Elminster in Myth Drannor

by Ed Greenwood

  “The human!” an elf hissed, raising his blade to smash the thing. “He was using dark magic to ensnare her!”

  “Wait—destroy it not! It’s clear proof of that!”

  “To show to whom?” another elf snarled. “The Coronal? He brought this human viper into our midst, recall you?”

  “True!” the first elf said. Two swords flashed down as one, shattering the tiny piece of obsidian so deftly that neither blade touched the bench beneath.

  The explosion that followed tore apart bench, pool, and pave, and sent elven heads and limbs spattering through the trees.

  Elminster straightened slowly. The garden they were in now held a circular bed, bathed in the moonlight, and a ring of trees. Far off in the distance lights twinkled through tree branches, but there were no buildings or watchful elves in sight.

  “We’re quite alone, Elminster,” the Lady Symrustar said softly. “Those jealous males can’t follow us here, and my wards keep the inquisitive out of this end of the family gardens. Besides, what I bring to bed is entirely my own affair.”

  Her eyes flashed as she turned to him again. Somehow her gown had fallen away to her knees, leaving her body bare in the moonlight.

  Elminster almost laughed again. Not at her, for she was so beautiful that he could barely control himself, but at his own quirky mind. She has splendid shoulders, it was reporting excitedly to him.

  That’s nice, he told it, and shoved all thought aside.

  She stepped forward out of the spreading puddle of silk that had been her gown and came toward him, gems glittering in the moonlight as she moved.

  She glided to a stop in front of him. He kissed her eyelids, and then her chin—but at her lips he found his way barred by two raised fingers. “Leave my mouth for last,” she said from behind them. “For elves, that’s particularly special.”

  He murmured a wordless assent and reached his head around to her ears. From the way she quivered in his arms, moaned, and stamped her feet, the book had been right.

  He licked them gently, teasingly, not hurrying. They had a deliciously spicy taste. Symrustar moaned as El bent to his task, darting his tongue into them. Her fingers raked at his back, drawing blood through his shirt.

  “Elminster,” she hissed, and then said his name again, rolling it with her tongue as if it was a sacred thing to be chanted. “Prince of a distant land,” she added, voice rising in sudden urgency, “show me what it is to know the love of a man.”

  Her unbound hair swirled around them, its tresses moving at her unspoken bidding, tearing at his clothing like dozens of small, insistent hands. They were circling each other as his shirt was tugged open, moving toward the bed.

  Suddenly Symrustar moaned again and said, “I can wait no longer. My mouth—Elminster, kiss my mouth!”

  Their lips met, and then their tongues. And El faced the attack he’d been expecting.

  The bright sparks of a spell seemed to streak through his mind, with her will racing right behind them. Symrustar was seeking to control him, body and mind, to be her puppet, while she raked through his memories to learn all she could … especially human magic. El let her race and pierce and rummage while he read what he wanted in her bared, open thoughts.

  Gods, but she was a ruthless, evil creature. He saw a little obsidian statuette she’d prepared, and how he’d been blamed for what befell. He saw her tresses coiling up to encircle his throat right now, to throttle him if he tried to use any weapon against her. He saw her schemes to entrap any number of elves at court, from the Coronal to a certain rival and suitor, Elandorr Waelvor, to High Court Mage Earynspieir—the other court mage was already hers, ensnared and manipulated, sent to attack someone she dared not go up against: the Srinshee!

  Elminster almost struck her then, knowing that with a simple spell he’d have power enough to break her neck like a twig, hair or no hair. Instead he rode the bright flare of his rage into an iron hold on her mind, clamping down until she screamed soundlessly in shock and horror. He cut off her sight into his own memories with brutal haste, leaving her blinded and dazed, and held her that way as he reached out with the power of the scepter her tresses had so deftly plucked away from him, and duplicated the body switch spell the Srinshee had worked on him earlier.

