The Temptation of Elminster

by Ed Greenwood

  Shrieking from overhead told him his tactic had worked; he gasped out one of his two dispel magic incantations to clear the air of flying, razor-sharp metal, then gaped in fresh surprise, as the disappearance of the blades caused a shimmering serpent of force to fade into view in midair and snap down, lashing at his forcewall until it shattered and failed.

  As he dodged away from the magical whip, El stole a glance at Dasumia up on the balcony, still leaning stonily out with one hand raised. She hadn’t moved an inch. These spells hitting him now must be linked, so that breaking or trammeling one awakens the next!

  Was she unaware of the hall around her, in her petrified state? Or could she still exact some measure of control over her magics?

  El vaulted a lash of the whip that struck the floor so close by that it left his arm and shoulder tingling and sprinted for the balcony stairs. The whip followed, coiling like a gigantic snake.

  He took the broad steps three at a time, sprinting for all he was worth, and was able to dive behind Dasumia’s stony feet before the whip could find him. It crashed down beside his face, the force of its strike swirling up remnants of green dust. El found himself growing numb … and struggling not to move slowly, as he entwined one arm around his Lady Master’s legs and tried to climb her, whilst the whip raged in the air around him but did not strike … and Elminster found he could not move at all.

  The whip fell away into motes of fading light, and there was a moment of peaceful darkness in Balcony Hall.

  “If my knees get chilled in future, I’ll know who to summon,” a familiar voice said from close above El’s head, and he collapsed to Dasumia’s ankles and the balcony floor, as his limbs were abruptly freed from thrall. She stepped away from him, turned with hands on hips, and looked down.

  Their eyes met. Dasumia’s held satisfaction and approval. “You’re a sword ready enough to go into battle,” she told him. “Go now, and sleep. When you’re quite ready, you shall duel in earnest, elsewhere.”

  “Lady Master,” Elminster asked, as he clambered to his feet, “is it permitted to ask whom I shall duel?”

  Dasumia smiled and traced the line of his throat with one slender finger. “You,” she said merrily, “are going to challenge Nadrathen, the Rebel Chosen, for me.”

  The Blood Unicorn flapped above the gates of Nethrar and the arched gate of the palace at its heart, telling every Galadornan that the King yet lived. As this bright summer day wore on, not a few eyes looked up at those standards again and again, seeking to learn if the ownership of the Unicorn Throne had changed.

  For a season and more the aging, childless King Baerimgrim had lingered in the shadow of the tomb, kept alive after being savaged by the claws of the green dragon Arlavaunta only by his great strength and the Art of Court Mage Ilgrist. The once-mighty warrior was a thin and failing husk now, unable to sire children even with magical aid, and preoccupied by ever-present pain.

  In the time of Baerimgrim’s ailing, Galadorna had suffered under the skirmishes and mischief—crop-burning, and worse—of its five barons, all risen in ambition to be king after Baerimgrim. All had blood ties to the throne; all saw Galadorna as rightfully theirs … and Galadornans hated and feared all of them.

  Inside the House of the Unicorn this day the tension was a thing thick and heavy enough to be cut with a knife—and there was no shortage of knives held ready in its dim, tapestry-hung halls. The King was no longer expected to see nightfall and had been carried to his throne and tied in place there by servants, sitting with grim determination on his face and his crown slipping aslant upon his brow. The wizard Ilgrist stood guard over him like a tall, ever-present shadow, his own somber black robes overlaid by the linked crimson-unicorns mantle of his office, and suffered no hands but his own to straighten the crown or approach closely. There was good reason for his vigilance.

  All five barons, like vultures circling to be in at a dying, were prowling the palace this day. Ilgrist had asked the eldest and most law-abiding among them, the huge and bearded warrior whom men called the Bear, to bring his seven best armsmen to bolster the throne guard, and Baron Belundrar had done so. He stood scowling around at the three doors of the throne room right now, hairy hands laced through the hilts of the many daggers at his belt. He was watching his men as they stared stonily, nose to nose, at the far more numerous troops of Baron Hothal, who like their master had come to court this day in full armor, fairly bristling with cross-scabbarded blades. At the heart of where they stood thickest lurked their master in his own full armor; some Galadornans said he never took it off save to don new, larger pieces.

