Elminster in Myth Drannor

by Ed Greenwood

  “An unheralded human? Defeat an heir of one of the oldest Houses of the realm?” Uldreiyn Starym was clearly shocked. He stared at the Srinshee in disbelief, but when she merely shrugged, he shook his head and said finally, “All the more reason to stop human intrusions now.”

  “What answer shall I take back to House Echorn?” the herald asked.

  “That Delmuth was responsible for his own death,” the Coronal replied, “and that this has been attested to by a senior archmage of the realm, but that I shall investigate further.”

  The Lady Herald went to one knee, called up her whirling flames about herself once more, and went out.

  “When you do catch this Elminster, his brains may run like wax merely from all the truth-scrying,” Lord Uldreiyn observed.

  “If the young bloods leave us enough of him to do anything with,” Naeryndam replied.

  The Starym smiled and shrugged. “When,” he asked the Coronal, “did you acquire a Lady Herald? I thought Mlartlar was herald of Cormanthor.”

  “He was,” the Coronal said grimly, “until he thought himself a better swordsman than his Coronal. Your House is not the only one opposed to my plan of Opening, Lord Staryrn.”

  “So where did you find her?” Uldreiyn asked quietly. “With all due respect, the office of herald has always been held by one of the senior families of the realm.”

  “The herald of Cormanthor,” the Srinshee told Uldreiyn’s favorite spot on the tabletop, “must bear foremost loyalty to the Coronal—a quality unattainable today, it seems, in the three Houses who hold themselves to be senior in the realm.”

  “I resent that,” the Lord Starym said softly, his face going pale.

  “Three of the People were approached,” the Srinshee told him firmly. “Two declined, one very rudely. The third—Glarald, of your House, Lord—accepted, and was tested. What we found in his mind is a matter between himself and us, but when he knew we’d learned it, he tried to strike down myself and Lord Earynspieir with spells.”

  “Glarald?” Uldreiyn Starym’s voice was flat with disbelief.

  “Yes, Uldreiyn: Glarald of the easy smiles. Do you know how he hoped to defeat us and deceive us in the first place? He took one of the forbidden enchantments from the tomb of Felaern Starym, and altered it to control not merely wands and scepters from afar—such as your own storm scepter, which I’m afraid was destroyed in our dispute—but minds. The minds of two unicorns and one young sorceress of House Dree.”

  Lord Starym’s face was ashen now. “I—I can scarce believe … his beloved, Alais?”

  “I doubt his affections for her ran all that deep,” the Srinshee told him dryly, “but he did dally with her long enough to work a blood spell—another forbidden magic, of course—and so enthrall her to cast spells at his bidding. The Lady Aubaudameira Dree, or ‘Alais,’ as you know her, attacked the Lord Earynspieir in the midst of our investigation.”

  The Starym lord shook his head in dumbfounded disbelief. The Coronal and Naeryndam both nodded silent confirmation of the words of the sorceress.

  “Her spells were formidable,” the Srinshee continued. “Our High Court Mage owes his life to my magic. As does Glarald, for Alais wasn’t pleased with him after I broke his thrall. ’Twas the unicorns that did it; once my spells shook him, he couldn’t control their restive natures, and his entire linkage collapsed. So it was that the Coronal gained a new Lady Herald.”

  “That was Alais?” Lord Uldreiyn breathed, shaking his head and gesturing at the door whence the Herald had departed. “But she was much more—ah …”

  “Lushly curved than our Lady Herald?” the Srinshee finished his question crisply. “Indeed. You saw her when she was already in thrall, and had been forced to change her body to please Glarald’s tastes.”

  The Starym lord closed his eyes and shook his head again, as if to will away this unwelcome news. “Does Glarald yet live?” he asked slowly.

  “He does,” the Coronal said gravely. “Though wounded deeply in his wits. The unicorns were not gentle, and he seized upon one of the scepters when his control was already failing, and sought to turn it on them; they hurled its effects back upon him. He is currently in hiding, wrestling with his shame, at Thurdan’s Tree at the southern edge of the realm.”

