"Many times, O man of many questions. Now, we'll need to begin by getting the Shadovar and the Moonstars to fight each other rather than us, to win us time to work."

"From what I know of both the Netherese and Khelben's cabal, they'll fight each other without any help from us," El replied dryly, "but I take it ye mean determine precisely where they're battling each other, so as not to see us-and attack us, on general principle."

The archlich nodded. "Precisely. We'll need to protect as many of the Prefects as we can too-the Keeper of the Tomes, the First Reader, the Great Readers and, only if they can be torn away from their duties without us spending overmuch time in doing so, the Chanter, the Guide, and the Gatewarden-because the more of them working with us, the more we can anchor and stabilize the Weave we're repairing, and minimize the risk of Weavefire, and it all going wild."

"Weavefire?"

Larloch sighed. "What did Mystra teach you and her other Chosen? Your Dove and your Storm prefer the sword to the Art, but the rest of you? I suppose, submerging herself into the Weave and becoming it, as Mystryl so long resisted doing, Mystra wanted no one to know that much about it, and so about her own vulnerabilities. Yes, Weavefire. Not like silver fire or the handfire novices conjure, nor yet spell-spawned walls of fire-Weavefire is when some part of the Weave is consumed by its own runaway energies, melting and shriveling like dry leaves in hot flame."

The archlich waved a hand, and another moving midair image appeared, showing Elminster just that. It did not look pretty.

"When your Mystra took you as a lover," Larloch told him, "she was putting the Weave into you. And she was putting you into it, making you a new anchor for the Weave. She did the same with the Simbul and others you never knew about. Using all of you because it was needful to keep the Realms from chaos. Just as you must now do what is needful. Which is to trust me a little more, and carry out my plan."

"And that is?"

"I'll send you back to Candlekeep with Telamont's sigil and secret words, and make your voice sound like his and your eyes look like his. His agents will believe you to be him; I'll give you their names and faces. Gather them and lead them into battle against the Moonstars, seeking to surround and contain Khelben's agents. When the fray is well underway, I'll snatch you out of it and back here-and we'll return to Candlekeep together and use the wards to seal off the warring sides. Those barriers won't last against determined spell hurlings, but should win us time enough to begin calling on the wards to mend the Weave."

El stared at Larloch for a long, silent time, then nodded and said, "I'll trust ye this far."

"Thank you. If all things work out well, you won't live to regret that trust. Rather, it will be time for Mystra's Chosen to raise the cry of 'All hail the Shadow King!' Or more likely not, from what I know of you Chosen."

And with those wry words, the lich stretched out a withered, long-fingered hand. "Receive, then, the names and faces you'll need to know ..."

The war wizard was younger than Mirt had expected, his face pockmarked by one of the minor diseases that afflicted the young. Yet he carried himself with the quiet self-assurance of someone who wields both power and authority comfortably.

And Mirt had traversed so many rooms and guard posts, and spoken to so many courtiers to reach this inner room of the sprawling royal court building-hmmph, it looked larger than the damned royal palace itself!-on this chilly morning, that this lad must have some standing. Despite his pimples.

"It is less than usual for audiences of this sort between outlanders and the Wizards of War," the youngling began discouragingly, seating himself behind his desk and waving Mirt to a shorter, harder chair on the other side of it, "but-"

"It's 'less than usual' because you diligent agents of the Crown tend to come looking for us first," Mirt rumbled, glancing at the floor beneath the chair and the ceiling above it out of long habit, before settling himself into the seat with a grateful wheeze. "If we cause trouble, that is. From what I've seen hereabouts thus far, you lack resources enough to spy on everyone-common problem; had it myself-so the suspicious and known malcontents get most attention, and large-mouthed aging drunkards like me get dismissed as all wind and no dagger. A fairly accurate assessment, by the way."

