Stynmar nodded. “All the time. That’s why I chose the White Robes.” He sighed. “Back in the old days when colors had meaning.”
“And you’re still doing it,” Grantheous stated. “What would happen if they did find out that we have injected the hope and exuberance of youth into their beer? You know laymen. They would be suspicious of the magic. The brew might quickly sour in their mouths, leaving them upset and angry, mistrustful of everyone.”
Stynmar pondered this for a while, then conceded the point. Despite the deception, he was doing good. Surely that must outweigh everything else. Grantheous was right.
Grantheous winked at Stynmar. “And if we make a bit of steel on the deal, so much the better.”
Stynmar blanched. Magic for money? That might be all well and good for Grantheous, who had chosen the Red Robes of practicality, but White Robes were supposed to be charitable. Or did it matter anymore? Wasn’t it now a question of survival?
“Stynmar, the end is inevitable,” said Grantheous gently. “Perhaps a week from now, or a month from now, or a year from now. We have seen all the signs. The magic will die, and as it dies, we mages will be left naked and vulnerable to our enemies. We must do something!”
“I know. I know.” Stynmar sipped his tea unhappily. “You are right. I just wanted to clear this up before we start on the new batch of beer.”
Grantheous nodded. “Your dilemma is understandable, my friend, but perhaps, by spreading a little bit of magic into people’s daily lives it may help. Somehow.”
Even though the magic brew had been Stynmar’s idea, Grantheous had been the one to make it happen. He pushed Stynmar into working to find the correct combination of ingredients and spell components and rituals to perform on the beer casks. Grantheous truly hoped that good would come of it, and if that good had a solid form and a steely ring and would tide them over in their waning years, he saw nothing wrong in that.
“Won’t you miss it?” Stynmar asked.
“Yes,” said Grantheous. “The day magic dies will be the day I die. Oh, not physically, but part of me will be laid to rest. I will never be the same. None of us will.” He gazed into the distance, far beyond the walls of their humble kitchen, and lifted his teacup. “Here’s to a ripe old age.”
Stynmar raised his cup, then chuckled. “I was just thinking what our old mentor and master would say about our beer recipe.”
Grantheous snorted in derision. “Master Gerald? That old coot. Always talking about the sanctity of magic and how we must treat it with reverence. Hog-wash, I say. Magic is a tool. That is my motto. No need to pester the gods about it. You would never hear a smith praying over his hammer, would you?”
Stynmar shook his head. “No. I suppose not Still…”
“Still,” said Grantheous, glad to end the conversation, “it is a shame about Gerald’s death.”
“Quite so. Forced to work in the mines of Blode. No magic to save him.”
“May he rest in peace. And so should we.” Stynmar nodded. Tomorrow they would take their scroll, which young Fetlin had so expertly written out, and go to the warehouse where the rest of the barrels were stored. Once there, they would finish casting the spell that will help people view with hope.
Grantheous rubbed his hands. “Our future starts tomorrow.”
The two finished their tea and went to their well-deserved rest.
As it turned out, their future started somewhere around midnight.
“We’ve been robbed!” Fetlin shouted. “We’ve been robbed!” He held a candle high with one hand and banged on Grantheous’s door with the other. “Master Grantheous! Please wake! Master Stynmar! Wake up! We’ve been robbed!”
“What is this about, then?” Grantheous demanded, emerging from his room, his beard done up in a fine meshed net.
“Robbed?” Stynmar said as he struggled into his robes. “Who would rob us? We haven’t anything of value.”
“The laboratory,” cried Fetlin. “Come, quickly!”
The three raced down the stairs to the room Stynmar called the “laboratory,” which consisted of a battered table and a couple of bookcases filled with dusty books. Fetlin pointed to a broken window. A soft breeze blew the curtain in, then sucked it outside and then, as if changing its mind, blew it back in again.
Fetlin pointed to a casket that stood open on the table. A broken lock lay on the floor.
“I’m sorry, Masters. There were more than fifty pieces of steel in there. Your life savings.”
The two mages stared into the empty chest, then looked at each other. Stynmar went white. Grantheous staggered and had to hold onto the chair.
“I was getting up for a drink of water when I noticed the window. I remember quite clearly shutting it. I’m so sorry about the money-”
“It’s not the money!” Grantheous cried, his voice shaking.
“The scroll,” said Stynmar, quivering all over. “The scroll was in that casket!”
“Oh, is that all?” Fetlin relaxed. “I know that it will be a bit more work for me to rewrite it, but you and Grantheous have that spell memorized forward and backward, right?”
“True, Fetlin,” said Stynmar slowly. “We do know that recipe forward and backward.” He laid emphasis on the words. “That is the problem. Read forward, the spell bestows the positive energy of youth on the recipient. Makes him feel as if he were young again, with the whole world before him. Read backward-” He gulped. Grantheous groaned. “Read backward, it allows the caster to snuff out joy, weaken hearts, destroy hope. And if the caster is strong enough, the spell could even cause premature aging! Turn a hopeful young man into an old, embittered one.”
“An unfortunate byproduct,” said Stynmar. “It was unavoidable.”
“But,” Grantheous added, “we never worried about it, because the scroll was always kept locked under a magic ward when not in use.”
He pointed to the broken lock, decorated with silvery runes.
“But, Masters, the thief would have to be a wizard to
break that-” Fetlin understood at last. “Oh! Oh, dear.”
“We have to get that scroll back,” said Grantheous.
The two mages were all for running out into the night in pursuit of the thief. Fetlin convinced them to allow him to investigate, suggesting that they might want to use their magic to find out more about the theft. Stynmar brightened at this and, digging into the drawer, brought forth an amulet. He held it to the light.
“This is a bloodhound,” he stated.
“I don’t see how your birthstone is going to help us,” said Grantheous irritably.
“I didn’t say bloodstone. I said bloodhound. It hunts magic. This will help us to track the scroll.
“It’s glowing red. What does that mean?”
“Red means the scroll isn’t here.”
“I can see that for myself,” said Grantheous, his lip curled in scorn.
“When we get close to the scroll, the amulet will glow green,” Stynmar said.
“So all we have to do is walk the length and breadth of Ansalon and wait for the amulet to turn green? Wonderful,” said Grantheous, turning back to patching the broken window.
“I guess I should have thought this out further,” said Stynmar, peering thoughtfully at the amulet.
“Masters!” Fetlin shouted, running inside the laboratory. “I may have something! I discovered a most suspicious character lurking in our alley. At first, he claimed he hadn’t seen anything, but after a bit of persuasion”-Fetlin blushed self-consciously-”he admitted that he did see someone tumbling out our window. The person hurt himself in the fall, apparently, for he limped as he ran away.”
“Where did he go?” Grantheous demanded.
“Into the sewers, Masters,” said Fetlin.
“Of course,” said Stynmar sourly. “Where else would he go?”
The Palanthian sewer system was an excellent one, its tunnels leading to all parts of the city. They provided not only excellent drainage, but also an excellent highway for the local Thieves Guild.
“Well, there’s nothing for it,” said Grantheous, girding up his robes. “We must go after him.”