Elminster in Myth Drannor

by Ed Greenwood

  Ornthalas looked at El in some puzzlement. “Brother,” he asked, one elegant brow lowering in a frown, “what means this?”

  He glanced about the chamber. “The House is yours; there’s no need to challenge our kin about anything.” His gaze fell to Filaurel, and darkened. “Or have you taken our sist—”

  “Hold peace, youngling,” Naeryndam said sternly. “Such thoughts demean us all. See yon gem upon thy brother’s brow?”

  Ornthalas looked at his uncle as if the old mage had lost his senses. “Of course,” he said. “Is this some sort of game? Be—”

  “Still for once,” the Lady Namyriitha said crisply, and someone among the ring of warriors chuckled.

  At that sound, the young elven lord drew himself up, looked around the room in an attempt at dignified silence (El thought he looked like a fat merchant in the streets of Hastarl who has slipped in horse-droppings and fallen hard on his behind on the cobbles; he has scrambled up, and is now looking around to see if anyone witnessed his pratfall, pretending all the while that there is no horse-dung on his backside—no, none at all, as all well-bred people can plainly see …), and announced to his uncle, “Yes, Revered Uncle, I see the kiira.”

  “Good,” the old elf said dryly, and there was another chuckle from the warriors, this one better suppressed. Naeryndam let it die away, and then said, “Ye are sworn to obey the bearer of the kiira, as are we all.”

  “Yes,” Ornthalas nodded, his puzzled frown returning. “I have known this since I was a child, Uncle.”

  “And remember it yet? Good, good,” the old mage replied softly, evoking several chuckles this time. Both Lady Namyriitha and Melarue stirred, exasperation plain on their faces, but said nothing.

  “Then do ye swear by the kiira of our House, and all our forebears who live within it, to lift no hand, and cast no spell, upon thy brother as he approaches ye?” Naeryndam asked, his voice suddenly as hard and ringing as a sword blade striking metal.

  “I do,” Ornthalas said shortly.

  The old elf-mage took hold of the young elf’s arm, towed him forward through the singing barrier, and then turned to El and said, “Here be he. Do what ye’ve come to do, sir, before one of my hot-blooded kin does something foolish.”

  El inclined his head in thanks, took Filaurel gently by the elbows, and said, “My humble apologies, lady, for trammeling thy freedom. It was needful. May the gods grant that it never be so, upon thee, ever again in all thy long days.”

  Filaurel shrank away from him, eyes very large, and put her knuckles to her lips. Yet as he turned away, she blurted out, “Your honor goes unblemished with you, unknown lord.”

  El took two quick steps toward Naeryndam, stepped smoothly around him, and bore down upon Ornthalas with a polite smile.

  The young elf looked at him. “Brother, are you renouncing—?”

  “Sad news, Ornthalas,” said Elminster, as their noses crashed together, and then their brows. As the tingling and flashing begun, he held like grim death to the elf’s shoulders, and added, “I’m not thy brother.”

  The memories were surging around him, then, in a maelstrom that was sweeping him away, and Ornthalas was screaming in shock and pain. A white, roaring surge of magic was tugging at him as it rose, and El couldn’t hold on any longer.

  “May the law of the realm protect me!” he cried, and then gasped in a hoarse whisper, “Mystra, stand by me!”

  The room spun around him then, and he had no breath left to cry anything. His body was stretching, everyone was shouting in anger and alarm, and the last thing the prince of Athalantar saw, as he spun down into tentacles of darkness that came sweeping greedily up to take him, was the furious face of the Lady Namyriitha, dwindling away behind the one solid thing in all this: the leveled wooden scepter, held firmly in Naeryndam’s old hand. He clung to that image as utter darkness claimed him.

  FIVE

  TO CALL ON THE CORONAL

  And so it befell that Elminster of Athalantar found the elven family he had so inadvertently joined and did that which he was sworn to do. Like many who fulfill an unusual and dangerous duty, he received scant thanks for it. Had it not been for the grace of Mystra, he might easily have died in the Coronal’s garden that night.

