by Ed Greenwood
Vangey sipped, cast a surprised eye at how little remained in his horn, and observed to the low-beamed ceiling, "The trouble with overclever lasses is their tongues. Sharp like swords, and always jabbing jabbing jabbing at a man."
Myrmeen snorted as the first onions hit the pan with a loud hiss and replied, "The trouble with overclever wizards is their hog-headed-stubborn insistence on always being right, which really means the world must do everything their way. Now, if they were really brilliant enough to choose the right way as their way, those tongues of their lasses could get a rest, and there'd be no jab jab jabbery at all!"
Vangerdahast chuckled and brought his booted feet up on the footstool. It had been months since it had been handy to do that with. Someone-Mreen here-must have cleared all those old scrolls off it, taken it out of the corner, and put it ready for him. Thoughtful lass.
He leaned back at ease and toyed with thoughts of what barbed comments he could make next to hear her laugh again and bring another thrust back his way. He hadn't chatted this way for years.
The retired Royal Magician of Cormyr sighed with contentment and drained the last of his amberfire, as the warm smell of frying onions rose around him.
* * * * *
The blind-shield behind him flickered as someone passed through it, and an anxious voice asked quickly, "Huldyl?"
For the briefest of instants, Huldyl Rauthur froze in fear-then clenched his fists, drew in breath, and turned, face serene and eyes widening in unruffled inquiry. "Yes?"
Pheldemar Daunthrae stood in the guardroom, slightly out of breath and sporting the beginnings of what would soon be splendid bruises. He held his rod ready in his hand as if expecting a fight.
Huldyl eyed it then looked up at its bearer. "Some sort of fight?"
"We've lost about eight of the sentinel horrors, as far as I can tell," the older War Wizard reported tersely. "Intruders-at least two, though I saw only one of them. Didn't look like warriors or mages or-or anything except Marsemban merchants, actually. They were carrying some sort of enchanted blast-bombs."
"Bombs?"
"Throw one, hit helmed horror, horror blows apart. Little circular silver disc-things, with runes on them in Thayan or some other Eastern script. No fuse, no trigger words, just throw, hit, and-boom!"
"They got away, these intruders, without leaving any of these, ah, bombs behind?"
"I found one, tried it out, cost us a horror. One of them got stunned by his own blast, I think-I heard the explosions, came looking, found him, and was just bending closer when another one burst out of hiding and ran me over from behind. By the time I had my wits again, the stunned one was gone too."
"Eight sentinels? Gods forfend."
Pheldemar nodded grimly. "Possibly just a foray to damage as many sentinels as possible, but if they'd been carrying sacks of these bomb-things and I hadn't come to see, they might have blasted their way right to Lord Vangerdahast's front door."
Rauthur nodded. "Certainly seems a determined attempt to reach the sanctum. The Highknights must be told."
"Aye. Shall I-?"
"If you would, yes-and have Thaerma take a look at you before you seek rest, just in case they did you some harm you haven't noticed yet. Those bruises look nasty."
"Thaerma? Go back to the Court?"
"Oh, yes, I think so," Rauthur replied, in tones that made it clear he was issuing an order. "Tamadanther took over your duty-guard as usual?"
"Aye," Pheldemar growled, departing with a none-too-pleased look on his face.
"Come, come!" Huldyl said jokingly. "In a short time the gentle hands of Thaerma will be . . ."
"We go way back, lad, she'n'me. 'Tis not the joy for me you imagine it to be." Pheldemar turned the corner and was gone.
Huldyl shrugged, half-smiled, and turned back to his game of plundercastle. The cards that showed the attacking Witch-Lord wyvern-riders had struck him with damnable luck, and most of his turret-warriors were dead already. Gloomily he moved one of the survivors along the ring of turrets.
I'm just choosing which one he'll die in.
He stared at the board with more foreboding than he'd felt since just before the last battle with the Devil Dragon.
Very much like the choice I've just made for myself.
Which is when he heard the running footsteps. Someone frantic, coming fast and crashing into things along the way in his haste.
"Huldyl? Huldyl?"
Darthym was one of the few half-elf War Wizards, and he prided himself on being pleasant, soft-spoken, unassuming, and a mage of no gossip and few idle words. Now, however, he was wild-eyed and panting.
