Lhaeo bid her a pleasant night as she drifted down the path. The floating head turned to face him. “Lhaeo? I thought you were abed!”
“I was,” Elminster’s scribe said dryly, “until the Queen of Aglarond arrived. Then I suddenly found myself dressed, awake, and out here—with this bottle of elverquisst to keep me company.” He sipped at the glass in his hand and sighed appreciatively. “Superb stuff.”
Syluné hesitated, looking out over the moon-drenched, placid pool toward the flickering torches on the walls of the Tower of Ashaba. “Would you mind if I stayed to talk for a bit?”
The scribe looked up at her. “Lady,” he said softly, “I would be honored. Stay with me so long as it pleases you.” He drained his glass and added slyly, “You can tell me what it’s like to get a head in this world!”
The floating head growled at him. “You may be surprised to learn,” the Witch of Shadowdale said sweetly as she drifted nearer, “that I can still tickle.”
“Ah, no,” Lhaeo said with a groan, putting his glass carefully out of harm’s way. “No …”
* * * * *
The farmhouse shook, and the night outside was briefly as bright as day.
“What was that?” Mourngrym snarled.
There was a confused snatching at weapons and a rush to the door.
The Rangers Three, Storm, and the lord and lady of Shadowdale reached the flagstone path outside Storm’s house in time to see a bright stream of stars rising from Elminster’s Tower, in the wake of a radiant orb in which two familiar figures danced and swam. They heard a happy, wordless cry before the sphere that held Elminster and the Simbul turned suddenly and streaked away northward, into the stars.
“Gods above,” Itharr said wonderingly. He turned his head and saw Sharantyr’s awed face looking up into the sky beside his. Leaning close, he asked quietly, “Do you think we could try that?”
Still watching the distant sphere dwindle into the night, Sharantyr drew back her arm and punched him enthusiastically.
Shaerl and Storm hooted with laughter.
* * * * *
The moonlight of another night washed down over the ruined pillars and walls of Irythkeep. Itharr looked up at Selune, yawned, and said, “High time for slumber.”
A slim lady rose from banking the fire beside him, took his chin in her hands, and kissed him fondly. “The watch is mine, of course, O King of Snorers,” the Witch of Shadowdale told him, and patted his arm. “Go on.”
“Are you sure?” Belkram asked sleepily, coming out of the tent with Sharantyr’s leathers and his own, to drape them over a line for the night.
“I don’t need to sleep, remember?” Syluné told him.
Both Harpers nodded, more asleep than awake, and said, more or less in chorus, “May the night be good, then.” They turned together to go into the tent where Shar was already lost in slumber—and bumped together.
“Ugliness first,” Belkram said, indicating the tent mouth.
“Stupidity first,” Itharr countered, waving his friend toward the sleeping furs.
“Pigheaded Harpers first,” a smiling Syluné said in both their ears, and shoved at their backs. They fell into the tent in a chuckling heap, and the Witch of Shadowdale turned away to look out over Daggerdale, a smile on her face.
“Sharantyr’s first child, at least,” Azuth said softly as the two gods stood together by the fire, magically hidden from mortals and Chosen, “will be thine.”
Midnight nodded. “She’ll need to be strong, and soon … magic may be biddable again, and the gods back in their places.”
The goddess sighed then, and added almost in a whisper, “More than that: Elminster cannot last forever.”
About the Author
Ed Greenwood created the FORGOTTEN REALMS® world in the midseventies as the setting for his home AD&D® campaign. After numerous articles in DRAGON® magazine, his world had attracted enough of a following to justify TSR’s purchase of it. From his home in Canada, Ed has been fleshing out the Realms ever since.
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