Spellstorm

by Ed Greenwood

  Fire lurked deep in those dark brown—almost black—eyes, perhaps even madness, but she replied almost gently, “You may, if I may have your name. I am Tabra.”

  “And I am Elminster Aumar, often called Elminster of Shadowdale or the Sage of Shadowdale or … less complimentary things.”

  “Once of Thultanthar?”

  “No, I am no Netherese, nor have I had any dealings with those of that returned city that were not … violent.”

  “I heard,” a sardonic man’s voice came from behind Tabra, “that you single-handedly slew Telamont Tanthul, Most High of the Princes of Shade.” It was Malchor Harpell, and he was smiling slyly.

  Elminster shrugged. “Single-handedly? No. Yet he did die. These things happen from time to time.”

  “But you were chiefly responsible,” Malchor pressed. El shrugged again.

  “That’s true?” Tabra whispered, trembling slightly, her eyes very large now, and very dark.

  Elminster stepped back and picked up a decanter, in case he was about to need a weapon, and admitted gravely, “Lady Tabra, it is.”

  The look she gave him then held pure adulation. She was smitten. Uh-oh.

  “Berduskan, perhaps?” he asked quickly, holding up the decanter.

  “Please,” she purred. “A very large glass.”

  “And you, Malchor?” Elminster asked quickly, pouring and steering Tabra’s glass into her hand while trying to ignore the clear invitation in her mismatched eyes.

  “I’ll have twilight wine, if you have any—fitting, for one who dwells in the Tower of Twilight.”

  “Still?” El asked.

  “Ah, you heard it had disappeared after the Blue Fire struck. Yes. Well. Contingencies, you know …”

  “I do,” El agreed gravely, producing the smoky blue vintage that had been requested. Malchor Harpell looked, if anything, younger and sleeker than he remembered—glossy black hair, an immaculately kept, close-cropped beard that adorned the line of his chin, forbidding glossy black eyebrows, eyes so very dark blue as to seem black. And calm, always sardonically calm, his intellect very much on display. He wore two layers of robes, charcoal gray over black, which made him look like some priests El could remember. “Elder statesman of Longsaddle now?”

  Malchor sighed. “A role I left behind me centuries ago. I rather suspect I’m forgotten in Longsaddle, these days—thought long dead, or worse. I did not leave on the best of terms. There was—but no, such things are better left unspoken. The kin I miss are long dead now—and I don’t miss being an elder. I’d much rather play the young rapscallion.”

  “Wouldn’t we all,” Elminster and Lord Halaunt and Manshoon all started to say together, then broke off to eye each other in surprise and flaring amusement. Still smiling, El turned back to the sideboard—to find himself nose to nose with a wrinkled crone of a woman who stared bitterly at him, the remains of what once must have been striking beauty still apparent in her face. He knew her from some covert long-ago scrying, but it would be best to pretend otherwise. This one was trouble.

  Calathlarra of the Twisted Rune, known to be icily rude, cruel, and inflexible even among their ruthless and hardened ranks. Though wrinkles and sagging flesh ruled her face and chin, the rest of her was still tall, shapely, and sleekly graceful, very straight and glossy jet-black hair framed her face and fell almost to her ankles. She wore a dark maroon gown over black breeches and leather warrior’s boots of the same hue. El nodded to her politely. After all, ’twas not every day he almost brushed noses with a Runemaster without murderous spells being hurled.

  “Lady,” he asked gently, indicating the many decanters on the sideboard, “what can I get you?”

  “Nothing, worm,” she said coldly. “I’ll pour my own. Only fools trust Elminster the meddler.”

  “That,” he replied, amused despite himself, “is not true. If ye’d said, ‘only fools should trust Elminster the meddler,’ then ye would have uttered truth.”

  Maraunth Torr was already serving himself, and paused long enough in doing so to give Elminster a sidelong smiling look.

  “Pah! You always think yourself very clever,” Calathlarra said witheringly.

  “Well,” Elminster replied, “it’s something comforting to think upon, at least. What do Runemasters think about?”

  She hissed. “So you know.”

