Elminster's Daughter tes-5

by Ed Greenwood

  The dragon-head dwindled and backed away from her at the same time, shrinking until it was barely larger than her own head-whereupon it became frightening all over again, seeming like the head of a great serpent watching her out of the mist, a snake that could slay her at will while she hung mage-bound.

  "Have ye ever seen a living beast like this before?" the old wizard asked again, sharply. The smaller dragon-head turned this way and that, displaying itself to her as a gown-merchant's model might have done . . . then sighed back down into the mists and was gone.

  "N-no," Narnra managed to say, suspicion suddenly welling up dark, hot, and choking. Was this old brute . . . ?

  The mage pounced. "But?"

  "But nothing," she flared, eyes blazing down at him.

  "Truth, lass! Ye lie as badly as a wrinkled rug! Tell me truth!"

  "I… Mother's apprentices used to tell me about dragons. That was a dragon, wasn't it?"

  "How many apprentices?" the old wizard snapped. "Their names?"

  "Uh, five, most of the time. Goraun, Rivrel, Jonczer, and the two younger ones, Tantheld and Silen-Rorgel, who was called 'Silent' because he almost never spoke. They . . . Rivrel's dead; knifed by someone taking things from the shop after Mother died. I think Jonczer was killed too, but I saw only a lot of blood, not his body. The others . . . disappeared. They may be dead, they may've stolen things and fled; I know not."

  "Did ye ever see any of them work magic?"

  "No."

  "What exactly did they tell ye about dragons?"

  Narnra glared at the old wizard, her suspicions even stronger now. "When they'd been drinking," she said heavily, "they'd grumble about the dirtier tasks, then wish they were rich bold adventurers and start telling tales of adventurers. Some of them had dragons in them . . . that ate folk, tore apart castles, and smashed villages flat-I'm sure you've heard better. Later, they'd always warn me I shouldn't mention anything they said to Mother."

  "And did ye?"

  "Did I what?"

  "Ever talk about dragons, with her?"

  "No. Look, sir wizard, she's dead. Now I've told you my name, I've told you hers, I've even babbled the names of five apprentice gemcutters-and your name remains a mystery to me. So what is it?"

  "Elminster Aumar, though most folk know me better as 'Elmin-ster of Shadowdale.' I'm also called the Old Mage, the Old Sage, and a lot of less polite names and titles, besides. Wiser now?"

  "I've heard of Elminster the Great, the Meddler of Mystra, who did things in Waterdeep centuries ago. I guess you're named after him."

  "Ye could say that, yes." The old wizard smiled thinly. "Now that we know each other somewhat better, lass, suppose ye set aside thy fury and tell me true: are ye beholden to anyone? Working with anyone? Spying for anyone? Hired out to do any task?"

  "No," Narnra replied, anger flaring again. "No, no, and no again!" So he believed nothing of what she'd said, did he?

  "Can't you tell truth when you hear it? Or d'ye not want to hear words that don't fit with how you've already judged me? You didn't show yon Red Wizard much kindness!"

  "He deserves none, believe me."

  "Hah!" Narnra snarled down from where the mists held her. "What if I don't believe you? Why should I? You slyly hint that I lie, and that you know a lot more about my mother than I do, and that wizards must do what wizards must do. Well, as to that, all I see and hear is that wizards do just as they please and cloak self-interest in a lot of grand words and hints that they're doing things important that protect all Faerun and all of us with it! Yet do they show any proof of this?"

  The smile stealing onto the Old Mage's face seemed a little sad around the edges. "What proof would ye believe, Narnra?"

  "I … I …"

  Elminster spread his hands. "Ye see? Rage ye have to spare, and no wonder, for I've endangered ye and scared ye, and my power lies as sharp as any blade between us. Furious ye are that I trust thee not-yet do ye trust me?"

  Narnra stared down at him. "No," she whispered. "Not yet."

  "Ah. Ye want to. So do I, thee. So how can we build trust between us?"

  The thief floating in the mists frowned then said, "Why don't you tell me some answers to things I ask?"

  The white-bearded wizard grinned. "As ye said to me: so ask your questions, and I'll try to keep to the truth."

  Narnra managed a smile. "When did you first meet my mother, and why?"