  Other armsmen were here too, though out of their armor—and looking as wary and uncomfortable over it as so many unshelled crabs, among all the battle-ready warriors. Some of them wore the purple tunics of Baron Maethor, the suave and ever-smiling master of a thousand intrigues and even more Galadornan bedchambers. “Purple poisoners,” some folk of the realm called them, and not without cause. Other servants—some of whom looked suspiciously like battle-worn hireswords from other lands, not Galdornans at all—wore the scarlet of Baron Feldrin, the restless trickster who grew gold coins at the end of his fingertips every time he stretched out his hands to take things, it seemed … and his hands were outstretched often.

  Last among this fellowship of ready death strolled the haughty magelings and quickblades of the baron some folk at court deemed the most dangerous threat to the freedoms enjoyed by all Galadornans: Tholone, the scarred would-be mage and accomplished swordsman, who styled himself “Lord” rather than Baron, and had largely ignored the decrees and writ of the Unicorn Throne for almost a decade. Some said Arlavaunta had been called forth from her lair to attack the king by his spells—because Baerimgrim had been riding with many armed knights at his back to demand Tholone’s renewed loyalty, and long-withheld taxes, when the dragon’s attack had come.

  “A flock of vultures,” the king muttered, watching the liveried lackeys drifting into the throne room. “None of them people I’d choose to have standing by, watching me die.”

  Court Mage Ilgrist smiled thinly and replied, “Your Majesty has the right of it, to be sure.” He made a small hand sign to one of the throne guards who held the balconies this day, to make stone cold sure no baronial crossbowmen just happened to idly mount the back stairs to gain a better view of things. The officer nodded and sent three guards down those stairs, one bearing a horn and the other two walking with slow, measured tread, the banner of the Blood Unicorn borne stretched out in splendor between them. It showed the leaping crimson “horned horse” forever silhouetted against a full moon, on a glittering cloth-of-gold field. When the banner had been laid flat at the king’s feet, the guard with the horn blew a single high, ringing note, to signify open court was now in session—and the king would entertain public deputations and entreaties from all folk, no matter how high or low.

  There were a few commoners in the hall this day—folk who always watched the king, or who’d not have missed today’s expected danger and excitement no matter what doom might confront them—but none of them dared push forward through the throngs of baronial men. The throne faced a half-ring of armsmen who were glaring hard-eyed in every direction whilst fondling the hilts of half-drawn daggers all the while; if he’d had the strength, King Baerimgrim would have risen and walked about mockingly introducing them all to each other.

  As it was, he just sat and waited to see who of the five circling vultures was boldest. War would come no matter what was decided here today … but he could do Galadorna one last service and leave its throne as strongly held as possible, to keep the bloodshed, if the gods smiled, paltry.

  The Bear would stand with him, if need be. No prize, but the best of a bad lot. He believed in laws and doing the right thing … but how much of that was rooted in his firm belief that as senior Baron among the five, and head of the oldest and largest noble house, the right thing meant Belundrar on the throne?

  It was hard to say which was the mo
st dangerous threat: Tholone’s loose-leashed magelings, Maethor’s spies and poisons, or Hothal’s brute blades-enough-to-reap-all. And what sort of surprise blade had Feldrin’s gold been used to hire … or was he supporting one of the others? Or were the Lords of Laothkund or other covetous foreign powers dealing with him?

  Ah, it began. Striding out from among the tensely waiting warriors toward Baerimgrim came a young, black-bearded man in the green and silver of Hothal—one of the few who’d not come to court this day full-armored for battle.

  The envoy bowed low before the throne, and said, “Most gracious Majesty, all Galadorna grieves at your condition. My Lord Hothal knows deep sorrow at the fate of royal Baerimgrim but grieves also for the future of fair Galadorna if the Unicorn Throne falls empty, to be fought over at this time—or worse, offers sitting room to one whose malice or blundering ignorance will lead the realm into ruin.”

