"Ye, too," Elminster went on, "grow weaker and weaker in Art, Tarth Horn wood, as ye come to rely upon it more and more."
Tarth frowned. "You know my last name?"
Elminster grinned. "Aye. A while back, a friend of mine, young Nerndel-eh, old Nerndel he'd be, to ye-told me -he had chosen his heir-of-Art, a bright one. He asked me to look out for ye, if ye came this way."
"Then-then you'll train me?" Tarth asked, hope rising suddenly into his throat.
"Aye. In return for a service."
"I can keep my staff?"
"I did not say that. The service ye can do me, mageling is to destroy thy staff. Ye have come to depend on it overmuch, methinks, to have survived the perils of Myth Drannor and won that ring ye wave about so boldly. Tis time to learn to trust thine own power, without frozen fire to aid; thee. Thy service will be to undertake a simple but precise ritual, to bring about the destruction of thy staff."
"And if I refuse?"
Then ye must go," said the old man mildly. "On down. whate'er roads thy overconfident feet lead ye... until ye fall, as ye are sure to, to some brigand quick with a rock; or two, or a lone goblin creeping while ye sleep. No man who bears such power openly can have friends, nor trust companions overlong. If ye try, 'tis a cold and open grave ye'll find soon, lad, as someone else seizes thy baubles."
"I've not done poorly so far," Tarth said, nettled. "I can protect myself."
"Can ye?" came the soft response. "What defenses did ye prepare, then, before venturing into easy reach of my power?"
Tarth sat in silence, cold fear slithering within him; again. The Old Mage's eyes gleamed steadily in the dimness, watching him.
Finally Tarth shook his head in defeat, and spread his hands. "Only the spells I carry."
"And thy staff, of course," Elminster added pointedly. "Come, lad-thy tea is growing cold. Have we agreement, or will ye walk?"
"If I destroy this staff," Tarth said, trying not to look at it, "do you promise to make me a more powerful wizard-and let me walk free?"
Elminster nodded. "Aye. I do so swear. Mark ye: Only by the unmaking of thy staff will ye give and find freedom and learn true power and happiness."
Tarth nodded, slowly and reluctantly, as his thoughts raced. "Then we have agreement," he said. A moment later, he added, "I must rejoin my companions-of-adventure for a few days, then I shall return."
Elminster nodded. "Aye, neglect not thy share of the loot," he said with a smile. Tarth smiled back, thinly, and drained his jack.
"My thanks for the tea," he said, getting up. Dust, disturbed, rose around him in a clinging cloud.
"The tea was the least of the things ye should be thanking me for," the Old Mage told him mildly, waving a finger. In slow silence the pair of empty jacks rose out of sight overhead. Uneasily Tarth nodded, and strode for the door a shade more hastily than he'd intended to. It opened for him by itself. He sighed and did not see Elminster smiling at his back.
[sigh] you don't hurry through this, do you?
If one does, it doesn't work. Like certain dealings in Hell.
Clever as ever, mind-slave. Mind the back edge of your own tongue doesn't slice you.
[silence, images flourished almost mockingly]
There came a knock upon Sarlin's door. Sarlin the Supreme heard it and rose in haste. Times had been hard of late, and coins all too few.
Tarth Hornwood stood outside, his face tanned and a ring gleaming on his finger. His eyes looked somehow older than they had when he'd visited Sarlin before. He'd been adventuring, surely.
"What do you want, Tarth?" Sarlin asked plainly.
Tarth regarded the old, evil sorcerer calmly and said as simply, "Business. And no tricks, this time."
Sarlin did not smile, but nodded. "Well, then: what'"
Tarth thrust forward the splendid staff he held, dark and smooth and straight. "I'd like you to make another of these."
Sarlin raised his eyebrows. "That could well take years," he began. "Do-"
"Not its powers," Tarth said quickly, "though it must bear a dweomer and be able to, say, bring forth radiance, and quell it again. I need a staff that looks like this one, so close that not even the greatest mage of the Realms could tell them apart."
Sarlin raised his eyebrows again. "Expensive," he said, after a moment.
Tarth nodded. "I'm willing to pay you with this," he said, extending the fist upon which the ring gleamed. "It is the Lost Ring of Murbrand."
Sarlin leaned forward to peer at it. "Truce?" he asked.
"Truce," Tarth agreed. Sarlin extended his hand, and Tarth put the ring into it. The old sorcerer examined it carefully, turning it in his fingers to read the runes Murbrand had put there long ago. It was unmistakable, or all the books of lore were wrong. He held in his hands a ring of power. Sarlin almost trembled with excitement.
But that was not his way. He merely raised his eyebrows again, and-slowly, reluctantly-handed the ring back. "This staff must be valuable to you," he said.
Tarth nodded. "Almost as valuable as the ring I'm offering," he replied pointedly, "to one who knows how to use it."
Sarlin grinned. "As you know, of course, how to wield the ring," he returned. "Give me the staff now and the ring when I've done, in exchange for the two staves. Come back four mornings from now."
Tarth raised his own eyebrows. "That soon?" Sarlin shrugged. "I am a master of what I do. You know that."
Tarth nodded. "You are. Agreement, then?" Sarlin nodded back, almost eagerly. "Agreement."
And now the revealing...or you'll pay in pain, mage...
"Ready, lad?" Elminster asked gently. Tarth nodded, face expressionless. The Old Mage waved his hand "Begin, then."
Tarth stood in the circle Elminster had prepared, deep in the forest near Shadowdale. On a tall, flat stone at its center lay the staff Tarth had brought here. Beside the staff lay a sharp knife.
Tarth stepped forward to stand over the stone. Sweat was suddenly cold upon his neck and forehead. He could feel the sage's watchful gaze like a weight upon his back. The young wizard breathed deeply, then shrugged and began the ritual Elminster had taught him.
It began with a spoken charm, soft and precise. Tarth pronounced it and carefully took up the knife.
As he did, his eyes fell upon the staff. Dark and smooth and gleaming, it was the familiar and comforting thing that had earned him the name "Thunderstaff" in Arabel. Half in derision that name had begun-but he had made it a term of respect. Now, if Elminster's will reigned, he would be leaving it all behind.
Tarth sighed again, forced down his irritation, and raised the knife, beginning the chant. Soft and light, to begin with. The knife caught the light and gleamed briefly. He raised his other hand to it and drew blood with a firm, deliberate stroke.
There was a cold tingling in his palm as the blood began to flow. Tarth stepped back and carefully drove the knife hilt-deep in the ground, whispering another charm in time with the chant. When he approached the stone again, blood had begun to drip from his fingers.