Elminster in Hell

by Ed Greenwood

  At the Simbul’s elbow, the oldest of her guards dared to murmur, “You scowled, Majesty?”

  The Simbul nodded. “I did. At a memory.”

  “Ah,” the guard said, stepping back. No doubt a woman who’d slain hundreds of Red Wizards in frantic spell battle over years upon years had more than a few grim memories that might come to mind unbidden.

  So she did, but what made the queen of Aglarond frown again as she turned away to walk a garden path was the fact that the memory was not her own. She could still hear her sisters’ helpless laughter over a romantic book, a fancy-novel … a moment new to her, but tattered and elusive in someone’s store of remembrances. But whose?

  Whose mind could have touched hers so feebly? Whose?

  Twelve

  THE HARPER WITHOUT

  The easy thing to do would have been to hurl herself over the cold stone sill, into the night and the rain. Out and down, down to the courtyard below. Alustriel gripped the stony edge with fingers that trembled, pale white. Why then did she not do it?

  Pride. Just that—a small thing to stand between her and a quick doom. It would be swift, yes, but dishonorable, a shame as sure as that Irlar sought to bring on her, with his mocking smile and honeyed words. She looked down again. The night hid the stones she’d stared at for hours. It would be an easy thing now, in the dark, alone. In the morning they’d find her lying on those stones. “Aye, she jumped,” her uncle would say. He’d spit out of the side of his mouth, shake his head, and turn away, waving at the servants to bundle her body to be burned.

  I will not have him think that of me, Alustriel thought.

  She turned away from the night to face her waiting chambers. Irlar would come to her soon. Irlar the laughing lordling, a sneer bright in his eyes. Irlar, who’d take her to wife not for love—though no doubt he’d force the attentions of love on her, this very night—but for the lands and wealth held in her name. Hers to surrender but not hers to enjoy; her uncle saw to that.

  Uncle Thamator. The Wolf, men called him, and dared not meet his eyes when he was in a fury. All knew him for a fearless warrior, matchless in the field, and a bitter man—and all knew him to be a Harper. Alustriel shrank even from the memory of their last meeting. Together in his chambers after a feast, sharing wine—her first taste of such things, amber fire that warmed her throat like spiced sauce—she’d asked him eagerly, innocently, when she would be made a Harper.

  Thamator fixed her with eyes like colorless glass. “I gave my lady for the Harpers, girl. My lady, and my son not yet born, who died with her. Too many comrades to count have followed them. I’ve given the Harpers this strong right arm, these thirty winters since. I have given them friends with my sword, too, when it was necessary. What have ye to give them?”

  He spoke the last words with biting anger, almost spitting his contempt. She stood silent, shocked, face white—and then red. He saw her mounting color, stared at her deliberately, and went on. “Ye are not a warrior. Ye are pretty, but beauty is not something so rare that it will aid the Harpers. Ye do not believe that one god is the right and true one above others, and cannot then serve as a priest; a good one, at least. Ye have the silence to steal but no strength or speed—and ye lack the craft to lie glibly.”

  The lord of Bluetower strode angrily across the room, and turned to confront her again. “So I paid good coin to see ye made something of a mage. The wizard Thurduil said ye had a way with the power. Eight years! Eight years of coins out of this purse, one handful after another, too many of them gold—and to show for it? Ye can make a servant sneeze. A prank I can match with a pinch of pepper! No doubt Gaerd has managed to get ye to do some other tricks of the like by now. He’s a master; the fault’s not with him.”

  Thamator’s eyes were like the points of two sword-blades. “And ye want to know when ye’ll be made a Harper,” he minced with boiling sarcasm. She couldn’t turn from his eyes as he lowered himself into his chair and added with terrible softness, “Get out of my sight for a time. Ye look too much like your mother did to be saying such idiocy to me.” His face twisted briefly in a spasm of pain or regret. A passing shadow left his features as smooth and blank and unyielding as stone.

  Alustriel turned and stumbled out, wiping vainly at the tears that streamed down her cheeks.…

  Two days ago, Irlar had come riding at the head of a company of laughing young men in finery, swords bouncing at their hips. When he offered for her hand in marriage, her uncle had not even bothered to see her. He’d sent a servant to give her the simple message: “Heed.” No more—and that before all the house. Her cheeks still burned at the memory.