  “But of course! I am very clever,” he replied, giving her a merry wink, and spun away—to find himself breast to breast with Alastra Hathwinter.

  Who solemnly returned his early wink to him, and murmured, “Oooh, Lord Elminster, Scourge of Women! My heart melts, and so does my—”

  “Excuse me,” Tabra interrupted them, giving Alastra a frosty look, “but my glass seems to need refilling.” Literally ramming one of her sharp hips into Alastra to push her aside, she faced Elminster and held up her glass, which was indeed empty.

  The displaced Harper mage gave Elminster a twinkling little smile from behind Tabra, and glided away, clutching her already-filled glass to her bosom.

  “But allow me,” El murmured, taking the glass from Tabra and turning to the decanter of Berduskan. His turn brought him around to face Lord Halaunt, who tendered him another solemn wink. Alusair was evidently amused. “The same again?” he asked Tabra.

  “Oh, yes, Lord Elminster. Please.”

  Inwardly, Elminster rolled his eyes. This was going to get bad. Very bad. And very soon.

  CHAPTER 6

  Laughter, Threats, and a Little Truth

  ALUSAIR HAD OVER THE YEARS SEEN COUNTLESS GOOD “FEASTS FOR MANY” prepared and served, so it had taken her only a swift glance at Halaunt’s barely adequate pantries and superb wine cellar to plan a good feast—and not all that many moments to launch Mirt and Myrmeen along the road to preparing it. That wine cellar was going to come in very handy.

  By means of the sliding panels, an array of cheeses had been set out—with the bluntest little ornamental knives Myrmeen could find—on the sideboards, along with more decanters of wine.

  This had been done more to buy time for cooking than anything else, but Alusair, as Lord Halaunt, was sending Elminster amused glances as decanters were drained with impressive speed, and the talk grew louder and lewder. It seemed mighty archmages weren’t much different than the rest of the world—the prouder, more arrogant, self-centered part of the rest of the world—when one came right down to it.

  Both the lord and his new steward kept circulating, thankful that the room was large enough that one had to walk to eavesdrop. They took care to keep moving, talking to one guest after another, and trying not to be too obvious watching which combinations of wizards were friendly to each other, and which were frosty.

  And wherever he trudged in the room, Lord Sardasper Halaunt asked pleasantly, “So tell me, why do you want the Lost Spell? If it was yours, what would you do with it?”

  Alusair wasn’t expecting to hear much truth—though she hoped the real reasons would come out later, when she met with each of her guests privately, and bade them make an offer—but she was almighty interested in whatever glib public reasons she might be given. They were, after all, standing in Cormyr, the land she loved beyond life itself, and the spell was something that would make an already powerful wizard mighty indeed.

  “I am interested in magic for its own sake,” Manshoon replied gravely. “Some of my previous selves ruled here or there, and made bids for power, but I am past that now. I seek to fully understand the mysteries of the Art. Blessed Mystra is not called Our Lady of Mysteries for nothing.”

  Alusair had no way at all of knowing if he was telling the truth. She doubted it, for his reputation suggested that his habit wasn’t to deal in truth when falsehoods served him better. However, he had suffered setback after setback this last century and more; perhaps disappointment after disappointment would turn some from courting fresh disaster. On the other hand, if he was telling the truth, some of those disappointments might not have been. Disappointing, that is. Hmmm.


  When it was Calathlarra’s turn, she told Lord Halaunt fiercely, “For more power. What else? I have formidable foes, and my life is dangerous—if I can face each new day girded with more power, I can accomplish that much more, and shed that much more fear.”

  Well, now. To horse and full charge straight ahead for this one. Or was that just a pose, a tactic put on in such powerful company? The Twisted Rune wouldn’t have achieved half what they had if they boldly plowed straight ahead; the Zhentarim had proven the folly of that. Hmmm again.

  “To keep the Lost Spell from falling into worse hands than mine,” Malchor Harpell confided. “Mine, I trust. Those of others, I cannot—least of all most of the mages gathered in this room.”

  A noble reason indeed—if it were true. But was it? To have ridden herd on as wild a family as the Harpells of old, Malchor must have become a master manipulator. Was this merely what he thought Lord Halaunt might admire, or approve of? Or did he mean it?