  Then he charged back into her mind, overwhelming all semblance of reserve and control she had left, and forcing her mind to stay open and vulnerable, her schemes, memories, and thoughts bared to anyone who touched her. El brought her back to the peak of lust, aching with need. Then he worked the spell, taking himself to where Elandorr Waelvor stood languidly, glass in hand, in the midst of revelry. He whisked the elf back to the hidden bower, thrusting him into Symrustar’s arms, his lips to hers, and her mind, with all its treacheries and plans for him, bared to him.

  El had a last glimpse of her wild eyes staring at Elandorr as she realized who he was and what he was seeing in her mind as she kissed him, nude and two swift paces from her bed. As both elves stiffened and moaned in horror, their mouths and minds mated and open to each other, Elminster broke contact.

  He was standing in a softly lit space where Elandorr had been, in the midst of a handful of very startled elves. Others, who wore only bells on their limbs, were dancing in the air overhead, laughing softly. Glasses of wine were soaring up to them like eager wasps, from trays floating in the midst of a group of jaded, bored elves in finery who’d been chatting about the decay of the realm in general—until his sudden appearance.

  “You recall Mythanthar’s crazy schemes of ‘mythals’ to shield us all? Why, ther—”

  “When I was a youth, we didn’t indulge in such outrageous displ—”

  “Well, what does she expect? Not every young armathor of the realm ca—”

  Silence fell as if every throat there had been cut by the same slash of a sword, and all eyes turned to look at one tall figure in their midst.

  El faced them, a human male with his clothes in disarray and a scepter in his hand. He was breathing heavily, and there was a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth where Symrustar had bitten it.

  Elves were staring into his eyes in shock and angry recognition. “What did you do to Elandorr?”

  “He’s slain Elandorr!”

  “Blew him to nothingness—just as he did Arandron and Inchel and the others by the pool!”

  “ ’Ware, all! The human murderer is among us!”

  “Kill him! Kill him now, before he gets more of us!”

  “For the honor of House Waelvor!”

  “Slay the human dog!”

  Swords were flashing out on all sides, or being magically summoned from distant scabbards and chambers to settle into their owner’s hands amid spell glows; El spun around and cried out in a loud, deep voice, “Elandorr lives—I’ve sent him to confront the murderess who slew everyone by the pool!”

  “Hear the human!” sneered one elf, blade glittering in his hand. “He must think us elven folk simple indeed, to believe such a claim!”

  “I am innocent,” Elminster roared, and triggered the scepter. Bright fire burst forth in a ring around him, striking aside blades and hurling their owners back.

  “He has a court scepter! Thief!”

  “He must’ve murdered one of the mages to get it! Kill the human!”

  El shrugged and used the only spell he could, vanishing an instant before half a dozen hurled blades flashed through the spot where he’d stood.

  Into the sudden silence, before the groans of disappointment started, one old elf said clearly, “In my time, younglings, we held trials before we drew our blades! A simple mindtouch will reveal the truth! If we find him guilty, then will be the time for blades!”

  “Fall silent, father,” another voice snapped. “We’ve heard quite enough of how things should be done, or were done in the old dawn days. Cannot you see that the human is guilty?”

  “Ivran Selorn,” another old voice said in outraged tones, “to think that the day would come when I’d hear you
speak to your sire like that! Are you not ashamed?”

  “No,” Ivran said almost savagely, holding up his sword. Its blade glimmered in the spell light, displaying the scrap of cloth transfixed on it. “We have the human,” he said in triumph, holding it high for all present to see. “With this, my magic can trace him. We’ll hunt him down before sunrise.”

  ELEVEN

  TO HUNT A HUMAN

  There is no beast more dangerous to hunt than a man forewarned—save one: a human mage forewarned.

  ANTARN THE SAGE

  FROM THE HIGH HISTORY OF FAERÛNIAN ARCHMAGES

  MIGHTY

  PUBLISHED CIRCA THE YEAR OF THE STAFF

  He found himself standing in utter darkness, but it was darkness that smelled right. It was dank, and there was open space all around. He did something with his mind, and the scepter in his hand blossomed into a soft green radiance.

  The chamber at the heart of Castle Dlardrageth was empty. Only an area of cracked and melted rubble—he’d have to ask the Lady Oluevaera about that when the chance befell—remained to show that he and the Srinshee had been here. She’d taken the Coronal elsewhere.

