by Ed Greenwood
“Oh, my Elminster,” she hissed fiercely when she had mastered her tears. “I’ve been so lonely!”
“So have I,” he muttered, brushing the silver-haired crown of her head with his lips, “without ye.”
That brought fresh sobs, but they were soon conquered; when her wits were her own, Alassra Silverhand was acutely aware of how precious every moment was. “What … what year is it, and what month?”
“The fifth of Mirtul, of the Ageless One,” Elminster told her gently, knowing her next question before she asked it.
“What’s been happening, while I’ve been … wandering?”
El murmured replies and comforting words of love as he held her in one arm, feeling among his pouches with the other. He fed her some rather squashed grapes from one, then strong and crumbling Aereld cheese from another, and finally the ruined remnants of some utterly crushed little raisin tarts.
“Ahhh, I’ve missed those,” she said, savoring every crumb. Then a look of disgust passed over her face, and she peered around at the droppings and tiny bones strewn all over the rock. “What,” she whispered, “have I been eating?”
“The usual,” El told her soothingly. “Never mind that, my lady. We do what we must.”
She shuddered, but that shudder became a nod. She let out a deep sigh and clung to him, arms tightening. “Oh, I’ve missed you, El. Don’t leave me again.”
“I’ve missed ye, too. Don’t leave me again, Lady mine.”
The slayer of hundreds of Red Wizards smiled thinly through fresh, glimmering tears. “I’m through making promises I can’t keep,” she hissed. Her fingers clawed at him, at his tattered clothing.
Elminster’s chuckle as he drew her back from the rock into the little hollow cloaked in moss was soft and teasing. He almost managed to keep the sadness out of it.
As night came down over the Hullack Forest, Storm turned back into the trees to make another stealthy circle around the stones of Tethgard, one more patrol guarding the couple abed in the moss. As she slipped between the dark trunks like a watchful shadow, she let her face go wry for just a moment.
Alassra had always been the hardest of her sisters to love, though Storm’d worked hard to keep things trusting and not too distant between them. And as long as his beloved Witch-Queen lived, Elminster would treat Storm only as a friend.
She wanted so much more, but neither El nor Alassra would learn that from her. Ever.
She held some measure of power over both of them, if she’d been the sort of worm to seek to wield it. The Simbul had been torn witless by the Spellplague, magic ravaging her mind; ever after only magic made her sane.
Magic she’d accept only from Elminster. Magic he could only give her by letting the fires within her consume the frozen fires of enchanted items he brought her—because the Spellplague had marred him, too. Casting spells plunged him into madness on the spot.
Unless one person—just one, in all Faerûn, for all she or he knew—healed him, with almost the only magic the Spellplague had left her. Storm Silverhand, the Bard of Shadowdale no longer. Now she was Elminster’s healer, though they’d taken great care the Realms never learned that. By touch and will she could heal his mind, pouring her vitality into him shaped by the paltry Art left to her, to bring him back to sanity almost as fast as he lost it, if she stood with him. Time and again she had done so.
So the feared Witch-Queen needed magic to regain sanity for fleeting times, magic she trusted only Elminster to give her, and Elminster needed Storm if he was to work magic at all.
The very sight of Storm sometimes enraged Alassra when she was less than lucid, and El, damn him, trusted Storm as a friend, road-companion, and fellow warrior. Not as his lady.
“I am Storm Silverhand,” she told the nearest tree in a fierce but almost soundless whisper. “And I want more. So much more.”
They had lain together in each other’s arms and had watched the dusking sky above them … as one by one, the stars had come out.
She was asleep, and dreaming. Moving against him, clinging to him for comfort, murmuring, and caressing. Alassra was dreaming of making love to him again.
As still as he could keep himself, his arms going numb around her, Elminster lay awake, staring grimly up at the coldly twinkling stars.
A wolf howled, far off to the north, and there had been nearer hootings and rustlings from time to time, but El feared no foraging beasts; Storm was somewhere near, standing sentinel. She’d stolen out of the trees to stand silently looking at them both a little while earlier, tears glimmering in her eyes as she stared down at her sister—but had gone again, a softly hastening shadow, when Alassra had stirred.