  “But you’ve not told me of this!” Lord Uldreiyn snapped. “Wh—”

  “Hold!” the Srinshee snapped, just as fiercely. His mouth dropped open in surprise.

  “I’ve had quite enough, Lord,” she told him in controlled tones, “of the great Houses of the realm snarling about their rights—in this case, privacy of minds and of the doings of their individuals—whenever Coronal or Court require something of them … and then expecting us to break those rights whenever it personally suits them. So we are not to pry into your doings, my lord, or those of your warriors or steeds or cats—but we are to reveal the doings of another of your House to you? He’s not your son or heir, and if he chooses not to confide in you himself, that—as you and speakers from House Echorn and House Waelvor have so cuttingly reminded us, on several occasions—is none of our affair.”

  Uldreiyn sat staring at her, stunned.

  “You,” the Srinshee went on, “have been almost panting to ask me about the disappearance of my wrinkles since first we met this even, and cudgeling your wits for a way to politely slide a query into our converse, so that you don’t have to ask me directly. You know it is none of your affair. You respect the rule, and expect us to respect it, too, until our observance inconveniences you, whereupon you demand we break it. And yet you wonder why the Court regards the three senior Houses in particular, and all of the important Houses en masse, as foes.”

  The Starym lord blinked at her, sighed, and sat back. “I-I cannot discount your words, nor parry them,” he said heavily. “In this, we are guilty.”

  “As for Glarald’s schemes—in particular, his ambitious, creative, and wholly forbidden use of magic,” the Srinshee went on inexorably, “this is the sort of thing our young bloods are up to, My Lord Uldreiyn, while you and your kith sit around decrying our dreams of Opening, and clinging to false notions of the purity and noble nature of our People.”

  “Do you want to be toppled from within, great Lord, or stormed from without?” Naeryndam Alastrarra asked mildly, tracing a circle on the part of the table-top that had listened so attentively to Uldreiyn earlier.

  The Lord Starym glared at him, but then sighed and said, “I’m almost convinced, listening to you three, that the elder Houses of the realm are its chief villains and peril. Almost. The fact remains that you, Revered Lord, allowed a human into our midst, here in the very heart of the realm—and since his arrival we have seen death upon death in a wave of violence unmatched since the last orc horde was foolish enough to test our borders. What are you going to do about it before there are more deaths?”

  “There is almost nothing I can do before more deaths occur,” the Coronal told him sadly. “The fire brains who were at the revel when Elandorr disappeared are hunting the human as we speak. If they find him, someone will find death, too.”

  “And that death will, I fear, be laid at your door,” said Uldreiyn Starym. “With the others.”

  Eltargrim nodded. “That, my lord,” he said wearily, “is what it means to be Coronal of Cormanthor. Sometimes I think the elder Houses of the realm forget that.”

  One of the elves came to a halt so swiftly that his flowing hair swung out in front of him like two tusks. “That’s the Ghost Castle of Dlardrageth!”

  “And so?” Ivran Selorn asked coolly. “Afraid of ghosts, are we?”

  Yet they had stopped, and some of the young bloods were looking at Ivran uneasily.

  “My sire told me it bears a terrible curse,” Tlannatar Wrathtree said reluctantly, “bringing ill luck—and miscast magics—upon any who enter.”

  “The ghosts that lurk there,” another elf put in, “can claw you no matter what blade or spell you use against them.”

  “What u
tter leaf-rotting lies!” Ivran laughed. “Why, Ylyndar Starscatter brought his ladies here for loving six summers running. Who’d do that if the ghosts were a bother?”

  “Aye, but Ylyndar’s one of the most wild-witted mages in all Cormanthor! He even believes in old Mythanthar’s mythals! And didn’t one of his ladies try to eat her own hand?”

  Ivran made a rude sound. “As if that has anything to do with yon castle!” He laughed again, tossed his blade in the air and caught it, and added, “Well, you weak-knees can please yourselves, but I’m going to cut me a little human into pieces I can present to His High Fool-wits the Coronal, and House Waelvor, and hang up in the Selorn trophy lodge!”