  Something flashed in the gloom above him and moaned softly past, swooping toward the far end of the room. El smiled. Hello, ghosts.

  He changed the light of the scepter to the purple-white glow that outlined magic. There! She had left it!

  Invisible inside three nested spheres of magical concealment, floating in the air just low enough for him to reach, a little way along one wall, hung his spellbook. El smiled, said “Oluevaera” aloud as he touched the outermost sphere, and watched it melt silently away. The second descended to his hand, and he spoke the Srinshee’s real name again—and a third time. When the last sphere melted away, the book fell into his hands.

  El made the scepter glow green again, thrust it between two stones of the wall as high as he could reach, and sat down under its radiance to study his spells. If he was going to be hunted by every bloodthirsty young blood of Cormanthor, ’twas best to have a full roster of ready magic to call upon.

  “Tidings grow worse, Revered Lord.” Uldreiyn Starym’s voice was grave.

  Lord Eltargrim looked up. “And how might they do that?” he asked quietly. “Sixty-three blades were broken before me today.” His lips tightened in what might have been the wry beginnings of a smile. “That I know of, thus far.”

  The burly senior archmage of the Starym family ran a weary hand through his thinning white hair and replied, “Word comes from the Hallows that the human armathor has worked deadly magic there, causing a blast that destroyed the Narnpool and at least a dozen young lords and warriors who were gathered there. Moreover, the Lady Symrustar and the Lord Elandorr have both vanished, and the heir of House Waelvor was snatched by spells out of the midst of folk he was speaking with, to be replaced upon the instant by the human—who protested his innocence but was wielding a court scepter. When menaced by the swords of some of the revelers he teleported away. None know where he is now, but some of the warriors are hunting him with magic.”

  In the shadows around the table a light-haired head snapped up, eyes catching fire. “My cousin was with the Lord Elminster. They were strolling together when they left us!”

  “Gently,” the High Court Mage Earynspieir said from beside Amaranthae, putting a soothing hand on her arm. “They could well have parted before these troubles began.”

  “I know Symma,” she said, turning to him, “and she planned to—to …” She blushed and looked away, biting her lip.

  “To take the human lord to bed, in the private part of the Auglamyr gardens?” the Srinshee asked quietly. Amaranthae stiffened, and the tiny sorceress added gently, “Don’t bother to act scandalized, girl: half Cormanthor knows about her career.”

  “We also know something of the power of Symrustar’s magic,” Naeryndam Alastrarra said thoughtfully. “In fact, probably far more than she desires we know or suspect. I doubt the human lord has spells enough to do her harm, if they were in her bower, with all the magic she can call to hand there. If the hunt mounted by these young fire brains leads them hence, they might be in danger.”

  Amaranthae turned her head to look at the old mage, white to the lips. “Do you elders know everything?”

  “Enough to keep ourselves entertained,” the Srinshee said dryly, and Uldreiyn Starym nodded.

  “ ’Tis a common mistake of the young and vigorous,” he calmly told the tabletop, “to believe their elders have forgotten to see, or think, or remember things—when what we’ve really forgotten to do is scare younglings into respecting us, thoroughly and often.”

  The Lady Amaranthae moaned aloud, anxious and miserable. “Symma could be dead,” she whispered, an instant before the High Court Mage gathered her in his arms and said soothingly, “We shall go to the gardens now, to see for ourselves.”

  “Yet if she’s unharmed, she’ll be furious at our intrusion,” Amaranthae protested.

  The Coronal looked up. “Tell her the Coronal ordered you to check on her safety, and let her bring her fury to me.” He smiled a little sadly and added, “Where she’s likely to become lost in the crowd of clamoring complainants.”

  Lord Earynspieir silently thanked the old ruler with his eyes as he rose and led the distraught Lady Auglamyr away.

  Lord Starym said heavily, “The murders done by the human in our midst—or perceived by most Cormanthans to be done by him, which at present holds out to us the same trouble—imperils your plan, Revered Lord, to open the city to other races. You know, Lord, as few can, how deeply my sister Ildilyntra felt against this Opening. We of House Starym still oppose it. By all of our gods, I beseech you, don’t drive us into doing so with force.”

