by Ed Greenwood
Gaerond smiled, not kindly, and shook his head. “Our shame steadily deepens, doesn’t it, lads?”
The Bloodshields chuckled unpleasantly by way of reply. They had already spread themselves out and had drawn various favorite weapons—that they waved menacingly.
“You may have noticed,” Gaerond told the burly old man, “that Lylar here has brought a spear. We think it’d look better adorned with your head, as a sort of wave-about trophy, when we return to Sembia. Sembians pay well for their bodyguards—and it’s not every band of blades that can claim to have bested the legendary archwizard Elminster in battle!”
The burly oldbeard seemed to shrink a little in his seat. “Ye … ye’re joking, surely …,” he quavered.
Gaerond smiled his best, soft wolf smile. “No. I’m afraid not.”
The air promptly erupted in a briefly deafening storm of hissing and twanging, while the old man sat as still as a stone.
As abruptly as it had come, the storm was done, all the tapestries and paintings fluttering in the wake of too many snarling quarrels to count.
Most of the Bloodshields had been driven back against the walls, so studded with those quarrels as to resemble pincushions. Gaerond hadn’t been near a wall, so he was the last to fall, toppling in slow silence, disbelief plain on his dead face.
As if the thump and clatter of his landing were a cue, figures all clambered out from behind the tapestries in brisk haste, their pearl-white limbs reaching to reload crossbows or to snatch away weapons in case any of the Bloodshields might have had magical protection enough to somehow still live.
It appeared that none of them had.
The doppelganger sitting behind the table dwindled down into something long and lean that easily slid out of the wizard’s robes and the suit of padded armor beneath them that had lent “Elminster” such broad shoulders, and stretched across the table to join in the work of taking up the adventurers’ bodies and gear—the latter for salvage and sale, and the former to eat.
“Any trouble?” hissed a new arrival, coming into the cave still wearing Thal’s face, but with a body pearl white and featureless as the others.
“None,” replied one of the doppelgangers, who was busily breaking the necks of the Bloodshields, just to be sure, sounding almost bored.
“Where is the infamous Elminster, anyhail?” the youngest doppelganger asked. “He’s still alive, yes? They say he is, you know.”
Doppelgangers rarely shrug, but most of those crowded into the cave tried various versions of it, in wriggling unison.
The one who’d played Elminster answered, “He is, but he’s long gone from here. No shortage of talking meat coming looking for him, though. Still some Harpers, even.”
One old doppelganger grew a large mouth so he could leer, exclaiming, “I likes Harpers. Good eating.”
CHAPTER
ONE
DARK DECISIONS
The wardrobe was a cursedly tight fit.
Even for one of the handsomest, suavest, most lithely athletic, and most debonair nobles currently inhaling the sweet air of the Forest Kingdom of Cormyr.
Even a sneering rival would have had to grant that Lord Arclath Argustagus Delcastle was all of those things in the judgment of many a lass, not just his own.
Yet, despite all of those splendid qualities, the heir of House Delcastle could just squeeze himself inside the massive oak wardrobe. To keep company with old mildew and older dust. Whose familiar reek reassured him that this was the palace, all right.
Left knee above his left ear and fingers braced like claws to keep his cramped body from slipping and making the slightest sound, Arclath stared into the darkness wrought by the closed door right in front of his nose and prayed fervently that Ganrahast and Vainrence would be in a hurry and keep their secret meeting brief.
So it would end, for instance, before he happened to need to sneeze.
No one ever came to this dusty, long-disused bedchamber high in the north turret—or so Arclath had once thought. He’d found the place after a feast some years ago, while wandering the palace to walk off the effects of far too much firewine before he braved the dark night streets homeward, and had employed it thereafter to enjoy the charms of a certain palace maid in private—a sleek delight since sadly gone off to Neverwinter in the employ of a wealthy merchant—and then as a retreat to sit alone and think, when that need came upon him.
