Blackstaff (18 page)

Malek reappeared in the audience chamber of Port
Llast’s Griffon Palace to a scene of utter chaos. He had safely teleported into the upper dome of the chamber unnoticed above the archers’ perches. Blades clashed with blades, and spells flared in every corner. Malek immediately identified the main traitors—the Lords Elsmyth, Rushfire, Argentouch, and Bladestroll—and their retinues of guards and mercenaries. More than a dozen royal guards and almost as many traitors lay dead and bleeding on the stone floor. The Griffon Throne of the Witch-Queen was dark with blood, and Laeral, Witch-Queen of the North, lay sprawled alongside it, her short silver curls matted with blood. Barons Bladestroll and Rushfire bent over Laeral, stripping her of protective or life-sustaining magical items.

Malek spun some magic around himself, suddenly adding three identical images of himself. The four Maleks swooped down into the fray, keeping a tight formation, though each Malek seemed to do things slightly differently, standing, kneeling, or sitting on the carpet as he flew.

One Malek strafed the main knot of attackers with arcane bolts, and another dispelled the wall of flame that blocked the entry. The remaining pair swooped toward the throne and the downed queen. A pair of massive magical rams’ heads materialized in front of them and knocked both traitors away from Laeral and into the walls.

As one duplicate wove an occultrap around the stunned mages, Malek leaped off his carpet and threw his body on top of Laeral to protect her from any further attacks. Malek’s heart pounded as he rolled her over to find two daggers buried hilt deep in her stomach and heart. Her dark emerald eyes were glazed over, and she was barely breathing.

He struggled to save Laeral, but he had no more teleports memorized for the day. He let his awareness slip through his illusionary selves, seeing that the other wizards had taken the bait and concentrated all their spells on his images. Every spell just got absorbed either by the figure or its magical shields, causing them to glow.

“You’re too late, Aldhanek! We’ve killed her and taken
her throne. Long live King Elsmyth!” Lord Argentouch boasted as he fired a barrage of magical purple missiles at the Malek closest to the door.

Malek only partially heard the boasts and the opposing spells. He willed the spell to its completion, so he could buy time for another more important working.

“Hang on, my queen,” he said, but Laeral could only blink and her breath bubbled in her throat. She failed to see the tears streaming down Malek’s face. “Stay with me, my lady. I swore to protect you, no matter the cost.”

Three glowing Maleks floated or walked to within arm’s reach of the four wizard-nobles turned traitors and raised their arms as if to cast a spell. Both the masters and their servants saw the threats and fired spells and arrows or other weapons at the glowing figures. With deafening roars, the images exploded, unleashing all their absorbed magic onto their targets through eyebeams, open wounds, or blasts from their hands.

With no time to check on his foes, the court wizard placed one hand on the throne and invoked its powers. A crystalline griffon stood where the throne had been, its massive form and wings providing some cover for the two wizards at her feet. With that action completed, Malek opened himself up to another working—one far more powerful, more intricate, and more personal. Malek’s fingers and eyes danced with silver licks of flame, and he incinerated the two daggers in Laeral’s body. She screamed as the daggers dissolved, and she slumped in Malek’s arms.

“Laeral!
Laeral!”

Malek heard someone barking orders and the
twang
of bowstrings behind him, but all that seemed miles away. His world was only the bloodied face in front of him, blurry through his own tears. Malek cradled Laeral’s head in one palm and whispered to her, the silver flames in his eyes growing and flames creeping from his other hand into her wounds.

“I loved you from the moment I first saw your face—three centuries before you were even born. I am yours, forever and
always, through as many lifetimes as we may share. Ignore the poison, love. Ignore the pain. I have a gift to share that can save you if you let it. If your will is not enough to revive you, take my love as well!”

Malek kissed her deeply, forcing power down her throat and suffusing her with magical silver flame.

Let the silver fires spark within you, my love, and realize you are more than mortal. No more may I say, for you must learn your own destiny before we can be united again
. Malek’s voice spoke within Laeral, mystically coaxing her back to life. Y
ou shall know me always. My truename, for you to guard in your heart, is Wrytham, and all I am I freely share with you. Know I shall always be a true servant of your mother and your soul’s mate. Now, heal in body and mind, until you are ready to remember and understand
.