  He set off at a run again, waving his sword around his head and hooting. After a few moments of uncertain hesitation, Tlannator followed, and two others trotted off on his heels. Another pair of elves looked at each other, shrugged, and followed more cautiously. That left three. They exchanged looks, shrugged, and followed.

  Elminster looked up sharply. A metal sword blade ringing off stone has a particular sound. Distinctive enough to make a hunted human rise, close his spellbook, and stand listening intently. Then he smiled. One elf hissing curses at another has a distinctive sound too.

  He tried to remember what the Srinshee had told him about the layout of this place. The castle was … nothing, beyond the news that this chamber was “at its heart.” Hmm. The elves hunting him could be three breaths away, or an hour’s hard climbing and peering. That they were hunting him was certain; why else would one of them want another to keep quiet?

  El stood there, spellbook under his arm, thinking hard. He could translocate away—once—by calling on the scepter, but he hadn’t had a chance to regain his own teleport spell yet. The only place in Cormanthor he could think of to go was the Vault of Ages, and who knew what defenses it would have to prevent thieves just teleporting in and out? To hide would be best. The more blood that ended up on his hands, the harder for his friends here to stay his friends, to let him stay, and to carry out whatever work Mystra had planned for him. Agile, alert elves, however, weren’t the easiest folk to hide from. Mystra had given him one slaying spell, not a dozen. He’d have to plunge into the midst of a roused and ready band of human-hunters, to touch one and slay.

  A ghostly form swooped past him, trailing a faint echoing sound that might have been wild laughter, and the last prince of Athalantar grinned suddenly. Of course! Take ghost form!

  He took two quick steps to see where the ghost disappeared to this time, and was rewarded: high up on one wall was a crevice. Far too small for him, but not too small for a spellbook.

  If he cast the spell as Myrjala had shown him, he could shift back and forth between solid and wraithlike form for brief periods—becoming his solid, normal self for no more than nine breaths at a time, or less. Longer would break the spell, and his fourth time becoming solid would also end the magic.

  El became a flitting shadow and soared aloft. As he rose to the crevice, there came a scuffing sound from somewhere nearby, as if a boot had slipped on rock. Evidently he hadn’t any time to waste.

  Something dark but pale-faced rushed out of the gloom at him, seemingly enraged. El almost tumbled and fell in fright, but then ducked aside. The ghost looped once, impressively, then scudded on out of sight around a corner, heading for other rooms. Evidently the Dlardrageth ghosts liked wraithlike intruders even less than solid mortals.

  Reaching the crevice, El drifted inside. It opened into a small, cramped room—the remnants of a much larger chamber whose roof had long ago collapsed. There were bones under the rubble here, elven bones, and El doubted the ghosts would leave him alone if he took up residence in here for long. Still, he hadn’t much choice. As he peered around, the air seemed to fill with a faint purplish haze. What was it? Magic, aye, but what?

  Whatever it was, he felt no different, and was still a weightless flying shadow. He drifted to the other end of the little room.

  Beyond its far wall, through the socket holes that had once held beams, a ghost could reach another huge chamber—this one open to the sky, and holding the first cautious elf, scrambling in over some rubble with sword raised. Ivran Selorn, if El’s memory served him rightly; a blood-hungry youngling.

  There was a jagged hole at one end of the collapsed room through which he could plunge, if he felt like dying on broken stones below. Through it, El could see the route that linked the open chamber where Ivran was, and the room where he’d been studying. The hole opened onto a cascade of rubble that spilled down into a round room once at the base of a now-fallen tower. A passage ran out of Ivran’s room into an antechamber, and thence through the tower room. From there a narrow, rubble-choked passage linked up with the room El’s spellbook still lay in. The route was not a long one, and Ivran—bold and eager—was moving swiftly.

  That left a certain Athalantan boy very little time. El went to his knees in the room with the bones, turned solid, and yanked down his breeches.

  His one legacy of his thieving days was what he always wore under his clothes: a long, thin waxed black cord, wound round and round his midriff. He uncoiled it now and hurled most of it out the crevice, tying its other end to the splintered end of a ceiling beam in the little room with the bones. Holding his breeches up with one hand, El became a wraith again, and returned to his spellbook.

