As the sound grew, the gathered Zhentarim suddenly recalled various urgent tasks and concerns that required their immediate presence elsewhere. The room emptied in almost undignified haste.
The eye tyrant's mottled body descended slowly into the glowing water of the bowl, and the sound it made deepened into the gentle, steady humming of contentment.
A rat scuttling across a far corner of the room stopped, amazed, at the sound. An eyestalk turned its way almost lazily, and the dark rodent was plucked into the air. It soared helplessly into the gigantic, crooked, many-toothed maw of the monster, which opened to receive it. With a grunt of satisfaction, the beholder settled into the water and rolled.
When it rose up, dripping, it began to indulge itself in one of its favorite amusements: spitting the bones of prey at nearby targets.
Nearby stood a lifelike statue of a nude woman holding an oil bowl over her head. Whispers among the Brotherhood that this brazier was a captured slave turned to stone were supported by the expression of terror on the openmouthed stone face. Quyssztellan turned slightly in the air above the bowl, and the rat's freshly bared skull struck that mouth with such force that the bone shattered into dust and fragments.
The beholder chuckled again and chose another target.
"Where will it all end?" Noumea's voice was anguished. "And why was I ever chosen as Magister? I am too weak for this. Mystra needs a war leader among archmages now, not my feeble powers and doubting."
The tall, slim, conical column of silvery gray light beside her emitted what could only be called a mind-sigh. Its mental voice echoed in her head.
Ye were chosen, and the Lady is seldom mistaken. Thy kindness and care will be much needed in time soon to come. After the destroyers lash out, the harder task must follow: rebuilding, so that the next destroyer will have something to work upon. The silvery cone flickered, and tiny motes of light drifted about within it. Be of stout heart, Lady Magister. We shall all have need of thee.
Noumea brushed long hair back out of her face for perhaps the six thousandth time since the Lady had fallen silent. "But how can I fight Manshoon? I have not his power, nor his-ruthlessness. I was not made to slay or lay cruel Art upon anyone."
Ye will do what ye must, as we all do. And soon ye must curb Manshoon. He grows ever more powerful, and there are no gods to gainsay him. Azuth's mind-voice sounded grim, resolute. Have ye not understood what we have seen of his doings?
The Magister swallowed and nodded. "That spell he devised, it urges on wildness in Art. When he casts it on mages or their spells, their Art is more likely to go awry and destroy them, or bring harm to them through the anger and fear of others."
And so, daughter of Art: what must ye do?
Noumea brushed hair back from her face again and drew herself erect. Her skin had turned the color of fresh-fallen snow, but her face was set in determined lines. "I must fight Manshoon." She stared into the darkness around them for a moment, looking regal and serene in her power. Then she turned to the silver-hued cone and seemed to crumple.
Trembling, she whispered, "Lord Azuth, I am afraid."
Afraid? Of Art?
"No," Noumea gasped into the silvery light, "I'm afraid that when I strike with Art, I'll find… I enjoy it."
If ye do, does that give thee the license to do nothing, Lady Magister?
The slim maiden shook her head. "Against gods, I cannot act. Against runaway mages, I must act."
The silvery cone that was all that was left of the Lord of Mages sent her a warm, comforting mind-touch of agreement and satisfaction. Noumea embraced it suddenly, weeping. Where her tears fell on the warm, electric softness of the glowing cone, tiny winking lights were born.
Laeral watched the delicately fluted wineglass float silently and smoothly toward her. When it paused before her, she thanked it gravely. Lathlamber sparkled and glowed within. She smiled, and her slender fingers closed gently around the warm crystal.
"Lord?" she called softly, knowing he who sent it must be near. In answer, the table grew a fluid, shifting wooden hand, reached out to her leg, and scratched her… just on the itch where her boot tops always chafed. Laeral purred contentedly and sighed, "Oh, Khel-I do love you."
"I know it," came a quiet reply from her feet. The grave face of the Lord Mage of Waterdeep rose out of the floor and ascended steadily as his body floated up through the solid, polished obsidian slabs.
Laeral's dark, beautiful eyes widened for an instant over the wineglass. Then they crinkled into a smile of pure pleasure. "You never cease to amaze me," she said lightly, set down the glass, and threw her arms about him.
They embraced, there in an upper room of Blackstaff Tower, kissing in fondness and then in passion. After fiercely embracing one another for a time, they loosed and studied each other, and sighed as one.
"More bad news, Lord?" Laeral asked, knowing her lord and love well, and reading in his face more than he ever thought it showed.
Khelben nodded, unsmiling. "Chaos grows across the Realms. Beasts not seen in an age swarm over the land, roaming even into the streets of large cities like Iriaebor and Crimmor. Brigands and all manner of orcs, drow, and goblinkin are on the move, raiding, and from everywhere come reports of religious fanatics burning, slaying, and inciting others to open war. The gods themselves are walking Faerun, destroying this and ordering that-and always, Art grows wilder, less reliable, more savage and apt to have unforeseeable effects."
Laeral nodded. "So much has been apparent for some days, Lord. Yet I sense a darker shadow. Unburden yourself, please. We work better together than when one of us broods alone."
Khelben smiled. "I apologize… I can see myself when you speak so. Well, then, my dark thoughts are bent on Manshoon of the Zhentarim. He has set to work in all this fright and wild worry to develop a spell that augments the wild effects of other spells. He's been using this dark magic to turn the Art of foes back on them, or to bring harm through the wild effects of twisted spells."
Laeral nodded, her eyes large and dark. "So I have heard from two sources, now. You have seen him work this?"
Khelben nodded grimly. "It is high time, and past time, that we dealt with the Black Master of the Zhentarim, whatever the cost to us. I think I shall begin preparations."
Laeral reached for him. "The danger! Especially now, when our Art is needed to protect and defend, and this wildness of magic aids his dark spells."
Khelben nodded again. "I know all this, and yet it is a responsibility I cannot evade longer. If Noumea were more… warlike, the task is rightfully hers. But time passes, and his power grows, and she acts not. So…"
Laeral managed a smile. "If you go up against the Dread Lord," she said quietly, "do not deny me room to stand at your side."
Khelben came toward her then, opening his arms to her embrace. "No," he said quietly, "that one thing at least I have learned in our years together. I will not try to keep you from the fray, or tell you what is wisest and safest, or try to shield you. I love you too much, Lady, to so insult you anymore."
A thought then came to him, one he'd had several times before. Nothing in all Faerun tasted so sweet as one of his Lady Laeral's kisses.
Long, skeletal arms went around the Old Mage. He took his pipe out of his mouth as he saw them come into view, turned smoothly within their tightening embrace, and said, "Ah, it is you. Well met, my lady."
Then, without a trace of repugnance, he leaned forward and kissed the tattered skin and bared bone and teeth of the undead thing's grinning mouth.