by Ed Greenwood
“Not much of a grand fortress, is it?” she asked tartly.
He shrugged. “We heartless monsters must make do.”
Not quite hiding a smile, Florin opened the door for them, waving them within with a grand gesture that was only slightly spoiled by being made with a handful of still-dripping fish.
“Enter within,” he said. “Old Lord Walking Blame and guest. I’ll stand guard here for returning Red Wizards, whilst you …”
“Try to learn to speak civil words to each other,” Narnra replied a little wearily, stepping past him into the dusty gloom.
Behind her back, the two men exchanged glances. Elminster nodded to the ranger, said gently, “Do that,” and went inside.
* * * * *
In a high window not far away across Shadowdale, Storm Silverhand lounged with harp in hand, singing softly to herself. Her farm chores were done, and it was time and past time to take some ease, even for daughters of Mystra …
In mid-song she became aware of a shimmering below as her wards sprang to life. She stilled her strings to call, “Yes?”
Standing in her courtyard, ringed with crawling blue fire, was a gaunt, trim-bearded man holding something under his cloak. “Good lady,” he greeted her gravely, “I am Alaphondar Emmarask, High Royal Sage of Cormyr, and I bring a thing most precious with me. Pray banish your fires.”
Storm set aside her harp and swung herself through the window, floating gently down to join her unexpected guest. She made an intricate one-handed gesture as she descended, awakening an unseen magic that seemed to satisfy her. Her next gesture made the flames sink away to nothingness.
“Be welcome, Lord Sage,” she said politely. “Will you stay, take shelter, and dine? I’ve pheasant roasting over one hearth and a cauldron of rabbit stew a-building in the other.”
“Thank you, Lady Silverhand. I cannot say what my reply to your kind offer will be until I have your decision as to my … burden.”
“The king you’re hiding under your cloak? He’s right welcome, too,” Storm said dryly. “I’ll endeavour to keep you both safe—and unseen. No doubt some in Cormyr would be quite upset to learn you’re here, and others … would become all too eager.”
Alaphondar’s smile was rueful. “Lady, you state matters very well. I’ll stay if you’ll have me. How strong are your wards?”
Storm’s smile was broader than his. “I am a Chosen of Mystra,” she reminded him gently. “Take off your boots, soak your feet in yonder oil, and let me have a good look at the next scourge of womanhood in the Heartlands.”
Alaphondar winced. “Lady …” he started to protest then fell silent.
“I have my own reputation,” Storm replied, “remember? Which reminds me: How is Fee?”
Alaphondar winced again. “Harpers see all, indeed. My royal lady was well and happy when we parted some hours ago. I hope—oh, gods, I hope—that I shall see her so again, soon.”
“You,” Storm said, sliding an arm around his shoulders, “need a drink. Sit you down, and I’ll get a scrying-crystal—and you can watch over Filfaeril whenever you desire. Now, off with those boots, and haul forth young Azoun before he suffocates under that dirty old cloak of yours!”
* * * * *
Narnra shook her head at the dusty stacks of parchment and books crowding all around her and seemed eager to escape to the spartan, less-cluttered kitchen, where a pass of Elminster’s hand made the hearthfire rise under a kettle. The Old Mage pointed at a shelf. “Teas. Choose.”
Narnra dubiously examined the jars thereon. “Dragon-skull?”
“Just a little,” Elminster replied. “Powdered fine, of course.”
Narnra gave him an incredulous look. “So what,” she asked challengingly, “dare I assume is in tea labelled ‘Finest Thayan She-Slave Skin’—as this jar is?”
“One of Lhaeo’s little jests. I’m sure it’s far from the ‘finest’ skin.”
Narnra sighed, shook her head and defiantly held out the Thayan jar to Elminster. He took it without a word.
Silence stretched between them—enlivened by the climbing cry of the kettle—until Narnra became restless.
“So impart,” she said, peering around the little kitchen, “some of that dusty old advice you spoke of.”
