Bury Elminster Deep (Elminster Book 7)

by Ed Greenwood

  Bending over, he peered at Arclath Delcastle’s stiff body, the young lord’s arm crooked and one leg raised to take a next step.

  “Does he know what you’ll be doing to him, I wonder?”

  Settling himself on the ground, Elminster turned his head and looked into Arclath’s face.

  His answer, when it came, was in Amarune’s voice. She sounded half grim and half on the sword’s sharp edge of tears.

  “Oh, he knows. Believe me, he knows.”

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-TWO

  DISPUTES AND RECRIMINATIONS

  Arclath flung up a hand. “I can move again! All gods be praised! Thank you!”

  Amarune’s hand remained on his throat, and out of her beautiful lips—which he’d been about to kiss—came Elminster’s deep voice. “Save thy thanks a bit, lad. We’re not done yet.”

  Arclath’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? What are you going to do?”

  “Storm,” El asked, “are ye up for this?”

  “Yes,” Storm sighed. “It must be done.”

  “Aye, it must.”

  Arclath scowled and drew his head back, trying to arch away. Rune’s hand on his shoulder suddenly gripped him firmly.

  “Suppose you explain what ‘must’ be done before you do it to me, mage.”

  “We must peer into thy mind to make certain no one’s influencing ye, spying through ye, or using tracing magic on ye.”

  Arclath stiffened. “I knew it! I knew you’d find some excuse to—”

  “So, ye were just as clever as ye thought ye were, and aren’t disappointed now, are ye?” Mirt growled, standing above them.

  “He’s talking about enslaving me, Lord of Waterdeep!” Arclath barked. “Forgive me if I’m …”

  His voice trailed off and his eyes went from furious to frowningly surprised.

  Yes, this is what a rude and dishonest old archwizard’s mind feels like, El’s voice said, in the depths of his own head. The words were a sarcastic growl, but his mind was friendly, as affectionate as any whimsical old uncle. Arclath had a brief glimpse of shining, upswept towers gleaming blue-white in the depths of a great green forest, then a laughing bearded face wearing a state crown of Cormyr, a face that almost had to be the fourth Azoun in his prime … then an unclad, beautiful lady flying high in the air in the heart of a lightning storm, her hair wild around her and festooned with lightning that seemed to do her no harm, a lady with eyes of triumphant fire and a face like Storm’s yet subtly different … then he was looking down vast dark halls, endless long passages full of too many images to see, let alone count.

  “All right, lad, all right. Don’t try to see all my remembrances at thy first gulp. It’s taken me some twelve centuries to assemble them; getting greedy is apt to drive you mad.”

  Then Elminster’s mind seemed to slide past him, like a great leviathan of a cruising dragon, a body that went on and on, displaying frightening size and power as it rolled past, and rolled past, and went on rolling …

  Arclath’s anger was gone, lost in wonder, and most of his fear with it. He felt sudden discomfort, born of El starting to root around in his mind while he sought to keep gazing at Elminster’s … he saw some dark and terrible things, some gruesome deaths and sadnesses that made him recoil, but he could tell the Sage of Shadowdale was hiding nothing, was letting him see and feel whatever he desired.

  And Arclath Delcastle discovered he liked the feel of this visiting mind. He liked this old man. Truly liked Elminster, as he was starting—just starting—to really know him, better than he’d ever known anyone before.

  The vast mind turned gently and started to withdraw, the dragon sliding past in the other direction now. He’d seen so little of it, yet beheld enough to know one thing: he could trust Elminster of Shadowdale.

  Inside his mind or anywhere.

  He was suddenly tearful, lost in a joy he knew was silly yet meant so much. Nobles of Cormyr grow up knowing they can trust no one in the world, and that those who trust others are fools or dupes to be used.

  Now, at last, he knew—knew—there was one person he could trust.

  “Four, lad. There are four, not one,” El murmured, holding him in Amarune’s embrace. “Storm, thy mother, Rune, and Elminster Aumar. Now stop weeping on me; these are Amarune’s best leathers.”

  Ah, now there was a rare sight: war wizards who had some common sense.

  Riding the body of his mightiest eye tyrant, Manshoon skulked behind a rooftop cistern, watching the Crown mages turn their watch patrol back from Dardulkyn’s mansion.

