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  DO ANYTHING BUT BREATHE, BLACKSTAFF, AND SHE DIES.

  A hook-nosed vulture of a man held his knife at Vajra’s throat, his other arm holding her up and pinning her back to his grimy hauberk. Another slovenly rat-faced man, his beard growing only in clumps around many scars, held Vajra’s legs and aimed his rusty short sword at her midsection.

  Throw the staff down, Blackstaff, and you both might live a while longer. Kessik, grab those books.

  The Blackstaff dropped the books from the crook of his right arm to hold his staff with both hands.

  You had better not harm her …

  ED GREENWOOD WATERDEEP

  BLACKSTAFF TOWER

  Steven E. Schend

  MISTSHORE

  Jaleigh Johnson

  DOWNSHADOW

  Erik Scott de Bie

  April 2009

  CITY OF THE DEAD

  Rosemary Jones

  June 2009

  Also by Jaleigh Johnson

  THE DUNGEONS

  THE HOWLING DELVE

  DEDICATION

  To my grandparents, Mildred and Edward Hayward, for instilling in me a love of history over many summers in New England.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  No book is ever conceived of or produced in isolation. In a book about heroes rising to the fore, I must acknowledge those heroes who helped bring it forward.

  First and foremost, I humbly thank my wife for her patience and love; crafting novels is never simple, but this one got easier with your support along the way.

  Ed Greenwood, as always, you’re a far better friend and mentor than you’d ever acknowledge or possibly realize. My thanks, always.

  Susan Morris, my editor, has my thanks and many huzzahs for making this better.

  Jeff Grubb, thanks for letting me bring your Osco Salibuck back from the dead.

  Thanks also go to friends who became heroes with me in DUNGEONS & DRAGONS® many years ago: David Gehring, Alan Holverson, Bob Andrea, and Dave Beaulieu. This book of emerging heroes is for you guys.

  Last but hardly least, I need to thank Gary Gygax and Dave Arneson for opening up new worlds to all of us through their game DUNGEONS & DRAGONS. It’s a debt we can never truly repay, save by crafting new stories and sharing that sense of adventure.

  INTRODUCTION

  Back in 1966, fascinated by the fantasy tales crammed into my father’s study, I started creating the FORGOTTEN REALMS® as the backdrop for my own stories, looking over the shoulder of the swindling old merchant Mirt the Moneylender as he wandered the Sword Coast a mere boot-stride ahead of local authorities and furious rivals.

  Well over thirty years passed, and a game known as DUNGEONS & DRAGONS® got invented and soared to wild popularity. The Realms became part of it and literally hundreds of novels, short stories, game products, and articles appeared, all detailing facets of the Realms—building a long, detailed, and complex history for this entirely imaginary place. What I dubbed “Realmslore” started to pile up deeply in some places (such as Waterdeep) and around some characters, such as powerful wizards, who’ve always held an attraction, and the Chosen of Mystra, servants of the foremost deity of magic, who have an allure all their own.

  You may have heard of one of them: Elminster, the sly old meddling rogue. Or perhaps the Seven Sisters, who in the Realms aren’t oil companies, priestesses, or princesses (though they sometimes behave like all three), but silver-haired women who share a mother: Mystra herself.

  Then there was Khelben “Blackstaff” Arunsun. The Blackstaff. The gruff, grim, self-righteous, straight-arrow counterpart to Elminster. A man (?) of as many mysteries as Elminster, but of a very different style. I created him to be “there but aloof from the citizenry on the streets” in Waterdeep, married to Laeral of the Seven Sisters, the two of them providing enough magical firepower to keep the dreaded Mad Mage, Halaster, down in Undermountain, and to prevent all the wizards attracted to Waterdeep’s riches or hired by its various ambitious and unscrupulous nobles, wannabe nobles, and guildmasters from blasting the city to ruin every second night as they got into spell-duels with each other, or experimented with a newer, mightier Swarm of Suns spell.

  Enter Steven Schend. One of several long-suffering “traffic cops” of the Realms, the staffers who have to rein in not just me, but everyone else with a fun, wild, and crazy idea they want to try out in the Realms, and coordinate the whole ongoing circus. Steven’s way of handling the job was to understand why conflicts happen through history—the imaginary history of the Realms. He adopted Halaster (and Undermountain), Khelben (and Waterdeep), the coastal kingdoms of Amn, Tethyr, and Calimshan, and the fallen elf realm of Cormanthyr, and really steeped them all in history.