“We all have to die and can take nothing of mortal riches or power with us,” Elminster replied promptly. “I’ve died several times already—and on at least two occasions started over with nothing, not even my name. So unless the cold decay of undeath beckons ye, remember, it ends for us all. What matters is what we do with the brief time we have.”
“Your time hasn’t been so brief,” Narnra flared.
Elminster bowed his head. “That is my curse.”
Narnra stared at him then folded her arms and asked, “Why did you leave my mother?”
Elminster stepped forward to take hold of her shoulders. They stared into each other’s eyes, noses only inches apart.
“Lass,” he said gently, “just being near me gets folk killed. I speak now not of foes I smite or fools who make reckless attempts to exploit my power or presence to further their own dangerous causes, but folk who simply get in the way or come to the notice of those who love me not. I know of—and knew well—over two hundred ‘hes’ and ‘shes’ of all the lands and races ye could think of who died in torment because some more powerful foe thought I might have given something or told something of importance to them … or just to lure me within reach or cause me distress when I learned of the torture later. And so—”
“And so you wrap this sorrowful ‘I must do thus and so for the protection of others’ explanation around yourself like a cloak and prance through life wenching and using everyone who comes within reach as if they were your personal chambermaids, hmm?”
“Fair enough,” Elminster said calmly, stepping back to pour two large tankards of tea, “I suppose I do. Armed with this knowledge, ye’ll do—what?”
Narnra stared at him, chin balanced on her knuckles, and said, “Ask you again: Why did you leave Maerjanthra Shalace, after wooing and bedding her?”
“To answer ye properly,” the Old Mage replied gravely, “I must know the answer to a question of my own. Have ye ever seen this before?” He dipped a finger into his steaming tea, drew a complicated symbol on the table between them with its wetness, let her gaze at it for a moment, and swiftly wiped it away.
Narnra sat back, strangely excited. “No-no,” she said, frowning, “I don’t think so. Wait. A jewel Mother crafted … and wore as a pendant, for a time. Why?”
“ ’Tis a symbol of the goddess Shar,” Elminster murmured, “who among other things works against She whom I serve.”
“Mystra. You mean … what do you mean?”
“All gods and goddesses work through mortals. Shar is one whose manipulations are legendary. Deservedly legendary.”
Narnra frowned. “You think Shar was using my mother to influence you?”
El nodded.
“But that’s ridiculous! That’s—”
“What happened. I was in thy mother’s arms, tongue to tongue, eye to eye. I felt the darkness slide into her and reach for me. So did she and whimpered and clung to me the tighter. I thrust her away and departed out the window, glass and frame and all, as fast as I could move. Had I remained, I’d have been taken or Maerjanthra would have been consumed in Shar’s hunger to corrupt me. Rather than bearing ye, thy mother would have been left a crumbling husk.”
Narnra stared at him. “So you went away, and my mother had me. Are you saying I’m consecrated to Shar—a creature of the Mistress of the Night from birth?”
“No,” Elminster replied gravely, “or I’d have blasted ye to ash when first I read thy mind. Only created creatures and those born of the gods or their avatars or beings the gods spend much time mind-meddling with while yet unborn come from the womb ‘belonging’ to this deity or that. All the rest of us are free to choose our faith—influenced by any who may try to sway us, of course. Ye
are Narnra Shalace, free to choose. Shar—or Mystra, for that matter—could possess and control thy body but would burn it out in hours or days by the very might of their manifestation. Failing that, ye’re free to choose as ye will. I am not free. Bound to Mystra am I—but Mystra desires all mortal creatures to possess the freedom given them by personally wielding magic.”
“A sword in every hand,” Narnra muttered. “Which inevitably leads to much spilled blood.”
El bowed his head. “The highest price of freedom is always its misuse by many.”
Narnra turned away. “Mother seldom wore that pendant,” she murmured to the tea-shelf, running her fingers along it as if answers were going to sprout helpfully among the jars.
Elminster kept silent, waiting.
His daughter turned around and looked at him in clear challenge. “What if I tell you now that I defy your moral claptrap, Father, and go my own way, stealing and thieving and never speaking to you again?”
