“The Arcane Brotherhood must fail in the east,” Rethnor remarked.
“Maximum pain and exposure,” Kensidan agreed.
“And beware Overwizard Shadowmantle,” the old high captain warned, referring to the moon elf, Valindra, Mistress of the North Tower. “She will become incensed if Greeth is set back in his plans for dominion over the Silver Marches, a place she loathes.”
“And she will blame Overwizard Arabeth Raurym of the South Tower, daughter of Marchion Elastul, for who stands to lose as much as Arabeth by Arklem Greeth’s power grab?”
Rethnor started to talk, but he just looked upon his son, flashed a smile of complete confidence, and nodded. The boy understood it, all of it.
He had overlooked nothing.
“The Arcane Brotherhood must fail in the east,” he said again, only to savor the words.
“I will not disappoint you,” the Crow promised.
PART 1
WEAVING THE TAPESTRY
A million, million changes—uncountable changes! — every day, every heartbeat of every day. That is the nature of things, of the world, with every decision a crossroad, every drop of rain an instrument both of destruction and creation, every animal hunting and every animal eaten changing the present just a bit.
On a larger level, it’s hardly and rarely noticeable, but those multitude of pieces that comprise every image are not constants, nor, necessarily, are constant in the way we view them.
My friends and I are not the norm for the folk of Faerûn. We have traveled half the world, for me both under and above. Most people will never see the wider world outside of their town, or even the more distant parts of the cities of their births. Theirs is a small and familiar existence, a place of comfort and routine, parochial in their church, selective in their lifelong friends.