by Ed Greenwood
“Let me,” her sister hissed fiercely in her ear, one clawlike hand descending atop Storm’s own, as she clutched Elminster’s head.
Storm turned her head. Alassra was so close that their noses bumped. “You mustn’t—”
“I must,” the Witch-Queen of Aglarond snarled. “You think I don’t know my sanity is fleeting? He needs it now, to be sane enough to win this fray. My head has a handful of none-too-useful Art in it—unless you want half the Hullack gone—but he knows how to foil the spells of war wizards and strike back! Take what the gorget gave me, and feed it to him!”
Elminster was chanting, words that came in a fluid rush, his mouth wet and frothy and his eyes wide and staring.
“Loross?” Storm gasped. “I’ve not heard that since—”
“Not now, Astorma! Just keep your hands wrapped around his head when he moves, and let him get up and prance around! Look, he seeks to!”
El exploded to his feet and sprinted around the rocks, flinging his arms wide and sketching strange, intricate gestures as he came out into the full moonlight. White flames sprang out of the air around his hands, trailing them as he shaped a circle in the air in front of him. Storm struggled to keep hold of his head, the Simbul clawing at them both.
Shuldroon shouted furious curses at his foe, once again visible, and sent lightning racing at the three of them.
Bright, deadly bolts that Elminster’s cone of white fire gathered in, brought to his chest as a shrieking, spitting ball of blinding white conflagration—and sent howling back at their source.
The wand in Shuldroon’s hand exploded, and Shuldroon with it, his last scream cut off abruptly as tiny, dark, wet pieces of ambitious young war wizard spattered the distant trees.
Highknights burst up out of the rocks and flung daggers at them desperately, racing in behind those whirling blades with swords out to—
—vanish in a great ball of flame that flared up out of Elminster’s palm to blister rocks of Tethgard and then snatch itself aloft, carrying those screaming men with it, and explode up among the stars.
As blackened limbs rained down, Elminster started to sing.
Wild, off-key, and incoherent his song came, all half-words that were slurred and seemingly plucked from a dozen languages, making no sense at all.
“He’s going,” Storm said, her voice quavering. “Sister, have you more?”
The reply in her ear was a shriek that nearly deafened her, a scream that sounded like nothing that could—or should—come from a human throat.
Her sister tore violently away from her and was gone, flinging Storm and El down in a heap together on the stones.
Storm tried to find her footing again without letting go of El. Under her, he burst into wild, high-pitched laughter, cascades of sobbing giggles that set her teeth on edge.
She turned to see what had befallen Alassra—in time to see a lashing scaled tail rise up into the night. The Simbul had become a sleek, many-horned thing that looked a little like a wyvern and was flying away as fast as her batlike wings could take her, letting out another of those wild, screaming calls as she went.
Great. Alassra was insane again.
And so was Elminster. Storm looked wildly all around, wondering if she dared try to heal him—or if she’d find herself fighting for her own life in a moment or two, against a generous supply of enraged Cormyrean knights and wizards.
She put her hands on his head again, still tensely staring about.
No one moved amid the rocks. No swords came seeking her.
Out in the moonlight, she caught sight of a handful of surviving Cormyreans—a very small handful—fleeing back toward the trees, pelting along in frantic and terrified haste. A wizard of war waved frantic hands, and pale light flared briefly to claim them all, teleporting them elsewhere.
Somewhere safely far away, she hoped, sagging down atop Elminster with her tears starting. She’d be crying in earnest once she plunged into his ravaged mind, she knew, but in a forest this wild she dared not wait too long, for fear of something hungry coming along to feed before he was at least on his feet again … and they were both free of the worst of his madness.
The moon was serenely riding a nearly empty sky, highlighting a scorched and smoking battlefield strewn with pieces of dead wizard and highknight.
Tears blinded her then as she fell into real weeping.
Between her hands, the Old Mage’s head quivered, and Elminster started barking.