“That’s thy choice, and by Mystra’s grace ye’re free to make it. I’ll still give ye those baubles I spoke of, my promise of welcome here whenever ye desire it, my friendship if ye’ll have it, and my fond regard even if ye don’t.”
“And if I fling all that in your teeth, meddling old wizard?”
“That will be my loss and sorrow,” Elminster told his tankard quietly.
“Damn you, old man!” Narnra said, hurling what was left of her tea into his face as she sprang up. “Damn you!”
Elminster sat with tea dripping off his nose and beard, and replied calmly, “My damnation happened centuries ago the first time—and again some dozen times since.”
“Save such words for someone who’ll be impressed!” Narnra snarled and strode back through the dusty gloom to the door, snatching it open.
Florin stood just outside, arms folded, blocking her way.
She put her head down and charged right into him, punching viciously.
The ranger stood like immovable stone, absorbing her punishment, and called calmly, “Elminster?”
“Let her go her way,” came the calm reply. “She’s discovering that growing up is painful—when she thought she’d finished with growing up some time ago.”
Florin nodded and bowed to the furious, now-weeping Narnra, indicating that her way was clear with a wave of his hand.
She stormed past him in tears, striding angrily out to where the flagstone path forked. Ahead was the road—where a few carts were creaking past, bearing farmers of Shadowdale who glanced her way curiously—and to her right was a placid pool. She stood trembling for a moment … then turned right.
At the water’s edge was a large, flat rock. Narnra threw herself down on it and gazed at the water, muttering soft curses.
He went away and left me. He just went away. And Mother died.
All this alone, all this clawing for coins and food, all this risking my neck for years in Waterdeep …
And now I’m snatched away from home, and halfway across Faerûn with no way back, bound to another meddling wizard. All because of him.
And he sits there like an old stone gargoyle, looking down from the ramparts of his years and being sad that I don’t make the same mistakes he did. Bah!
Narnra sprang to her feet and kicked at the earth, seeking to drive a stone—any stone—into the water. The pond was like glass, her reflection as clear as any mirror. She struck a pose. Huh; the Silken Shadow indeed.
Furiously she kicked at the earth again. Grass and dirt fountained, and one tiny pebble flew, bounced, and found the water.
She watched its spreading rings for a time, and sat down to do so. This place was beautiful. She lifted her gaze and looked around. A castle keep—built with a strange twist to it—across this meadow, a cart-road off to her left with a few mule-carts being led out onto it, a rock twice the height of Waterdeep Castle rising right up out of the grass to her right, behind his tower …
Atop it, helmed heads and a few spears. She was being watched. Even here.
You bastard, old man. You suspicious old … but no. Banners are flapping up there, no one’s moving—except there, to point down at the road. They’re watching the road.
I suppose someone will always be watching, wherever I go.
A gentle breeze arose, fresh and fragrant with wildflowers, and Narnra lifted her face to catch it, and looked around at the rustling trees and waving grass.
This was a fair place. It must be nice to live here. Wherever “here” was.
Some time later, Elminster quietly sat down beside Narnra and steered a fresh mug of tea into her hand. “Ye, ahem, threw away the chance to finish yours,” he said gently.
Narnra gave him a red-eyed glance and—after a long moment—took the tea.
Saying nothing, she quickly looked away, and sat cradling it and staring at the pool.
After a time, she absently sipped it.
A little later, she risked a glance to her right. Elminster was sitting silently beside her, looking out over the pool rather than at her, his unlit pipe floating in the air near at hand.
Is he just going to sit there? Waiting for me to beg his forgiveness, cry for his acceptance, say I love him? Knowing I can’t run from him, don’t even know where to run to, and that he can blast me whenever he wants?
I threw my tea in his face, shouted at him—why hasn’t he blasted me already?
What’s he afraid of?
Narnra shot a glance at her father. He didn’t look afraid of anything. He was smelling the breeze, nose lifted, a half-smile on his face.
