by Ed Greenwood
The empty chair beside him turned by itself. Itharr nodded and said, “That’s your truename, isn’t it?” Silence gave him reply. He drew a deep breath and said, “Well, I think it is. And you are a friend—no, a sister”—he heard a sharp intake of breath from nearby—“to a fellow Harper. Know, then, that my truename is Olanshin, and I would be pleased to know thee.”
Belkram nodded at the formal words and added, “And mine, unseen lady, is Kelgarh. Well met.”
Itharr was startled, then, to feel the touch of soft, cold lips upon his cheek, then wetness. But he was a strong man and a Harper, and did not flinch or bring his hands up but only smiled.
He did not wipe the tears from his cheek. Storm looked at him with an expression of thanks and pride that Itharr would remember to the end of his days. She said huskily, “And mine, friends, is not mine to give. If I could, know you that I would.”
Belkram nodded. “We understand,” he said, rising from the table with the dishes in his hands. “Mystra forbids.”
Storm looked at the empty air. “Truly, sister,” she said with a smile, “we’ve two good ones this time.”
The reply, when it came, startled them all: a hissing, ghostly whisper. “You’ll need them,” was all that Vethril said.
When they were out on the dale road, walking toward the junction that would take them to Elminster’s tower, Itharr turned to Storm and said quietly, “That’s your sister Syluné, isn’t it?”
Storm smiled and nodded, and Itharr saw that her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “What’s left of her,” she said, very softly.
“We’ll come back to visit you both, when we can,” Belkram added. “She’s tied to your house, isn’t she?”
Storm nodded. “Would that Elminster were, too,” she replied. “It would often make my tasks much easier.”
One never pays all that much heed to what one has and what one has grown used to, Elminster reflected wryly, looking down at his left hand. Yestermorn these fingers could have hurled lightnings or raised walls of shimmering force with but a thought, but now they could call forth nothing. The same as the hands of most men, the Old Mage reminded himself. Few have been as fortunate to face life with the arms and armor of Art I’ve wielded. And, oh, Mystra, but I’ve grown used to it!
Lady, why me?
An instant later, Elminster raised his head defiantly and looked about. Why? he thought, then answered his own question. Because, look ye, I was the best she could turn to. The best. No less.
So I carry her power within me. It has unmanned me, aye, but my wits are still my own, my strength—forgive me, Jhessail!—has not failed me … yet. I may be old, but I carry wisdom and experience more than most. I’ve seen what one can and cannot do with a blade, and can show most young swagger-swords a thing or two!
Perhaps I should seek out Storm and practice some blade work. But no. She also carries Mystra’s burden. What if one or both of us were hurt by some mischance, or by the attack of a Manshoon or Ghalaster? What then? We’d perish, aye, but what of Mystra’s spilled power? Lost to the Realms forever, perhaps blasting Shadowdale to dust on the way? Or stolen by a tyrantmage to use as a whip to bring the Realms to their knees before his rule? No, that’s out. Even meeting with others who bear the burden would be ill judgment, with all the foes I’ve made.
Storm abides in Shadowdale. I am too close to her already. Besides, the longer I tarry here, the more likely someone calling on me for aid will discover what has befallen me. When the word gets out, Shadowdale first, and then what I hold dear in the Realms, will be doomed as I am doomed. Absent, I remain a threat—someone who might return in fury to smite down any invader.
I must go. Slip away, and lose myself—forever, if my magic does not return. Whither, then?
There was a sudden burst of laughter around his very feet. Bewildered, Elminster looked down. He’d walked one of the narrow trodden paths that twist and cross in Shadowdale’s backwoods like the web of some giant forest spider. The children he’d seen before, joined by several other dale urchins, had dashed about by other ways. At length and by chance, they’d met with him. Surprise and delight lit their voices as they crowded around his robes, patting and tugging.