  Which is why he was the ideal writer to pen the novel Blackstaff, and why he is really the only person who could tell the tale you hold in your hands, Blackstaff Tower.

  Oh, you’re in for a treat. Not a trudge through dusty history, but a tense clash of intrigue in Waterdeep a century after the events of Blackstaff, A story built on the secrets of the past that charges boldly into the future.

  I couldn’t wait to read it, the first time through—and when I was done, I couldn’t wait to read it again.

  Ed Greenwood

  March 2008

  PROLOGUE

  The North has sinfully warm days late in the year, which some call elf summers, that merely bulwark the wary for the inevitable chills of winter to come.

  Malek Aldhanek, My Travels,

  the Year of the Gem Dragons (812 DR)

  20 MARPENOTH, YEAR OF THE AGELESS ONE (1479 DR)

  Are you sure you need to do this right now, Samark?” The young woman’s short black hair rippled in the light breeze, never obscuring her bright indigo eyes. “I know it’s important, but it’s too nice a day. Why spoil our picnic by rifling through that tomb? Stay here, where it’s warm and bright.”

  Vajra Safahr stretched languidly on the blanket. She luxuriated in the sun and playfully clamped her toes on the edge of Samark’s robes. “Aren’t there better things we could do with such a marvelous day?” She let one dusky shoulder slip free from her gray tunic as she leaned toward Samark and winked.

  The old man, Samark “the Blackstaff” Dhanzscul, smiled. The smile contorted three parallel scars running from his right cheekbone down to his jaw. “Tempting, lass,” he said. “Deliciously so. Hold those thoughts. My task here won’t keep me long. Especially with such a motivation putting wings to my aged feet.”

  Samark turned to face a hillock covered in vines. The flat-sided boulder he approached showed a few graven letters through thick crawling ivies. Samark placed his left hand flat atop the near-hidden KH, and the crystal atop the twisted metal staff in his right hand flashed a bright green. He uttered a few syllables and stepped through the stone as if it were air.

  The small tomb smelled dank and close. The green light from Samark’s staff lit up the tiny space. Dust and cobwebs covered every surface and cloaked the wizard as he stepped inside. Magic crackled in the air, reacting to his presence, but it subsided after he whispered, “Suortanakh.”

  The old man walked down three steps and knelt at the bier dominating the tomb’s floor. Complex marks tiled its sides, all glowing a dim blue beneath a spider-spun shroud. The gray carving of a tall man with a full beard rested atop the stone sarcophagus, his hands holding a glass globe atop his chest. After a brief prayer, the old man sent a pulse of magic into the globe held by the effigy. The energy cleared the webs off the glass globe, and it shimmered with emerald-toned magic.

  Samark rested his left hand on the glass and said, “Aegisbiir n’varan colroth aegismiir!”

  His ring and the globe both flashed. The omnipresent illusions of dust and webs dissolved, as did t
he illusory walls of the tomb. The tomb revealed itself to be the entry chamber atop a long stair that led down into a chamber far more vast than the hillock outside. At the top of the stairs, bright silver bars prevented entry. Samark willed his staff’s crystal to glow brighter. The brilliance made the staff’s carved metal claw appear to hold a small emerald sun.

  Samark leaned heavily on the staff as he walked up to the silver metal bars where the back wall once stood. He placed his left hand flat on a featureless metal plate where a lock might normally appear, and the crystal on his staff pulsed. The bars and the plate grated into the ceiling and floor. Samark shuffled down the stairs. During his descent, he glanced toward the chamber on his left, a gallery of sorts at the foot of the stairs. Twenty-five items rested atop short white marble columns, each amid a bright spotlight. A realistic centaur reared atop the nearest column, carved from a single gourd-sized ruby. Beside it, an undulating ribbon of gold and platinum turned and twisted end over end on its velvet pillow. Beside that, a crown carved from thick bone and set with sapphires seemed to hug shadows to itself, despite the bright light overhead. The rest of that chamber held more than a dozen rods and staves standing on end with no visible supports, as well as eight swords of various makes, all unsupported. Samark walked past the chamber, turning his glance toward the opposite chamber.

