Elminster in Myth Drannor

by Ed Greenwood

  “Well met, Revered Lord,” Elminster said, and gently set the crystal sphere he held down into the open chest.

  The elf looked down at the treasures it held, and raised an approving eyebrow. Things of nurturing, not things of battle. His voice when it rolled forth, however, was stern. “I bade you choose one thing only, to take forth from these vaults. Let us all now witness that choice.”

  Elminster bowed, and then walked to the Coronal, hands spread and empty.

  “Well?” the elven ruler demanded.

  “I have made my choice,” El said quietly.

  “You choose to take nothing?” the Coronal asked, frowning. “ ’Tis a coward’s way of trying to evade death.”

  “Nay,” Elminster replied, voice just as stern. “I’ve chosen the most precious thing in thy vaults.”

  Scepters hung quivering in midair all around him, abandoned by sorceresses who were now weaving magics for all they were worth. El turned slowly, one eyebrow raised, as they whispered incantations in a murmuring chorus. Only the Srinshee’s hands were still. She held her scepter tipped back so that its point touched her own breast, and her eyes were anxious.

  Spells fell upon Elminster Aumar then, spells that searched and proved and scryed, vainly seeking hidden items or disguising magics on the young man’s body. One by one they looked to the Coronal and gave small shakes of their heads; they’d found nothing.

  “And what is that most precious thing?” the Coronal asked finally, as two of the sorceresses slowly drew in front of him to form a shield, raised scepters in their hands once more.

  “Friendship,” Elminster replied. “Shared regard, and my fondness for a wise and gracious lady.” He turned to face the Srinshee and made a deep bow, such as envoys did to kings they truly respected, in the kingdoms of men.

  After a long moment, as the other elves stared at her, the old sorceress smiled and echoed his bow. Her eyes were very bright, with what might be tears.

  The Coronal’s eyebrows rose. “You’ve chosen more wisely even than I might have done,” he said. More than one of the six court sorceresses looked stunned. There were open gasps of astonished horror around their circle when the ruler of all Cormanthor bowed deeply to Elminster. “I am honored by your presence in this fairest of realms; you are welcome here, as deserving of residence as any of the People. Be one with Cormanthor.”

  “And Cormanthor shall be one with thee,” the sorceresses chanted in unison. There was dumbfounded awe in more than one of those voices. Elminster smiled at the Coronal, but turned to embrace the Srinshee. Tears were shining on her withered cheeks as she looked up at him, so he kissed them away.

  As the velvet darkness came down again, and rolled away to reveal a huge and shining hall crowded with elves in their splendor, the Coronal’s magic made the chant roll forth again.

  Amid the astonished faces of the Court of Cormanthor, all heard it ring clear: “And Cormanthor shall be one with thee.”

  PART

  II

  ARMATHOR

  SEVEN

  EVERY POOL ITS PARTY

  When Elminster first saw it, Cormanthor was a city of haughty pretence, intrigue, strife, and decadence. A place, in fact, very like the proudest human cities of today.

  ANTARN THE SAGE

  FROM THE HIGH HISTORY OF FAERÛNIAN ARCHMAGES

  MIGHTY

  PUBLISHED CIRCA THE YEAR OF THE STAFF

  By the time Ithrythra had clicked her way unsteadily up the wooded path to the pool in her new boots, the party was well under way.

  “Frankly, gentlest,” Duilya Evendusk confided to someone, loud enough to shake leaves off the moon-bark trees overhead, “I don’t care what your elders say! The Coronal is mad! Completely mad!”

  “You’d know madness better than the rest of us,” Ithrythra muttered under her breath, setting her own glass on a float-platter to unlace her thigh-high silver boots. It was a relief to step out of them. The spiked heels made her tower over the servants, yes, but ohh, how they hurt. Human fashions were as crazed as they were brazen.

  Ithrythra hung her lacy gown over a branch and shook out the ruffles of her undergown until they hung as they were supposed to. She checked her reflection in the hanging glass under the shadowtop tree, an oval mirror taller than she was.