It had come as a less-than-pleasant surprise, moments before, to learn that the Royal Magician of Cormyr, the widely feared Ganrahast, and his calmly ruthless second-in-command, “Foedoom” Vainrence, favored this same north turret bedchamber for private parleys.
Arclath hadn’t had time to try to dodge into the little space behind the wardrobe, which stood straight and square where the bedchamber wall behind curved. He’d only just had time enough to scramble into the closet, drag its door closed, and compose himself into cramped but silent immobility before the two powerful wizards had come striding into the room, muttering grimly.
They more than muttered after they entered the room.
Arclath felt an itch starting and set his teeth in exasperation. He should have known someone went there to discuss confidential and sensitive matters, given the warding spells that always made his skin tingle and prickle on the stair ascending to the uppermost room.
A moment later, a glow kindled in the darkness right beside Arclath’s head, startling him almost into gasping aloud.
He managed—just—not to do that.
Instead, he froze, chilled and helpless, as an old spell flared into life right beside him.
A radiance that slowly became a silent, floating scene of a nearby spot he recognized. That same stretch of stair where the wards tingled, looking down from the turret room.
A scene where someone stood silently, hands raised to claw at the wards that were keeping her at bay, eyes blazing in frustrated fury. It was someone who’d been dead for years, a ghost Arclath had seen once from afar.
The Princess Alusair, the ruling Steel Regent of the realm almost a century earlier; familiar and unmistakable from all the portraits and tapestries in nigh every high house of Cormyr, her long hair flowing free and face set in anger—and her eyes seemingly fixed on him.
Arclath swallowed. He could see right through her, armor and long sword at her hip and all, and by the way she peered and turned her head from time to time, it was apparent she could hear but not quite see the two wizards as they stood talking, just outside his wardrobe.
“Grave enough,” the Royal Magician was saying, “but hardly a surprise. You didn’t call me here just to tell me that. What else?”
“The Royal Gorget of Battle is missing from its case,” Vainrence replied flatly, “which stands otherwise undisturbed, all its spells intact. And it was there an hour ago; I happened to walk past and saw it myself.”
Arclath raised an eyebrow. The gorget was old. An Obarskyr treasure that had lain in its case, proudly displayed in the Warhorn Room, for as long as he’d been old enough to remember what was where in the palace.
“Elminster again.” Ganrahast sighed, slamming a fist against the wardrobe doors in exasperation.
One of them shuddered a little open, freezing Arclath’s heart again. However, its movement caused the spell to wink out, restoring darkness and snatching away the furiously staring ghost.
Neither of the wizards seemed to notice either the door or that momentarily visible glow. They must be upset.
Through the gap, the young noble saw Vainrence nod and say eagerly, “However, this time we’ve got him. I thought he’d go for the gorget—he seems to prefer the older magics—so it’s one of the twoscore I’ve cast tracers on. We can teleport as near as we choose to wherever he’s taken it, just a breath or two after you give the order; the team is ready. Right now, Elminster’s in the wildest part of the Hullack, and not moving. No doubt sitting around a campfire with his bedmate, the crazed Witch-Queen, as they melt down the gorget together and feed
on its power. Therlon reported in an hour ago; she blasted another steading to ashes, three nights back.”
Ganrahast sighed again. “You’re right. It’s time we dealt with them both. Send in Kelgantor and his wolves. And may the gods be with them.”
“Done, just as fast as I can muster them in the Hall of Spurs! They’re more than ready for battle—and, mark you, Elminster and the Witch-Queen may once have been formidable, but they’re a lot less than that now.”
Ganrahast spread his hands, noting, “So others have said, down the centuries. Yet those two are still with us, and the claimants are all gone to dust.”
Vainrence waved a dismissive hand. “Aye, but she’s now a gibbering madwoman, and he’s little more than an old dodderer, not the realm-shaking spell-lion of legend!”
