by Ed Greenwood
He chuckled, shrugged, and strode down the cold, dark, and cobwebbed passage.
The damp made the spiderwebs thick, jeweled-with-droplets curtains. Elminster pushed through them unconcernedly, acquiring a marbled pattern of silken filth on his robes, and when he reached the remembered crossway, he turned left.
Cold blue fire flared in the emptiness in front of his nose immediately, but he strolled right through that ward-spell—and the next one, too.
By then a sleepy-eyed War Wizard, barefoot in her robes, was confronting him furiously. A rod that winked and glowed from half a dozen attached side-wands was cradled in her arms and aimed right at his face.
“Halt or be destroyed!” she snapped, as her fingers triggered a magic that sent bells chiming in a dozen chambers, near and far. Whatever befell now, this obviously not-so-secret passage would be swarming with War Wizards in a few minutes. Until then, ’Twas her duty to prevent this stranger from—
He stepped forward, and she snarled and triggered three of the wands at once.
Their flash and roar almost blinded War Wizard Belantra, and sent her staggering back as the passage flagstones rippled under her feet in a great shockwave. In the distance, behind the broad-shouldered intruder, stones fell from the passage ceiling, amid much dust, and tumbled away.
He kept coming, as if the ravening magic hadn’t touched him at all.
“Back, demon!” Belantra snapped, sudden fear rising inside her. No one should be able to withstand such a blast! Even if the handsome man before her was mere illusion, the magic that presented it should have been shredded, and—
One long-fingered hand grasped the tip of one of her wands, even as she furiously triggered it again. Calmly ignoring Belantra, the intruder lifted the wand so its emerald beam of flesh-melting fury was trained not at his chest, but directly into his eyes.
Bright blue those eyes shone as they met hers for a moment, winked, and dropped to examine the wand again.
“Ah, yes. I helped Vangey enspell this. Now, after all these years, he wastes it in some sort of toy ‘mightywand’ gonne, such as the Lantanna fashion?” The handsome intruder shook his head. “I thought I’d taught him better than that.”
He looked up again, gently pushing the wand aside with one fingertip, and asked, “What might thy name be, lass?”
“I’m a War Wizard of Cormyr,” Belantra snapped, “and I’ll ask the questions here, man!”
“By all means,” the broad-shouldered stranger agreed easily, taking her elbow in one hand and steering her aside so he could pass. When she whirled furiously to shove him against the wall, he turned nimbly with her as if they were dancing together, ending up behind her with her wrist in a grip she could not break. Towing her, he strode in the direction she’d come from.
“I’m here to see Caladnei,” he explained, “but ye’re welcome to ask all ye want while we go fetch her, eh?”
“How do you kno—the Mage Royal can see no one! She’s sleeping, after a very long night of defending the realm.”
The handsome stranger smiled. “Long indeed. I know. I helped make it so. To squeeze our doings into a shorter night might well have left her as a corpse.”
“Who are y—let go of me! Let go, stop right here, and tell me your name!” Belantra shouted, thrusting the gonne of wands and rod into the intruder’s face and preparing to spend her life in the defense of the Mage Royal.
Black eyebrows lifted. “Demanding, aren’t ye? War Wizards weren’t quite so shrill back in the early days, I must say. I did warn Amedahast she was shaping something that was sure to get away from her—but then, who am I to deny other mages their grand schemes and toys, when such strivings have brought us all such wonder? No, lass, don’t try to set them all off at once—ye’ll blast all this cellar right up through the grand edifice above it, shattering Caladnei to bonelessness as surely as ye do the same to thyself and everyone else within reach—including all thy fellow loyal mages ye summoned!”
The intruder pointed along the passage where robed men and women were approaching at a run, wands in hand and various glows of awakening magic flaring.
Chuckling and shaking his head, he plucked Belantra and her gonne around in front of him to serve as a shield, more or less carried her the few steps down the passage to the entrance she’d emerged from, and laid a hand on the closed iron door he found there.
Deadly magic flared and crackled around his fingers. He shook his head, broke it without seeming to do anything, and reached through the still-solid metal to turn the latch-handle on the inside.