  "If Maerjanthra Shalace the sorceress is also Maerjanthra Shal-ace the jeweler of Waterdeep," Elminster replied, "I first met her in the ruins of a elven palace in the Sword Coast North some seventy summers ago, when she looked to be about the same age as ye are now. She was with a band of adventurers, seeking tomb-riches to plunder-something I was there to foil."

  "Seventy winters? But that's impossible! Mother . . ."

  "Told ye exactly how old she was, ever?"

  "No, but. . ."

  "But by her looks ye assumed she was at most twenty or thirty seasons older than ye?"

  Narnra nodded and burst out, "And-and if she was a sorceress, could she have . . . done something to me? With magic?"

  "Ah," the Old Mage said slowly, "ye begin to see the roots of my interest. Have ye ever had . . . strange dreams? Feelings of power rising in ye or running through ye? When my magic touched ye, did ye have any . . . visions? Feelings of power?"

  The Silken Shadow looked down at him and shook her head. "No." Her voice was little more than a whisper. From somewhere beyond the mists came an angry crackle of fire that could only be Caladnei striving to win free or to work magic.

  "Then," Elminster told her gently, "my answer must be: I know not."

  Narnra drew a deep breath and asked, "So if you knew my mother so well, who was my father?"

  The wizard shrugged.

  The thief floated in silence for a few breaths, frowning at him, then asked, "You said 'first met' my mother. How many other times did you meet her?"

  "Dozens. Scores." The Old Mage shrugged. "We dwelt together in Waterdeep, one spring, when I had some business among the nobility of thy city: the house was mine, and a dozen lady adventurers took rooms there."

  "A dozen, with one man-a wizard? Didn't folk talk?"

  Elminster cocked one eyebrow. "Talk? Waterdeep must have changed more than I'd thought."

  The white-bearded man below her seemed to shimmer, and suddenly Narnra was staring at a tall, willowy, high-bosomed woman with a steely gaze and an imperious grace that transcended the ill-fitting, none-too-clean old wizard's robes that hung upon her body. "Besides, we were a house of women," a softer, huskier version of Elminster's voice replied. The mists whirled about the woman, sparks flared, Narnra blinked-and the old wizard was standing below her once more.

  Narnra drew in a deep breath. "And were you a woman all the time? Did you live with your renters, or did everyone keep to their own rooms and trust in locks?"

  Elminster chuckled. "Ye sound like a disapproving priest, lass. Beyond the outside doors, there were no locks; the rooms were shared. Men-and women-were in and out, as is the normal way of things, and there were fights, and loving . . . and though I spent much of my time in other, grander houses, wearing other-and grander, if it comes to that-shapes, I lived with those ladies, yes."

  "Slept with them?" Narnra asked sharply. "One Maerjanthra Shalace in particular?"

  The Old Mage smiled. "Aye, and aye. This would have been forty-and-some summers back."

  "You never saw her after that?"

  "Nay, our paths crossed every few years, when I came to Water-deep for some purpose or other."

  "My mother was your mistress?"

  "No, I'd not put it that way-nor would she have done. She had her lovers, and I mine. We liked to talk and catch up on things for an evening, when the gods granted us time and chance."

  Narnra glared at him. "When did you last . . . spend the night together?"

  Elminster regarded her thoughtfully. " Twas either twenty or twenty-two years ago." A smile cro
ssed his face. "Ye seem to be drifting into thinking I fathered ye. That cannot be."

  "Oh? How so?"

  "Wizards are targets all their lives, lass . . . and all too vulnerable, most of the time. Bearing a child is no light thing to one who works magic, and becoming with child unintended can be deadly-not just to the babe and its mother. Magic can twist the unborn into monsters."

  "Wherefore?"

  "Wherefore most mages use magic to prevent what isn't wanted or know when 'tis safe to not take such trouble."

  "Were you both 'most mages'?"

  "Maerjanthra was. Stronger bonds are laid on me."

  "'Stronger bonds'? What 'stronger bonds'?"

  "Mystra, the goddess I serve, decides when her Chosen shall-"

  Narnra's head swam.

  Chosen? Then this could only be the Elminster.

  Worse than that: at the sound of Elminster saying the divine name Mystra a blue-white fury of fire seemed to burst silently in Narnra's head-a conflagration that flew apart into seven whirling stars before she could even gasp.