  Irlar! The same lordling who’d once spat on her at a Shieldmeet feast and hissed, “Get away from me, unclean one! Witch blood! Harper!” Alustriel had never forgotten. It was clear from his barbed sidelong questions these last two evenfeasts, neither had he.

  If she could have worn the silver moon and harp badge of the Harpers, the badge her uncle said she did not deserve, Alustriel was sure Lord Irlar would have shied away like one who has seen a ghost. Or if she could have worked magic strong enough simply to push him away when he approached, his fear would poison his greed. But she was a weak, defenseless prize, and he knew it.

  Not so easily mastered as all that! Irlar had taunted her tonight, saying over wine and minstrel music that he would come for her when the house was asleep, to taste what he would own when they were wed. He added that if she was at all reluctant, her magic would protect her. She could have screamed out her rage and frustration at him then. As surely as an animal in a forester’s cage, she was trapped—trapped! Only tiny victories were within her grasp. She had said nothing to his taunts, only smiled as serenely as she could manage, hoping to discomfit him. After a moment he had laughed—a short, ruthless bark—and turned away contemptuously.

  All her magic, aye. Alustriel looked down at her slender, empty fingers, bone-white in the dimness. Only faint torchlight came in the window from rooms adjacent to her own. She could make people sneeze. Irlar had made a little joke of that; she had refused to demonstrate. She could also make sounds out of empty air, but only in a very limited way: she could mimic a single harp string, plucked note by note, choosing the tune and whether it played softly or loudly by how she imagined it in her head. She could also make the source of the noise shift from very near to something from afar, perhaps a hundred paces. Gaerd had told her she wasn’t a Harper yet and suggested she keep this ability a secret from all until she’d mastered something more to go with it. She had done so.

  Barely ten days ago, under the master wizard’s kind tutelage, Alustriel had managed to make a great blue spark snap from one of her fingers to a metal coin set on a table several paces distant. She’d felt only a tingling, no pain … but she could make a spark appear only when she was excited or frightened or upset. Its creation always left her shaking and drenched with sweat. Great magic, aye.

  Yet it was all she had. Alustriel turned in the darkness and strode into the little room where she kept her spell components—harmless ingredients for this or that. A sudden instinct made her hand close on a certain vial of iron filings and slip it into the hidden pockets in her skirts. Perhaps she could blind Irlar with it. She could not make herself pick up the tiny, bejeweled dagger that she knew lay on the table near the vials. He would only slash her face with it—or toss it laughingly aside.

  There was a sudden scraping sound at the door of the other chamber. Irlar had come for her.

  Irlar was a servant of Bane. He had a tiny brand under a ring that he turned around and around on his finger. Irlar meant to take her to a temple tonight, to forswear Mystra for Bane and quench any magic she might have forever. No doubt, he would also force his love on her at the dark altar, to claim any child she might bear for the dark god.…

  A sudden shiver shook her so much that her teeth chattered. Alustriel bit her lip, stilled her quaking limbs, and forced herself to move calmly and silently into the main chamber �
� to meet her doom. Her uncle might never be proud of her, but she would not see him dismiss her as a light-headed wench, a nothing. She heard a gentle sighing sound, and knew it for an unseen blade cutting the bell rope so she couldn’t summon aid or rouse the house.

  She made her face as dignified as she could and looked to the door. She deliberately unhooded the tiny oil lamp before her on the stone window-table. The sudden light caught him sliding home the flimsy door bolt of brass filigree. His look of alert surprise rose into a smile as he saw that she was alone.

  “Well met,” he said with gentle sarcasm, “my Alustriel.” He stared at her eagerly, hungry for a reaction. Waiting to feel her fear.

  Panic and nausea rose together within her. Alustriel looked back at him, keeping her face calm. She dared not speak; she trusted neither tongue nor voice to be steady and loyal. Irlar grinned at her indecision and advanced.