Belantra’s mouth dropped open in astonishment at that. Her jaw dropped still farther as the stranger’s shape shifted into that of a slender old man with a white beard, bushy eyebrows, and a hawklike nose.
His grip remained every bit as iron-strong as he towed her through the doorway into the softly glow-lit bedchamber beyond—where someone was sitting up in a magnificent canopied bed facing them, eyes sharp above an unwaveringly aimed wand.
“Wh—Elminster!”
“The same. Nice curves, lass, but get something on over them, or I’ll shortly be guilty of laying low the Royal Magician of Cormyr with a walloping head cold. Ye’re coming with me.”
The Mage Royal gaped at him just as her door-guardian had done—before Belantra turned to doing what she was doing just now, which was fainting dead away and slumping in the Old Mage’s grasp—then stiffened, eyes blazing ruby-red, and snapped, “Certainly not! Who are you to be giving me orders? Or demanding anything of any War Wizard of Cormyr?”
“The orders aren’t mine, lass. They come from Mystra. However, if ye’d rather not know what mischief Vangerdahast is up to in the midst of thy kingdom, ye can of course refuse both the Divine One and myself and join the legions of proud fools waiting to fill up graves all over Faerûn. I leave ye free choice.”
Caladnei swallowed, her magnificent throat moving while the rest of her sat on the bed like a dark brown, smooth-skinned statue. Elminster kept his eyes fixed on hers. She looked away first, muttering, “I was trying to get some sleep.”
“A luxury seldom allowed Royal Magicians, ye’ll learn,” Elminster said, stepping forward to lay Belantra’s limp form gently across the end of the bed. He went to a wardrobe, flung the doors wide, and rummaged, soon tossing a pair of boots back over his shoulder.
Caladnei caught them at about the time a dozen War Wizards burst into the room—and came to a confused halt as the Mage Royal of Cormyr flung up her hand in a ‘stop’ gesture. “Out, all of you,” she said firmly. “My apologies for the upset of being summoned at such an hour for nothing. Go back to your posts.”
“Mage Royal, forgive me,” one of the older men said gravely, “but—”
“My mind is my own, thanks, Velvorn. I’m neither enchanted nor coerced by my guest, here. He has merely reminded me of my duty to Cormyr. Please go.”
Leather breeches landed in Caladnei’s lap, and a tunic struck her face a moment later. Velvorn lingered for a breath or two longer, perhaps to enjoy either the scenery or the sight of a Royal Magician catching clothes with her face, then wheeled around and started to shoo away all the War Wizards who’d crowded into the doorway to stare.
When he was done, he turned on the threshold with a clear question in his eyes—but closed the door at an imperious gesture from the Mage Royal.
Caladnei sighed. “Well, my loyal mages will certainly be able to recognize me now from any angle, with or without clothes.”
Elminster turned from the wardrobe with a vest in his hands and grunted, “My apologies, lass. Sometimes haste is needful, and I didn’t want to harm or humiliate dozens of War Wizards trying to get to you, a few hours hence.” He shook out the vest, laid it on the bed, and turned his back. “I see ye’re wise enough to keep thy hair gathered, so as to get up and about the swifter.”
“I was too tired to remember to take it off,” Caladnei admitted, reaching up to touch the ribbon at the back of her neck. She rose from the bed
, long-limbed and slender. “No underclout?”
Elminster shrugged. “Ladies never wore them in my day.”
Caladnei arched an eyebrow. “That tells me more about the company you kept, Lord Elminster, than it does about fashion—all those centuries ago, when you still looked at ladies.”
The Old Mage chuckled, back still turned, but several underthings gently floated off a wardrobe shelf and past him. Caladnei selected one with the dry observation, “Ah, I see you know what they look like.”
“I observe women still. Ladies, not so many.”
The Mage Royal made a rude sound, dressed in whispering haste—a belt floated into her hand just as she found herself lacking it—and asked, “Should I take wands, expecting battle?”
“Nay. If ye should need them where we’re going next, ’tis more than mere treason the realm need worry about.”
Caladnei laid a tentative hand on Elminster’s shoulder—then snatched it back. The Old Mage turned. “Fear ye’ll catch something?”
