Blackstaff (4 page)

That was too close, Raegar old son.

The man wiped off the last of the water and pulled his red shirt over his head. Raegar watched the eight apprentices of Blackstaff Tower turn off of Seaseye March. His impromptu act appeared to have worked, at least on the two older apprentices. Still, the suspicious looks the elf girl had given him and the large barbarian with them showed him he’d wandered too close. None of them noticed him following the night before as they headed off to Pellamcopse, nor did he think they’d heard him as he left them to return to the city before dawn.

For the past few tendays, he had watched the tower and its denizens. He’d avoided being noticed at all … until that morning. He expected the group to take Westwall Street around to Julthoon, but they cut down Seaseye, where he skulked with no place in which to hide. The impromptu morning ablutions in the rain barrel were the only thing Raegar could think of to make himself fit in there and not stand out as an obvious spy.

Raegar knew his looks could be a distraction, but he had a larger problem. They didn’t know his name, but neither Danthra nor Tsarra Chaadren would forget him soon. And that made his job all the more troublesome.

As Tsarra, Danthra, and their six charges made their way down Calamastyr Lane, a number of acquaintances cried out to them from their windows or shops.

“Good hunting this morning, Tsarra!”

“Willing to sell a haunch? Or spare a bird or three?”

“Looks like the Blackstaff eats well tonight!”

The eight made their way through streets crowded with merchants and stalls. Their pace slowed due to the crush of people and their necessary wariness of pickpockets, until they reached Elvarren’s Lane. From there, it was a quicker jog back to the dark stone walls surrounding their home. All of them touched their left palms onto the slim gate in the wall’s northmost face. Their touches allowed them through the apprentice’s gate, rather than using the main entrance on the Swords Street side of the walls. They all waved to their fellow apprentices who either walked the top of the walls or stood atop the tower high above on guard duty.

As they rounded the courtyard to enter the tower’s main door, Tsarra gave her students their assignments. “Lynx, Lhoris, Tarik, and Trehgan, take the carcasses into the kitchens and begin the butchering. The rest of you can either help them and learn a useful skill or help the others with mornfeast. Tell the others that I’ll be busy this morning, but I think I’ll have time after highsun to speak with each of you on the progress of your studies. Then we’ll all prepare a venison feast for everyone on our last night of kitchen duties. After tonight, we have no extra duties for a tenday, so—” Her next words were drowned out by the cheers of the brothers al Fuqani and Lhoris.

Danthra clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Let them be. All of us enjoy that shift when we only have our studies to attend to, instead of kitchen or guard duties. You and I should get ready for meeting with the Blackstaff soon. We have the ritual and that other matter to discuss.” Danthra smiled, but her eyes were haunted and nervous.

Tsarra gripped her friend’s trembling hand and asked, “What was the original reason for our meeting him today? Maresta is your teacher, so why me again?”

Danthra and Tsarra were the last to step into the tower, the junior apprentices racing in ahead of them. “I need you there to supervise as a senior apprentice, since Maresta’s
still abed with that bad cold. Besides, I’m trying a new spell, and I want you to be among the first to see it. Also, Master Arunsun wants a third party to choose the magical item to investigate, so be sure to bring one. Besides, why wouldn’t I want my best friend there for support when under the Blackstaff’s scrutiny?”

“Well, we’ll both stand up better under Khelben’s scrutiny after we clean up and change clothes. See you soon. Lower, not upper study, right?” Tsarra said and smiled when Danthra nodded.

The Dreamer turned and said,
“Tahakim,”
as she stepped on the lower step of the tower’s central stairs. The young woman vanished, to no one’s surprise.

Even after fifteen years as a resident, Blackstaff Tower continued to amaze Tsarra. From the outside, it looked to be a simple three-story stone tower, which is all it was—physically. Anyone trained at the tower soon learned that there were at least a dozen more sub-levels reachable only by magic. All areas linked to the central stairs, and they required magical passwords to shift a walker on the stairs to that level. While every student asked where exactly the sub-levels were, none of the senior apprentices, Master Blackstaff, or Mistress Laeral, would say more than, “That secret must be earned, youngling.”

Tsarra spent more than a year trying to figure it out, and she guessed that the windows were no more than illusions projecting what was going on outside the tower. She could never determine if the added levels were in separate dimensions or just far away in other towers elsewhere in the Realms. It was nigh impossible to alter the outside or inside walls of the tower.

There were four command words Tsarra used most often while walking the stairs.
“Summath”
teleported her to one of the dormitory levels, the one assigned as her chambers and those of four other female students;
“Aradsol”
took her anywhere on the stairs to the roof;
“Vhuarm”
sent her down to the cellar where tunnels linked it to Piergeiron’s palace and other places across the city; and
“Traeloth”
deposited
her into the main entry chamber of the tower’s ground floor. The three core levels of the tower could be reached simply by walking up or down the stairs.

Tsarra said,
“Summath,”
and her step took her to a landing off the stairwell. The teleports were always so smooth that someone not paying attention would scarcely believe they had shifted from the main tower. She moved around to her door and opened it, pulling her bow and quiver off as she shouldered the door open. She put her weapons on the bed across from the door, unbuckling her sword belt and laying it on the bed as well. She quickly unbuckled her leathers and stepped over toward her wardrobe.

She pulled out a shallow but wide ceramic basin from under the wardrobe, its bottom holding a mosaic of Sune. Tsarra shivered, thinking of the man’s cold alblutions earlier. She was glad she’d made friends at the Firehair’s temple, trading minor items for others easily made by her own hand. She grabbed her large pitcher from the windowsill and stood in the basin as she poured the water. The water, shockingly cold as it hit her feet, rose in a shimmering wave, warming as it rose and fell again, as comfortable as a summer shower. Tsarra stood in the basin, letting the water rain down on her two or three times before she felt clean. As she stepped off the basin, the water fell and steamed away.