Malek felt Laeral’s heart start beating stronger and she began breathing again, without breaking the embrace the two shared. The silver fires receded as Malek let Laeral back down onto the marble floor. Both of them lay naked on the floor, the fiery magic that saved the Witch-Queen’s life having burned away their clothes. Moving slowly, as if in a dream, Laeral tenderly touched the hand-wide angry scar that crossed Malek’s chest from his left armpit down to his right hip.

“Malek? What are—?”

Malek smiled at her, and opened his mouth but his response was lost in the griffon’s roar. They looked up to see the crystal griffon rearing up and over them to attack the smouldering and badly burned form of Lord Essmyth, armed with a short sword shining with azure energy.

Malek turned around toward their attacker, putting himself between the threat and Laeral. The last thing he saw was the blue short sword’s point and the raw grimace of the traitor lord.

As he fell backward, Malek Aldhanek heard Laeral scream,
“No!”

He didn’t feel his head hit the floor.

T
sarra woke sharply, her eyes snapping open and seeing directly into Khelben’s staring back at her. For a moment, Malek Aldhanek’s clean-shaven and olive-eyed visage hung in the air as a translucent mask over Khelben’s.

“You’re peeling back far more memories and secrets of mine than I ever expected, Tsarra. I’m just glad neither one of us truly had to remember what it feels like to be stabbed in the eye.” Khelben said, as he helped her sit up. Sometime during the vision, he’d moved Tsarra to one of the easy chairs in the library.

Tsarra found the questions flooding even faster than usual, and she struggled to keep still, as her head throbbed with pain, especially around her left eye. “You’re even older than anyone believes, Master, aren’t you? Even Khelben the Elder wasn’t
around for Stornanter. And Lady Arunsun is the same Laeral, the first Witch-Queen of the North?”

“I was only Malek Aldhanek for ten years from the Year of the Warrior’s Rest to that of the Laughing Swan. In that time, I helped build Stornanter, restore Illusk, and write a few books people still try to comprehend fifty-six decades later. The identity was in fact significant only because it allowed me to meet my soul mate and establish many of the conundrums surrounding us now. You’ve now seen one of the most important moments of my long life, apprentice. Now tell milady she’s as beautiful now as she was five centuries agone.” Khelben waved his hand, and Tsarra noticed Laeral approaching with a steaming mug that smelled of cinnamon and cloves. Aside from a change from shorter to longer hair, Laeral looked the same as in the vision.

“How did you survive? And why didn’t you heal yourself, Lady Laeral?” Tsarra demanded, her response as tied to the vision’s emotions as to her own curiosity.

Laeral slid onto the arm of the chair next to Tsarra’s, leaving the seat for Khelben who sat down with her. “At the time, I was not yet aware of who I truly was. My time to be Chosen was a few decades later, though that was my last day ever in that audience chamber. I’ve not set foot near Port Llast in five centuries because of all that.” She shifted her attention to Khelben for a moment. “Did I ever tell you how long it took us to drop that smoldering traitor after he killed you? Honestly, the man was more stubborn as a corpse than he was in life!” Laeral chuckled, but her white-knuckled grip on Khelben’s hand told Tsarra other things. She saw the tension and pain it brought up again.

Khelben looked at Laeral then shifted his eyes to Tsarra, then back to Laeral. “My only concern at the time was that you wouldn’t bury me too deep. I’d used a lot of silver fire to keep you alive, so all I could do was keep myself from abandoning my body. The tougher part was feeling my body healing but having to lie there without breathing for four days while my body lay in state. It was a nice funeral, love, did I ever tell you that?” Khelben winked at Laeral, then
turned to Tsarra. “My lady here was the most inconsolable woman I’d ever seen at a funeral until I met the widow at Lord Raventree’s funeral about forty years back. Laeral did have a nice crypt built for me—unfortunately very solid, and tough to break from from the inside, I must say. Especially when one is buried
without his spellbook
.”

“I was
curious!”
Laeral shrugged, then giggled. “I was going to put it with you … eventually.”

Despite her shock at it all and the headache, Tsarra joined the two of them in laughing. “Dug yourself from many graves, Master?”

