by Ed Greenwood
The elf nodded, eyes narrowing. “He was.”
El nodded. “Then that is as it’s supposed to be. I am to attend this revel in his place.”
Earynspieir scowled. “You are? And did you decide this yourself, young sir?”
“No,” Elminster replied gently. “It was decided for me—for the security of the realm. I agreed to it, aye. By the way, the name’s Elminster. Elminster Aumar, Prince of Athalantar … and, as ye know, Chosen of Mystra.”
The elf mage’s mouth tightened. His gaze descended to the scepter thrust through Elminster’s belt and tightened still further, but he said nothing.
“Perhaps, Lord Mage, we could set aside thy feelings toward me for a moment or three,” Elminster murmured, “while ye tell me where we’re standing, and what is customary at an elven revel. I have no wish to give offense.”
Earynspieir’s eyes slid sideways to meet those of Elminster, and his lips curled in distaste. Then he seemed to come to a decision.
“Very well,” he said, as softly. “Perhaps my natural reactions toward your kind have governed me overmuch. The Coronal did tell me that ’twould be easier for us all if I regarded you as one of us—one of the People—visiting from a far realm, and wearing a human disguise. I shall assay this, young Elminster. Pray bear with me; I am unsettled just now for other reasons.”
“And can ye speak of them to me?” Elminster asked softly.
The elf shot him a sharp glance, and then said shortly, “Let me speak with utter candor—a habit popular with those of your race, I hear. Moreover, I doubt you know any loose-tongued Cormanthans to gossip with, which frees me to speak more plainly than I might otherwise do.”
Elminster nodded. The elven mage looked around to make certain no one was within earshot, and then turned to the young prince and said bluntly, “Our Coronal’s decision regarding you has not been popular. Many who hold the rank of armathor in the realm have come to the palace to renounce their rank, and break their blades before the Coronal. There has been open talk of deposing and even slaying him, of hunting you down, and of … general unpleasantness here this night, and elsewhere until he, ah, comes to his senses. My counterpart, the High Court Mage Ilimitar, has not returned from a visit to several of the elder Houses of the realm, and I know not his fate—or if treason is involved. I thought I held the Coronal’s closest confidence, and yet, without word or warning, he vanishes from my side, and you appear, speaking guardedly of ‘the security of the realm,’ something I’ve had good reason to believe was entrusted to me. Despite the Coronal’s earlier confidence in you, I see you as a human mage of unknown but probably great powers, who has a close relationship with a goddess of your race—and thus, whatever your motives, a great danger to Cormanthor, as you stand here at its heart. Do you see why I am less than gracious to you?”
“I do,” Elminster replied, “and bear no ill will toward ye, Lord Mage—how could ye do otherwise, in these straits?”
“Precisely,” Earynspieir said in a satisfied voice, almost smiling. “I fear I’ve misjudged your race, sir, and you with it—I never knew that humans cared about the intrigues and the … ah, graces and troubles of others. All we see and hear of you here is axes cutting down trees and swords impatiently settling even the slightest dispute.”
“ ’Tis true that some among us do favor the most swift and direct form of politics,” Elminster agreed with a smile. “Yet I must hasten to remind ye and all others of Cormanthor that to judge humans of all lands as one alike mass is no more correct than to judge moon elves by the habits of the dark elven, or vice versa.”
The elf beside him turned away and stiffened, eyes blazing, and then relaxed visibly and managed a short laugh. “Your point is taken, human sir—but I must remind you that folk of Cormanthor are unused to such boldly blunt speech, and may like it rather less than I do.”
“Understood,” El said. “My apologies. Someone approaches. Sorry: a pair of someones.”
Earynspieir looked at El, startled by this sudden brevity, and then turned to see the elven couple the young human had indicated. They had glasses in their hands and were walking at a leisurely gait, arms linked, but their surprised expressions left no doubt that they were headed hence because of the unexpected sight of the human armathor there’d been so much talk about.
“Ah,” Earynspieir said smoothly, “it lacks some hours yet until dusk, when the dancing and ah, less dignified revelries begin. Those who wish to speak candidly with each other or with the Coronal, or to choose new consorts for an evening, often arrive now, when revelers are few and rather less wine has been consumed than will be the case later; these are some such. Allow me to perform the introductions.”