The moment she unshuttered the lantern and sat down in the little cavern facing him, Elminster frowned at her. “Ye look thin,” he said reprovingly. “Scrawny. Have ye been eating properly?”
Storm gave him a dark look. “Just how do you think I heal your mind?” she hissed, angrier than she’d thought she’d be. “I draw from myself.”
The Old Mage sighed. “Sorry, lass. I’ll steal ye some healing potions when I’m back inside, for when we meet again.”
He nodded in the direction of the damp old smuggling tunnel that led away from the cavern, curving into unseen distances and descending to pass under the walls of Suzail, but they both knew he meant inside the royal palace, where for some seasons they’d been posing as old Elgorn Rhauligan and his aging sister, Stornara, minor palace servants.
Storm waved a hand, dismissing healing potion thefts until some future time when they were together inside the palace. “El, are you well enough to cast those guises on us, without …?”
“Turning into a drooling, yapping thing again? ’Tis to be hoped.”
It was Storm’s turn to sigh. “I need a little certainty, El,” she said. “Or by the Holy Lady we both lost, I’ll slip you a little more longsleep and leave you snoring for a month or more, until I’m well and truly back from Shadowdale.”
Elminster chuckled. “Ye have grown claws, Lady of Shadowdale. A pleasure fighting battles with ye!”
Storm crooked one eyebrow. “Not against me?”
“Tease not, but tell: what word was brought back to the Crown of the fray at Tethgard?”
Storm shrugged. “I don’t look like the fetchingly spotted and wrinkled old Stornara without your magic, so I haven’t been able to get into the palace. The more talkative courtiers who drink at two of the taverns I’ve visited, however, tell lurid tales of a great spell battle against mysterious, unspecified fell wizards who slew all but a handful of the many brave, loyal, and vastly outnumbered wizards of war and loyal highknights who went up against these foes of the realm.”
“Of course. And those survivors were?”
“I know Starbridge survived, because I sent him into slumber before the battle, and I’ve heard he’s now been made commander of the highknights. And I’ve seen Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake from afar, strolling along the promenade—as pompous and strutting as ever—so I know he made it back. No doubt he’s been telling everyone how he bravely saved the day after the mightiest foes that ever threatened Cormyr struck down Kelgantor and the rest.”
“No doubt. What of Alassra?”
“Mad again; turned herself into a monster and flew off. Right now, she could be anywhere.”
“She gave her sanity right back to me, didn’t she?”
Storm nodded glumly. “She always returns to the same few places. My farm, for one. Not that getting her to talk to us is going to be easy. It’s going to take a lot of enchanted items to bring her mind back again.”
“I’m done with dragging her back to herself for a few days or a few hours,” Elminster said quietly. “It’s time to cure her for good.”
“That will take some really powerful stored Art,” Storm murmured.
“I care not if I have to strip Cormyr bare of its every last item, crowns and regalia included,” the Old Mage replied calmly. “If they treat me as a thief and murderer, then a thief and a murderer I shall be. I’ll take what I need to make her sane again, once and for all—and send anyone who stands in my way to greet the gods. I’m done with being kind and gentle to cruel fools.”
Elminster shook his head. “New ones will arise to fill the boots of those we blast down,” he replied. “Every realm seems to have an endless supply of them.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
TRAITORS BEHIND EVERY DOOR
The room was small and round. It was also dark, stale, and very dusty. Hardly surprising, being as it hadn’t been used for years. Until now.
Marlin Stormserpent edged into it with shuffling care, trying hard not to bump his hot shuttered lantern into the untidy mounds of broken furniture crowding the chamber.
It had taken him some trouble to slip away from the family servants unseen, curse their diligence—but that was nothing to what trouble he’d find if just one of them followed him and overheard any of what was about to be said.
The stout old door still had a bolt, massive and old-fashioned, and he shot it firmly across before daring to open the lantern enough to see his way through the maze of yesteryear’s marred elegance.