Elminster managed a smile and found his gaze caught—and pulled in, as a fisherman drags close his catch—by a pair of very brown, very beautiful eyes. They belonged to a little girl, the one who’d earlier pretended to be the Simbul. Her hands and frock were dirty—she’d evidently fallen down or been pushed—and she was barefoot, but she drew herself up under his gaze with unconscious dignity. Her eyes alight with wonder, she crossed her arms on her breast and bowed from the waist as they did at court in Suzail and on the Sword Coast when meeting royalty.
Elminster stared down at her, oddly touched, his mouth curling in a smile. The bow had been done out of respect, not in the obsequious or emptily formal way he’d seen so often in real courts. He gave her the low, hand-sweeping bow of gallant knights in return, solemnly and with none of the archness with which he bowed to, say, Torm of the Knights in jest.
The girl was silent for a moment and then, very slowly, she blushed. Wonder sparkled in her eyes. She turned suddenly and made as if to dash away but halted, like a bird snagged upon a thorn, as another young voice rang out in protest.
“Jhaleen, you promised! You said you’d ask him! Well, here he is, so …”
The girl, her eyes very large, looked back at the boy who’d spoken and then at Elminster, like a trapped hare. Elminster smiled invitingly.
Jhaleen blurted out, “Lord Elminster! Old Mage! Make magic for us, please! Please!” A chorus of young voices joined her bold one, and she added excitedly, “A dragon flying. Only a little one, just for us!”
Elminster smiled, felt tears near again, and knelt down to embrace her. “Not this morn, little one,” he said softly, his eyes very blue. “Magic must be saved up, like coins, and used only when other ways fail.”
She blinked up at him, disappointed, and Elminster chuckled and rubbed her cheek with the back of one long, gentle finger. He remembered, then, where he’d seen this brown-eyed girl before. In one of his dreams.
“Nay, be not downcast, Jhaleen. I see some things, know ye, in my dreams. Things I know will come to pass, in summers still to come.” He leaned close to her, and whispered for her ears alone, “I’ve seen thee—much taller than now, and stern—riding a dragon.”
She looked into his eyes and saw truth, and her mouth dropped open in awe and trembled just a little in fear. It is one thing to dream of dragons, and quite another to know with cold certainty that someday you will be touching one. More than that; flying high above the ground on a dragon’s scaly back, with empty air as high as castles beneath you, and a twisted death below should you fall.
Elminster chuckled, and clapped her on the shoulder. “Go on playing thy games,” he said, “and watch close what the Queen of Aglarond says and does when she visits us. And perhaps ye will befriend and even come to command dragons.” Then he rose and walked slowly away from them all.
White-faced and silent, Jhaleen watched the Old Mage as he moved away into the depths of the forest. She’d seen the glint of tears in the archmage’s eyes and could only think he foresaw something terrible that would happen to her. She stood watching him go until the trees hid him from view, then turned and hurried toward the path that led out of the trees toward home.
“Jhaleen, where be you going, then? Don’t you want to play at high magic, anymore?” the boy who’d pretended to be Elminster called.
Jhaleen wheeled around so suddenly that the smaller children, who’d followed her out of habit, jumped back in apprehension. With a fierceness that surprised even herself she hissed, “I’ll never play games about magic again! Never. It’s … not something to play at.”
She turned about again and ran out of the woods as if the black-armored warriors of Zhentil Keep were chasing her, faster than she’d ever run before. Her lungs burned and tears swam before her
eyes, but the black terror that ran after her was worse.
Her fleet bare feet pounded along the earthen paths, stumbling and hurrying, until she came out into the dapped sunlight at last. Panting like a winded horse, she tore her way through young branches and, with a little shriek of fear, almost ran into someone. A tall lady clad in leather armor stood in the meadow beyond, brown hair flowing down over her shoulders in a fall almost as long as the slim sword scabbarded at her hip.
Jhaleen twisted to avoid running right into that blade, and fell. In an instant, gently strong hands raised her again and steady gray-green eyes looked into her own.
It was the Lady Sharantyr of the Knights. “What’s wrong, lass? What’s to run from, so?”
A breath later, Jhaleen was sobbing out all the Lord Elminster had said and how he’d been crying and had walked away.