  ANTARN THE SAGE

  FROM THE HIGH HISTORY OF FAERÛNIAN ARCHMAGES

  MIGHTY

  PUBLISHED CIRCA THE YEAR OF THE STAFF

  Ornthalas Alastrarra stumbled across the chamber, clutching his head and screaming, his voice raw and ugly. Crackling lightnings of magic trailed from the gem that shone like a new star upon his brow, back to the one from whom it had come: the sprawled body on the floor, so young, and ugly—and human.

  Filaurel’s bedchamber was in an uproar. Warriors hacked at the barrier that repelled their armor and their blades, and were repulsed. They clawed their way along it, shouting in pain amid bright clouds of sparks, only to stagger back, master their trembling limbs, and try again. Under their high-booted feet Melarue lay sprawled, her hair outflung like a fan around her, stunned from her own attempt to burst through Naeryndam’s barrier. She’d forgotten the manyfold enchantments upon her jewelry.

  Not so her mother. Lady Namyriitha was standing well clear of the singing air and grimly bringing down the barrier with spell after spell of her own, melting away its essence layer by layer. As those magics crashed and swirled, Filaurel and most of the other women screamed at the sight of Elminster’s true nature and at the agony of Ornthalas. Servants crowded in at every door to see what was befalling.

  The old elf-mage calmly stepped over the motionless body of the hawk-nosed human and stood astride it, drawing a sword seemingly out of the empty air. Magic winked and chased itself up and down that rune-marked blade as he raised and shook it a little doubtfully, as many an old warrior readies a weapon he finds heavier than he remembered. He raised his scepter in the other hand. When the barrier failed in a wash of white sparks an instant later, and the warriors of House Alastrarra surged forward with an exultant shout, he was ready.

  Blue fire swirled out from the tip of Naeryndam’s blade, so hot and quick that warriors bent over backward in mid-charge, and fell in awkward, sliding heaps. A sweep of that same blue fire along the furs underfoot, a sweep that left the furs unscorched, sent them rolling and scrambling away again, back to where they’d stood before. One elf flung his blade as he fled, spinning hard and fast through the air at the motionless human. The scepter spat forth its own fire, a stabbing, silvery needle of force, and the thrown blade exploded into a rainbow of snapping sparks that spun and flew until they were no more. One or two of them bounced almost at Naeryndam’s feet.

  “What treachery is this?” Lady Namyriitha spat at the old mage. “Are you crazed, aged brother? Has the human some sort of spellhold over you?”

  “Be still,” the old mage replied in calm and pleasant tones—but as she had done earlier; he put his risen power behind his words. The only sounds that followed their rolling, imperious thunder were faint groans from where Ornthalas lay in a corner, his head against the wall, and sobbings here and there where women who’d been screaming struggled to catch their breaths again.

  “There’s entirely too much shouting and spellhurling in this House, these days,” Naeryndam observed, “and not nearly enough listening, caring, and thinking. In a few generations more, we’ll be as bad as the Starym.”

  The warriors and servants stared at the old mage in genuine astonishment; the Starym held themselves to be the pinnacle of all that is noble and fine among the People, and even their age-old rivals acknowledged them first among all the proud Houses of Cormanthor.

  The corners of Naeryndam’s mouth crooked in what might almost have been a smile as he looked around the room at all the astonished faces. With blade in hand he motioned his kin and the servants all to stand before him, on one side of the room. When no one moved, he let fire roll forth from the blade again, in long, snarling arcs of clear warning. Slowly, almost dazedly, they obeyed.r />
  “Now,” the old mage told them, “just for this once, and for a short enough time, ye’ll listen—ye too, Ornthalas, risen Heir of House Alastrarra.”

  A groan was his only reply, but those who turned to look saw Ornthalas nodding, his white face still held in his hands.

  “This human youngling,” Naeryndam said, pointing down at the body beneath him with his scepter, “invoked the law of the realm. And yet all of ye—save Filaurel and Sheedra and young Nanthleene—attacked him, or tried to. Ye disgust me.”