Dust lay like a thick fur cloak over much of this uppermost room in the most disused turret of Stormserpent Towers. Marlin’s lip curled. Of course.
His home was one of the older and grander noble family mansions in Suzail. Once there had been far more Stormserpents clattering and prancing and sneering around the place, but, well … a lot of things had been grander once.
And perhaps—just perhaps—might be again.
From atop what looked like a cloak stand, Marlin took up an ordinary-looking glass orb, a milky sphere a little smaller than his head, the sort of idle ornament that had been fashionable fifty or sixty Mirtuls earlier. He went to a small round table and sat in a lopsided chair drawn up to it, setting the orb atop an empty and garishly heavy metal goblet that stood on the table.
Marlin squared his shoulders then touched the smooth, curved glass, murmured a certain word, and … a glowing cloud slowly appeared in the air above the orb and thickened into silvery smoke.
Smoke that twisted, swirled, and became the glowing image of a person.
Lothrae.
He had no idea who Lothrae really was, behind the mask the man always wore.
As always, Lothrae sat in front of his own orb in a chair with an upswept back like falcons’ wings, in a room somewhere with walls of once-grand but now cracked and mold-stained gilt stucco adorned with a pattern of little blue griffons.
“You are late.” Lothrae said those three words like cold stones leisurely dropped into an abyss.
“I—had some trouble getting free of my mother and the servants, Master,” Marlin stammered, rattled in an instant and hating it. “You warned me to avoid suspicion above all else, so …”
“Understood. It is time.”
Marlin swallowed. “Time? To begin at last?”
“To begin at last. Indubitably. I know where six of the Nine are, beyond doubt, and have strong suspicions as to the whereabouts of the seventh. Any two of them should be able to win past the paltry wards left to the Crown of Cormyr these days—and destroy any war wizard they can catch alone.”
“The Nine?”
“Marlin,” Lothrae said softly, “don’t pretend you know nothing of this. You are certain the Flying Blade holds one of the Nine, and have long suspected the Wyverntongue Chalice holds another. You just don’t know how to call forth or compel the Nine—wherefore all your stealing of old texts and drowning sages in drink seeking to pry secrets out of them. You’ve been so clumsy about it that some war wizards figured out what you were up to long ago.”
“They—they—?” Marlin knew he was going white; he could feel the coldness rushing across his face.
“No, they’ll not come bursting in on you. I took care of them as they discussed you, before they could spread word of your fumblings among all the wizards of war. Right now, among those who’re left, you’re suspected of being as restless and opportunistic as any other arrogant young fool of a noble, but no more than that. I was going to wait until we’d found and secured all of the Nine, but we’ve run out of leisure; some clever war wizards have remembered the old tales and have started their own search for the Nine, with an eye to making Cormyr unassailable. It won’t be long before one of them starts wondering if the Flying Blade of the Stormserpents might just be something the Crown should confiscate—for the good of the realm, of course. So it is time.”
“Yes, Master! Time for—?”
“You to hear and obey, Lord Stormserpent,” the cold voice coming out of the orb told him dryly. “So listen well …”
It was getting harder and harder to force the courtier to be Lothrae; the Cormyrean’s mind was actually growing stronger. Almost enough to begin fighting him.
Astonishing.
Though after all his years, he really shouldn’t be astonished at what humans could—and did—do.
The strain of controlling that distant body was making this other host, a body chosen largely for its youthful agility and darkly handsome appearance, sweat profusely. He sent a mental slap through their fading link that should leave the courtier dazed and staggering for a time, and withdrew from the man’s mind entirely.
Leaving himself just time to wipe his dripping face and stride to the door. If there was one redeeming quality shared by Cormyr’s more ambitious nobles, it was punctuality. Only the lazy, stupidly overconfident, groundlessly self-satisfied, and hopelessly old-fashioned made a habit of being fashionably late.
Not that there weren’t plenty of those among the nobility of the Forest Kingdom.
His hand was reaching for the door bolt when he heard the careful knock.