"Huldyl, Jandur and Throckyl are dead! Dead, blasted down with spells!"
Rauthur erupted from his seat, spilling pieces and cards in all directions. This must be Starangh's work-but he had to make his reaction look right, and he'd been losing the damned game anyway. "What?" he roared, trying to match Darthym's fire-eyed look.
"I-in the armory! Blown apart! Throckyl's head is just sitting there, all by itself, looking out the door at me! I-"
"Thank you, Darthym. No sign of who did it, I suppose? Look you: Go and wake Sarmeir and tell him in my name that he's to stand duty-guard with you here. Tell him all you want about what you found, but direct the sanctum defenses if any of the outside guards report troubles to you. You're in charge. I must report this to Laspeera without delay!"
"Y-yes, Rauthur!" The half-elf leaped away down the passage, glad of something to do and direct orders letting him do it. Huldyl shook his head and smiled grimly. Ah, such troubled times. . . .
He ran a hand through his thinning hair, wiped his sweating brows with a knuckle, stood still, and cleared his mind.
It was still in place, as strong as ever. The mindcloak spell Sta-rangh had given him was whispering ever so faintly at the back of his mind, a ready wall to block all probing magics.
Even those of a suspicious second-in-command of all the War Wizards of Cormyr. He was ready to go and make his report.
Seventeen
MINDPLUNGE
The most punishing spell I can think of is one that hurls you into your enemy's mind, and he into yours. Minds rubbing raw on each other-now there's true agony.
Skandanther of Saerloon Spells Are The Wings That Carry Me High Year of the Lion
Narnra looked up at the magnificent ceiling of the Dragonwing Chamber. Huge sinuous scaled bodies, swirling and rolling over, frozen forever on the verge of bursting forth in full and terrible glory . . .
Someone-probably several someones-with skill enough to sculpt something much, much larger than they could see all at once had carved those awesomely beautiful, real dragons. Someone who must have felt very safe and secure here in Cormyr to spend the months, nay, years it must have taken up on ladders in this room, sculpting such a masterwork. Safe, secure, and paid well enough to eat. By a king or queen of Cormyr who loved beauty enough to pay for the making and leave this chamber unused for the sculptors to work. It would take a strong realm, a stable realm, and a flourishing realm to permit that.
Narnra clung to that thought and let her eyes fall from the magnificence to the emptiness of the vast room. That took confidence and wealth, too, to leave such a large and therefore useful room empty of distraction and so leave the carved ceiling that much more striking to the eye-and the three people standing patiently facing her.
Rhauligan, the 'watchful hands- on-weapons agent of the Crown of Cormyr . . . what she might become. Might.
Laspeera, the kindly yet powerful wizard. Regal and yet motherly, the sort of person who's "always there," a solid part of the furniture trusted by many, who'd be shocked when death finally took her because they'd come to think of her as a pillar of Faerun. Like folk here had thought of this Vangerdahast. . . like someone, somewhere, had presumably once thought of Elminster-probably in a land now dust, in a time long ago.
Caladnei. Her tormentor and the one in command here. The Mage Royal of Cormyr, outranking the older
two Cormyreans- and at a glance an outlander, her skin dusky. Probably resented by many at Court, who wanted no stranger seizing power that should rightfully have drifted into their hands.
Narnra's eyes narrowed. Laspeera should be one of those, yet she seemed not to be. Wherefore this Caladnei was a witch who ruled minds by magic or … someone worthy of respect, loyalty, even love.
She stared into the dark eyes of the Mage Royal, who gazed gravely back. Dark brows, stern-but not quite imperious-manner. A little frightening.
The woman who wanted to invade her mind.
Narnra found herself breathing faster, almost panting. Part of her wanted to shout in revulsion, part wanted to hit out and run . .. and part was sneakily eager and excited, wanting to see what would happen. That was the spark in her that had taken her to greater and greater boldnesses on the rooftops, and she loved it-though it was a lure into trouble. There was something else rising in her, too . . . slow and hesitant, deeply submerged for too long. She could taste it, catching at the back of her throat.
Loneliness.