  “Cordon, until full light and reinforcements,” he heard one of them shout. “No rushing in. Cormyr needs live heroes, not dead ones.”

  My, my. A philosopher, too. He’d have to remember to use that mage on special missions, once he was Emperor of Cormyr and Beyond. Or imprison him. Perhaps as a brain in a jar.

  Grateful that clouds had drifted in to shroud the stars and make this a dark night indeed, Manshoon floated to the edge of the roof—two removed from Dardulkyn’s, with a street separating the wizard’s abode from that last roof—and watched Purple Dragons retreat to positions where they could watch around corners for anyone entering or departing Dardulkyn’s mansion.

  Not that they could see all that well. The lanterns were frequent and well tended in this neighborhood, one of the better parts of the city, but a mist off the harbor was beginning to steal through the streets.

  The moment he saw visible haloes of light around the lanterns—meaning the mists were becoming thick enough to glow and impede vision—it would be time.

  Ah. There. Patience rewarded.

  Manshoon glided forward, eyestalks writhing in anticipation.

  So, Elminster, care for a rematch? A second annihilation?

  Dardulkyn was on his feet finally, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. From the rubble he took up a long, jagged sliver from a shattered doorframe and leaned on it as if it were a staff.

  Leaning as if he were old, weak, exhausted … as if he truly needed aid to keep from falling.

  Which made Manshoon dare to descend into the half-shell of a riven upper room of the mansion, and from there send forth his mind, slowly and with infinite care.

  Are you Elminster, mumbling archwizard? Or another overreaching fool?

  The world certainly holds no shortage of those, after all …

  Manshoon’s subtle probe felt something sharp and narrow that was focused on the mind he sought. Then another and another, moving restlessly, but not far. The helmed horrors, who were still surrounding the stricken mage, anxious for orders and purpose. Ten of them in all.

  His reaching slid past them, as slow and silent as he could make it. Of old, he’d felt far too many of Elminster’s traps close around him …

  Dardulkyn was aghast, only now crawling out of dazed disbelief that he could be laid so low so quickly and effortlessly by a young lass who moved like a dancer or a purr-posing playpretty.

  Elminster. Not this overblown mage, but the spellhurler who’d shattered a few rooms—and this dolt of a Dardulkyn’s worldview—at the same time.

  His hated foe had done this, either riding the mind of his descendant or, far more likely, cloaking his clone in her shape to escape all blame—for when war wizards used their spells on the real Amarune Whitewave’s mind, they’d find she had no talent for the Art at all.

  So, this Dardulkyn was no Elminster, and a weak-spirited preener besides. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be a very useful mind-slave. This mansion, suitably repaired, would make the perfect place to keep all his beholders—the three living ones, the six eye tyrants and pitiful hulk of a seventh, and the five usable beholderkin. After all, if they were ever found, Larak Dardulkyn would be blamed; no one would look further for some other archwizard. Whereas, if they were discovered in Sraunter’s cellar, the Crown would quickly ascertain that Sraunter was as feeble at Art as Whitewave, and go looking for a spellhurler in the shadows behind him.

  Yes, thi
s would be ideal. Human thralls in the alchemist’s cellar, and the tyrants here.

  His probe became a brutal surge; Larak Dardulkyn barely had time to register astonishment and cap it with affronted rage before his mind was vanquished and quivering.

  “Stand up,” Dardulkyn heard his own voice whisper to him, as the helmed horrors all turned to stare at him intently.

  “It’s time to act like an archwizard for once, and not a sneering bellows of empty arrogance and overestimation. Be a mighty mage, Dardulkyn. Be me.”

  “It’s an ironguard ring,” Storm explained. “It’ll make most swords and other blades pass right through you but do no harm. Don’t trust in it overmuch—anything bearing an enchantment will cut you as usual.”

  She held up her hand to show Arclath she was wearing an identical ring, and pointed at Mirt’s and then at Amarune’s.

  His love reached out to take his hand, letting Elminster flow back into his mind and link it with Storm’s—warm yet sad, joyous and, yes, arousing—so he could see and know Storm was telling him the truth about the rings.

  Then Elminster withdrew again, leaving Arclath awash with relief.

