Storm lost contact amid the mirth. She spread her hands helplessly as the flame exploded into a drifting cloud of winking purple and blue sparks … which faded away to nothing. She shook her head, sighed, and sat back, rubbing her temples with weary fingers. "Well done, you two," she said, "considering how unreliable all Art has become …"

"We three,” the Simbul corrected. "Sylune provided the focus."

Storm smiled as she felt cool lips brush her cheek. "My thanks, Sister," she said to the empty air.

"Where are they?" Jhessail asked, leaning forward to push a decanter toward her.

The lady bard shrugged. "Somewhere south and west of us, more south, I think, probably Cormyr. Somewhere near mountains, in a castle or other fortified place."

The Simbul frowned. "The High Dale? Thunder Gap?"

Storm looked at her and frowned. "No, Sister. You must not risk yourself looking for them. Art could fail you at any time, and you could well attract unwanted attention to them. We must sit and do nothing-for once."

Shaerl grimaced. "When you're a lady at court, even in Shadowdale, you do a lot of sitting and doing nothing."

Illistyl shot her a look. "I'll bear that in mind when next the laundry must be done. I could use another pair of hands, betimes."

Storm snorted. "Enough, you two. We've the safety of the dale to consider. News is all over the North of great storms and earthquakes, of gods walking about and wild magic loosed. Many who harp are gathering to me. Whate'er befalls, you can be sure the Zhentarim and others-Mulmaster perhaps, or even Maalthiir of Hillsfar- will take full advantage of the general chaos to ride to war. We must be ready."

They all stared at her, except for Illistyl, who turned to Jhessail and said sarcastically, "And you wanted a little excitement this summer, didn't you? You had to wish it aloud, didn't you? You-"

Jhessail sighed, selected an apple of the appropriate size from the bowl of fruit on the table, and in one smooth, unexpected motion shoved it into Illistyl's mouth.

Her apprentice managed an indignant, muffled squeal in the instant before laughter reigned around the table again.

Don't toy with me, wizard! So you thrust at me a memory of yourself gone missing-amusing indeed! Yet another remembrance that can’t be your own! Another shared with your fellow servants of mystra! How came you by them?

Dark eyes, as large as all the starry night sky, looking down full of mystery... the Lady of Mystery, all his own....

Elminster smiled at that memory, slowing his plunge to hang in the star-shot darkness.

Above him, like a great dark claw, Nergal slowed too. He smiled a brittle smile as he mastered his rage. Well, then, let the little human wizard play his games.

For a few moments more.

So these memories came from Mystra. So too did the silver fire. Well, then, let Elminster remember more of her. The secrets this future Lord of all Hell sought would inevitably be laid bare, around some waiting corner.

This one, for instance...

Stars falling in the night sky over Shadowdale, and the same stars seen from afar in Waterdeep, where folk on their balconies murmured and pointed, voices more worried than excited... to a high room in a tower in that city, where through clever magics the ceiling above the bed was lost in the sky of stars....

***

Striding across her kitchen with a fresh-cut bunch of fragrant herbs in hand, Storm stiffened and stifled a soft curse. She was in a whirling hurry. A dying Harper's plea had made her late, spells could not shorten the time that a good stew takes, and the good wives of the dale were bringing their children for an evening of tale-telling. They expected to see the Bard of Shadowdale in a nice gown, not bloodstained war-leathers crossed with recent sword cuts.

Why had that memory of seeking El come into her mind now? Alassra and Jhessail had strained so-she'd not soon forget, but why now?

She frowned, alone in the darkness, though in this place, she was never truly alone. "Sister?" she asked the empty air.

Sylune's touch was like the gentlest of breezes on her cheek and shoulder. Aye, the ghostly mind-voice came, I just recalled that night, too. I wonder why.

***

"Oh, love," Laeral whispered tremulously, arms tight about Khelben in the starry darkness of their bedchamber, "I could feel his pain. What a horrible thing to happen, to be stripped of all Art!"

"Aye." Laeral felt the Lord Mage of Waterdeep tense in her arms. With iron control, he stifled a shudder. He moved to quell her fear first, with the kind strength she loved him for. "I'd not wish that fate on anyone, even one who wore the robes of Thay or of Manshoon's serpents- and yet, love, our Lady chose him. He is the strongest of us all. Great An has raged against him before, and clone much damage-and he is still here, this day, to tell of it."

"If any mage in the Realms can hold Mystra's might and live to see the burden passed on-and resist the hunger to master it and, in the doing, be mastered by it- 'tis Elminster of Shadowdale."

Khelben did shiver, then, and turned a white face to look into Laeral's. His eyes were large and dark with fear. "Mine will be the task to take up what of his work I can- and gather all the strength I can, here. If the Art does master him, and he becomes as wild and cruel a rogue as Manshoon, mine will be the duty to destroy him."

They held each other tightly in the large bed as tears fell. Neither could find words to comfort each other that were not empty.

Nergal stirred. Are you trying to alert your friends, Elminster? Do you truly think such memories can reach them, to warn them of your captivity here? Give it up, fool - nothing leaves your mind but through me. I am the gate of fangs, the portal that opens not. Despair in my darkness and yield. Yield up to me your secrets, little mage, ere I grow restive and tear apart all in seeking what i desire.

Silver flames, flowing...

yes! more of that! show me, cringing human! nergal commands! more, or I'll snatch away your sanity with claws of fear!

Cold fear in spellcasting, fear of going mad...

Yes! wherefore yield! yield to nergal!

Fear like a quavering flame in a dark room, where magic sputtered and failed in slender fingers...

Illistyl drew a deep breath and tried the spell again. Nothing happened-again. Her hands shook.

Magic had never failed her before. Oh, she'd failed it, a time or two, but always the error had been hers, something that more care or training could conquer. Not this wildness, tills unreliability of her every spell.

Deep fear tasted like cold metal in her mouth. There was no Simbul here now, and Storm was half the dale away- there was only Illistyl Elventree, alone in a cold, dim stone room in the Twisted Tower.

"What's happening?" she demanded of the Realms around her, bosom rising and falling as fear took hold. "What have we done, that magic fails us?"

The door of the room resounded to a thunderous knocking, shook in its frame, and burst in upon her. She screamed.

"Oh, gods look down?” Jhessail scolded her, sweeping into the room like a vengeful wind, robes swirling around her. "Must you work such pranks of Art? Half the guards below have just lost every buckle and plate of metal on them-and they're now scrambling around in their boots and under-rags, looking very embarrassed indeed!"