Khelben glowered at Araermal. "Given our history, Araermal, you should choose your words more carefully. Were it not for the specific need of your bloodline, I would not ask you to cast a fishing line." His eyes turned and locked on the Lady Ulongyr's and his words stung the air.
"My dear, I spent five and a half centuries trying my all to be the best elf I could imagine. All I learned was my grandsire's and my House's approval would never be mine. I also learned something crucial about the blood I share with more than a few here. Elves are quite good at planning, thinking, and philosophizing, but they stubbornly resist any change. Humanity, on the other hand, is all about action and transformation. For this, I accepted my mother's heritage over that of my father. While the legacy we awaken here is elf by birth, it should well be apparent that Rhymanthiin will be something far more extraordinary than all of us combined." The elves blanched or grew red-faced at Khelben's reproof until calmer heads looked skyward. From the clouds came a multitude of fireflies, which swirled around them all but more around Khelben. Murmurs of, "a sign from Oacenth!" and,
"Corellon allows a message from Arvandor!" swept through the elves.
Even Ualair's sigil dissipated into fireflies as well. Slowly, with resentment or resignation, the elves approached the moat and repeated Ualair's actions. Each drop of blood elicited a golden ring bobbing to the surface of the pool, and each elf knelt and put on the ring presented. Within moments, only the two objectors remained as they stared at the two circlets floating on the black liquid. A cleared throat and a light cough drew everyone's attention. "Few are those among us," Elminster intoned, "who remember what Eltargrim's laugh sounded like. Please, think of that as we work and the friendship that laugh held for all. Bitter words and resentment are not the foundation on which to restore what many have forgotten." With tears streaming down their faces, the two elves donned their circlets and disappeared, teleporting to their rightful places in the great working. "Carrots and sticks, Blackstaff," Elminster said, chuckling. "I know you loathe carrots, but you wield far too much stick to foster friendships where they are needed." Khelben said, "Enough jokes and delays. The Gathering is complete. It's time to raise the hope of the Realms by reviving its worst nightmares. We must unleash the Killing Storms."
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Feast of the Moon, the Year of Lightning Storms (1374 DR) Tsarra paced around the kiira-library, and she jumped when Khelben suddenly appeared by the fireplace. She followed him to the case that held the jagged blackstaff with the wolf's head axe at its top.
Khelben placed a flat palm against the glass, and it popped like a soap bubble. He reached in and grabbed the rough staff. Tsarra felt the rush of emotions and a flood of memories go through him as he performed that simple action. She braced herself and focused, not allowing the flow of recollection to drag her under. What she saw nearly did anyway. She saw Khelben's sacrifice in Anauroch, the blade point even closer to her eye in Stornanter, a shattering door giving way beneath a flurry of troll claws, the trident of an archdevil stabbing him through her midsection-and she screamed in pain as she felt, as he did, the pain of a dozen deaths all at once. I'm so sorry, Tsarra. Sorry for it all. Sorry for the burden the fates have put on your shoulders. His voice was heavy with nine hundred years of suffering in it. Tsarra wasn't sure what frightened her more-the fleeting memory of so much death, or the smell of death permeating the illusory chamber as Khelben held the one true Blackstaff out for her.
I thought you said this was what made you the Blackstaff. And so shall it make you, Tsarra Autumfire Chaadren. Tsarra felt resolve coming from her mentor, but she also felt despair and his resignation to this fate. You expect to die today? Why are you giving up now, Khelben?
Don't you want your children to know you? You and Laeral can teach them of me. What we must do today-now-is to preserve as many lives as possible. That only happens with my sacrifice. She wanted to argue, but her own understanding wouldn't let her do so. Her hand reached out for the blackstaff, but she drew back before touching it. Let me sacrifice myself to the working. You're too important to too many, she sent. Khelben reached out and cupped her face, his eyes sad but firm.
No, my dear. You can't, or else I'd have no body in which to do this.
Remember this always-the blackstaff is important, but its bearer less so. And it must be me, or else the ritual will claim the lives of my wife and children or other Chosen. The only way this ritual works is by giving up all my silver fire and my life to keep the Killing Storm from destroying those tempering its fury. Does Laeral know this is happening? That you'll die today? She suspects, but I dared not confirm it for her. She would lose the focus she needs to do her part in this ritual. Tsarra wracked her brain for other options, to argue against Khelben's cold logic. There are five gods here! Can't they do something? Two of them have saved me from death before, so they act by my returning their gift. No, they attend to watch only. Their involvement stopped at choosing their priests and changing Nameless earlier to save your life. Is what we're doing truly worth giving up your life, Khelben? Aye, lass, ten times that cost, but I can't do that without your help. You have a role to play, even in here. Now relieve me of one burden at least. Become the Blackstaff. Tsarra's hand closed around the rough staff, and the silver metal along the staff crackled with magic. She had a sense of Blackstaff Tower in Waterdeep, the location of every student within it, and more. So many secrets lay open before her from Khelben's memories and the powers tied to that staff… I never realized… You'll have decades in which to learn more about the powers and responsibilities that have been forced on you today. Truthfully, I expected this burden to fall to Malchor and groomed him thusly. Alas, the fates had other plans.
Khelben suddenly seemed older and weaker than before, and he stumbled as he let go of the staff. After tonight, the tel'teukiira are yours to command. Many of them are in attendance here. Tsarra felt a tingling, and beneath her cloak she found a dull metal badge of a scroll surrounded by seven stars. You should make one of those for Raegar as well. There's much promise in that boy, don't you agree?
Indeed. Tsarra mocked Khelben's normally grave tone and favored phrase, but neither had the energy to laugh. Tsarra helped Khelben over to a chair and sat across from him before asking, Why didn't you stop the Frostrune, if you knew what he set in motion? Don't call him that, for the last time. I regret what was lost while we gave him free rein to collect his power. We had to leave the Legacy items in play and allow him access to such levels of magic. The Killing Storm's binding into the High Moor could only be undone by one not seeking to activate it but having the power to do so. The magic necessary is also inherently evil, and none of us could bring the items together and cast what needed to be done. Now that Priamon has primed the area for us-I hate to admit, ingeniously-with that pyramid and the lightning bolts, we can now take the activated magic and transform it. Why not Sememmon or Ashemmi? Don't tell me they aren't evil enough to have done that! Truthfully, they are not. Ruthless and self-absorbed, to be certain, but wholly and indisputably evil? Nay, lass. They are destined for more than this gambit with the tel'teukiira. Besides, with the Legacy as a lure over time, its false leads exposed more than a score of would-be world conquerors who trouble the Realms no longer, including Priamon. You know all this now, Tsarra; it's in the Blackstaff. You also know what you must do in concert with what I do in the physical world. But why unleash the Killing Storm? Won't this cause more harm than good? Magic, like all natural forces, likes synchronicities. One of the many keys to unlocking this great secret was the need for this level of magic, power, and the specific forces found only in the Killing Storm. Until the crusted barrens we call the High Moor are cleansed, the secret remains buried. By cleansing the land, we shall reveal the great secret of the sharn. What has been called Malavar's Hand is the top of the highest tor of Miyeritar's city of high magic, once called Faertelmiir.