  “You make your concerns clear enough, sir,” the king said then, his dry tones awakening chuckles all over the room. “Bring you also solutions, I trust?”

  The reddening envoy responded sharply, “Majesty, I do. I speak on behalf of Hothal, Baron of Galadorna, who begs leave to take the crown at this time, peaceably”—his voice rose to ride over sounds of derision and dispute from many in the chamber—“and with fair regard for the rights and desires of others. My lord requests this honor not idly; he has been most diligent on Galadorna’s behalf and has bade me reveal thus: in return for promises that bright-visaged peace and fair-handed justice shall continue to flourish in the realm, he enjoys the full support of the most puissant lord Feldrin, Baron of Galadorna, which that noble personage shall himself confirm.”

  All eyes turned to Feldrin, who smiled in his customarily sly, sidelong way, his eyes meeting no one’s gaze—and nodded, slowly and deliberately.

  “Moreover,” the envoy continued, “My lord hath spoken with the enemies of Galadorna, with an eye to keeping them from our borders and out of our purses, that the land remain free and prosperous, with no shadow of war-fear upon our thresholds. In return for most favored prices on silver and iron from our deep forest mines, the Lords of Laothkund have agreed to a treaty of mutual peace and border respect.”

  Cries of anger, oaths, and gasps of exaggerated horror made such a din in the chamber that the envoy paused for some time before adding, “My Lord Hothal submits that as he leads a force that can best keep the realm safe and prosperous, the crown should pass to him, and—for the good of Galadorna—his rule be proclaimed as legitimate by yourself, Grave Majesty.”

  There was another uproar, quelled in an instant by the deep rumble of Baron Belundrar as he lurched forward to stand beside the throne. With obvious reluctance in his tone and anger in his eyes, he said, “I share the anger of many here that any Galadornan would deal in secret with the wolves of Laothkund. Yet—”

  He paused to sweep the room with his glare, his green eyes fierce under his bushy black brows and his battered nose jutting like a drawn blade, before he resumed, “Yet I will support this bid for the crown, scheming though it may seem, so long as the rule of law and right be upheld. Galadorna must be ruled by the strongest—and must not become a land of knifings and monthly intrigues or executions.”

  As the Bear stepped back to better survey all of the doors once more, a murmur of agreement arose at his words—but again the talk stilled in a moment as another baron stepped forth and purred, “A moment, brave Belundrar! You speak as if you see no acceptable alternative to this admitted scheming, to guard the safety of fair Galadorna in the years ahead. Well, then, listen to me, and I’ll provide an offer unstained by dealing with enemies in secret.”

  Lord Tholone ignored Belundrar’s instinctive snarl and continued, turning in a slow circle with his hand out, to survey all in the room. “You’ve heard very real and loyal concerns for the safety of our beloved realm. I share that love for Galadorna and worry for the security of us all. Unlike others, however, I’ve busied myself not with dark back-passage deals, but with assembling the finest company of mages this side of the sea!”

  There was snorts and spitting as many warriors expressed their disgust at any reliance on wizards—and the presence of hired outlander mages here.

  A cold-eyed Tholone raised his purring voice a notch and continued firmly, “Only my mages can guarantee the peace and prosperity we all seek. To those who mistrust magic, I ask this: if you truly want peace, do you hire and consort with battle-hungry warriors? Galadorna scarcely needs such bloody folk as its lords.”

  He left a little silence then for murmurs of agreement but heard instead, in that roomful of fearful courtiers and simmering warriors, only stony silence and quickly added, “I command magic enough to make Galadorna not only safe but great—and to deal with any traitors in this chamber who plan to put other interests before the security and rebuilding of the Realm of the Blood Unicorn.”

  “Bah! We’ll have no twisted sorcerers ruling the realm!” someone shouted from the press of armored men around Baron Hothal, and several voices echoed, “Twisted sorcerers!” in tones of anger. The king and the Court Mage Ilgrist, who was standing by the royal shoulder, exchanged glances of rueful amusement.

  The tumult, which had reached the point of daggers glinting here and there as they were drawn, fell abruptly still and silent once more.