  “Come, now,” he asked, “is my offer of marriage such a hated thing? Or a matter so trifling that it wakes no spirit in you at all?” At that, Alustriel smiled, though inside she felt more like weeping. It was meant to be an unsettling, catlike smile, but it wavered. He grinned, not wary at all. Why should he be?

  She was helpless, and they both knew it. Slowly she hooded the lamp, plunging the room into darkness as she gathered control of herself. Again.

  “Welcome, my lord,” Alustriel managed, finding her voice at last in the polite phrases of her childhood training.

  “I hoped I would be,” he answered triumphantly. With a sudden stride he reached her, putting his arms around her. He kissed her fiercely. His lips were those of a proud conqueror.

  Alustriel fell back a step. He advanced, keeping their bodies tightly pressed together. Her rising anger made Alustriel’s heart and breath quicken. Irlar took this for excitement, and his hands began to move. Boldly, to her hip and breast, pushing her back.

  She retreated toward her high-canopied bed. Furious resolve made her breath shudder and misled him into renewed boldness. Onto the sleeping furs he bore her. Eyes closed, lips glued to his, Alustriel concentrated with infinite care on her harp spell. It had to sound just right.

  There. He stiffened atop her as he heard it. Far away it sounded, and muffled, as if in another room. Slowly it grew louder. Alustriel held Irlar to her with feigned caresses and bent her will with achingly careful precision. The unseen harpist was coming nearer.

  Irlar pulled his lips from hers and gripped her arms with bruising force.

  “What—who’s that?” he hissed, shaking her.

  “My uncle,” she whispered with false urgency. “In the secret passage! On his way here; he only plays so when he comes to speak with me!”

  With an oath Irlar rolled off her, drawing his dagger. Alustriel seized her chance, heart pounding. In her skirts, her fingers found the vial and uncorked it.

  Irlar turned his head and hissed, “Where?” at her commandingly, to learn where the nonexistent passage was.

  She flung the contents of the vial into his face. She stabbed a finger at his eyes, gathering her will with that peculiar surge she always felt—and there was a snap. A blue spark leaped into Irlar’s eyes, crackling for an instant among the filings there.

  Irlar roared, clutching at his eyes.

  She felt his dagger swing around, missing her in the darkness as she flung herself back and away, rolling along the edge of her bed. As always, casting the cantrip left her weak and trembling. She found her feet and fled unsteadily across her dark bedchamber, hampered by her skirts, trying to keep ahead of his reaching blade.

  Cursing, Irlar came after her. He slashed wildly with the dagger, still blind but heading straight for the passage door. She’d have no time to throw the bolt and escape from her rooms. She whirled around her unseen guest table, bending her will again to the harping, bringing it louder and nearer.

  Irlar followed. His cursing sounded scared now, more than angry.

  Alustriel breathed a prayer to Tyche as she bumped her shins into her little side table, stumbled, and caught herself on it with both hands. She swept it up desperately, spilling a mint-water decanter and two drinking horns to the floor. She held it like a shield.

  Irlar charged toward the noise, slashing wildly. He slipped on one of the horns and flung his arms up to hold his balance.

  Alustriel stepped forward to bring all her weight to bear, as she’d seen her uncle’s axe men do, and brought the little table down as hard as she could on the hand that held the dagger.

  Irlar screamed on the heels of the sickening crack. The dagger rang off the glass decanter somewhere underfoot.

  He lunged upon her, grabbing at the table with his good hand. She held to it, but he jerked impatiently, tore it from her grasp, and flung it away. It crashed against the far wall.

  Alustriel dodged away again, desperate now.

  “Bitch!” Irlar hissed at her savagely. “I’ll kill you for that!”

  She knew his words for simple truth. His thoughts of abduction on horseback to a temple of Bane were gone. Nothing less than her blood would satisfy him now. He crashed into another table, toppling statuettes and jars, but did not upset it and stopped, holding to it to steady himself. Alustriel heard a jar roll across it with almost lazy slowness—before it toppled over the edge to the floor.

  Then she was pulling at the bolt of her chamber door with all her strength. It squealed, and he roared at the sound. Some instinct made Alustriel duck away. An instant later a perfume bottle crashed into shards against the wall just above her head, showering her with glass and a stinging mist. Then came another and another. In her hampering skirts, she scuttled sideways seeking a weapon … or a refuge against his murderous fury … and knowing she would find neither.