She'd been friendless and alone for far too long, Narnra against all the world … a world that was to her an endless collection of dupes, unseen passing folk, the rich and powerful best avoided, a few sharks cruising as she was, and-authority. The Watch, the Guard, the Watchful Order, the Lords of Waterdeep: the folk who could slay and flog and imprison and maim with impunity.
Narnra hated, feared, and despised all authority. These three people all held it, Caladnei the most. How much of her fear and defiance was rooted in her own hatred of authority? How-
Never mind. My choices are rough, and I've taken the best one. Mystra even smiled at me. I hope. Let's get this over with.
"Well," she announced quietly, lifting her chin, "I'm waiting."
None of the Cormyreans laughed. The two women both took a step toward her-and the Mage Royal stopped, obviously surprised by Laspeera's advance.
Laspeera kept on coming.
"Narnra," she said gently, "this will go best if you lie down. Right here, on the floor."
Narnra blinked at Laspeera then doubled up and sat. The War Wizard sank down with her as if she was some sort of delicate invalid. When she was lying on her back on the floor-staring up at that splendid ceiling again-Laspeera turned and called Caladnei over. Then she stood up and calmly undid her robe, hauled it off-revealing a gown-like underrobe of red satin-and rolled it.
Silently, she pointed Caladnei to the floor beside Narnra then slid her rolled-up robe under the backs of their heads.
"A pillow?" Narnra asked incredulously.
"Something to keep you both from splitting heads open on the hard floor," Laspeera replied rather severely, "if emotions surge. Now, hold hands and begin."
"Yes, Mother," Caladnei replied in a gently mocking voice. Narnra found herself smiling. The Mage Royal murmured a long, complicated rising and falling incantation, and . . . the dragons overhead went away.
Warm and dark, descending, the darkness around flashing with a bewildering whirl of half-glimpsed bright scenes, bursts of sound, surges of anger, amusement, even weariness . . .
[Narnra.]
[Narnra, hide not.]
Surge of energy, darkness going rubyshine, lights and noise coming fast . . . [Narnra Shalace!]
I'm here. What do you want of me? [Show me your mother.]
Raven-black hair and kind emerald eyes, bent over her in a face as white as bleached bone, cheekbones that made her look as exotic as she was beautiful, tender deft hands cradling her so firmly and yet gently. Maerj, the apprentices called her . . . Mother Maerj, comforting her in a dark room, her sniveling still loud around them. "There, there, my little one. Dreams can be bright as well as terrible. Like meals, some are good and some bad, but we need them all, just the same. . . ."
As always, Narnra found herself aching to reach out and clutch her mother's fingers, to cry her name, to speak her love and loneliness so Mother Maerj would hear and smile and tell it was all right, everything was all right.
[Of course. Come away, and see something of mine that will hurt less.]
Sudden raucous laughter, and thick smoke in a low-beamed, crowded, candlelit inn common-room. Swaggering men with bright goblets in their hands and weapons strapped all over them, striding past and then-noticing her, and leaning close to peer.
"What's this? Caladnei of the Scrolls, eh? You read scrolls for fees? What idiot can't read a scroll?"
"One who has a magic scroll, sir, but can't work spells," Ca-ladnei's young but firm voice said quietly, tight with the fear of coming trouble.
Three young, bristle-bearded, red-with-drink faces were leaning over her now, peering-and breathing the fumes of golden Sarthdew she hadn't coin enough for even a finger-flagon of, all over her.
"You a mage? Who'd you study with?"
"No one, sirs. I … my spells come from within."
"Well, now. What say your parents about that?"
No lass restlessly chafing under the rule of parents and afire to see the wider world likes to be thought of as a child out on the sly, and Caladnei's voice was stiff as she replied, "My parents let me find myself and make my own dealings with Faerun. Do yours?"
There were snorts and roars and guffaws of mirth, and one of the men bawled, "I like you, lass! Want to ride with us?"
"Where is it you ride, sir, and for what?"
"Across all wide and splendid Faerun, Lady Caladnei-in search of adventure and lots of these!"
An eager hand un-throated a purse and spilled dozens of heavy gold coins across Caladnei's little table with a flourish, leaving her gaping at more money than she'd ever seen in her life before.