  Storm’s mind was dangerous for him. He could so easily fall in love with her and lose himself in rising lust … but crown and throne, it was good to know when one was being told the truth. No wonder olden-times war wizards had mind-reamed nobles and everyone else so often.

  “What now?” he heard himself asking, as a gentle night breeze rose and ghosted past, rustling a few nearby leaves in his family gardens.

  “Now, lad,” Elminster replied promptly, that deep voice still sounding ridiculous from his Rune’s lips, “we talk. A war council, if ye will. A small, brawl-free one, if we can manage it.”

  “My name is Rorlyn Handmane, and I am a lionar of the Purple Dragons,” the Dragon officer answered the cold demand calmly, as if he’d expected it. “I’ve been ordered to investigate what befell here and render any reasonable aid you request, Saer Dardulkyn. Explosions and possibilities of magic gone awry are always of interest to the Crown. Mindful of your stature and accomplishments, senior wizards of war have sent me to make inquiries rather than approaching you—an archwizard who may have professional matters you prefer not to let other workers-of-Art examine—themselves.”

  “Your prudent—for once—discretion, and theirs, are appreciated,” the archwizard replied coldly. “Heed these words well, and share them with the other Crown watchers ringing my home before you take them back to the mages who sent you: a rather powerful but peaceful-of-purpose spell went awry, and nothing more. I neither need nor want any assistance in determining details of the resulting damage. What befell is no business whatsoever of the Crown or the wider weal, and for your own safety you should all take yourselves away again. Immediately.”

  He stepped forward, to the crumbling edge of what was left of the end wall of his mansion, and glared down at the lionar and the three other Dragons who stood with the officer.

  The lionar nodded, raised his hand in salute, and replied flatly, “Your words have been heard. As for our offer and vigilance … you’re very welcome, wizard.”

  Then Handmane turned his back on Dardulkyn and his mansion, and marched away.

  Manshoon had to stop himself from chuckling. Oh, well said, brave lionar! He made Dardulkyn’s body turn to the helmed horrors floating in a patient arc behind him, and order them—loudly and unnecessarily, for the benefit of the cordon of listening Dragons—to secure the damaged mansion and make very certain no intruder slipped inside.

  The beholder body he’d arrived in was hidden in one of the upper rooms that still had a roof, accompanied by a patiently floating beholderkin he could use to return to Sraunter’s shop.

  Reaching out to the minds of the two nearest horrors, he sent them to begin breaking open a shaft to let his beholder float down into Dardulkyn’s cellars.

  Leaving the other horrors to defend the walls against every last rat, mouse, or bird that ventured near the riven mansion, he took Dardulkyn’s body on a tour of the cellars.

  Pleasingly, the uppermost of those lower levels included one large chamber into which had been placed a row of cages fashioned of massive iron bars—cages as large as small huts. A thin, sickly looking griffon was trapped in one, the cage strewn with its shed feathers, but the rest were empty of all but some unpleasant-looking mounds of bones. Good. The beholder—and, once he got them here, its fellow tyrants—could be put into these monster cages.

  He’d raise some strong wards around the place—Dardulkyn’s were pitiful—but for the benefit of the inevitable farscrying war wizards, some of whom were undoubtedly spying on him right now, he’d make sure his tyrants rested on the floor rather than floating in midair, and kept their eyestalks drooping, so as to look dead rather than alive.

  Wards that were nigh worthless, a lot of “impress gullible idiots” décor … well, one could but hope Dardulkyn’s tomes and enchanted items were a tenth as powerful as the man’s mind believed they were. It was high time to see what he’d gained, and if his new dupe had any magic at all that was new to Manshoon the Mighty, Emperor-to-be of Cormyr and Beyond.

  Yes, that did have a ring to it, it did.

  Arclath nodded. “So, talk.”

  Elminster needed no more prompting. “Lad,” he began, “ye’ve heard from Storm who it was who slew me: Manshoon.”

  “Another centuries-old wizard. Once ruled Zhentil Keep, rode dragons, wasn’t nice. Or so the old tales say.”

  Mirt chuckled and nodded.

  “Those tales lie not,” El agreed, “and tell ye almost all ye need to know about the man. Hear now the rest. There have been many Manshoons. When he’s slain, another of his selves awakens, and ye must slay him all over again. His Art is very strong, and with it he can easily conquer the minds of others and make them his slaves.”