Ganrahast wagged a reproving finger. “Aye, I know legend has a way of making us all greater lions than we are … yet its glory must cling to something. Be sure Kelgantor’s ready for the worst spellbrawl of his life.”
“He is, and I’m sending a dozen highknights with him, if blades and quarrels are needed where spells fail. This time the old lion and his mad bitch are going down. While we still have an enchanted treasure or two left in the palace.”
A little deeper into the wild heart of Hullack Forest than they remembered it being, the gaunt, bearded old man in dark rags and the tall, striking, silver-haired woman in leather armor came at last to a certain high rock in the forest.
“This is it,” Elminster murmured grimly, looking at the upthrust slab of stone. Once it had been the base of the tallest tower of Tethgard, but all other traces of the ruins were overgrown or swept away. Yet despite its innocuous appearance, he’d seen it more times than he cared to remember, in recent seasons, and knew it was the place. “Cast the spell.”
Storm Silverhand nodded and stepped past him to find stable footing, as birds called and whirred around them, and the light of late day lanced low through the leaves.
Before them the rock thrust its small balcony out of the trees, spattered with bird droppings, but deserted. On its far side, a flight of stone steps descended into a tangle of wild thorns, stairs from nowhere to nowhere. Storm stared at the stony height for a long moment, like an archer studying a target, then tossed her head to send her long silver hair out of the way, and set about working her spell with slow, quiet care.
She looked as if a bare twenty summers had shaped her sleek curves and brought color to her cheeks. The Spellplague had done that, making her seem young even as it stole much of her magic, a jest as cruel as it was inexplicable. Only when looking into her eyes—and meeting the weary wisdom of some seven hundred years gazing back—did the world see something of her true age.
As she worked, an illusion of the man beside her slowly faded into view atop the rock, shifting from smokelike shadows to recognizable solidity. Not the gaunt Elminster at her elbow, but the Old Mage in his prime: burlier, sharp-eyed above a long pepper-and-salt beard, staff in hand, robes flowing, and arms flung wide in spellcasting.
Atop the rock this brighter Elminster stood, glowing vividly as it looked to the sky and spoke silent words, arms and hands moving in grand gestures of the Art … and nothing else happened.
A gentle breeze rose and trailed past them, rustling a few leaves, then faded again. The Realms around them was otherwise silent.
A silence that started to stretch.
“And now?” Storm asked.
“We wait,” El said wearily. “What else?”
They retreated to the welcoming trunk of an old duskwood and sat together in the shade, staring up at the empty skies above for what seemed a very long time before the wizard glanced sideways at his companion—and saw tears trickling quietly down her face.
“All right, lass?” he asked gruffly, reaching out a long arm to drag her against him, knowing how paltry the measure of comfort he could lend was.
She shook her head. “These shapings are the only magic I have left.” Her whisper was mournful. “What have we become? Oh, El, what have we become?”
They both knew the answer.
They were husks: Storm shapely and young-seeming, yet with her rich singing voice gone and almost all of her magic with it, and Elminster still powerful in Art but hardly daring to use his spells, because sanity fled with each casting. More times since the Year of Blue Fire than they cared to remember—perhaps more than either of them could remember—Storm had guided and cared for her onetime teacher after he’d seen this or that desperate need to hurl spells … and had ended up insane for long seasons.
They shared a hunger.
A gnawing, desperate hunger for the power and skill of their youth. Thanks to a crumbling cache that had once belonged to Azuth, they knew how to take over the bodies of the young and strong. By all the vanished gods, the spell was so simple!
So Elminster was endlessly tempted. To snatch a new body and build a new life … or to die.
It was time and past time for oblivion, and they were so tired of the burdens of the Chosen, but somehow just couldn’t give in to the last, cold embrace. Not yet.
Not after they’d hung on for so long, working here, there, and everywhere to set things right in the Realms. An unending task, to be sure, but there was so much more to do.
And there was no one else they could trust to do it. No one.
Every last entity they’d met since the blue fire had cared only for his- or herself, or couldn’t even see what needed doing.