  They spun themselves into a circle, she had the impression of a gigantic but unseen feminine smile, and in the heart of the circle of stars a dark and long-hidden door seemed to fall open in her mind. Through it she heard Goraun chuckling to Jonczer, "Ah, Maerj tricked the Old Bearded One this time! I'm going to love seeing the look on his face when he finds out! Lord High-And-Mighty Blackstaff looked sick enough for the both of them when he came to the door. Aye, that was him-for once the tavern-lasses told you true! Seems Maerj went to him for a spell to let her have the Old Meddler's child under his nose, so to speak, and Khelben threw her out of his tower . . . only to come to the door like a beggar half a day later, with a face as long as last winter and a scroll in his hand. He said Divine Mystra herself granted-and commanded-it!"

  Seven stars flashed, and that warm, impish smile came again, a thrill that left Narnra shivering, somehow. She found herself still floating in the mists, staring grimly down at the bright blue eyes and wry, smug smile of the white-bearded wizard.

  So this, after all these years of wondering, was her father.

  This old. smiling worm.

  Elminster the Meddler. As powerful as a winter storm and as corrupt and willful as a Lord of Waterdeep. A man she could so easily despise or hate. The man whose magic was holding her captive and testing her words even now.

  The man-her gaze went reluctantly to the inverted body of the Thayan, arms dangling, eyes dark and empty-whose magic could slice into her mind like a barber's razor, whenever he desired. Whenever he suspected she was hiding something of value from him.

  The Silken Shadow clenched her hands so tightly that her fingernails pierced her palms. Blood welled out-and she clenched them all the tighter.

  She must say nothing of Goraun's words and hope that Khelben and the goddess Mystra went right on keeping the secret they'd so obviously kept from Elminster of Shadowdale for longer than she'd been alive.

  If they did not, he might destroy her or try to keep her captive to train and command her . . . and whatever he tried to do, half Faerun would come riding hard to take either her life or her freedom.

  Narnra Shalace's days as a target would no doubt be all too short.

  She'd always feared magic. All thieves do. Hated, feared, and mistrusted magic-how could any folk who lacked it not feel that way? Oh, the young gasped at its wonders when Watchful Order magists blasted things or cast illusions at festivals, but … all that power. If it was ever turned against you . . .

  And another thing: were she to be transformed with a wave of Mystra's hand into a mighty mistress of magic to overmatch Elminster himself, she'd still hate such a life. Being a thief was hard, chancy work-but it was hers, battles fought at her choosing, skills she'd won on her own, fresh challenges she set herself, excitement and independence and . . . and what she was used to.

  "You old, lying bastard!" she spat, the words bursting out before she thought to stop them. "You toad! You smug, lecherous spell-tyrant!"

  Elminster blinked up at her. "I've heard such words before, aye, and deserved many of them-though not from someone who knows me as little as ye do, lass. I'd thought we'd stopped all this hissing and snarling for the sheer dramatic effect of thy outrage. Why so hostile now, little one?"

  "If you knew," Narnra hissed, voice trembling as she fought to master it. "If you only knew!"

  Bright blue eyes narrowed. "Is there something I should be learning amongst your thoughts, daughter of Maerjanthra?"

  The Old Mage raised one hand, and Narnra bit her lip and cursed herself for a fool. Doom and icy despair were upon her-and she'd called them down on herself with her own rage and over-loose tongue! Mask and Tymora and Mystra, all, hear me! Aid, if I can win one small shard of mercy! Hel-

  As if the gods had heard her and made immediate answer, the cellar shook, tiny sizzling bolts of lightning washed across the ceiling, clawing and spitting, and the mists fell away-just like a bedsheet on a wash-line the Silken Shadow had once sliced with her knife. The Red Wizard fell with them, crashing limp and face-first to the stone floor.

  Narnra was also descending, though it felt like drifting down through something soft and thick rather than falling. She was still well off the floor when Elminster spun around to face the cellar arch-and something obligingly appeared there.

  Four somethings, actually: four pillars of whirling sparks that occurred quite suddenly, out of thin air, the writhing form of Caladnei of Cormyr in their midst. Dark figures stepped out of those sparks, gesturing in unison-and the Mage Royal's fiery bonds became four tethers that held her helpless between the four newcomers. Four bald, dusky-skinned men whose heads were marked with intricate black tattoos advanced in careful unison. They wore maroon robes and much jewelry, and the eyes in their hard, ruthless faces glittered with anger-and glee.