  Inside this room, a septet of bookshelves all loomed a man’s height above his own. As he crossed the threshold of the room, he spoke to the empty air. “Diolaa siolakhiir. Melkar of Mirabar’s Journal. Alsidda’s Tome. Te’elarn’vaeniir. Love at Llast.” In response, four books pulled themselves off their separate shelves, floated across the open air, and landed gently in his hand. Tucking the books under his left arm, he turned and walked out to the foot of the stairs and turned toward the far end of the room.

  Samark moved slowly down a long hall lined with portraits. As he walked, torches flared to life two paces ahead of him, lighting the paintings and the names embossed in brass on their frames—Rarkin, Strathea, Larnarm, Rhinnara, Phesta, Kitten, Brian, Sammereza, Durnan, Mirt, Ruarn, Pellak, Shilarn, and at least a dozen more. He chuckled as he walked, and muttered, “How many knew the regard with which the Blackstaff held them, I wonder? So few Lords gained Khelben’s respect, let alone that of the other Blackstaffs …”

  At the tunnel’s end, Samark entered a tall triangular chamber, two statues flanking him on either side. He bowed his head in reverence, scanning the names of each statue and whispered to each, “Greetings, honored Open Lords. Lord Caladorn Cassalanter. Lord Piergeiron Paladinson. Lord Lhestyn Arunsun. Lord Baeron Silmaeril.” Samark stopped, turned to the point of the room, and raised his eyes. “Honored greetings, Open Lord Ahghairon.”

  This statue gleamed brightest and tallest, its height dwarfing the other four in this chamber. Samark marveled at the workmanship. He sought but never found a chisel mark anywhere on the robes, staff, or even the intricately tangled beard of the bald wizard before him. His eyes darted to the gold ring encircling Ahghairon’s left index finger and the sapphires-among-silver amulet resting on his chest—the only things not carved from the marble cliffs of Mount Khimbarr.

  Samark set down the books and released his staff, which floated beside him. The wizard wove a complex series of gestures and a longer series of arcane words as he walked sunward around the statue three times. On the completion of his third circuit, he proclaimed, “Aonaochel. Enakhel adomanth, adoquessir, adofaer. Lakrhel eislarhen aonaoch.” The metal ring and amulet both shimmered and reappeared on Samark’s person, albeit scaled down to fit his human form.

  Samark smiled, knelt at the foot of the statue, and said, “Thank you, Great Protector. I do thy bidding and that of our predecessors in all your names.”

  Vajra Safahr sighed as she watched her mentor dissolve into the tomb. She wondered how that old man made her heart beat so fast, and her mother’s words returned to her. “Never question love—it makes its own rules each time anew.” Waterdeep, Crown of the North, was a tolerant city, but a few still saw their partnership as odd, both due to their ages and because Vajra was a dusky-skinned Tethyrian, not a native Waterdhavian. Even so, none questioned that Vajra Safahr was the Blackstaff’s Heir in duty and love.

  Vajra rolled onto her back and stared up at the clear sky. After three years in the Sword Coast North, she knew that they had precious few days left before Auril drew a perpetual gray blanket across the skies for the winter months. Vajra could have gone inside with Samark, but she preferred the sun and leaf-scented wind to the dank.

  As she lay there, movement seized her attention. A stone arced across her line of sight and fell directly in front of her at the edge of her blanket. She sat up and peered closer it.

  The rock spewed a cloud of greenish gas. Vajra scurried back and started a spell to repel the vapors when she felt a sudden pinch. She reached for it and felt a dart in the back of her neck. She turned to see a dark-clad figure rise from the overgrown tomb, his hooded face revealing only a wicked grin as he tucked a blowgun back in his belt.

  “She’s unable to speak, lads. We should be safe.”

  The man laughed, and through the roaring in her ears Vajra dimly heard others approach around her. She focused her attention on the laughing man, and willed magic out her eyes. Three bolts of amber energy felled the man in mid-laugh.

  Thank the gods Samark taught me how to cast at least one spell without movement or sound, she thought.

  Vajra tried to rise but found her legs would not support her. She fell backward as her eyes began to cloud over. She stared straight upward and raged at her body’s betrayal. Her foes closed around her, blades drawn. None had seen the business end of a bath house or a razor in some tendays.