Some of the coins rolled, folk everywhere leaned to see-and a shorter man in the group, almost a boy by his looks, plucked up one rolling coin and tossed it idly with two fingers . . . right down the front of her dress.
There was another roar of laughter, and Caladnei knew her face was burning. The mirth spread around The Old Cracked Flagon, and she clenched her fists, wishing she were anywhere but here.
"Yours, lass," the first man roared. "Yours to keep-and plenty more like it if you come with us! We need more magic to back up our blades!"
"Oh, but . . ."
"Hold, now," the oldest face among the men looming above her table said quietly. "We'd best talk to her parents. I don't want to be hounded as a slaver, snatching young lasses . . ."
"Gods, Thloram, anyone can see we're not slavers! Nor lechers, neither-we've got Vonda for that!"
"Aye," a buxom woman whose lush curves were spilling out of a loosely laced bodice purred, sidling past the men to appraise Caladnei with an almost contemptuous eye. "And I can handle the lot of you! Don't worry, dear, I'll see that they're too weary to come pawing you. Oh, stop laughing, you hogs! Here, dear, take a handful of these coins, and pr'haps Marcon will stop leering at you quite so overeagerly!" She turned. "Stop pestering locals, you louts, or we'll have more trouble! She's barely old enough to-"
"I'm coming with you," Caladnei announced suddenly, standing up and hearing the stillness of utter astonishment spread across the common-room in an instant. "Keep your coins-I'll win my own."
[Enough. Now . . . what's this? Something hidden, not just from me, but from yourself . . . something old. Let's see. . . .]
Cowering in her cot late on a dark night, as angry voices soar up the stairs. A man with a fluting, patrician accent-some noble on the city, she knows not who-is shouting at her mother.
Too far away to hear, too scared to slip out into the chill to hear better.
Her mother's replies, too faint to make out the words, but cold and angry and sharp-edged.
The voices building, louder and faster, slashing and snapping like crossed swords-then suddenly a mighty roar that shakes cot, room, stairs, and all. A startled shout amid its thunder and . . . silence.
No! No, I don't want to see this! I never wanted to see this again! It never happened! Never never NEVER!
>
[Easy, Narnra. See something else of mine, now. Something happier.]
Laughter and warm firelight, and Marcon pouring a river of gold coins down onto her body while Bertro and Thloram Flambaer-tyn grin and clink goblets with her, all of them bare and a-tangle amid the furs. Rimardo hooting with laughter across the room and springing from the top of an ornate wardrobe-newly purchased, every bit as fine in its carving as her father's best work and priced accordingly, too-onto an unseen Vonda, who shrieks with laughter and mock pain and slaps him energetically. Umbero intoning solemnly through the midst of all the merriment: "Truly Tymora smiles upon we of the Brightstar Sash! I make the count to be a full six thousand full-weight gold coins, not counting what you're playing with in here, and the odd ones!"
[But enough of my good times. Let's see something of like excitement from you . . . yes.]
A warm summer night, all the roofs of Waterdeep flooded in full moonlight, and Narnra in her shift gazing out at it all from her high bedroom window. A ghost of a breeze from inland, warm and dry and banishing the smells of salt and dead fish. The stirring excitement of putting one leg over the windowsill-something forbidden, something daring. . . .
The roof-slates rough underfoot but reassuring and standing now right out under the moon and glorious vault of stars, only a few tiny clouds torn and tattered off to the north. Nothing between her soft skin and all the warm night but light, gauzy fabric. Boldly striding down the sloping roof to the edge to get a better view of great Waterdeep spread out before her and dark Faerun beyond. Looking idly over the edge, seeing that it was a long, killing way down to the garden but being utterly unafraid.
Suddenly, in the distance, across the silver vista of roofs, a lone dark figure darting and leaping-a thief? Someone hurrying on the rooftops. Heart suddenly in throat, Narnra looking around at the roofs nearby, that one so close … a quick run in bare feet, a leap, the warm wind in her hair, and landing catlike with a gentle thump that might just have awakened a servant if the Maurlithkurs forced one to sleep in their attic. On across their larger, sagging roof-tiles starting to go in one place, sliding askew-to the one beyond and perching there amid on an unfamiliar dormer hidden from her own window by the peak of the roof.