Tsarra toweled her long hair but dried herself in the morning sunbeams and air. She stood before her wardrobe a while before choosing a simple shift of gray wool. She approached the bed and took up the bow and arrows, placing them carefully back in their places on hooks next to the wardrobe. Finally, she drew the scimitar from its sheath, and its silver sheen caught the morning light to dazzling effect. Mhaornathil—the only thing she’d inherited from her mother other than her elf blood—was a Rilifane-blessed scimitar that could cut ghosts as easily as flesh. Tsarra loved the blade almost as much as she hated undead, the bane of her existence since her father died by undead hands fifteen years before. Still, Tsarra knew she couldn’t use the scimitar for the test. Danthra already knew a lot about the blade,
and it wouldn’t be a fair test of the spell. She snapped the weapon back into its sheath and hung it and the sword belt on their pegs above her headboard.

Tsarra approached her window to stand in the sunlight a moment and breathe in the fresh morning air. Within five breaths, she sensed her familiar coming, even though he didn’t loop around the tower and land on the windowsill for a handful of moments. She loved the muffled rustle of his wings as he landed, as well as his purred greeting.

In its language, she said,
“Good hunt to you too, mighty one.”

Jet black in hue, the tressym stuck his head out, gesturing for a head scratch, his ravenlike wings ruffling slightly over his back. Tsarra obliged him, letting him rub his head solidly on her palm. She stopped a moment, staring into his mismatched eyes—one of deep blue, the other green—and smiled.

“
Of course you’re a good companion and a very good hunter
,” she said.

When the creature tensed to hop onto her shoulder, she held him back, smoothing his feathers and chucking him under the chin. In Common, rather than the purrs of tressymspeak, she said, “Not a chance until the smell of those chipmunks you ate fades from your breath. Now, go take a nap. I’ve got to work with Danthra for a while. Oh, and remember to leave Chaid’s familiar alone until he gets used to you.”

Nameless let out a trilling purr, and she said, “I don’t care if he looks and smells like prey. He’s not food, any more than you are.” His trilling retort made Tsarra laugh as the tressym flapped his wings and headed out the nearest window, en route to the sunny top of the tower. Tsarra chuckled as she finished combing her hair with her fingers. Satisfied her auburn curls were under control with a white ribbon tying them back, she exited her room and descended the stairs. When leaving from the dormitories, the lack of a command word deposited the descender on stairs at the second level of the tower.

Alcoves and tiny shelves lit by permanent fey lights lined the walls along both sides of the winding staircase, revealing random books and knickknacks. Tsarra remembered her first tendays in Blackstaff Tower, as she spent her free time staring at all the magical items and artifacts seemingly left out unprotected. By the end of the first tenday, she’d learned that none of the items could be removed from the alcoves without command words, and the things changed so often one might never see the same twice within the same tenday. After her first year, Tsarra knew she had seen more than two hundred magical tomes and at least as many unknown items and artifacts littering the walls of the tower. She stopped counting and just accepted that Khelben Arunsun had more magical items within the tower than all the rest of the City of Splendors held within its walls.

In the short walk from her second-floor room down to the ground floor, she saw a pyramid of fifteen tiny silver frogs, the glistening black leather cover of
The Fanged Tome of Lykanthus Szar
with its four dragons’ teeth clasps, a gnoll’s skull carved from or transformed into green marble with eyes of scarlet flames, the golden crystal called Alaundo’s Loop—forever turning in on itself in a twisted curl and hiding eternity in its depths—on a pillow of white velvet, a floating square blue-wax candle burning from each corner, and a clockwork cat whose buff rag tongue lent a shine to its mechanical paw as it cleaned itself with only the mildest of ticking sounds. She turned to her other side and started scanning those niches for objects she had never seen before, spotting a miniature throne with a small wax figure seated on it, a round book with a ring binding and solid silver covers, its runes identifying it as
The Annals Adamarus
, and a goblet made of glacial ice and set with rubies, its contents steaming hot.

“Choose one, Tsarra.”

Tsarra started, and shook her head in frustration. Despite her better-than-average hearing, the half-elf had not heard the mage come down the stairs behind her. He
stepped from the gloom of the upper stairs, reminding Tsarra why so many feared her master. He stood only a bit more than six feet in height, and his build was strong, but hardly threatening. His robes proclaimed him a wizard, and he carried his trademark staff of blackened wood at his side. His hair fell just past his shoulders, its jet blackness interrupted only by a silver-white wedge on the chin of his full beard. While normal and fully human in many ways, the Blackstaff cultivated an aura of power and mystery. There were very few he couldn’t intimidate with a simple stare. For the moment, that stare was leveled at her.

He said, “I haven’t got all—what is it, love?”

The look on his face changed instantly, and his eyes focused on something past her. Tsarra smiled as she tried to ignore Khelben’s conversation with what appeared to be the wall. The Blackstaff and his wife Laeral shared a bond and could hear each other’s words when they spoke the other’s name. Khelben seemed distracted, but his voice never rose above a whisper.

Tsarra returned her attentions to the niches and their magical items. As the items before her shimmered away and others materialized in their places, she spotted a fascinating object—a golden belt of chain mail loops made of either gold or some amalgam. Ornate golden scales shaped like swords, shields, and oak leaves covered the surface of the belt. Set atop the shield scales, small, sea-green, opaque gems glittered, sixteen in all. The buckle was breathtaking in its workmanship—it was an ice eagle’s head in profile, a larger sea-green gem as its eye. Tsarra had never been a great student of magic items, but the belt absorbed her attention. She reached for it, whispering the command word to release it … and failed.