The lady ranger held Jhaleen close. Sharantyr comforted the girl, turned her back to face the trees, and told her firmly never to run from what frightened her but to back away from it calmly and carefully, to see what it did.
Jhaleen felt a little better and managed a smile. She nodded when Sharantyr told her to take a walk in the sunlight and think carefully about what Elminster had said, so as to remember it properly later.
Biting at her knuckle to hold back fresh tears, Jhaleen watched Sharantyr go on into the wood. The lady had looked so sad when Jhaleen had told her about the Old Mage, and now she was hurrying through the trees as if to catch him. Something was wrong, very wrong. And with the Lord Elminster at the heart of it, who could tell her what was right, and what should be done, and what the truth of it all was?
As Jhaleen backed carefully away from the dark trees into the warmth of the full sun, she looked around, but no one came with answers. She was all alone with the trees and the grass, and there was no one to guide her. She walked without a known way before her, unsure of what to do next. Like someone she’d just seen, she realized suddenly.
Just like the Old Mage, walking away into the trees.
Elminster walked on into the deepening forest, just walking ever onward, tree-cloaked hillsides rising and falling under his feet. He felt empty and weak, as useless as a rotted log, and at the same time restless with the power that fairly crackled within him. Power he could not use, could not touch, dare not try to unleash. “By Mystra’s touch,” wizards often swore. By Mystra’s touch, indeed.
His wandering feet brought him to the edge of a little gully, and Elminster paused a moment, gazing about to choose his route onward. He heard the faintest of sounds in the underbrush far behind him and nodded. The fifth time … too often for all such noises to have been small, disturbed forest creatures.
Someone—or something—was following him. Someone intelligent and with deliberate purpose. Someone who took care to keep out of sight. Elminster sighed and turned to face back the way he had come. “Ye may as well walk with me,” he announced to the woods, “though truth to tell ye I’d prefer silent company this day.”
Silence greeted him, the listening, waiting silence of the forest. The old wizard joined its wait for a breath or two and then shrugged, turned about, and went on. Not a Mend, then—or not overbold, at least.
His hand strayed to the hilt of the belt knife he’d almost forgotten and then fell away again. Perhaps the magic he wore would suffice—in rings and pipe and wand, and even in the dagger strapped inside his right boot, whose soft sole was already wearing thin—even if the Art of his head and hands had deserted him. Elminster feared he’d soon have to find out.
He shrugged, trotted down a little bank, and plowed through a hollow that was ankle deep in dry leaves. He climbed its far side steadily and walked deliberately on into the rising land beyond, but paused in a stand of massive shadowtops to listen.
After what seemed like a long time, he heard the sound he’d waited for. Now was as good a time as any to look at death, he supposed wryly. He turned and took one step around the dark trunk of a forest giant, laid a hand on his belt knife—and the world fell on him, gauntleted hands smashing brutally into his face and stabbing steely fingers at his throat.
3
Doomed Not to Walk Alone
Death came for them with cold fury. The four brigands, intent on robbing an old man in fine robes, the sort of person who might well have a gold coin or two stitched into belt or boot top, did not hear their doom coming down on them.
One looked up too late. Long brown hair swirled as a leather-clad figure raced through the trees, sword held high. The staring brigand raised his dagger too slowly. He spun to a blood-spattered fall, throat cut open, as the swordswoman stormed into their midst.
Then her silvery blade was leaping everywhere, like a many-headed striking snake. Storm Silverhand had taught her things with a sword, and she was almost as fast as the famous Bard of the Blade.
Balrik Daershun was also counted fast and able with a blade. He’d ridden in the forefront of Lashan’s troops, not so long ago, when they’d cut down full-armored Sembian lancers on the road south of Essembra. He’d killed four that day, leaping from his mount to carry the last lancer out of his saddle, his dagger finding the visor-slit even before the antagonists struck the ground together. Men had spoken of Balrik’s fighting with awe and praise, and he’d been toasted with much wine.
Toasts had been fewer since, but Balrik’s blade still served him. In the final rout of Lashan’s leaderless host, Balrik and a dozen comrades had carved their way through a well-armed Cormyrean horse patrol to escape.