He doesn’t look afraid, he looks smug. Damn him.
Oh, yes, too late for that. Such big words, such calm claims. Smug old man.
She drew in a ragged breath, looked away, and sipped from her tankard again.
It was getting cold—but grew warmer, even as she drew back and made a face at it.
Narnra glared at Elminster. “Are you using your magic on this?”
“Of course,” he said gently. “Ye prefer it warm, d’ye not?”
She regarded him, hefting the tankard in her hand as if she might throw it at him. Again. “And you always use your magic to do what other people prefer?”
“Nay. Most folk don’t even know what they prefer. Most never stop to think.” He turned his head to watch some flower petals drift by. “Do they?”
You mean that as some sort of a thrust at me, old man?
You think clever words can change everything?
Narnra turned her back on her father again.
Every time she turned around again, however, he was still there. He smiled at her once or twice, but she gave him stony silence. After a while, she started watching him.
He sat and looked around at Shadowdale, not seeming to mind.
Later, her tankard empty, Narnra murmured, “This place is beautiful.”
“Aye. I sit here often. Dawn, sunrise, sunset, and dusk offer the best views, of course. If ye want to bathe, soap-flakes and hair-scent are under yon rock.”
Narnra gave him a startled look. “You expect me to stay?”
Elminster shook his head. “I expect nothing—but I offered ye welcome at any time ye might care to claim it, and ye might arrive some day desiring to get cool or clean or wash the blood of someone ye disagreed with off ye, so ’tis handy to know where the soap is.”
“I suppose you have drying robes waiting under some other rock?”
“No, but if ye go and lie on yonder stone, ye’ll find it both heats and sucks away the damp. The black velvet butterfly hanging on the shrub beside it is one of Jhessail Silvertree’s hair-slides. She comes here often to lay her hair out in a fan to get it properly dry.”
It was Narnra’s turn for head-shaking. “I—I don’t understand you. You seem tender and kind, you protest your noble reasons and causes, insist you look at everything from all sorts of viewpoints … yet you use people as if they were farm-beasts, love women and leave them as casually as you change your socks, and-and—why?”
“Because I’m a mere mortal, twisted beyond sanity by what I’ve seen and done, and by holding a goddess in my arms, and by living for far too long,” Elminster whispered. “I’m a crazed villain and a proudly enthusiastic meddler as well as thy father … but I’d also like to be thy friend. I take folk as I find them and leave judgments to the young; I hope ye can learn to do that, too.”
“Old Mage,” Narnra told him firmly, “young people have to learn to judge others or they never survive to become older. Yet I’ll grant that you … are more than I thought you were.”
She turned to look directly into his eyes and added, “If I’d never known you’d sired me, we’d already be friends. I’m … I’m trying to set aside my anger over growing up fatherless then being left alone to fend for myself after my mother died. I may be just one of uncounted thousands of forgotten, abandoned orphans in Faerûn, but I’m me, the only person I’ve ever had to worry about, and—”
“Precisely. Ye’re the only person ye’ve ever had to worry about. Go get thyself a few friends—real friends—and ye’ll have that many more folk to worry over.”
“And you worry about thousands, is that it?”
“Worry and do something—lots of things, endlessly—for them. Grieve for all those I failed and those the passing years have taken from me. Whole realms I loved are now gone,” Elminster replied and added calmly, “Boo hoo.”
Narnra snorted in surprised mirth and set her tankard down. “I could learn to love this place,” she said almost wistfully—and then turned her head to look into her father’s eyes and added slowly, almost struggling with the words, “To accept you too, I think, with all your lies and meddling. Someday.”
“I’d like that,” he said gently. “ ’Twould mean much to me.”
She nodded, and they looked calmly into each other’s eyes for what seemed a very long time.
Abruptly Narnra became aware, as she stared through it at her father, of how tangled and sweat-soiled her hair was. Her gaze fell longingly to the pool, and after a few breaths of silence she asked, “Would you mind going away whilst I bathe if I promise to work no mischief?”