  As she stared into its depths and saw just a hint of swirling things there, she recalled that some Cormanth ladies whispered that this mirror sometimes served the Tornglaras as a portal into dark and dirty streets in the cities of men. The Tornglara lords went to do business that Cormanthor frowned upon, trading with humans. The Tornglara ladies, now …

  She clucked her lips at those thoughts and set them firmly aside. Fashions were what Alaglossa Tornglara went seeking; fashions, and no more.

  Ithrythra gave the legendary mirror a little smile. Her new hairdo had held its sideswirl, firmly woven about the hand lyre, sigil of her House. Her ears stood up proudly, their rouged tips unmarred by over-gaudy jewelry. She turned, so as to survey one side of her body, and then the other. The gems glued down her flanks were all in place. She struck a pose, and blew the mirror a pouting kiss. Not bad.

  After the highsun meal of every fourth day, the ladies of five Houses gathered at Satyrdance Pool in the private gardens behind the many-towered mansion that was House Tornglara. There they bathed in the warmest of the pools, in which spiced rosewater had been poured for the occasion, and sipped summermint wine from tall, green fluted glasses. The platters of sugared confections and the justly famous Tornglara vintages flowed freely, and so did the real reason the ladies came back to the same place time and time again: the gossip.

  Ithrythra Mornmist joined her chattering companions, making her greetings with her usual silent smiles. As she slipped her long legs into the pool, sighing with pleasure at the soothing warmth of the waters, she noted that her glass was the only one not yet empty. Where were the servants?

  Her hostess noticed Ithrythra’s glances, and halted in midchatter to lean forward conspiratorially and say, “Oh, I’ve sent them away, dear. We’ll have to fill our own glasses this time—but then, ’tisn’t every day one discusses crown treason!”

  “Crown treason? What treachery can the Coronal have practiced? That elf’s too old to have any wits left, or stamina either!” Ithrythra exclaimed, evoking shrieks of laughter from the ladies already in the pool.

  “Oh, you’re out of touch, dearest Ithrythra! It must be all that time you spend in your cellars grubbing up mushrooms to earn a living!” Duilya Evendusk said cuttingly; Alaglossa Tornglara had the grace to roll her eyes at this rudeness.

  “Well, at least it proves to my elders that I can work if I have to,” Ithrythra replied, “and so escape being a complete loss to my House—you should try it, dear … or, well, no, I suppose not …”

  Cilivren Doedance, the quietest and most polite of them all, sputtered briefly over the glass she was filling, and decided the prudent thing to do was to put it down. Setting the glass back on its float-platter, she stoppered the decanter and slid it back into its usual recess in the little stream in the bushes beside her.

  “The word’s all over the city,” she explained calmly. “The Coronal has named some human an armathor of the realm! And a man human at that! A thief who stole the kiira of a First House, and broke into their city residence to steal spells and despoil their ladies!”

  “It wasn’t House Starym, was it?” Ithrythra asked dryly. “There’s never been much love lost between old Eltargrim and our haughtiest of Houses.”

  “House Starym has served Cormanthor a thousand summers longer than a certain House I could name,” Phuingara Lhoril said stiffly. “Those Cormanthans of truly noble spirit do not find their pride excessive.”

  “Cormanthans of truly noble spirit do not indulge in prideful behavior at all,” Ithrythra replied silkily.

  “Oh, Ithrythra! Always cutting at us, as if that tongue of yours was a sword! I don’t know why your lord puts up with you!” Duilya Evendusk s
aid pettishly, annoyed at having the center of attention wrenched from her grasp.

  “I’ve heard why,” Alaglossa Tornglara observed quietly to the leaves overhead. Ithrythra blushed as the other ladies in the pool tittered. Duilya added her own grating guffaw and then hastened to seize center stage once more. The tips of her ears were almost drooping today under the weight of all the gems dangling from their rows of studs.

  “Pride or no pride, ’twasn’t the Starym,” she said excitedly, “but House Alastrarra. They’re saying at court that both the court mages would like to challenge the Eltargrim with blades before the altar of Corellon, rather than let a human walk among us and live—let alone be named armathor! Some of the younger armathors, those not lords of Houses, mind, and with little to lose, have been to the palace already to break their blades and hurl the pieces at the Coronal’s feet! One even threw his blade right at Eltargrim!”

  “So how long will it be, I wonder,” Ithrythra pondered aloud, “before this human meets with an … accident.”