“Once before and since,” Khelben replied. “After that third trial, I disposed of my identities away from sight and spread rumors of their passings. It’s also easier to build an empty crypt and hide things therein for later. Tsarra, this vision only knocked you out for a few hours, but it’s a lot to digest. And it has been some time since you’ve had a chance to sleep. We’ll continue later this morning, as it’s nearly dawn. For now, let us return to the main tower, shall we, ladies?” Khelben held out a hand to each woman and led them up toward the stairwell.

“But what about Aldhanek’s theories? That the sharn were Netherese transformed to fight the phaerimm?” Tsarra asked. She held her elbow out for the tressym, who flew down from the rafters.

Khelben smiled. “One of my better attempts at misdirection, my dear. I made it up and wrote seven other books under three other names that expanded those theories until the idea itself was accepted as fact. Safer that way than to allow people to stumble upon the whole truth of things before the world is ready for them.”

“So you deliberately mislead people into accepting falsehoods? You write up lies to cover the truth?” Tsarra found herself getting angry all over again. “How can you live with the deceit?”

Laeral put a hand on Tsarra’s shoulder and smiled. “Child, those who truly seek the truth are rarely misled by these … hurdles, shall we say? Only those who greedily
seek power—like our current foe, apparently—accept these short answers and are hoodwinked. Besides, we follow both the dictates of our intellects and the directions of the Lady of Mysteries. The machinations demanded of us sometimes rival those of Shar’s servants, but we do this willingly, knowing that we eventually expand people’s understanding of magic.”

“But—” Tsarra protested, but Khelben held up his hand to silence her.

“All right, Tsarra. Enough protesting. Time to directly learn one of my greatest secrets—one that may become a task of yours as well in the future. What do most common folk whisper when they guess what I am up to in my Tower? Other than the usual ‘taking over the world’ paranoia or ‘conspiring with the Zhentarim’ that has become popular the past few years?”

“Most still wonder if you’ve truly abandoned both the lords and the Harpers. Oh, and the Watchful Order assumes you’re producing major magical items for Piergeiron and the Guard without their due taxtation or supervision.”

Laeral said, “It’s astounding how fussy the guild of mages can be when they’ve nothing better to worry about.”

“Of course. Neither Laeral nor I need sleep unless we choose to—or are injured or ill. What occupies many a night—Stop smiling, Laeral, I’m not sharing
those
revelations—is writing. I enscribe as our Lady bids me or as my own heart deems. Even if what is written doesn’t follow history, who is to say it doesn’t hold a kernel of truth? Sometimes I work on my memoirs, and sometimes I write things to delude those seeking the easier paths to power. One of the reasons why the Darkholden stand with us is Sememmon proved more cunning about some things than did his former master. He saw through a thick web of intrigues and as a result, we struck a bargain, Sememmon and I.”

“Ah, I was wondering if they’d shown themselves or not,” Laeral said. “You won’t believe how angry Malchor is about having to work with them. Still, these are all worries and thoughts to be wrestled with a freshly rested brain. Let
us get you to bed, dear.” Laeral slipped one arm through Tsarra’s and led her toward the stairs.

“Well, I can’t possibly sleep now! I’m fine,” Tsarra protested. “All of this changes so much.”

Khelben took up her other arm, nudging Nameless to the floor, and said, “You’ve had a hard enough day, my dear. I have endured your temper more than enough as well. That anger comes from exhaustion more than true outrage.” He waved one arm, and the lights in the library dimmed. “Best sleep on this, and we’ll discuss any further objections you have in the morning. I shall spend the night aiding Gamalon. Given our need for proximity, you’ll have to sleep in one of the guest chambers. Besides, you need to be refreshed to properly wish Lord Wands the happiest of birthdays when we visit him tomorrow.”

“As long as he won’t be offended by my wearing full armor and weaponry,” Tsarra said. “If our foe is undead, as the evidence suggests, I don’t intend to be caught without protection and a means of fighting back.”

“I wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise, my dear,” Khelben replied.

As the three of them moved toward the stairs, Tsarra’s eyes found a cabinet she’d not noticed earlier. Through its glass doors shone a flickering white light, only noticeable in the diminished light around them. The staff appeared to be blackened wood sealed along major cracks with silver metal. At the top, an axe blade, carved like a howling wolf’s mouth in profile, seemed fused to the staff. Silver metal also filled in a multitude of runes carved into the staff along its length.