Leaving Elminster alone with his brooding.
How long would she stay herself this time? He needed to find more powerful magic and have done with this business once and for all.
He was tired of feeding her little oddments of Art to win her a mere handful of days and nights of sanity, then doing it all again for another paltry handful a few months hence. If he could lay hands on something truly powerful that hadn’t been twisted too wild by the Spellplague, he might be able to make the Simbul whole and sane again. There was risk, but he knew how.
The gorget he’d brought with him wasn’t enough. It should buy her days, perhaps a month or more, and when she sank into deeper dreaming he’d feed it to her. When she’d have some time asleep for it to work its way through her.
Aye, he needed mightier magic. Not that he didn’t need powerful enchanted items—whose wielding, unlike the casting of a spell, wouldn’t plunge him into madness—for other uses. Such as destroying or at least blunting some of the more pressing dangers of the Realms.
Foes he once would have been able to blast at will or misdirect into doing good they did not intend. Back when he dared use magic, back when he still had a body that would obey him.
Back when he was still someone.
The worst of it was that he knew where so much powerful magic was … or had been. Yet the greater part of it was lost or buried or walled away beyond his failing strength or hidden from his fading senses. The mighty Elminster couldn’t steal much more deftly than a good thief, these days; he was reduced to picking up fallen battle-spoils or plucking whatever was left unguarded. Or swooping in after someone else did the finding for him.
Someone like that young fool Marlin Stormserpent back in Cormyr, who was seeking the nine ghosts he thought would swiftly slay all the war wizards and loyal Purple Dragons and rival traitor nobles alike and deliver the Dragon Throne into his idle lap.
Lovely Laeral was gone, so there weren’t nine deadly ghosts to be had. Yet there were still six, possibly seven—and if a certain Elminster commanded them, he could hurl back the shadows in Sembia and make the Forest Kingdom bright and strong again, a bastion for Harpers and those who had a talent for the Art but lacked training. A land where he could make mages trusted and respected again, and from which he could send them forth to deliver the rest of Faerûn from so much of its lawless, bloody chaos. New guardians to take up the burden of defending the Realms from all who’d cheerfully destroy it while conquering it.
Or he could let Alassra consume the ghosts, and be restored.
That much power and that many memories would be enough to make her whole again, the twisting taint burned right out of her, to stand strong at his side, his lady love once more bright in all her power and fury. Together they could tame the Realms and set it to rights.
So, the Crown … or the Mad Queen?
Ah, dark decisions …
Easily made, this time.
His Alassra.
Soft lips found his throat in the dark, just above his collarbone. She was still asleep, loving him in her dreams.
El smiled thinly. He loved the Obarskyrs and the Land of the Purple Dragon dearly, but it could all be swept away in scouring fire in an instant if that was what it would take to make his Simbul herself again.
To have his Alassra back, he would
do anything.
Anything.
CHAPTER
TWO
ANOTHER BOLD NIGHT IN BRAVE CORMYR
Hold! What was that?”
The hoarse whisper came out of the night, not much more than twice her arm’s reach in front of her, where a cluster of duskwoods stood dark and tall. Storm Silverhand froze.
“Some scuttling furry thing. What else’d be creeping around the heart of the Hullack at this time of night?” The second voice was thinner and sharper. It was also higher up, coming from somewhere in one of the trees in front of her.
“Elminster and the Simbul?”
“Very funny.”
Storm heard a faint scuffling as the second speaker clambered down to the ground before adding, “Well, I can’t trace a thing. We’re too close to the ruin. What’s left of the tower’s wardings won’t keep a mouse at bay, but their decay is like a great seething hearth-cauldron in front of us, roiling and echoing. It may be silent and unseen, but it’s all too stlarning effective at foiling my scrying magic. Trying to find those two with spells, if they’re anywhere in front of us, is impossible.” There followed a gusty sigh, then, “Heard anything more?”