  “Not long at all, if the looks of the court elders are anything to go by,” Duilya gushed on, eyes bright. “If we’re very lucky, they’ll challenge him at court—or have seeing-spells cast beforehand, so we can all see him torn apart!”

  “How very civilized,” Cilivren murmured, her voice just audible to Alaglossa and Ithrythra. Duilya, deafened by her own gleeful words, didn’t hear.

  “And then,” she continued, still in full flood, “the First Houses might call a Hunt, for the first time in centuries, and they’ll force old Eltargrim into stag shape and hunt him down! Then we’ll have a new Coronal! Oh, what excitement!” In her exuberance, she snatched up a decanter and drained it without benefit of a glass.

  Reeling, she promptly slumped back in the pool, shuddering and gagging. “Gods above, dear, don’t drown here,” Phuingara growled, holding her above the waters, “or all our lords’ll be at us about talking to those of rival Houses without their leave!”

  Ithrythra took great delight in thumping the coughing Duilya solidly in the back. Gems flew across the pool and tinkled against a float-platter.

  Alaglossa gave the reigning lady of House Mornmist a tight smile that told Ithrythra her hostess knew quite well that the force of her helpful blow had been quite deliberate—and that silence on that matter might carry a price, later.

  “There, there, gentle doe,” Alaglossa said solicitously, putting an arm around the shuddering Lady Evendusk. “Better now? The sweetness of our wine often misleads folk into thinking it has no fire—but it’s stronger even than that, ah, ‘tripleshroom sherry’ our lords’re always roaring at each other about!”

  “Oh,” Phuingara purred, “So you’ve had some of that, have you?”

  Alaglossa turned her head and favoured the lady of House Lhoril with a look that had silent daggers in it; Phuingara merely smiled and asked, “Well? How was it?”

  “You mean, you want to know what leaves our lords falling into pillars, giggling like younglings and hooting as they lie on the floor and try to shake hands with themselves?” Cilivren said suddenly, laughter in her voice. “Well, it tastes terrible!”

  “You’ve drunk tripleshroom?” Phuingara asked, her voice incredulous.

  Cilivren gave the Lady Lhoril a catlike smile and said, “Some lords don’t leave their ladies out of all the fun.”

  All of the others, even the still-coughing Duilya, looked at the Lady Doedance as if she’d suddenly grown several extra heads.

  “Cilivren,” Duilya said in shocked tones, when she could speak again. “I would never have thought …”

  “That’s just the problem,” snarled Ithrythra, “you never think!”

  Mouths opened in shock all around the pool, but before Duilya could erupt in rage at this insult, the Lady Mornmist leaned forward, her eyes serious, and said into Duilya’s face, “Listen, Lady Evendusk. How do you think Cormanthor chooses a Coronal? You can’t wait for the excitement, you say? Would you feel that way if I told you that naming a new Coronal is likely to mean poisonings, duels in the streets, and mages working nights in their towers to send slaying spells at their rivals all over the city? Human or no human, Eltargrim an addle-brained idiot or not, do you want to die—or see your children slain, and feuds begun that will rend Cormanthor forever, and let all the humans into our city over our warring bones?”

  She gasped for breath, fists clenched in aroused fear and rage, glaring at the four faces that were staring back at her. Couldn’t they see?

  “Gods watch over us all,” the Lady Mornmist went on, in a voice that trembled, “I find the idea of a human walking our fair realm revolting. But I’d take that human for a mate if need be, and kiss and serve him day and night, to keep our realm from tearing itself apart!”

  She clenched her fists, breast heaving, and almost shouted, “You think Cormanthor stands so splendid and mighty that none can touch us? How so? Our lords strut and sneer and tell tales of what heroics their fathers’ fathers did, when the world was young and we fought dragons barehanded moon in and moon out. And our sons boast of how much bolder they’ll be, and can’t even down a flagon of tripleshroom without falling over! Every year the axes of the humans nibble at the edges of our fair forests, and their mages grow stronger. Every year their adventurers grow bolder, and fewer of our patrols pass through a season without losing blood!”