Outlaws led a hard life. Since that battle, Balrik had learned to fear arrows and quarrels from afar. He had only three companions left now, but two of them were nearly as good with a blade as he was, and he feared no man who came at him with a sword.
After that first whirl and flurry of steel, Balrik began to think he’d not be given time enough to learn to fear women who swung swords.
Elminster twisted free of the tall, hook-nosed man who held him, and dove for the ground to avoid the sword slash he knew would come. The expected blade flashed past overhead, then the man was turning at the leader’s shout to face the new threat.
Elminster’s rings and the wand he wore at his belt had saved his life. The brigands been so intent on grabbing and breaking fingers and snatching away the smooth stick of wood to stay any magic he might hurl, that they’d not put a dagger in his throat.
He began crawling away from the trampled ground where they’d struggled, looking back all the while to avoid being taken from the rear. If he could get away—
Then he saw the newcomer and struggled to his feet. This was no rival brigand come to settle scores or win a share of the loot. This was Sharantyr of the Knights. As he straightened, she spared time to flash a smile at him through her dance of striking steel. The three brigands were all around her now, tripping and stumbling over the body of the fourth. Her blade slid in and out, not daring to lunge full out in a killing thrust and thereby give another foe an opening to buy her death.
These were experienced warriors, not mere hungry hackers and stabbers. They would not fall easily, for all that they still gaped at her in wonder.
A woman—and so pretty, too, though her eyes held cold death for them, and her blade hissed like a striking serpent in her hand. She wore good leathers, but save for a gorget, she bore no metal plate to turn sword tip aside. And already she was panting, winded. Aye, for all her blade flashed so, they could take this one.
Abruptly she gasped and bent double. Grinning, Gaerth Wolfarm stepped in, drawing back his blade for a killing thrust.
“No!” Balrik roared from behind him. “ ’Tis a trick, Gaer—”
His words died in his throat, too late by far, as Sharantyr straightened with a smile that chilled his blood, slashed open Gaerth’s throat with a sweep of her sword, and shoved his body backward into Balrik’s.
Cursing, Balrik stumbled aside, blade flailing in a desperate defense. But she was not coming for him. She’d turned, that beautiful long hair
swirling, to slay Albeir.
Albeir o’ the Axe. Albeir the veteran of half a hundred mercenary skirmishes on the Westgate caravan roads and in the Vilhon. Albeir the steadfast, who abruptly turned, white-faced, and sprinted away. Sharantyr took two running steps in pursuit, saw how he held his sword and that he was running toward Elminster, and snatched a dagger from her hip.
Balrik saw the blade spin to catch Albeir’s ear in a gout of blood. He saw Albeir stagger, catch himself, and bear down on the wizard. The brigand grabbed the old man by the throat, swinging him around with brutal haste to serve as a shield.
Sharantyr halted and cast a look back at Balrik. He came on toward her, beginning to grin. Then he saw Albeir’s grim face suddenly twist in pain. The old warrior’s eyes went wide and he took a half step toward something unseen. Still staring, he crashed to the ground. Elminster looked down with evident sadness at the bloody dagger he held.
Balrik knew cold fear. The lady in leathers was turning back to him, blade low and deadly. It had seemed so easy, four on one, and an old man, too. Tymora spits on us from time to time, that minstrel had said back in Scardale. And look, ’twas the cold truth.
Then that blade came leaping at him again, and Balrik had no time for thought. Steel rang on steel inches from his nose as he parried desperately in the last instant before death would have found him. Then he had to do it again, gasping for air. Gods, this woman was not human! Where in the name of Tempus had she learned to wield a bla—there! Balrik saw an opening. His thrust, delivered with all he could put behind it, ran down her arm and laid open the leathers in a smooth, sliding strike. Her sword arm.
The silvery blade flew free, as he’d known it would, but she did not scream or fall back. She stepped into him, hard, and smiled into his face. “Good fight, carrion,” she said calmly, eyes not a hand length from his own, and Balrik felt a sudden cold wetness in his gut.