  As he became solid and hastily tied the free end of the cord around and around the book, the stealthy sounds coming along the passages told him that Ivran and the other searchers were already entering the tower room: a few paces in the right direction and they’d be able to see him here, feverishly tying a length of cord around a book with his pants around his ankles.

  He became a wraith again and almost leaped into the air, soaring up and into the crevice just as fast as he could fly.

  Back in the room with the bones, El turned solid once more and hauled on his cord, gasping in his haste. He didn’t have long to work before he’d break the magic, so the moment the spellbook was safely up in the crevice, the dust of its passage still drifting out from the wall in a betraying cloud, he had his breeches belted and was a ghostly shadow again, leaving the book and the tangle of cord to deal with later.

  As a thing of gray emptiness, he peered out of the crevice. Ivran was just entering the chamber where he’d been studying. The elf had noticed the dust drifting down. El pulled in his shadowy head hastily before any elf might look up and see him, and floated in the darkness, trying to think what to do next. The elves would probably determine that, of course, by what they did.

  A moment later, El was spinning in the collapsed room, shaking and chilled, and the ghost that had caused his upset by rushing through him—the real ghost—was moaning its way back down into the chamber full of elves.

  There were shouts from below, and the flash of a spell. El smiled grimly and set forth from the beam holes into the other chamber, to drift around the castle and learn just what he was facing.

  His discoveries were not heartening. The castle was an impressive ruin, but it was still a ruin. The only unblocked well was in the tower room he’d seen already. No less than nine elves, with swords drawn and an unknown number of spells up their sleeves, were prowling through the once-splendid fortress of the Dlardrageth. At least three ghosts were following them like shadowy bats, ducking and diving but unable to do any real harm.

  The real problem, however, were the four elven mages sitting together on a hill not far from the ruin, and the mighty glamer they’d cast over the entire area. It was the source of the haze that had appeared when he’d entered the little room, and the castle was now completely surrounded by it.

  El drifted back inside, sought the little room, and turned solid again. His shoulder-blades settled into hard rubble, and he sighed as quietly as he could; his ghost form was gone for good now.

  Drawing the scepter from his belt, he thrust it up into the air, and cautiously awakened its powers. The tingling that ran along his fingers tol
d him that the elves were using magic that could detect any use of the scepter something a shout from somewhere below underscored immediately—but the scepter did what he needed it to do. In storing a duplicate of the purplish field enveloping the castle, it told El what the glamer was: a ward field that would twist a teleport spell or any other translocational magic into ravaging fire inside the body of the teleport-spell caster.

  He was trapped in the castle unless he could slip out on foot or memorize another ghost-shape spell—or fight his way out on foot, through all those eager elven swordsmen, to run straight into the waiting spells of those four mages. All of them were ready for the elusive human to appear, eager to destroy him.

  El considered what to do next. The scepter was off and in his belt again, and he was lying on his back in near-darkness, amid rubble, crumbling elven bones, and the tangles of a cord tied to his spellbook, with the sagging wreckage of a collapsed ceiling inches from his nose. The exploring elves were back in the room he’d been studying in just below him, now, speculating aloud about where he might be hiding, and stirring around with their blades in the rubble. The use of the scepter had told them he was very near; soon enough they’d think of digging … or climbing.

  “Mystra,” Elminster breathed, closing his eyes, “aid me now. There are too many of them, too much magic; if I seek battle now, many will die. What should I do? Guide me, Great Lady of Mysteries, that I set no foot wrong in this journey to serve ye.”

  Was it his imagination, or was he floating now, rising an inch or so above the rubble? His prayer seemed to be rolling out into vast, dark distances in his mind—and something black seemed to be coming back to him out of that void, spinning end over end as it approached. Something smooth, glossy, and small, tumbling—the kiira! The lore-gem of House Alastrarra!

  Wasn’t it firmly on the brow of Ornthalas Alastrarra right now? It raced right at him, growing to impossible size, enveloping him. He was spiraling around its dark interior, now, racing along the inside of its curves. This must be his memory of the kiira, with its sea of memories.