  “Lord Uldreiyn, I respect your counsel,” the Coronal said softly, “as I have always done. You are the senior archmage of your House, one of the mightiest sorcerers in all Faerûn. Yet does that make you mighty enough to withstand the swarming vigor of the most greed-goaded humans, whose magic grows apace with each passing year? I still believe—and I urge you to think long and hard upon this, to see if you really can seize to, and hold, any other conclusion—that we must deal with humankind on our terms now, or be overwhelmed and slaughtered by men storming our gates in a century or so.”

  “I shall think upon this,” the Starym archmage said, bowing his head, “again. Yet I have done so before, and not reached the same conclusion as you did. Can it not be that a Coronal might be mistaken?”

  “Of course I can be wrong,” Eltargrim said with a sigh. “I’ve been wrong many times before. Yet I know more of the world beyond our forest than any other Cormanthan—save this young human lad, of course. I see forces stirring that to most senior Cormyth, as well as to our youth, seem mere fancies. How often in the past few moons have I heard voices at court saying, ‘Oh, but humans could never do that!’ What do they think humans are, lumps of stone? From time to time men hold something they call a magefair—”

  “Selling magic? Like a sort of bazaar?” The Starym’s lips curled in disbelief and distaste.

  “More like a House-gathering attended by many mages: humans, gnomes, halfbloods, and even elves from other lands than ours,” the Coronal explained, “though I believe some scrolls and rare magical components do change hands. But the burden of my song is this: at the last magefair I saw, in my days as a far-wandering warrior, two human wizards engaged in a duel. The spells they hurled fell far short of our High Magic, ’tis true. But they would also have awed and shamed most sorcerers of Cormanthor! ’Tis always a mistake to dismiss humans.”

  “All those of House Alastrarra would, I believe, support you on that,” Naeryndam put in. “The human Elminster wore the kiira more ably than our heir has yet managed to. I mean no slur upon Ornthalas, who will grow to command it, I’m sure, as ably as did Iymbryl before him … merely that the human was swiftly capable.”

  “Too capable, if all these reports of deaths are true,” Uldreiyn murmured. “Very
well, we shall continue to disagree ami—”

  The tabletop glowed with a sudden, sparkling radiance that was laced with the soft, calling notes of a distant horn. Lord Starym stared down at it.

  “My herald approaches,” the Coronal explained. “When wards are raised, her passage awakens such a warning.”

  The Starym archmage frowned. “ ‘Her’?” he asked. “But sur—”

  The door of the chamber opened by itself, admitting a cloud of swirling flames of the palest green and white. It rose and thinned as Lord Uldreiyn stared at it, dwindling swiftly into a flickering death to reveal at its heart an elven lady who wore a helm and a mottled gray cloak. “Hail, great Coronal,” she said in greeting.

  “What news, Lady Herald?”

  “The heir of House Echorn has been found dead atop Druindar’s Rock—slain in spell-battle, ’tis thought,” the herald said gravely. “House Echorn beseeches you to allow them vengeance.”

  The Coronal’s lips thinned. “On whom?”

  “The human armathor Elminster of Athalantar, slayer of Delmuth Echorn.”

  The Coronal slapped the table. “He’s a lone human, not an elemental whirlwind! How could he deal death in the backlands and in the Hallows, too?”

  “Perhaps,” Lord Uldreiyn told the tabletop, “being a human, he’s swiftly capable.”

  As Naeryndam Alastrarra gave him a disgusted look, the Srinshee surprised them all by saying, “Delmuth’s own spell slew him. I farscryed the fray; he lured Elminster from his studies and sought to slay the human, who worked a magic that returned Delmuth’s attacks upon his own head. Knowing this, the Echorn made the mistake of trusting in his own mantle, and proceeded with his attack. Elminster pleaded with him to make peace, but was rebuffed. There is no fault to avenge; Delmuth died through Delmuth’s scheme and Delmuth’s hurled spell.”