  “I would use it for revenge,” Tabra said softly, her mismatched eyes flashing.

  Oh, yes, this one meant the words she spoke.

  This one will be trouble, Alusair thought at Elminster along the Weave, catching his eye. Yet I like her.

  We both like trouble, El replied. Keep an open mind; ’tis early, yet.

  Early has a distressing habit of becoming late too soon and all too swiftly, the Steel Regent of Cormyr retorted, and he sent her a wry and wordless burst of acceptance.

  They’d promised Ganrahast that the Lost Spell would be yielded only into “responsible hands,” but they were both beginning to share the clear mistrust the Royal Magician had greeted that statement with. The hands of these mages were quite likely responsible for many dark things.

  They both kept on strolling and talking, Lord Halaunt collecting answers, and Elminster collecting more badinage than anything else.

  Shaaan’s reply to Lord Halaunt was that she liked to collect spells and study them, and this magic promised to be very interesting.

  The woman lies like a snake, was Alusair’s silent judgment.

  Maraunth Torr offered the opinion that every wizard of power and achievement sought to gain every last spell they could, and he was no different. Some mages might deny that hunger, but they were deceivers; he himself had long ago passed all need to practice deceit.

  Oh? Really? I doubt it, my lord wizard. Alusair couldn’t keep a sneer of disbelief out of her thoughts. I doubt it very much.

  Alastra told Lord Halaunt that she hoped to do some good in the world if she had the Lost Spell, and assured him that the very idea of ruling some place made her shudder. She then demonstrated that shuddering, in a way that displayed more of her bosom rather deliciously. Alusair made both of Lord Halaunt’s eyebrows go up, but inwardly felt not the slightest astonishment. Someone was bound to try, ah, fleshly wiles, and Alastra at least had the looks for it.

  She was surprised when Yusendre of Nimbral tried the same tactic, but even more boldly—making a whispered promise—and confessed to a sensual longing to experience and master new spells. Was every last female mage here going to rush straight to the seduction gambit? Even when their looks couldn’t compete? What happened to using sharp wits to come up with alternatives?

  By the Purple Dragon, the two women could warm a chill mansion all by themselves. Perhaps they should be installed in fireplaces at either end of the grandrooms, so the others could relax cozily of evenings …

  The other Elder of Nimbral, Skouloun, gave more or less the same reason as Malchor, asserting that he himself was the most trustworthy custodian of the Lost Spell—for he would use it to smite evildoers, tyrants, and those who hoarded magic, not to mention rout the most dangerous monsters all across Faerûn, to usher in a new era of peace and prosperity, to better the lives of all.

  Ye gods, what wind! It was tiring just listening to Skouloun, not that she believed him.

  How fare you, El? Growing tired of the sheer piffle being served up yet? I am.

  Lass, lass, after so many centuries, I breathe in piffle with every passing moment, and speak it out almost as often. Look upon it as entertainment, lass—as royalty, I’d’ve thought ye would have resorted to that tactic for retaining thy sanity long ago.

  The ghost sent him a mental snort. Retaining my sanity? Too late, Sage of Shadowdale! Much too late.

  El sent her back a mental chuckle.

  While she as Lord Halaunt had been collecting answers, he hadn’t been indulging in mere idle banter while serving cheese and drinkables.

  More than once questions were put to him about his presence, sometimes in a hostile manner. Skouloun had observed, “This is Lord Halaunt’s home, so his presence here is both natural and expected. But just what are you doing here? Want the Lost Spell for yourself, do you?”

  El gave him a catlike little smile that he’d spent some time in front of mirrors practicing, after having seen Amarune do it, and replied, “I am here to help in deciding which of ye—if any—is worthy of possessing the Lost Spell.”

  “Surely that should be a matter for our host,” Skouloun protested, waving one hand grandly in the direction of Lord Halaunt—as one of those awkward little lulls that happens early in almost any gathering of strangers or hostiles befell.

  Leaving everyone gazing with interest at their host, to see what the bitter old noble would do.