The Mage Royal’s eyes were doe-brown once more. “No,” she replied. “I … I just wanted to touch you and live to tell the tale. Some say you’re …”
“Afire with Mystra’s power? A rotting lich whose joints crackle with sorcery? A shapeshifting, counterfeit creature who devoured the real Elminster long ago? Those’re usually the most popular rumors.”
Caladnei blushed, and then lifted her chin. “I’ve heard all of those, yes. Where are you taking me?”
“Stag Steads.”
The Mage Royal arched the same eyebrow that had lifted before then turned to one of her bedposts, did something that swung aside a little curved door to reveal a cavity, drew forth two wands in a scabbard that she strapped to her forearm, and turned back to fix Elminster with a defiant look.
The Old Mage merely shrugged. “Ye must do what ye think wisest.” He reached out his hand to her.
Caladnei eyed him. “The wisest thing to do now,” she said calmly, “would be to flee you, not take your hand.”
Elminster nodded. “True.” He took a step closer and offered his hand again. With a sigh, she took it—and was instantly elsewhere.
An elsewhere that sported many leaves, dappled in the bright light of dawn. Caladnei blinked and stared all around, knowing by the view that she stood on a back porch of the hunting lodge in the heart of the King’s Forest.
“How did you do that? No word nor gesture—”
A round door set deep into the moss-covered bank behind them burst open, and a blade thrust out through it—straight through Elminster. Twice it thrust then slashed sideways, cutting freely through the Old Mage as if he were but empty air.
“Caladnei!” The dark-haired woman behind the blade was angry. “You’ve got to stop scaring me like this! I thought this was some archwizard holding you captive, not your own clever illusion!”
“Mreen,” the Mage Royal said quickly, holding up a quelling hand. “This is—”
“Oh, gods,” the Lady Lord of Arabel gasped, her sword sinking forgotten in her hand.
Elminster had turned around to face her. “Forgotten me so soon, Mreen? And something so basic as an ironguard spell, or—ahem—mine own modifications to it?”
Flecks of gold flashed in Myrmeen Lhal’s deep blue eyes as she stared back at him with more than a hint of defiant challenge in her gaze. The white lines of fresh scars crossed on her hands, and one scar adorned a cheek that had been unmarked when last the Old Mage had seen her—but her figure in her leather armor was as trim as ever. Her glossy, almost blue-black hair held no gray—but there were two lines of white at her temples, where there’d been only youthful darkness before.
“El,” she said slowly, grounding her blade, “you chase trouble across Faerûn like a stormbird. I give you good greeting but with wariness: Why come you here?”
“To see the Crown Princess ye’re trying to keep hidden behind thy shapely shoulders,” the archmage replied, one corner of his mouth quirking into a smile that was almost hidden by his beard. “Ye should all hear this, mind, for it concerns the realm entire.”
“Elminster of Shadowdale,” the Steel Regent said calmly from the darkness inside the hill, “be welcome in Cormyr. Come in and unfold the bad news. Wine? Morning broth?”
“Thank ye, but—no. Ye still know how to tempt a man, lass.”
Alusair Nacacia grinned. “I should hope so. Fall into a seat—there’re plenty.”
The princess was tangle-haired and barefoot, evidently just risen from slumber. She wore only a large, fluffy robe, but her sword gleamed ready in her hand. Its scabbard lay upon a round stone table beside her flagon of steaming broth. Elminster sniffed appreciatively then shook his head and sat down. His stomach promptly rumbled.
Alusair grinned again and ladled him his own flagon, as Caladnei and Myrmeen took seats around the table.
“So talk, wizard,” Alusair commanded. Caladnei and Myrmeen both stiffened in apprehension, but Elminster merely chuckled.
“By the first Mystra and the second, but ye sound like thy father, lass!” He stretched, leaned back, and added gruffly, “Ye truly don’t want to know what Vangey’s been up to, but as Regent ye’d best know anyway, so long as ye’ve the sense not to tell anyone.”
Alusair rolled her eyes and growled in mock anger.
Elminster gave her a grin to match her earlier ones. “Well then, to put it plainly: My onetime pupil and thy former Mage Royal is trying to complete a magical task that’s very important to him, ere he dies. Ye might say he’s putting the last of his life into it and is fiercely set upon it.”