  Elminster spread his hands, fingers twitching and eyes half-closed, for all Faerun as if he was feeling something invisible in the air.

  "Stand aside, old fool," one of the four snapped. "You must be of the conspiracy to so leash the Mage Royal of Cormyr-but your life, like hers and that of this masked wench, is forfeit. No one mistreats a Red Wizard and lives!"

  The Old Mage murmured something, still seemingly in a trance-and Thauvas Zlorn rose and advanced to meet the nearest of his newly arrived countrymen.

  "My thanks for this rescue, Naerzil," he said with a widening smile. "Slay none of these, but keep them captive, for their minds hold-"

  "Be silent, Zlorn," the foremost Red Wizard said coldly. "Your fate remains to be decided by those we both answer to, and your orders and suggestions are unwelcome."

  "Ah. Such a pity," Thuavas Zlorn murmured, in a voice oddly unlike his own-and sprang forward to throttle his fellow Thayan.

  The startled Red Wizard fell with a crash, struggling to keep iron-strong fingers from his throat and eyes. When he slapped Zlorn's arm aside, Thauvas thrust two fingers into Naerzil's nostrils and jerked the man's head back, slamming it onto the stone floor.

  The fiery strand leading to Caladnei sprang away, spasming and coiling-and the other three Red Wizards dragged her away, shouting sharp, alarmed incantations.

  The two men twisted and struggled on the floor, grunting and cursing-until Naerzil laughed in triumph beneath his foe, and a tattoo on his forehead erupted into blue, crawling flames. They swirled, took the shape of leaping talons, and tore at the face of Thauvas Zlorn.

  Blood spurted, an eyeball burst, and the squealing Thayan arched backwards, Naerzil shoving and kicking to gain freedom. The blue flames tore at Zlorn's face and throat until he had nothing left to scream with-but even as his slayer scrambled out and away, chuckling, the dying Thayan formed a sphere with his empty hands-echoing movements that had just been made by Elminster, who was swaying dreamily in the distance-and the blue flames fell from his ravaged face to swirl within those fingers . . . then leap out like a striking serpent at the startled face of Naerzil.


  Thauvas Zlorn slumped to his knees, making liquid mewing sounds of pain, but Naerzil's head blossomed into a blinding whirl of blue flames, racing around and around it in a sphere so swift-snarling that no shout, if Naerzil had tried to make one, could be heard.

  The blue radiance suddenly burst into sparks and went out-and a headless body toppled to the flagstones, not far from Thauvas.

  Flashes and high singing sounds were all around Elminster by then-but the looks on the faces of the Red Wizards told Narnra that they'd been expecting their spells to do much, much more than make a little light and noise.

  "Who are you?" one of them gasped, at last, as his most powerful spell sighed into nothingness, leaving nothing but impotent lines of smoke curling up from his fingertips.

  "Elminster of Shadowdale, at thy service-or rather, at the service of Thay, which land will be vastly improved by the extinction of all Red Wizards," the white-bearded wizard replied merrily. Little flames began to leap and wink between his raised, spread fingers. Between them, like a traveling jester, the Old Mage gave the quailing Thayans a wide, crooked smile.

  "Hold!" one of them snapped desperately. "Harm us, and this woman dies!"

  He made a beckoning motion with one hand, and the line of fire clinging to the back of it tightened. As its keening song rose into a shriek, Caladnei of Cormyr rose with it, clawing at her throat desperately, her body quivering like a plucked bowstring as the other two Red Wizards tightened their ends of the spell-bonds.

  Faces pale, the Thayans glared at Elminster-who stepped swiftly in front of Narnra to shield her from them as her boots finally touched the floor.

  The Silken Shadow shot a startled glance at the Old Mage's back as she crouched, ready to spring in any direction that might seem safest, and wondered if the best thing for all Toril for her to do-though it would mean her death-would be to spring at Elminster with her best dagger drawn, and open his throat wide. The Chosen of Mystra was muttering something under his breath: a word she could not catch, but the same one, over and over.

  Breathing heavily, hand stealing toward the hilt of her dagger, Narnra crouched, not knowing what to do … or what doom would reach out next to snatch them all.