El inclined his head, every inch the polite prince, as the couple swept up to the High Court Mage. The young, handsome elven male stared at Elminster as though a forest boar had put on clothes and come to the revel, but the breathtakingly beautiful, gossamer-gowned elven maiden on his arm smiled charmingly at the elf mage and said, “Fair even, Revered Lord. We—ah, expected to see the Coronal with you. Is he indisposed?”
“Our Coronal Most High was called away on urgent business of the realm only a very short time ago. May I introduce to you instead Prince Elminster of the land of Athalantar, our newest armathor?”
The elven male went on staring at Elminster, and said nothing. His lady giggled uneasily and said, “An unexpected and—dare I say it?—unusual pleasure.”
She did not extend her hand.
“Prince Elminster,” the High Court Mage purred, “be at ease with Lord Qildor, of the House of Revven, and the Lady Aurae of House Shaeremae. May your meeting and parting be of equal pleasure.”
Elminster bowed. “My honor is brightened,” he said, recalling a phrase from the memories in the kiira. Three sets of elven eyebrows rose in astonished unison at those words of ancient elven courtesy as the human went on, “It is my desire to befriend—yet not alarm or intrude upon—the folk of fair Cormanthor. To such a one as myself, both the land and People of this fair place are so beautiful as to be revered treasures we honor from a distance.”
“Does that mean you’re not the first spysword of a human army?” the Lord Qildor growled, hand going to the ornate silver hilt of the sword he wore at his hip.
“That and more,” Elminster replied mildly. “It is no desire of my realm or any other land of men that I know of to invade Cormanthor or intrude our ways and trade where we are not wanted, and can only do harm. My presence here is a personal matter, not an unfolding affair of state or any harbinger of invasion or prying exploration. No Cormanthan need fear me, or see me as representing more than a lone human who stands in just awe of thy People and their accomplishments.”
The Lord Qildor raised his eyebrow again. “Forgive my forward speech,” he said, “but would you permit a mage to read the truth of your words?”
“I would, and will,” El said, meeting his eyes directly.
“If that is so,” the elf said, “I have misjudged you before our meeting, purely on the speculations of others. Yet, Lord Elminster, you should know that I—as most of the People—fear and hate humans; to see one in the heart of our realm is a source of alarm and disgust. I do not know that any noble thing you can do, or fair words you can speak, can ever change that. Have a care for yourself here, sir; others will be less polite than we. Perhaps it would have been better for us both if you had never come to Cormanthor.”
He fell silent for a moment, looking grave in his yellow silks, and then added slowly, “I wish I could find fairer words for you, man, but I cannot. It is not in me and I have seen more humans than most.”
He nodded a little sadly, and turned away. Gems winked here and there among the hair that spilled down his back, as long and as magnificent as that of any highborn human woman. His lady, who had listened with eyes downcast, lifted her head proudly, gave Elminster and the High Court Mage a shared smile, and said, “It is as my lord says. Fare you well, lords both.”
When they’d drawn a safe distance away, and had their covert looks back at the elf and the human standing together, Elminster turned to look Lord Earynspieir full in the face. “The folk of Cormanthor are unused to boldly blunt speech, Lord?” he asked smoothly, raising his own eyebrows. Earynspieir winced.
“Please believe that I meant not to lead you astray, lord sir,” he replied. “It seems the sight of a human awakens a spirit of bluntness in Cormanthans I’ve not seen before.”
“Fairly spoken,” El granted, “and I—but who comes here?”
Drifting through the trees toward them came two elven ladies—literally drifting, their high-booted feet inches off the ground. Both were tall for elves, and sleekly curved, wearing gowns that showed off every line of their strikingly beautiful bodies. Heads turned as they wound their way through the revelers.
“Symrustar and Amaranthae Auglamyr, ladies and cousins,” the High Court Mage murmured smoothly, and El thought he detected more than a little hunger in Lord Earynspieir’s tone. As well there might be.