The young war wizard's smile was a trifle pained. "We tend to prefer not to discuss specifics-"

"Courtiers behind desks never do. We all know-or tend to learn, the hard way-that words not said are easier to weasel out of. But come, lad, we'll be speaking of preferences and unusuals and difficult-to-says all day if our backsides and these chairs hold out. Niceties have been observed, and you've sufficiently signaled yer inability to be blunt and yer superior position when dealing with outlanders. So to the point!

"Priests prate of the Sundering, and the world certainly seems in turmoil enough for nigh any doom crying to seem appropriate, even to the sea level rising to lap at the decking of yer docks down in the harbor here. And I've seen the turmoil among your troops. Purple Dragons marching out of the gates, armed Crown messengers riding in and out at all hours, guard posts reinforced everywhere ... yet most of my evenings have been enlivened by sitting listening to nobles drink and dispute, and I've yet to hear one word out of any of them that suggests the palace is working with the nobility of the realm to strengthen Cormyr's defenses as all of this gets worse."

"Well, I hardly think these are the sort of matters they would discuss in front of an outlander. Still less are such topics appropriate for me to-"

"Oh, lad, lad, cut the free-flowing dung before it rises past your chin and chokes you! Even sitting here in Suzail, shuttling my backside between tavern, club, my rented rooms, and brothels, I've heard and seen enough to know there's strife over the throne, and the taking of sides, and the armies of Cormyr are armed and at war here and there and riding hard to some other place. How can I be of help? How can yer nobles, young and restless, as well as old and idle, make the realm stronger? Why aren't you using us?"

To Mirt's complete lack of surprise, part of the dark-paneled wall behind the young Crown mage opened soundlessly and two older war wizards stepped into the room, one of them spreading his hand in a swift quelling gesture to prevent his young fellow seated at the desk from replying.

"Forgive us," the visibly oldest of these two new arrivals-his hair was streaked white at both temples-greeted Mirt politely, "if we are skeptical of your motives. Defending the Forest Kingdom is our task. We ask ourselves, what aboveboard and honorable interest can an outlander, not loyal to the Dragon Throne, have in such matters? There are good reasons such individuals are not normally privy to our deliberations regarding the security of the realm."

"Fair enough to your latter, though I've always found that some public talk of security makes the citizenry feel better about any necessary daily bullying and serves as a warning to those who would do mischief, both visitors and homebodies. As to my motives, tell me if you find fault with my reasoning on this ... if Cormyr falls or is weakened into civil strife, every sane inhabitant of Toril is the lesser for it. Yes?"

"Of course, but-"

"Lad," the unlovely mountain of man filling the chair on the supplicant's side of the desk told the senior war wizard rather testily, "there is no 'but' about it. I am-or was-a ruling lord elsewhere, and I tell you the best rulers are those who care not just for their domain, but all lands. For strife and disaster anywhere has a way of spreading, and sharing its pain, and so does peace and prosperity. If yer so all-fired worried about my possible disloyalty-though from what I've overheard, I could hardly be worse than some of yer Cormyr-born-and-bred-these-umpteen-generations nobles-then give me work where treachery is impossible or could do no harm."

"If we do, you'll inevitably see and hear and learn too much for the security of Cormyr," the second of the older war wizards replied flatly.

Mirt gave him an incredulous stare. "The Forest Kingdom's safety is that shaky? Truly? Well, it would seem to me that you have far greater problems than worrying about the deeds or motives of any individual outlander. And if they arrive in armies, their motives are a trifle obvious."

"Cormyr's safety and security are nowhere near 'shaky,' as you put it," the senior war wizard said coldly. "They are merely matters it is foolish to discuss, and needless to imperil in the slightest by involving outlanders."

"Not so," purred a new voice. "They are even weaker and more imperiled than Mirt suggests. I came to see to that, but found it unnecessary to do anything at all; the disaster has been waiting to happen here in Cormyr long before my arrival."

Everyone turned and stared at the smirking, darkly handsome man leaning into the room through another hidden door in the paneling.