  “Is she out?” The skinniest of them asked, his pinched face, scars, and patchy beard reminding Vajra of a rat.

  “No, she’s staring at us. If looks could kill, eh?” The taller man’s face bore a beak of a nose, making him the vulture of the lot.

  “What do you mean, Rivvol? She’s smiling.” A pudgy, inquisitive face peered down at her. Realization dawned on the black-haired ferret of a man and he reared back.

  Fools should have learned the first time, she thought.

  Vajra’s contempt for her opponents eked into her smile and spell as she willed more missiles at the three foes. Each of the men staggered back, clutching their faces in pain. One wiped tears from his eyes and kicked Vajra hard in her side.

  Another voice from behind the trio said, “You were warned not to underestimate even the apprentice, fools. Now, prepare her and yourselves for the Blackstaff’s return.”

  Vajra wished she could move to see who that voice belonged to. The man’s kick turned her away from them, and she stared at the boulder marker of Khelben the Elder’s tomb. She tried to move or speak, but failed at both. One of the men picked her up, keeping her eyes directed up and away from himself and his compatriots.

  Samark the Blackstaff walked out of the tomb and through its covering vegetation as effortlessly as he’d entered it. “I have them, Vajra. Now, where—”

  “Do anything but breathe, Blackstaff, and she dies!”

  A hook-nosed vulture of a man held his knife at Vajra’s throat, his other arm holding her up and pinning her back to his grimy hauberk. Another slovenly rat-faced man, his beard growing only in clumps around many scars, held Vajra’s legs and aimed his rusty short sword at her midsection.

  A third man sidled alongside Samark, a crossbow at his shoulder. Pressing the point of his quarrel to the side of Samark’s throat, he said, “Throw the staff down, old man, and you both might live a while longer. Kessik, grab those books.”

  The old wizard dropped the books from the crook of his right arm to hold his staff with both hands. “You had better not harm her …”

  “Shut it, you. And drop the staff!” The vulture’s blade pressed closer to Vajra’s neck, drawing a bead of fresh blood atop older gore still encrusted on the knife.

  “Listen
to Rivvol, Blackstaff. He gets twitchy around wizards, and he’s likely to kill even one as pretty as that Tethyrian.” The speaker moved over next to his comrades, his crossbow always at his shoulder. Kessik let go of Vajra’s legs and scurried over to the pile of tomes next to Samark.

  “Fine.” Samark threw the staff at the ground among the four of them. As he let go of the staff, he clapped his hands, and his form shimmered with cerulean magic. The staff hit the turf right at Vajra’s feet and flashed a verdant pulse in all directions. The top of the staff tipped forward onto Rivvol’s arm, and he screamed as emerald lightning crackled from the staff into him. He screamed and collapsed, but his dagger fell as well. Vajra collapsed in front of him, her body unharmed by the staff, but her neck gushing blood from Rivvol’s knife.

  The crossbow’s scrape and twang drew little of Samark’s attention, but he saw the bolt glance off his protective shield. His face wrinkled in concentration, Samark launched a purple pulse at Vajra, pointing with his other hand to aim a second bolt at the crossbowman. The energy swept through Vajra and looped around to strike the crossbowman. The woman’s wounds healed quickly, but the crossbowman’s throat opened just as hers had been, and he fell to his knees, his breath and lifeblood bubbling out of the wound.

  “Ammol!” Kessik stood open-mouthed. Both his allies had fallen in mere seconds. “What’d that green stuff do to me?” Kessik asked, his eyes filled with terror as he crawled away from Samark, the tomes forgotten.

  “Absolutely nothing, boy.” Samark said. “It merely undid some spells to reveal your master to me. Now flee, before I become less patient or he decides you’re expendable too.”

  Kessik paused a moment, then turned and fled as fast as he could. Samark barely watched him, his attention focused on the tall, hooded man who had shimmered into visibility when the green energy washed over him. Wearing nondescript olive robes, the man stood with his scimitar drawn, its edge shimmering with red light. The mage’s most outstanding features, aside from a very thick, singular eyebrow, were the ornate rings flashing on every digit of both hands. The man’s razor-thin salt-and-pepper mustache and goatee framed his sneer.