The woman who led was stunning even among all the elven maids El had seen since his arrival in the city. Hair that was almost royal blue flowed freely over her shoulders and down her back, only to be gathered in a silken sash that rode low on her right hip, as the tail of a horse is gathered to keep it from trailing along the ground. Her eyes were a bright, almost electric blue, flashing promises to Elminster under dark and archly raised eyebrows as she swept nearer. A black, unadorned ribbon encircled her throat, and her lips were full and slightly pouting; she ran her tongue openly over them as she surveyed the man standing beside the elven mage. The front of her crimson gown was cut away to show the design of a many-headed dragon worked in gems glued to her flat belly, slim waist, and cleavage; frozen flames of fine wire cupped and displayed her high breasts, and gold dust clung to the coyly-displayed tip of one of her ears. She was achingly beautiful—and knew it.
Her cousin wore a rather less revealing gown of dark blue, though one side of it was parted to above her waist to display a fine webwork of golden chains flowing down her bare, almost brown flank. She had flowing honey-blonde hair, startlingly brown eyes, and a far kinder smile than her blue-haired companion, as well as the most tanned skin and lush curves of any elf Elminster had ever seen. But her cousin outshone her beauty as a sun outblazes a night star.
“That is Symrustar in the lead,” Earynspieir muttered. “She is heir of her House—and dangerous, sir; her honor consists solely of what she can get away with.”
“You deeply prefer the Lady Amaranthae, do you not?” Elminster murmured back.
The High Court Mage turned his head sharply to regard Elminster with eyes that held both respect and a sharp warning. “You see keener than most elven elders, young lord,” he hissed, as the ladies came upon them.
“Well met,” the Lady Symrustar purred, tossing her hair aside with easy grace as she leaned forward to kiss Lord Earynspieir on the cheek. “You won’t mind, wise old Lord, if I take your guest from you? I’ve—we’ve—a great hunger to learn more about humans; this is a rare opportunity.”
“I … no, of course not, Lady.” The elven mage put on a broad smile. “Ladies, may I present to you the lord Elminster of Athalantar? He is a prince in his own land, and newly—as I’m sure you’ve heard—an armathor of Cormanthor.”
Earynspieir turned his head to regard El, a clear warning in his eyes, and continued, “Lord Elminster, it is my great pleasure to make known unto you two of the fairest flowers of our land: the Lady Symrustar, Heir of House Auglamyr, and her cousin, the Lady Amaranthae Auglamyr.”
El bowed low, kissing the fingertips of the Lady Symrustar—an unaccustomed gesture, it seemed, from the appreciative purr she gave, and the hesitant way Amaranthae then extended her arm.
“The honor, ladies,” he said, “is mine. But surely you cannot think to abandon the guardian of the realm just to talk to me? I am the allure of the unknown, ’tis true, but ladies, I confess I am overwhelmed by just one of ye, and have come to deeply appreciate the attentive wisdom of My Lord Earynspieir since our first meeting; he is a finer speaker than me, by far!”
Something leaped in the High Court Mage’s eyes as Elminster spoke so earnestly, but he uttered not a sound as the Lady Symrustar laughed easily and said, “But of course Amaranthae will keep the mightiest mage of Cormanthor close and attentive company while we two talk, Lord Elminster. You are quite right in your estimation of his qualities, and one can accomplish far more face-to-face with just two faces thus engaged. You and Amaranthae can enjoy each other later. How splendidly swift-witted of you! Come, let us away!”
As she laced her fingers with his, Elminster turned to nod a polite farewell to the High Court Mage—whose face was unreadable—and to the Lady Amaranthae, who gave the human a look that was both deeply grateful and a mute warning to him about her cousin; El thanked her for both with a second nod and a smile.
“You seem attracted to my cousin, Lord Elminster,” the Lady Symrustar purred in his ear, and El turned swiftly back to her, reminding himself that he was going to have to be very careful with this elven maid.
Very careful. As he turned, she did too, extending one slim leg around his so that they came together, breast to breast. Elminster felt the wire-girded points of her bosom low on his chest, and skin as smooth as silk brushing his breeches. She wore a black lace garter around that leg, and knee-high black boots of leather with spiked heels.
