Looking down at the result, he nodded grimly.
“Shadovar. Minor arcanists, to be sure, among the least of Thultanthar. Thine own magic outstrips theirs. Possibly they sought magic in this tomb, and wanted no one else getting to it first.”
“Or possibly, they were hunting us,” Rune said quietly.
Elminster shrugged dismissively, but Storm looked past him at Rune and nodded, slowly and silently.
“This is not the first time these last few months Shadovar have been observed seeking magic,” the Old Mage murmured. “I wonder what they want it for?”
“Shar’s preparing her mortal armies to conquer all they can, and destroy what they cannot?” Storm hazarded.
Elminster sighed. “She’s been doing little else these last few centuries.” He shook his head. “Would that more of the gods would take up some hobbies …”
He sighed again, looked around the dark tomb, and announced briskly, “We, however, still have our work to do. So we can move on to Heatherhill and see what’s left of Galmark Tower. Good wards it had, back when Vangerdahast was my ’prentice.”
“El,” Storm said gently, “we won’t be able to do this Weave work in hiding for much longer. Things are getting worse across the Realms, not better. If half the gossip we hear is true, Chosen-or those who proclaim themselves Chosen, however deluded they may be-are being murdered as casually and as often as men stamp on cockroaches … and all too many of their slayers kill in the name of this god or that. All too often, Shar.”
El grunted. “Mayhap, bu-”
He broke off midword and crouched down hastily. Amarune turned to peer at him, startled, and saw that he was hiding his face in his hands. Hands that were returning to the knobble-jointed and age-spotted look they’d had when he was playing crone. Storm was resuming her crone shape just as swiftly.
The light in the tomb was changing. Rune turned to stare at the mist-and discovered it gone, the forest back at her feet again.
The two bent old crones scuttled back to the corners of the crypt, wheezing and humming, to resume cleaning as if they’d never stopped.
Amarune went from startled to frightened in one chill instant, realizing what she’d just witnessed.
Someone from afar had just magically turned off the wards, so as to see and hear everything inside the tomb.
“Who-?” she started to whisper, then hastily swallowed her words, and asked the rest of them to herself, in the silence of her own thoughts.
Who has the power to do that?
She stared at the crone she knew was Elminster. Just for a moment, one eye met hers-and one hunched shoulder lifted and then fell again, in a shrug.
Elminster didn’t know. And dared not try to find out.
Rune stared into the depths of the forest for a moment, feeling very alone and yet very watched. By unseen, unfriendly eyes.
Then she drew in a long, shuddering breath and bent to use her trowel to collect all the dirt and twigs she’d flung in the face of the man who was lying, very dead, right beside her.
She tried not to look at him. Or the second dead swordsman, beyond him.
Not that avoiding looking at things made them go away.
Even young children knew that.
Did archmages?
CHAPTER 2
Eyes of flat and baleful Platinum regarded the man below the dais coldly. “Am I understood?”
“Y-yes, Most High.”
“Good. Go.”
The man went.
Telamont Tanthul, Most High of Thultanthar, suppressed a sigh. He was getting tired.
And these days, when he grew weary, his temper shortened.
He was getting old.
His lips thinned at the thought, causing the next Shadovar agent marching into the chamber to hesitate, measured footfalls faltering momEntarily.
Telamont let his mouth go calm, forcing himself to almost smile, and stared the man down, keeping his face expressionless.
The agent went pale, but kept coming.
Telamont quelled another sigh. He had ordered these reports, but had now heard enough of them in unbroken succession to grow weary indeed-and the agents yet waiting to make theirs were still lined up clear across the city from the other side of that door. The door of his-well, call it what it was, an audience chamber. An overly formal place he seldom used, but that suited his purposes just now. A great long and high chamber sheathed in gleaming white marble, that at its rear rose to a dais where a high-backed seat fashioned of one great piece of gleaming black obsidian stood facing the door. A huge bare metal table flanked the throne on the right, and the tammaneth rod floated upright in the air in the corner far behind to its left.
Telamont’s only amusement of the long day had been watching each pair of eyes-those of every Shadovar agent entering the room to make their report-dart to the great black rod, hurriedly look away from it, and then try to keep their gazes locked on him.
They all wanted to know what it was.
What it was, was a great black rod-studded down its length with black spheres enclosing empty, dark glass globes-that floated vertically off the floor in that corner.
That was all they needed to know about it, for now. As for the rest, let them speculate. And fear.
Fear was a handle that moved many men.
Even the best agents of Thultanthar. Who were, after all, men. Of greater lineage and learning than the lower, coarser rabble of Sembia and Cormyr and the lands beyond they might be, but underneath … still human. And beneath all airs and graces, humans were still clever beasts. Talking herd animals.
Witness this long queue. Shadovar agents filing in, one at a time, for an audience with their Most High. They’d come rushing back to report their successes in murdering all sorts of Chosen, across the world, at his command.
A herd, none quite daring to be first-but frantic not to be last once they knew one of their fellows had returned to Thultanthar.
Telamont spread his hand to the latest arrival, silently gesturing for the man to speak.
He cared little about the details. Even if he’d gone hunting himself, or sent someone whose competence he could truly trust, like Aglarel, some Chosen would escape. Others would be inspired to think and call themselves Chosen for the first time, in days yet to come. A few would even have real standing, however paltry, in the eyes of some god or other.
Nor would any of this long line of worms dare to honestly tell their Most High how many Chosen had eluded them, or why.
He was most interested not in their achievements, but in the alacrity of their obedience, for busy Shadovar are Shadovar too enwrapped in their work to accomplish elaborate treacheries.
He asked this latest one the same question he’d asked them all, and received the same answer. “Oh, no, Most High, I have been most careful to adhere to your clear command, and have not tried to work any magic that touched another’s mind, oh, no.”
Telamont believed him.
All of the agents, in turn, had assured him of that.
His memory told him this one’s name was Laerekel, and that he was one of Thultanthar’s better agents. Diligent and loyal-to a Most High who showed no sign of weakness, at least. Show no weakness, yet display not your every weapon, as the old saying put it.
Telamont knew well that his keenest weapon was his memory. Without it, he’d have fallen from his high place centuries ago. Dragged down by those waiting for the chance.
Yet none who’d tried had lasted long enough to succeed, or try a second time.
He recalled what he wanted Laerekel to do next, crisply gave the man those orders, and dismissed him, as he had all the previous agents.