  Alaglossa Tornglara nodded slowly, face white, as Ithrythra caught her breath, swallowed, and added in a whisper, “I don’t expect to see the fair towers of our city still standing when I die. Don’t any of you ever worry about that?”

  In the silence that followed, she defiantly snatched up a full decanter of summermint and drained it, slowly and deliberately, while they all stared at her.

  “Really,” Duilya said, laughing uneasily, as they watched Ithrythra Mornmist, apparently unaffected by the wine, set aside the empty decanter and pick up another one to delicately refill her glass, “I think you indulge in wild fancies overmuch, Ithrythra—as usual. Cormanthor endangered? Come, now. Who can threaten us? We have the spells to turn any number of barbarians into—into more mushrooms for the making of sherry!”

  She laughed merrily at her own jest, but her mirth fell away into thoughtful silence. She whirled around to confront Phuingara for support. “Don’t you think so?”

  “I think,” Phuingara said slowly, “that we gossip and prattle the days away because we don’t like to talk of such things. Duilya, listen to me now: I don’t agree with everything Ithrythra fears, but just because no one speaks so openly, or we don’t like to hear it, doesn’t make her wrong. If you didn’t hear truth in her words, I suggest you kiss her and ask her very nicely to repeat them again … and listen harder this time.”

  And with those words, the Lady Lhoril turned and began to climb out of the pool, leaving a sombre silence in her wake.

  “Wait!” Alaglossa said, catching at one of Phuingara’s wet wrists. “Stay!”

  The Lady Lhoril turned blazing eyes upon her hostess, and said softly, “Lady, by all you hold dear, pray make your case for handling me good.”

  The Lady Tornglara nodded curtly. “Ithrythra’s right,” she said earnestly, leaning forward. “This is too important to just pass off as an awkward moment, and go on joking and sparring and watching as the city comes to blows over this human. We must work on our lords to keep the peace, telling them over and over again that a mere human isn’t worth unseating the Coronal, and drawing blades, and starting feuds.”

  “My lord never listens to me,” Duilya Evendusk said in a tragic whisper. “What can I do?”

  “Make him listen,” Cilivren told her. “Make him notice you, and pay heed.”

  “He only does that when we’re …”

  “Then, dearest,” Phuingara told her in a voice that cut like a whip, “it’s time you got a little better at turning your lord to your will. Alaglossa, you were right to keep me from storming off; we’ve work to do right here. Do you have any tripleshroom s
herry?”

  The Lady Tornglara stared at her in surprise. “Why, yes,” she said, “but why?”

  “One of the few ways I can think of that would win the respect of Lord Evendusk,” the Lady Lhoril said crisply, “when he’s groaning of a forenoon because of what he’s drunk the night before—and cursing at his sons because of what they broke the night before, raging and giggling; you did have to choose a prize oaf, didn’t you, Duilya?—is to snatch up a full bottle of that sherry, drink it down in front of him, and then sit there not roaring or staggering about. While he’s gaping at his gentle lady tuned lion, you can tell him off good and proper, and announce that you see no need for all the roistering.”

  “And then what?” Duilya said, face white at the very thought of facing down her lord.

  “And then you could drag him off to bed in front of the whole household,” Phuingara said firmly, “and tell him that drinking every night’s no excuse for stumbling about like an idiot, making a mockery of the honor of the House, while you’re neglected.”

  There was a moment of silence, and then laughter began around the pool—low at first, but then rising swiftly as the full import of Phuingara’s words hit home.

  It was Cilivren who stopped first. “You want us to practice drinking tripleshroom sherry until we can drain a bottle without showing it? Phuingara, we’ll die.” She winced. “I mean it; that stuff burns the insides like fire!”

  The Lady Lhoril shrugged. “So we’ll master it enough to down a few glasses without tears or trembling, and work up a spell, just for ourselves, that’ll turn what passes our lips to water as we down it. It’s the respect we’re after, not to drown our worries about the realm the way our lords do. Why d’you think they drink the way they do? They’ve seen what Ithrythra has, and just don’t want to face it.”

  “So I get my Ihimbraskar up to the bedchamber, after humiliating him in front of the entire household,” Duilya said in a small voice, “and what then? He’ll strike me silly, toss my bones out the window, and go seeking a new and younger lady in the morn!”