Storm stood right where she was, thankful it was dark enough in the hollow that it was easier for the men to move by feel than by sight.
“No,” said the first whisperer, a little doubtfully.
“Well, I’m not telling Kelgantor we heard a little rustling we can’t identify, just once, and only for a moment.”
Kelgantor. These were war wizards. Storm kept very still.
“What ruin?” the first whisperer hissed. “What sort of fool would build in the heart of the Hullack?”
“A long-ago fool, that’s who. Your older colleagues tell me it was called Tethgard. Some fallen fortress from the bygone days of the realm, back when this Elminster—if he really is as old as all the legends say he is—was young. You know: when gods walked the earth and Anauroch was all empty desert and a dragon laired on every hilltop.”
Ah. War wizards paired with highknights. Far more of them than just this pair and probably led by Kelgantor, because that was what the battle-mage Kelgantor did. All of them out in the deep forest, creeping through the night, seeking Elminster and the Simbul. Knowing El and Lass were here, somewhere.
There came the faintest of rustlings from the far side of the duskwoods.
“That was someone, to be sure,” the second voice snapped. “When I—”
“Aye,” a third voice growled disgustedly. “ ’Twas me. Can’t you two move through the Hullack without hissing like a pair of chambermaids hard at their gossip? Merlar, I know wizards of war can’t take six steps without talking about it, but I expect better of you. I trained you.”
“Sorry,” the first whisperer muttered, so close to Storm that she could have reached out and slapped him without fully straightening her arm.
“Come,” the third voice breathed, soft and deep, and Storm heard the faintest of footfalls on damp dead leaves underfoot. The newcomer was advancing straight toward Tethgard.
Straight toward El and Lass.
Merlar and the mage who’d been up in the tree moved to follow, and Storm moved with them, hidden amid their noise.
“Who’s that?” another voice hissed out of the darkness on the other side of the three Cormyreans.
“Nordroun,” the third voice replied flatly, “and who are you to be issuing challenges, Shuldroon? As I recall, you’re supposed to be over on our other flank, with Kelgantor between us.”
“I am between,” came a new voice, cold and level. “The land rises to our east, and its slope seems to have brought Shuldroon and his three straying back this way, bringing us all together. So halt, everyone, before someone’s blundering ends in a blade finding friendly flesh in the dark. Sir Nordroun, call your roll.”
“Merlar?” came the prompt whisper.
“Here,” that highknight replied from right in front of Storm. “Therlon is with me, and Starbridge our rear guard.” Two nearby murmurs came out of the night as those men confirmed their presence.
“And I,” Nordroun continued, “stand near enough to touch Merlar. My mage is Hondryn—”
“Here,” a thin and unfriendly voice put in.
“—and Danthalus is my rear guard.” Another murmur.
“Rorsorn?” Nordroun asked.
“I’m here, accompanying ranking Wizard of War Kelgantor and the mages Tethlor and Mreldrake. Jusprar’s our rear guard.”
Kelgantor gave his name with prompt, cold clarity, and the other three muttered theirs dutifully in his wake.
Shuldroon did not wait for Nordroun, highest ranking of all highknights in the realm notwithstanding. His tone of voice made it clear that he considered all highknights lackeys whose proper place was behind and beneath every wizard of war—and the sooner they all learned that, the better. “I am here, the knight Athlar is with me, and the knight Rondrand follows behind us.” He was echoed by the two highknights confirming their presence.
“Anyone else?” Kelgantor asked, and a little silence fell.
“Good, we don’t seem to have acquired any eavesdroppers,” the leader of the force announced a few breaths later, his voice too flat and cold for anyone to dare to laugh. “Therlon, report.”
“My spells can’t detect the two we seek—or anyone else—ahead of us. The warding spells around Tethgard have decayed into an utter chaos of moving, ever-changing Art that foils all scrying magic. In both directions, I’d judge.”