“My apologies for thrusting myself so into your path, Lord,” she breathed, sounding completely unapologetic. “I fear I am unused to human company, and find myself quite … excited.”
“No apology is necessary, fair Lady,” El replied smoothly, “when no offense is taken.” He glanced quickly back at the revel, and saw several curious faces turned in their direction, but no one moving toward them, or nearby.
“You must know how beautiful males of at least two races find you,” he added, glancing ahead to ensure that the garden was similarly empty—and knowing that it almost certainly was; this lady planned things carefully—“but I must confess that I find splendid minds more intriguing than splendid bodies.”
Lady Symrustar met his eyes. “Would you prefer I dropped the pretense of breathless excitement then, Lord Elminster?” she asked softly. “Among the People, many males do not believe that their ladies really have minds.”
Elminster crooked an eyebrow. “With your swift wit gliding through revel after revel to prove them different?”
She laughed, eyes flashing. “Blood to you,” she acknowledged. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.” She led him on through the garden, walking now, whatever magic had levitated her banished or exhausted. Her hips swayed with every step in a way that left Elminster’s mouth dry; he kept his eyes firmly on her eyes and saw a little knowing twinkle growing in them. She knew full well what effect she was having on him.
“I spoke simple truth when first we met,” she said, tossing that magnificent hair out of the way again, “I do want to learn all I can about humans. Will you oblige me? My questions may seem witless at times.”
“Lady, allow me,” El murmured, wondering when her attack would fall on him, and what form it would take. He was mildly surprised, as they walked deeper and deeper into the wild and empty depths of the garden and the last sunlight started to fade, just how thorough her questioning was, and genuine her interest seemed.
They came at last to a pale glow of moonlight in the trees ahead, talking earnestly of how elves dwelt in Cormanthor and humans lived in Athalantar. Symrustar led her exotic human to a stone bench that curved about a circular pool in the center of that clearing. Reflected stars glimmered in its depths as they sat down together in the pleasantly warm night air, and the bright moonlight touched Symrustar’s smooth skin with ivory fingers.
Quite naturally and simply, as if this was something elven females always did when sitting on benches in the moonlight, she guided Elminster’s hands within the wire breast
works of her gown. She was trembling.
“Tell me more of men,” she murmured, her eyes very large now, and seemingly darker. “Tell me … how they love.”
Elminster almost smiled as a memory flashed through his mind. In the library of a wizard’s tomb lost in the High Forest there is a curious book that has no name. It is the diary of a nameless half-elven ranger of long ago, that tells of his thoughts and deeds, and the sorceress Myrjala had made Elminster read it to learn how elves regarded magic. On the subject of giving pleasure to elven maids, it mentioned using one’s tongue gently on the palms of the hands and the tips of the ears.
El slipped one of his hands out of where she’d put it, let his fingertips trail down her belly, and then caught hold of her wrist.
“Hungrily,” he replied, and bent his tongue to her open palm.
She gasped, trembling in earnest now, and he lifted his head out of long habit to look around.
Moonlight gleamed on a set and furious elven face. A male, there in the trees. El slid his other hand free. There was another, over there. And another. They sat at the heart of a silently closing ring.
“What is it, Lord Elminster?” the Lady Symrustar asked, almost sharply. “Am I—abhorrent in some way?”
“Lady,” he replied, “we are about to be attacked.” He put his hands on the scepter at his belt, but the elven maid rose and turned with swift, fluid grace, and looked into the trees.
“They’ll charge us, now, in silence,” she said calmly. “Hold to me, and I’ll take us from this place!”
Elminster slipped an arm about her waist and crouched low, scepter out and ready. She murmured something as the lithe shapes leaped at them out of the trees, and did something behind her that Elminster did not see. An instant later they were gone.
The elven warriors rolled and sprang, snarling in disappointment, blades slashing air that was now empty.
“What’s this?” one of them hissed, pausing above the bench where the two figures had been entwined. A small obsidian figurine lay on it, rocking slightly. It was shaped like Symrustar Auglamyr, her hands at her sides, and bindings about her to keep them there. A cautious fingertip prodded it and found it still warm from the heat of someone’s body.