  “As you can,” Arclath said softly.

  “As I can, aye. Yet Manshoon is … far less considerate. Where I cozen—”

  “Manipulate.”

  “As good a word for it, aye. Where I manipulate, he coerces.”

  Storm and Mirt both nodded, so Arclath did, too. “And so?”

  “The man loves not just to defeat and dominate—he lives to rule. Zhentil Keep and its farflung tentacles—literally scores of holds, from waystop keeps to cities. To say nothing of Westgate, Ombraldar, and far Shanooth. He isn’t just here hunting me. Tired of a Westgate that won’t stay ruled but seethes tirelessly with deceits, challenges, and coup attempts—a delight for him for a decade or two but increasingly tiresome thereafter, as he sees the same ploys and clumsy deceptions a fourth and a tenth time, or more—he’s set his sights on a brighter prize. He’s here in Suzail to conquer the realm.”

  “Isn’t competition for that particular ambition a mite crowded already?” Arclath asked. “How can you be certain of Manshoon’s involvement, given all the plots and feuds and Crown-hatreds that have been nursed here for centuries? Centuries!”

  “Therein lies the sport. Using various nobles and courtiers as his pawns, and remaining unnoticed until his chosen time to reveal himself. The brawl at Council may in very large part be his doing.”

  “Perhaps, but could you not be as guilty as we nobles of Cormyr are, of seeing every little chance happening not as what it truly is, but as the latest move in our ongoing feuds with each other and the Crown? You see Manshoon’s hand because you expect to, whether or not it’s really there.”

  “I agree,” said Amarune, her voice clearly hers and not Elminster’s.

  “Rune!” Arclath cried, reaching for her. “He’s let you master yourself again! Why—”

  “We’re sharing, lad,” El rumbled, out of the lips Arclath was leaning to kiss. And grinned. “So go on, kiss thy lady. I’ll not look.”

  Arclath froze for a moment, bewildered—then shrugged, swept Rune into his arms, and kissed her heartily.

  After a good long time, she ended it with a smile and looked pas
t his shoulder. “Storm? Mirt? What think you?”

  “El’s right. Manshoon is here in Suzail, and up to something. Seizing the Dragon Throne will be his goal. Seizing thrones always is.”

  Mirt nodded agreement. “El has the right of it. As usual.”

  Rune’s smile faded as she regarded Arclath, nose to nose. “Much as I hate to think of an evil archwizard slyly at work in our city, it could very well be true. After all, these three believe it, and they’ve known this spellhurler and our realm far longer than we have. Whether they’re right or not, we dare not dismiss their warning as mistaken.”

  Arclath let out a long, exasperated sigh. “You’re right, Rune. Of course. And I should need no one else to remind me of my duty to the realm. Nobles must watch for all perils to fair Cormyr, so we can save our land from itself if the need arises. For the sake of Cormyr and everyone in it, I dare not behave as if this tale of a lurking Manshoon is less than true.”

  Storm spread her hands, but it was Elminster who spoke the words to go with them. “And so?”

  Arclath waited for Mirt but heard only silence. With all eyes looking at him.

  “We’re lost if we try to find Manshoon’s mind-slaves among all the lords of Cormyr,” he said slowly, thinking aloud. “They’re all traitors, in tiny matters or large schemings. Every last one of them will seem as suspicious as they always do. Our rooting among them warns Manshoon that we know of him, and gives him endless opportunities to slay us at will.”

  He winced, seeing imagined disasters at every hand. “No, we must rally to the Dragon Throne. Return to the palace, try to keep out of Glathra’s clutches, and hunt for traces of Manshoon—and his mind-slaves and allies among the wizards of war.”

  Storm and Rune both nodded vigorously.

  “Using my Art and the Princess Alusair’s aid to hide from Glathra as much as we can,” El put in. “So, ye’ve brought us into the palace, amid much fun of dodging Purple Dragons and war wizards and hundreds of prying courtiers, lad. Where, with the aid of a score of friendly gods, we find and scour out every last traitor within the walls. Finding no Manshoon, who must be outside the palace laughing at us and thoroughly aware of our every belch, yawn, and need to scratch. What then?”