  There were murmurs of protest. He quelled them with fire leaping in his old eyes and continued, “Yes, disgust me. This House has an heir right now because this man risked his life, and kept to his honor. He made his way into our city, past a hundred elves or more who might have killed him—would have slain him, had they known his true nature—because Iymbryl asked him to. And because he keeps his word to those not of his kin nor race, those he barely knows, and dared this task, the memories of this House, the thoughts of our forebears, are not lost, and we can keep our rightful place in the realm as a first House. All because of this human, whose name we don’t even know.”

  “Nevertheless,” his sister Namyriitha began, “w—”

  “I’m not finished,” her brother said, in tones that cut like steel. “Thou listen even less well than the young ones, sister.”

  Had the moment been less important, the air less full of tension and awe, the gathered House might have enjoyed the sight of the sharp-tongued matriarch opening and closing her mouth like a gasping fish in silence, as her face flooded crimson and purple. No one, though, so much as looked at her; their eyes were all on Naeryndam, the oldest living Alastrarran.

  “The human invoked our law,” the old mage said flatly. “Younglings, heed well: the law is just that—the law, a thing not permitting of our tampering or setting aside. If we do, we are no better than the most brutal ruukha or the most dishonest human. I will not stand idle and see ye of the blood of Thurruvyn fail the rightful honor of our House … and of our race. If ye would attack the human, ye must first defeat me.”

  The silence that followed was broken by a groan from beneath the old mage; the raven-haired, hawk-nosed human youth gave an involuntary cry of pain as he stirred. One tanned and rather dirty hand closed blindly on the booted elven ankle hard by it. At the sight a warrior of House Alastrarra cried out and threw his blade.

  End over end it flashed, straight at the tousled head of the human, as he started to claw his way up the leg of the elf who stood over him.

  Naeryndam calmly watched it come, and at precisely the right moment swept his own blade down to strike the whirling steel aside into a corner of the room. “Thou listen but poorly, do thou not?” he asked with soft sadness, as the warrior who’d thrown the blade cowered away from him. “When is this House going to start using its wits?”

  “My wits tell me that Alastrarra shall be forever stained and belittled by Cormanthans from end to end of our fair realm, as the House that harbored a human,” the Lady Namyriitha said bitterly, raising her hands dramatically.

  “Yes,” Melarue chimed in, rising from the floor with the pain of her striving against the barrier still etched on her face. “You’ve lost your wits, Uncle!”

  “What say ye, Ornthalas?” the old mage asked, looking past them. “What say—our ancestors?”

  The haughty young elf looked sadder and more serious than any in the room remembered him ever seeming. His brow was still pinched with pain, and strange shadows yet swirled in his eyes, as memories that were not his own plunged past them in the endless, bewildering flood. Slowly, reluctantly, he said, “Prudence bids us conduct the human to the Coronal, that no stain be upon us.” He looked from one Alastrarran to another. “Yet if we harm so much as a hair upon his head, our honor is bereft. This man has done us more service than any elf living, save you, noble Naeryndam.”

  “Ah,” the old mage said, satisfied. “Ah, now. See, Namyriitha, what a treasure the kiira is? Ornthalas wears it for but moments and gains good sense.”

  His sister stiffened in fresh annoyance, but Ornthalas smiled ruefully, and said, “I fear you speak bald truth, Uncle. Let us quit this field before battle comes to it, and return to our singing. Let the songs be of our remembrances of Iymbryl my brother, until dawn or slumber. Sisters, will you join me?”

  He held out his arms, and after a moment of hesitation Melarue and Filaurel took them, and the three siblings swept out of the chamber together.

  As they went out, Filaurel looked back at the human, just as the strange man found his feet, and shook her head. Fresh tears glistened in her eyes as she called, “Have my thanks, human sir.”

  “Elminster am I,” the hawk-nosed man replied, lifting his head, his elvish now strangely accented. “Prince of Athalantar.”

  He turned his head to look at Naeryndam. “I stand in thy debt, revered lord. I am ready, if ye’d take me to the Coronal.”

  “Yes, brother,” the Lady Namyriitha snarled, face pinched in disgust, “remove that from our halls—and stop staring at him, Nanthee; you demean us before an unwashed beast!”