  The most handsome of the barons of Galadorna had stepped forth, the smile that charmed Galadornan ladies all too often flashing forth like a deft and graceful sword. Baron Maethor might well have been a crown prince, so richly was he dressed, so perfect his flowing mane of brown hair, and so smoothly confident his manner. “It grieves me, men of Galadorna,” he said, “to see such anger and open lawlessness in this chamber. This blustering of those who walk around with ready swords, and the merciless will to use them, is the very thing that must be stopped if the Galadorna we all love is to be saved from sinking into … a land not worth saving or dwelling in; just another warlord’s den.”

  He turned to look around the room, ruffled cloak swirling grandly, every eye upon him, and added, “Therefore, my duty to the realm stands clear. I must and shall support Lord Tholone—”

  There was a gasp of surprise, and even Tholone’s jaw dropped. Maethor and Tholone were considered the two strongest barons by many, and everyone in the realm knew they were far from friends.

  “—the one man among us who can make a difference. I must go to bed this night knowing I have done my best for Galadorna … and I can only do that if Lord Tholone willingly gives the most trustworthy of us all, good Baron Belundrar, the post of seneschal of Nethrar, in sole charge of all justice throughout the realm.”

  There was an approving murmur; Belundrar blinked at Maethor. The pretty boy baron wasn’t called “the Silver-Tongued Poisoner of Galadorna” for nothing. What was he up to?

  Maethor gave everyone a last smile and glided quickly back within his protective ring of handsome aides in silks and leathers, with not-so-hidden daggers ready in their lace-wristed hands.

  A stir of excited talk arose at this surprising—and to many, bright in promise—offer. A stir that rose sharply, only to fall away into tense silence once more, as the last baron slipped through his supporters to scuttle close to the throne, causing guards to stiffen and turn until Ilgrist waved them back.

  Feldrin’s big brown eyes roved around the chamber. His hands fluttered as nervously and as restlessly as always, as their thin, weak-looking owner bent near the ear of the king. Feldrin’s fine but ill-fitting clothes were drenched with sweat, and his short black hair, usually straight-plastered to his skull, looked like a bird had been raking it for nesting material. He was almost dancing with fearful excitement as he whispered in the royal ear. On the other side of the throne, Ilgrist bent close to listen too, evoking one nervous glance from Feldrin—but only one.

  “Most Just and Able Majesty,” Feldrin breathed, along with a strong scent of parsley, “I too, in my not-so-bold way, love Galadorna and would at all cos
ts see her escape the bloody ruin of war between us barons—moreover, I have good information that at least three ambitious lordlings of Laothkund will ride here with the best mercenaries they can muster if we do take up arms ’gainst each other, to carve away all of Galadorna that they can hold. These three have a pact; their men shall never turn on each other whilst any of us live.”

  “And so?” the king growled, sounding very much like Belundrar in his dislike of threats and whispered schemes. Feldrin wrung his hands nervously, his brown eyes very large as they darted this way and that, peering to see who might be close enough to hear. He lowered his voice still further and leaned close; Ilgrist pointedly raised one fist and let the ring on its middle finger gleam and glow for all to see. If Feldrin drew dagger on the king, it would be the last thing he ever did.

  “I, too, will support Lord Tholone, if you, sire, can agree to my conditions—which you will appreciate must needs be kept secret. These are two: that Hothal be executed here and now—for he will never accept Tholone where you sit now, and will harry us all for years, spilling the best blood of the realm—”

  “Including that of one Feldrin?” the king muttered, a smile almost creeping onto his face.

  “I—I—well, yes, I do suppose, ahem-hem, and that brings us to the second hazard: the greater danger to Galadorna is the smiling snake yonder, Maethor. I need your royal promise that ‘an accident’ shall very soon befall him. He has been a tireless and always untrustworthy spinner of intrigues, master of lies and shadows and poison; the land has no need of him, no matter who holds the throne.” Feldrin was almost panting now, streaming with sweat, out of fear at his own daring.

  “And one Feldrin most assuredly has no need of such a pretty rival at scheming,” Ilgrist murmured, so quietly that perhaps only the king heard.