  A rushing, whistling sound in the darkness told with cold certainty that Irlar had found her riding whip.

  She had to get out of these long skirts! With shaking fingers, she unlaced and tore at the garment, crouching low and biting her lip.

  Irlar panted and thrashed the darkness furiously with the whip, seeking her.

  Nearer he came, and nearer. Alustriel rolled out of her skirts at last. He heard her and charged with an exultant roar. She twisted on the floor and brought the cloth up before her in both hands, as a shield. The whip cut into them with a sharp crack, and one of her arms burned with sudden, stinging fire.

  The whip came down again—and again and again, in a rain of blows too wild and rage-driven to be precise. Alustriel rolled and crawled and writhed on her luxuriant rugs, but could not elude him. When she got the edge of a table between her and the whip, Irlar kicked her savagely in the face and breast until she was out from under the table’s shelter—and pressed on with his whipping, grunting with the effort of his stroke.

  Alustriel sobbed as she made for the table. This time the whip missed her. She crouched motionless in the dark, gathered her tattered will, and bent it to her task.

  In the darkness above, Irlar sneezed. Alustriel gave a little crow of triumphant laughter. Again she felt the surge—and again he sneezed, the whip swinging wildly. She rose swiftly under the table, catching it on her shoulders and driving it into him. Irlar stumbled back into furnishings and went down, losing the whip. Alustriel danced away from his flailing limbs. She headed for the door, her only chance.

  She pulled on the bolt with sudden, rising hope—but the brass jammed in her haste and wouldn’t budge. Looking back, she saw Irlar silhouetted against the dim torchlight of the window, leaning on the stone table and reaching for the bell-hood of her tiny oil lamp. She could not let him lift it, or she was lost! With light enough, he could stalk her at leisure.…

  His eyes must have recovered. As his hand settled on the hood, Alustriel ran at him with frantic haste, heart pounding. She crashed into him just as he saw her in the blossoming lamplight. He struck her on the brow with the hood. Alustriel reeled … but her hands were on the hot metal, and she swept the lamp up and out the window, heedless of the spilling oil—and the room
was safely in darkness again.

  She was too close to the window. Irlar could see her outlines in the faint torchlight. He shoved her away so he could land a blow with his good hand: a solid punch that sent her reeling, eyes stinging and wits dazed. Her jaw felt as if it was broken … gods, the pain! He was after her triumphantly, reaching out to throttle her.

  Alustriel fled from him—had she been dodging him in the darkness forever? In sudden determination she turned and fled no more but ducked in under his arm, ramming her head into his belly as hard as she could, charging forward.

  Irlar was in pain, and unsteady. She carried him before her rush, back, back to the window. He kicked out wildly as his back hit the low sill. He lost his balance. Alustriel punched his groin, grabbed his foot, twisted, shoved—and suddenly she was alone in the room.

  There was a sickening crack from the courtyard below. Lord Irlar struck the stones and bounced, once. A moment later, Alustriel heard the sudden shout of a guard. Torches began to flicker and move.

  She leaned on the sill for a moment to catch her breath, watching them, and then turned deliberately for the door. The harp’s song began as a few happy notes and swelled around her. She walked, uncaring of her appearance, down the long dark passage, through the heavy doors, and around the turn to her uncle’s door. As she approached, it was thrown open.

  Thamator came out into the night gloom, his sword drawn.

  “Who be ye?” he challenged roughly, blinking into the darkness. The music of the harp swirled around him.

  “I still want to be a Harper,” Alustriel told him, surprised at how calm her voice sounded.

  “Ye, girl? Must ye wake me with such tricks at this time of night? Hast aught else to do?” her uncle demanded thickly. She knew from his tone that her music reminded him of someone else, from long ago. The sword in his hands began to glow palely. In the growing radiance she saw his jaw drop.

  His gaze was on her bloody state of undress, and roved to take in the red whip weals crisscrossing her body. He took a step forward, peering at her in disbelief. “What, in the name of all the gods, bef—”