Wes finished reading about the Whispering Crown and turned again to the strange, slim tome he'd found behind the bookcase. Something told him to read more of it. He picked up the book and continued.
It said that the library was originally a little less than half its current size, the northern end of the building being the oldest part. Several times over the past centuries, the monks had added extra rooms until, from the outside, the building looked like an evil baron's castle from a child's nightmare. Inside, the main book rooms and most of the reading rooms were easy enough to locate, for the library had been built around them. Not so the vaults, where many of the works were stored. They were all over the library, utilizing any spare space.
The monks' living areas and accommodation for visiting scholars were in the southeast corner, and all the cooking was done in an outbuilding to keep the smoke and cooking odors away from the books and scrolls.
Many rooms were set up for scribes, and each monk spent a large part of his day copying scrolls and books. It was the abbot's wish that the library hold at least three copies of each work, both to allow several scholars to peruse a work at once, and to protect the works against theft or the privations of age or fire.
The way the library had grown over the centuries made it difficult to tell from the outside where one room started and another ended. Even from the passageways inside, it could be difficult to tell which room was on the other side of a wall. As a result, the library was a very easy place to get lost in.
Wes put the tome aside again. It wasn't getting any more interesting, and there were still several dozen works he hadn't looked at yet. He got up from the table and began looking for something to match the story of the Whispering Crown.
An old scroll caught his eye. He pulled it gently from its home and unrolled it. It was a map, with some roughly scrawled notes around the edges. Between the dim light and the bad writing, Wes couldn't make out the whole story, but it appeared to show the location of a treasure hoard that belonged to a dragon. Judging by the age of the scroll, Wes thought the dragon must be long dead, and the treasure probably found by some group of adventurers.
For the third time, his attention was drawn to the strange tome, and Wes found himself picking it up again.
The history lesson was over. Now Wes read a story of a young man who worked in the library of Candlekeep, a probationary novice many years ago, and who was known to have disappeared without a trace. Jeffrey, the probationary novice, had been bawled out by one of the monks for being lazy and good-for-nothing, and had been sent by the abbot to the north corner of the library to clean an old reading room for some scholars who were expected the next day.