So Storm and Elminster, agents of the mightiest goddess in the world no longer, went on doing what little they still could—a rumor started here, a rescue or a slaying there … still at the tiller, still steering … the work that had kept them alive the last century.
Someone had to save the Realms.
Why? And who were they to dare such meddlings?
They were the Old Guard, the paltry handful who still saw needs and cared. More than that … even with Mystra and Azuth both gone, someone still whispered in their dreams, telling them to go on sharing their magic among the poor and powerless, and working against evil rulers and all who used magic to harm and oppress.
Yet there was no denying they were growing ever weaker and more weary. It was the fourth time they’d come to the ruins that year, and it was only—what?—the fifth of Mirtul. A warm and early spring, aye, but still—
A hawk stooped suddenly out of the sky, hurtling down at the illusory Elminster.
“Well, at least she’s not a stinking vulture this time,” Storm murmured, finding her feet with her usual swift and long-limbed grace, and ducking hastily away into the trees. “I’ll be back when you light the fire.”
She still moved as quickly as ever; El found himself turning to answer only dancing branches.
So he swallowed his words and shrugged instead. It was good of her to give him time alone with her sister—time that was in short supply these days.
The false Elminster vanished in an instant as talons tore through it.
Then the startled hawk flapped to an awkward landing and stood on the rock blinking, looking a little lost.
The real Elminster swallowed a sigh, pulled the stolen glowing dagger he’d brought with him out of its sheath in the breast of his robes, and crawled out onto the rock as he held the blade out in offering. The feel of the magic would conquer her utterly.
A little meal first, to banish her wildness. When she was herself again, there would be time enough to feed her the gorget and do her longer-lasting good.
A dreadful hunger kindled in the hawk’s golden eyes, and she sprang at him, shrieking as her wings clapped the air.
As her beak closed on the blade of the dagger, the hawk melted and flowed, an eerie swirling of flesh that spun into a filthy, naked crone, wild-eyed and wild-haired, a bony old woman sucking on the weapon like a babe single-mindedly worrying a mother’s teat.
There was a glow in her mouth as she sucked, heedless of the sharp steel—and the dagger melted away. Just as the ma
gic he brought her always did.
She crouched on the rock like a panther, greedy mouth fighting to draw in the hilt, her body becoming larger, stronger, and more curvaceous. Her hair shone; she looked younger …
As she always did. For a little while.
For too many years, his Alassra—the Simbul, the once proud Witch-Queen of Aglarond and the single-handed scourge of Thay, the slave empire ruled by Red Wizards beyond counting—had been a frail husk of her former self. Dwelling alone and wild in the Dales, the Thunder Peaks, and the Hullack, shapechanging into endless guises, usually the shapes of raptors as she lapsed in and out of madness.
Magic always made her intellect and control brighten for a time, so for many seasons Elminster had been making these visits to the lady he loved. Or what was left of her.
Stealing, seizing, and digging out of ruins an endless stream of magic items, he had brought them to the rock, for her to subsume and regain fleeting control over her decaying wits.
The Spellplague had not been a kind thing.
The dagger was gone, its pommel a brief pearl on her tongue that died with the last of the glow. Then her eyes were upon him, and she was in his arms, weeping.
“El, oh, El,” was all she could say between her foul kisses. Her stink almost overwhelmed Elminster as she clung to him, wrapping her limbs around him, running her long fingers over all of him she could reach and clawing at his worn and patched robes to try to reach more of him.
“So lonely!” she gasped, when at last she had to free his mouth so she could breathe. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
She buried her face against his neck as the tears came, managing to gasp, “My love!” through their flood.
Elminster held her both tightly and with great care, as if cradling something very precious and fragile. As she clung to him and writhed against him and tried to bury herself inside him.
“My love,” he murmured tenderly as she started to really sob, her body shaking. It was always thus, and he smiled in anticipation of what she’d say next, knowing she’d not disappoint him.