"Well met," Manshoon added politely to Mirt. "Worry not; I'll not be sending any magic your way this time. Unlike the Forest Kingdom's Wizards of War, I learn lessons fast."

He turned his gaze to the three war wizards, and added gently, "You should heed this old man, you know. He's right. It's probably too late for your kingdom, but you war wizards may yet surprise me. By doing the right thing for once, for instance."

With a chuckle and a merry wave, he was gone, the paneling closed and looking as if there had never been a door there.

"Who-? How did he-?" the young war wizard stammered, but his elders were already starting to rush for the panel the unexpected visitor had disappeared through.

"Don't," Mirt growled, standing with unexpected haste to hurl his chair at the spot they were about to charge through. "He'll have left a nasty little spell trap behind. If no one does a dispel on that door and the passage beyond it-"

The chair bounced and clattered, the foremost war wizard batted it aside with a snarl, tripped over it and fell heavily, then bounded to his feet and snatched open the door.

The ear-splitting crack of many lightning bolts erupting from the revealed passage was still echoing in the room when the Crown mage's smoking body crashed off the far wall and fell to the floor, and the roast-boar-like smell of cooked human flesh started to fill the room.

Mirt sighed. "Men who say 'I warned you' are never popular, but I'm going to say it anyway. Idiots. I believe I'll go find some nobles who'll listen to me, and we can go and save Cormyr together."

The guards before the tall, splendid, and firmly shut doors of the palace at the high heart of Thultanthar were barring her way, but the young and darkly beautiful Thultanthan striding up to them with sultry grace never slowed.

In the end, the guards were forced to sidestep toward each other, until their hips almost touched, to physically block her from bursting between them and reaching the doors to the audience chamber of the Most High.

"You may not enter, Lady," one of them said sternly, raising a magical rod warningly.

She looked back at him steadily, and one raven-dark eyebrow arched in scornful disbelief-or feigned mockery of such emotion.

"Can it be that you do not know who I am?"

That goading question gained no answer, so the visitor said silkily, "I am Manarlume, granddaughter to the Most High. As such, I do not expect to find a door anywhere in Thultanthar closed to me. Ever."

"And yet," the other guard said gently, "we have our orders-and accordingly, this door remains closed. With all three of us on this side of it."

"Who gave you those orders?"

"The Most High himself."

Manarlume sighed, reaching a hand into her bodice, drew something forth, slid its chain over her head, and held it up.

"You do recognize this?"

She had the satisfaction of seeing one guard's jaw drop, and the other blink and then stare hard.

Small wonder. There were perhaps a dozen of these tokens in existence, small many-horned metal pendants bearing enchantments that could be felt-as a crawling, clawing presence-from some feet away. Given in secret by the hand of Telamont Tanthul himself, they granted immediate access to the High Prince of Thultanthar at any time, without dispute, explanation, or delay.

One of the guards did as he was supposed to-reach out and touch the token with a cautious fingertip, so its enchantment would show him the image of Telamont and affirm what it meant-but the other asked suspiciously, "How came you by this, Lady?"

"The Most High gave it to me, so I could reach him without delay or dispute if ever I saw the need," she replied crisply, "as I do right now."

The two guards stared at Manarlume, then at each other. The one who'd touched the token reached behind his back, to the dagger sheathed at his belt there, and firmly depressed the stone set in its pommel.

That gem glowed momentarily as its magic flashed forth-a silent summons for the prince who oversaw the guards.

Aglarel arrived very quickly, cloak swirling. He was frowning as he strode, his hand on his sword. When he saw the token, he took it, jerked his head in a signal to the guards to open the doors-and as they swung open, stepped through the doorway, beckoning Manarlume to follow.

He ushered her to her grandfather in silent haste, gliding to a stop to stand watchfully right behind her, ignoring the hand she held out for the token's return.