“And this task would be—?” the Steel Regent growled.
“None of ye three need me to remind ye that the Lords Who Sleep bide in armed slumber to guard Cormyr no longer. Well, Vangey seeks to replace them.”
Alusair’s eyes blazed. “With whom?”
“Dragons. Thy retired Royal Magician seeks to bind some great wyrms in stasis to defend the kingdom of Cormyr against any other attacking dragon, or the whelming of a rebel host, or an invading army from, say, Sembia or from the Zhentarim or some other grasping power.”
Shock shone white on three female faces.
“Without telling us?” Alusair barked.
At the same time Myrmeen burst out, “This could imperil the realm as gravely as did the Devil Dragon!”
Caladnei swore, “Mother Mystra!”
Elminster smiled gravely around the table and thrust out his hand to catch hold of Alusair’s blade before she could smash it down on the stone table in rage. She struggled against his strength in vain for a trembling, throat-straining moment then sat back dumbfounded.
“Magic,” he explained with a wry smile, handing her blade to her. The princess snarled and snatched it up, whirling it back to bring it shattering down on the stone—then stopped in midair, matched his smile bitterly, slid it into its sheath instead, and laid that on the table with deft and delicate care.
“So,” she said, letting her breath out in a long sigh, “suppose, old meddling wizard, you tell us a little more about this idiocy—just so I know what to say when I go storming into Vangey’s little hidden haven to tie his ears together under his chin and charge him with treason!”
Elminster’s smile grew wider and more crooked. “Ah, the spirit that has carried Cormyr into the mess ’tis in today. Temper, lass, temper.”
“Old Mage,” Myrmeen put in calmly, “the Steel Regent is not the only one to be shocked, dismayed, upset, and furious. I believe I speak for both myself and Caladnei when I say that we, too, are on the verge of boiling over at this news. Pray grant the request of the Crown Princess: Tell us more.”
Elminster nodded. “Excellent broth,” he told Alusair brightly, earning another glowering growl.
He winked and said quietly, “ ’Tis probably no news to inform thee that acting alone and in secrecy is the way of mages. Let me impart a reminder and a tutor’s judgment. The former: Vangerdahast serves the realm first and its ruler
s second. The latter: Thy retired Royal Magician learned long ago, to his cost, to trust no-one.”
“To his cost? What cost?” Caladnei asked sharply.
“His broken heart, the lives of more than a dozen nobles, both loyal and rebel, and three abiding perils to the realm,” Elminster replied. “Ask him if ye’d know more—for I’ve more important words for ye three.”
“Oh?” the Crown Princess asked icily. “There’s more?”
“Advice, lass, advice. A warning, if ye will. To reveal Vangey’s plan to others—to anyone, even Filfaeril—will be to risk rumor of it getting out and endangering the realm by luring wizards hither.”
Myrmeen wrinkled her brow. “Dragon collectors?”
“Those who seek the spells Vangerdahast is crafting—spells they can’t help but see that he must craft, to find success—to bind and command dragons. Some will see deeper and know that Vangey draws on the last of his life to power such spells. They will see him weak, and dying soon—perhaps sooner, if they can catch him at work and unprepared for battle. Then the realm will be theirs to plunder of magic—his caches, at least—or try to rule, through alliances with the more traitorous nobles … and suchlike mischief all of ye should be more than familiar with.”
The three women looked back at Elminster, shock and anger gone. Their faces now held frowns of thoughtfulness. After a moment, they all started to speak at once. Before any of them could form a single whole word, they fell abruptly silent again, gesturing at each other to speak first.
It was Caladnei who did so. “As Mage Royal,” she said, lips thin with determination, “I must deal with this. Mine is the duty and the skill—however slight, when set against Lord Vangerdahast’s—at magecraft. This doom is mine.”
“I … you’re right, Cala,” Princess Alusair said reluctantly. “Though it feels like I’m sending you to your death.”
“As it happens,” Elminster said brightly, setting down his nearly empty flagon, “Mystra commanded me to deal with this. Knowing both thy duties and how ye’d feel about being left out, I came to collect and bring ye along—the Mother of All Magic being of like mind.”