He slid the well-oiled bolt aside soundlessly, drew the door open, and murmured, “Be welcome, Lady Talane.”
He felt rather than heard his guest stiffen, and added, “Yes, I know who you are. I’ve known for a long time, yet the wizards of war, the highknights, and the Crown behind them are still unaware of your … hobby. Take reassurance from that.”
His guest hesitated on the threshold then sighed and stepped into the room.
It was small, dim, and richly paneled—panels that could hide any number of doors where none were visible. It held a small table with a lone chair and a sideboard. Not a picture or banner adorned any of its walls; they were bare save for a single small, round mirror. The small, plain fireplace was empty and cold. Though he was slender and darkly garbed, he dominated the room like the prow of a great gilded warship.
“You could have ruined me and chose not to,” she stated, her voice just on the tight side of calm. “Meaning you have some other use for me. May I know it?”
“Informing you of that is why I asked you here. Will you sit, Lady, and take wine?”
Without taking his eyes off her for a moment, the darkly handsome man opened one of the sideboard doors, drew out a tall, dark, slender bottle of wine and a sleek wineglass, and advanced to place both on the table beside her, ere smoothly backing away again.
“I’m given to understand this Arrhenish is highly regarded at court; pray satisfy yourself that the bottle is still sealed. You’ll have to pour your own, I’m afraid. In the interests of discretion, no one else is closer to us than my agents down at the doors—who I posted there primarily to make sure you reached this room alone, bringing no tiresome bodyguards or hired slayers with you. Wisely, you made no attempt to do so. Know that no wizard of war—nor anyone else, if it comes to that—can spy on us here with spells, nor approach us without my becoming aware of it. We may both speak freely.”
The noblewoman nodded. “I could kill you right now,” she announced calmly, hefting the bottle of Arrhenish as if to throw it, various rings on her fingers glowing into sudden life. “Give me good reason why I should not.”
Her darkly handsome host smiled and held up a languid hand to count points off o
n his fingers. “Firstly: I am not here. You would be slaying a mere husk of meat under my control, not me. Secondly: you are not the only person in this kingdom to own and use powerful magic. Thirdly: I have plans for Cormyr. Big plans. If I want you or any other noble dead, that can be accomplished with swift ease. The kingdom would profit from many of those deaths, believe me. Yet a select few nobles can be very useful to me and to Cormyr, and if they willingly serve me in furthering my efforts, I’ll reward them handsomely. If they refuse, of course …”
“They die,” the noblewoman replied promptly, uncorking the bottle. “And you deem me—thus far, at least—one of these select few.”
The darkly handsome man gave her a deep and smiling bow. She did not fail to notice that his eyes never left hers for a moment, and she had no doubt he controlled magic that could smite her before her rings could do anything at all.
Very slowly she held up one hand for him to see, spread her fingers, and made the rings on them wink out. Then she unhurriedly poured herself a glass, raised it to him in her other hand in salute, and quelled those rings, too.
Then she sipped.
After a moment, evidently finding nothing amiss with its taste, she visibly relaxed, allowing herself a small smile. “Your health, mysterious lord. How much are you now going to tell me?”
“As much as you want to know. I am familiar with both your family holdings and your personal hideaways, from the rented Sembian properties—even that squalid pleasure-girl bedchamber by the docks in Saerloon, with all of its persistent little crawling and biting inhabitants—to the fishing boats whose ownership is so carefully not linked even to you. I’ve even seen that little cottage in the nether wilds of Harrowdale. In short, there’s nowhere you can run to that I can’t find you—and if you go straight to the king of Cormyr or the Royal Magician and unburden yourself of all you learn here in hopes of gaining more by that unexpected loyalty than by working with me, let me inform you that I have planned for such duplicity. Not only would you die very promptly and painfully, Cormyr itself would be plunged into a war from which very few of its nobles would emerge. Certainly not a single member or byblow of your family; I would see to that.”