The audience chamber looked different. It was still sparsely furnished with the high seat, the large and bare table, and the great black rod studded down its length with black spheres enclosing dark, empty glass globes, floating vertically off the floor in its corner. However, the High Prince of Thultanthar was busy watching the siege of distant Myth Drannor, gazing at a usually bare wall of the chamber.

The wall was aglow from corner to corner with many images, all of them views that looked down on the elf city from various heights. Scenes that were constantly moving-sometimes swooping. It was swiftly apparent to Manarlume that her grandfather was using spells to look through the eyes of birds flying over the besieged city.

Ah, of course. Scryings couldn't pierce the city's mythal from without.

Telamont turned from this glowing spell-spun tapestry of scenes, raising his brows in a silent question.

Manarlume met his gaze, then turned and pointedly looked at Aglarel-and then back at Telamont.

Who almost smiled. "Speak freely."

"Most High, among many petty transgressions and minor treacheries, we've found an immediate danger. The arcanist Gwelt."

"And he is dangerous why, exactly?"

"He's recruiting fellow arcanists who feel the ambition to replace princes of Shade!"

"As I told him to. Does he know you've discovered this?"

"No. That is, he may have his suspicions, but ..."

"That explains the spell he cast on you. It's gone now."

"You told him to? But-"

"Granddaughter, you passed the test. Don't as swiftly lessen your standing in my eyes."

"Of course, Most High," Manarlume replied, and she looked at the floor.

"Aglarel, give her back my token. She'll have cause to need it again, I have no doubt."

As Aglarel did so, Telamont raised a hand to catch Manarlume's attention, and asked, "Tell me, what do your amorous arcanists say of two called Helgore and Maerandor?"

"That they are gone, undoubtedly on some secret mission or other for you, Most High. Most expect them to perish very swiftly-if they are not dead already."

Telamont's face betrayed no reaction. "Your arcanists are wiser than I'd thought."

Elminster found himself in a room he knew in Candlekeep, a lofty chamber whose walls bore gallery above gallery, each marking where an upper floor passed along the wall of the tall room.

He was standing face to face with Maerandor of Thultanthar. Who was busily snapping commands at his fellow Shadovar, telling them to seek here and there and over there for Saerlar Stormwyvern. The half-elf Moonstar was nowhere to be seen, and had evidently vanished during the brief darkness accompanying the earthquake, as they'd all been charging at him.

"Most High?" Maerandor gasped. Then his face hardened, he snapped, "Can't be!" and his hands swept up to hurl slaying magic.

Elminster calmly drew the sigil Larloch had shown him in midair, and murmured one of the secret phrases.

This had better work.

CHAPTER 12.

The Wards Our Shield These Long Centuries Passing

STARING AT ELMINSTER SLACK JAWED IN ASTONISHMENT, Maerandor flung his arms wide, abandoning the spell he'd intended to hurl, and stammered, "M-my most profound and humble apologies, Most High!"

"Accepted," El replied coldly, and without the slightest pause, demanded, "Where are our other agents here at the keep? Revaerel and Tolorn?"

"Revaerel and Tolorn, Most High?"

"They have assumed the guises of the monks Hemmeth and Pelsrand, respectively."

"I-I know not. Forgive me, Most High, I didn't even know one of us was Pelsrand!"

El favored Maerandor with Telamont's best coldly disapproving frown, and watched the agent visibly cower.

He didn't give the man time to recover, but raised his voice a trifle so all the gathered Shadovar heard.

"We'll achieve more as a force rather than scattered skulkers," the false High Prince of Thultanthar decreed. "Let us go and find our missing two, then set out together to hunt down Moonstars. When we've scoured them out of Candlekeep, then it will be time to work on its wards. Properly, and with unhurried precision."

"Die!" a furious voice shouted, and a beam of ravening fire lashed down out of the dim heights of the room at Elminster.

Who flung himself headlong, down behind the nearest Shadovar. A moment later, the fiery magic incinerated the unfortunate Thultanthan.