by Ed Greenwood
So what, then, was Elminster now up to?
Well, meddling, of course. ’Twas what the Old Fool did. Trying to rule thrones from behind them, sway this lord into giving him food and a bed while he stole magic and coins from that lord, or in this case the royal family of Cormyr. Stay close to the rich and powerful, whisper in their ears, get them to do what he wanted them to do—just as he’d been doing for centuries.
Manshoon knew the lure of power himself. It was the elixir; there was nothing stronger.
Yet, he’d done it all himself, not ridden the skirts of Mystra the Mighty, never stolen into the heart—and bed—of a goddess to shelter in the warmth of her smile and fondness. He’d earned his might, where sly old Elminster had wormed it out of a doting goddess. Oh, that worming had worked, all right, and who could have foreseen that the great goddess of All Art, Our Lady of Mystery, the goddess, would fall?
Of greater importance now was this: with the Weave to call on at will, and all Mystra’s servitors and other Chosen to use and abuse, Elminster had become lazy in his own Art. Had spent years doing this and doing that, for Mystra and for himself, but seldom honing greater Art, mastering more magic.
So the great Sage of Shadowdale, alone now with all his friends and easy power gone, was behind and beneath Manshoon the truly mighty.
Be he Orbakh of Westgate or Manshoon of the Zhentarim before that, he himself had worked the greater Art and had improved his skills through his own work, not by godly gifts or reliance on abundant ready aid. He was the better mage, the true archwizard.
Which in turn inevitably meant Elminster, the sly but lazy, could but follow in Art where Manshoon had led.
Was Elminster not seeking to steal all the magic he could? Oh, to feed his mad, chained-somewhere lover, yes, but did he not examine each enchanted item he took, to learn all he could before he took it to her?
So, while Emperor-to-be Manshoon rode the minds of all he chose, Elminster must be a step behind, doing what Manshoon had formerly done. Using many selves, clones awakened when their predecessors were destroyed.
Yes, that was it. Must be …
He had killed Elminster, had destroyed him. Burst right through his body, dismembered him, then burned him to ashes.
Accomplishing all of that quickly, leaving his foe unattended for not even an instant, all the while watching hard for the slightest sign of any escape. There had been none at all.
So somewhere, as Elminster had died, Elminster’s next clone had awakened. Fearing to face death again at the hands of the one who’d so effortlessly slain him, he’d used magic to disguise himself as a young lass—the mask dancer who was his own descendant—and no doubt forced the real Amarune Whitewave into stasis, in some hidden cave or crypt, to await his future need.
Which would come when he mastered the Art of riding the minds of others, as Manshoon could now do, and took over his descendant’s younger, stronger body for good.
In the meantime, there must be other clones of Elminster, hidden deep in Suzail.
And, whereas he could leave frustrating and foiling the current Elminster to his tools, finding and destroying the waiting selves, the clones, must now be Manshoon’s foremost task.
Let his noble cabals scheme and slay; when highborn ranks were thinned he could return to that game and still seize the Dragon Throne, or decide who precisely would warm it until he deemed the time ripe for that puppet’s disposal.
Before all, starting now, he would hunt down and destroy hidden Elminsters.
So, where in Suzail, if I were Elminster, would I hide my waiting selves?
Or … wait!
He himself had tasted death many times, often thanks to this same Elminster. He’d grown used to it, had become harder and stronger. Not so his slayer.
This hiding, this failure to strike out at Manshoon, might well mean that Elminster—the awakened clone—was cowering somewhere. That his death had plunged him into fear of Manshoon, so he remained in hiding, using spells to see and hear through a puppet Amarune Whitewave.
Which would mean the question should be, where, if I were Elminster, would I hide myself in Suzail?
Well, somewhere I could keep at least one clone near at hand. Somewhere servants couldn’t stumble on it, nor the general public. Somewhere unlikely to be searched without warning by Purple Dragons or, more importantly, by wizards of war.
Yet, this was the thinking of Manshoon the accomplished ruler and war leader. How would Elminster see things and think?
The man is sly but lazy, thinks himself clever but often takes the easiest way. He’s lasted for centuries and has been the favored servant of a goddess; the man has pride, is pride. And he seeks to be like me, the more successful archwizard, without rising to such dominance the hard way.
What better way to hide from the war wizards and live lazily, in luxury and wielding magic whenever he pleases, than to “hide” himself as a powerful wizard?
Yes!
Why if he was, say, Larak Dardulkyn, he could dwell in the heart of Suzail in a near-fortress, awash in luxuries, able to hurl spells at will without raising suspicion, and be fawned over, to boot!
Larak Dardulkyn …
The most powerful independent mage in Suzail. An ideal mask for an Elminster clone to wear.
Manshoon sprang from his chair and strode into the midst of his scrying spheres.
This one could readily be set to scry that haughty wizard’s mansion, yes …
But when the picture of the mansion swam into view, Manshoon shook his head in astonishment. When had all of this befallen?
The tall mansion of Larak Dardulkyn was half gone, one side torn open to the sky, and in the rubble-heaped heart of the devastation he could see the archwizard huddled on the floor, with ten helmed horrors circling him in a troubled, uncertain floating dance.
Well, now! If this was Elminster, behold a Bane-sent opportunity! Slay him now, while he’s laid low—but go in hard and fast and powerful, in case whoever humbled him is still around. If Dardulkyn wasn’t Elminster, it was still the best chance he could hope to find for plundering the place or coercing the man into becoming another useful thrall.
Manshoon hurried across the cellar. His most powerful beholder would be best—of the living ones, not a death tyrant.
Yes, beholders remain impressive beasts, when it comes to forcing one’s way in.
“There’s no need to worry Arclath’s mother,” Storm told them. “His stricken self got us through the gate—that’s enough. Set him down here.”
They were on the grounds of Delcastle Manor, on a gently rolling grass slope, between a garden carefully planted to seem wild and a more formal terrace that fronted a boundary orchard.
“Too tired for fencing with noble matriarchs, hey?” Mirt grunted as they laid Arclath gently down.
“More than too tired for almost any nicety you care to name,” Storm murmured, “and hoping Arclath can plunder some healing potions from his family vaults—if they hold such treasures—before I’m finished. El, try to do this quickly.”
“Aye,” Elminster replied, his voice still sounding incongruous from Amarune’s young, shapely body. “Lie ye there, Storm, and I’ll put myself between ye and the lad, and we can do this without ye having to even sit up.”
“Healing him again?” Mirt asked, lending his arm for Storm to lower herself to the grass.
“Yes,” Storm replied. “Holding him where he is while he works a spell, actually, but it’s the same thing. I heal as he drains, to keep him stable.”
“I’ll stand back, yonder, and keep daggers at the ready,” Mirt growled. “Seeing as ye haven’t any spells to spare for making me young and thin and strong again. Or stopping my feet hurting.”
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 turne
d 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
Why did I become a hated magister, who argues out policies
Before the throne, disputes and recriminations day-long?
Lad,’tis no mystery I’m skilled at sharp-tongue talk, my
Hard-armored hide thick as a dragon’s;
I got both those being husband to thy mother.
Thorgraunt the Vizier, Act III, Scene I of the play
Before the Black Days by Auhntryn Valavvur of
Athkatla first performed in the Year of the Voyage
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, this 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.”