  Which, it turned out, was to give them all a level look and tell them, “We shall decide to yield the Lost Spell to just one of you, as I see that as the way to cause Cormyr—and all Toril, beyond—a minimum of strife and affray. ‘We’ because I hired Elminster to be my steward, as matters of magic are new and uncomfortable to me, and he has a certain reputation for competency. Or longevity, which when dealing with deadly spells seems to me to be very much the same thing. I trust that I know people, but not spells. So, all of you, know this: I trust Elminster of Shadowdale absolutely, and have placed half of the measure of judgment in this matter in his hands. Not to mention the Lost Spell itself, which he tells me he’s hidden where only he shall ever find it.”

  All eyes turned to Elminster, who had to quell his inner amusement from rising to his face. Even when playing a stiff old noble, Alusair had certainly mastered the art of painting a target on a fellow. Still, this should help to force some of the wizards here to try one approach with the lord, and another with his steward, and so betray their own true worth.

  El decided the best tactic, just now, was to look grave. He steepled his fingers like a pious priest and nodded slowly, contriving to look a trifle on the sad side of thoughtful.

  One of the women—he dared not look to see who—snorted in clear derision. Well, aye, his act was barely believable, he had to give her that.

  However, Lord Halaunt’s words had worked. Attention had left the old noble; every last guest was now focused on Elminster, and they were all sidling toward him.

  He had to firmly squash another urge to laugh. This was as good as a play.

  He just hoped it wouldn’t turn out to be the sort of production where bodies piled up on the stage …

  “Sage of Shadowdale,” Shaaan murmured, as she reached Elminster and halted shoulder to shoulder, so she was looking past him but able to speak sidelong into his ear, “I’m sure a man who’s lived the sort of long and interesting life you have must have made many enemies, and accumulated many debts. I’m not called a queen for nothing; the wealth I could share with you could smooth away your every material want …”

  She broke off as Maraunth Torr got close enough to obviously listen in, and added only, “Don’t forget this offer,” as she glided away.

  Elminster turned and followed her, ignoring Maraunth Torr as if he’d been a pillar or a piece of furniture, and when she noticed this and whirled, he gave her a chuckle and the words, “Deftly done, lass. Not a hint of the salacious, just the coins proffered. Not that such blandishments have worked on me for the last twelve centuries or so. But I thank ye for the entertainment.”

&
nbsp; Shaaan hissed, then asked, “And how are you at receiving threats?”

  El shrugged. “Depends. How menacing are they?”

  “Oh, I can be very menacing. Starting with your anointed successor, Amarune Whitewave.”

  Elminster shook his head. “No. Too crude and obvious. There’s an art to it, Snakeshanks. Lead with the suggestive but minor, and build to thy stronger threats.”

  And with that, he spun away, feeling the sharp prick of the envenomed needle she’d spat into the back of his hand before he’d taken his second stride.

  It tingled rather than burned, so he knew he had to do nothing at all. Bone asp venom, by the rough edge of that tingling, and bone asp venom hadn’t been able to harm him for three centuries now. My, but it was nice to be wanted—gone.

  Maraunth Torr was waiting patiently for him as El strode up. “I presume the Serpent Queen offered you riches, and threatened you as an incentive to accept them,” he said with preamble. “It’s her usual way.”

  Elminster nodded. “And what’s thy usual way, Maraunth Torr?” The chatter and mingling around them were now loud and brisk enough that only those standing nearest could eavesdrop—and he didn’t really care if anyone did listen in. Yusendre of Nimbral, for one, was keeping close, but trying to stay behind him and out of his field of vision.

  “I will be so bold as to offer you my service,” the urbane and handsome wizard replied smoothly. “I’ve assembled a collection of spells most individuals would find very impressive, but I can hardly hope to impress a Chosen of Mystra. Yet I’m sure you can always use an extra pair of eyes and hands—and mine can wield magic most can never hope to master.”

  “If I yield the Lost Spell to ye,” Elminster said dryly. “Binding thyself in servitude, making thyself many new foes—for we who serve Mystra are not widely loved—to gain one spell? Forgive me if I doubt thy veracity. Or that thy service, if rendered, would be selfless. I smell the proverbial rat. Or perhaps an incontinent dragon.”