  The young lass thus addressed was staring in open awe at the human, with his stubbled face, and stubby ears, and—otherness. El winked at her.

  That brought gasps of outrage from both Lady Namyriitha and Sheedra, the mother of Nanthleene, who snatched at her daughter’s hand, and practically dragged her from the chamber.

  “Come, Prince Elminster,” the old mage said dryly. “The impressionable young ladies of this House are not for thee. Though ’tis to thy credit that thou’re not disgusted when faced with folk of other races than thine own. Many of my kin are not so large of mind and heart, and so there is danger for thee here.” He held out his winking sword, hilt first. “Carry my blade, will thou?”

  Wondering, Elminster took hold of the enspelled sword, feeling the tingling of strong magics as he hefted the light, supple blade. It was magnificent. He raised it, staring in admiration at its feel and at the way its steel—if it was steel—shone bright and blue in the light of the bedchamber. More than one of the warriors gasped in alarm at the sight of the mage arming this human intruder, but Naeryndam paid them no heed.

  “There is also a danger to us, if a human should see the glories and defenses of our realm, which is why we suffer few of thy blood to catch even a glimpse of our city, and live. Wherefore my blade will cloud thy sight, even as it binds thee to accompany me.”

  “It is not needful, Lord Mage. I have no mind to cross thee, or escape thee,” El told him truthfully, as mists rose to enclose them both in a world of swirling blueness. “And even less of a mind to storm this fair city, alone, in time to come.”

  “I know those things, but others of my kind do not,” Naeryndam replied calmly, “and some of them are very swift with their bows and blades.” He took a step forward, and the blue mists rolled away behind them, dwindling to nothingness.

  El looked around in wonder; they were now standing not in a crowded bedchamber, but under the night sky in the green heart of a garden. Stars glittered overhead. Beneath their feet two paths of soft, lush moss met beside the statue of a large, winged panther that glowed a vivid blue in the night. Will o’wisps danced and drifted here and there above the beautiful plants around them, swaying above luminous night-flowers to the accompaniment of faint strains of unseen harps.

  “The Coronal’s garden?” El asked in a soft whisper. The old mage smiled at the wonder in the human’s eyes.

  “The Coronal’s garden,” he confirmed, his voice a soft rumble. The words were barely said when something rose out of the ground at their very feet—spectral, and graceful, and yet deadly in appearance.

  Blue-white it glowed, all sleek nude curves and long flowing hair, but its eyes were two dark holes against the stars as it said in their minds, Who comes?

  “Naeryndam, eldest of the House of Alastrarra, and guest,” the old mage said firmly.

  The watchnorn swayed to me
et his gaze, and then back to look into the eyes of Elminster, from only inches away.

  A chill crackled between living flesh and undead essence as those dark eyes stared into his, and El swallowed. He’d not want to see that serenely beautiful face angry.

  This is a human. Blue-white hair swirled severely.

  “Aye,” the old elf told the watchnorn in dry tones. “I can recognize them too.”

  Why bring you a forbidden one where the Coronal walks this night?

  “To see the Coronal, of course,” Naeryndam told the undead maiden. “This human brought the kiira of my House from our dying heir to his successor, alone and on foot through the deep heart of the forest.”

  The swirling spirit seemed to look at Elminster with new respect. That is something a Coronal should see; there can never be too many wonders in the world. The blue-white, ghostly face came close enough to brush against Elminster’s once more. Can you not speak, human?

  “I did not want to insult a lady,” El said carefully, “and know not how to properly address thee. Yet I think now we are well met.” He threw back one booted foot and sketched a sweeping bow. “I am Elminster, of the land of Athalantar. Who art thou, Lady of Moonlight?”

  Wonder upon wonder, the ghostly thing said, brightening. A mortal who desires to know my name. I like that “Lady of Moonlight” you entitle me; it is fair upon the ears. Yet know, man called Elminster, that I was in life Braerindra of the House of Calauth, last of my House.

  Her voice began astonished and pleased, yet ended with such sadness that Elminster found tears welling up in him. Roughly, he said, “Yet, Lady Braerindra, look ye: while ye abide here, the House of Calauth yet stands, and is not forgotten.”