“I am less than surprised,” Kelgantor replied. “Tethlor reported the same conditions. Enough delay. Rear guards, maintain your positions; all other knights, advance three paces, forming a front line as well as you can in this murk. We wizards will follow behind you. Rear guards, when you hear us start to move, follow on. No need for delay and little enough for caution, I’d say. Parley if it is offered, but strike back to slay without hesitation if magic is sent against us. Any queries?”
“Kelgantor,” Tethlor said quietly, “Ganrahast warned us to be very careful. ‘Beware Elminster,’ he said. ‘He’s more formidable than he seems.’ ”
Kelgantor’s voice came back a shade colder. “I’ve not forgotten that advice. Yet heading up the wizards of war does something regrettable but inescapable to every mage who’s tried it; every Royal Magician I’ve known or read about has come to see lurking shadows behind every door and whispering conspirators beneath every bed in the realm. Let me remind you that no lone wizard—no matter how old, crazed, or infamous—can hope to match us in battle.”
“For my part,” Shuldroon put in, “I don’t think this Elminster is the one in the legends at all. I think a series of old men, down the passing years, have used the fell name of a long-dead mage to cloak their own lesser wizardries. And this self-styled Elminster who thieves magic from us now is the least of them all, an old hedge wizard who avoids casting every spell he can, bluffing his way into getting what he wants through fear of what the mighty Elminster of old might do if roused. I’ve heard he dare not cast the simplest spell, because he goes mad.”
“We’ve all heard that,” Nordroun said heavily. “I hope it’s true.”
Storm listened as they all started to speak. Kelgantor was the calm, levelheaded, coldly ruthless commander of this force, a veteran war wizard, smart and decisive. Tethlor was competent, wary, and loyal. Therlon she knew well: a good sort, along for his local knowledge, far less of a spellhurler than the others. Shuldroon was a zealous, overconfident killer, a youngling out to make his mark, with Hondryn his echo and crony. Mreldrake was a pompous, cowardly ass, a measure of how far the wizards of war had fallen these latter decades.
Aside from Eskrel Starbridge, whom she respected, the highknights she knew less well. Nordroun was head of them all, and well-regarded; Merlar was an able, amiable youngling, widely liked … and the rest were just names to her.
“Well, I think we’d best curl our line forward at both ends like a fork,” S
huldroon was saying, “to surround the ruins, or we’ll end up huffing and puffing through these trees until dawn, with the two we seek fleeing just ahead of us. Or they’ll climb trees or hide amongst the trunks, and we’ll blunder right past, and—”
He broke off, then, as the air around them all seemed to smite the ears with a heavy blow that was felt more than heard, a surge of flaring unseen force that came charging soundlessly out of the trees to wash over them and race on, away through the forest behind them, trees creaking here and there as if bent in a gale, though no leaves stirred.
Wizards cursed. “Strong magic!” Hondryn snarled. “Flaring as if uncontrolled, just unleashed …”
“I felt it,” Kelgantor snapped. “The old man has unbound an enchanted item. Forward! Quick, before he destroys another!”
Storm moved with them, knowing what that flare of magic had been. Elminster had just destroyed the gorget.
Its magic was flowing into someone, either the Old Mage or the Simbul … but if ’twas Lass, that flood had been so smooth and quiet, with the darkness unbroken ahead, that she must be asleep or unconscious, not her raving, seething, exulting self.
“No doubt he’s stealing magic for himself,” the war wizard commander added as they hastened on, heedless of the din of snapping branches and rustling footfalls. “Know this secret of the realm, all of you: Elminster does indeed need magic to recover after every casting, or he goes a little mad for a while. Not mere rumor, but observed and confirmed truth. He always heals himself in the end—but each time he works a spell, he goes erratic if it’s a minor magic and barking madwits if he’s unleashed something mightier. So all we need do is survive his first spell, and our foe will be a staggering madman, too far gone to work a second magic on us. So when you hear my owl hoot in your minds—not with your ears; anything you hear will be a real owl—spread out and advance very quietly. We can’t be far from him now.”