by Ed Greenwood
Lord Evendusk groaned. “Too true. You make me sound like some sort of lackey you send off into danger every day, to put forth your views.”
The Lady Duilya Evendusk smiled and said nothing. Their eyes met, and held steady. There was a twinkle in her eyes as she continued to say nothing.
A slow smile crooked Ihimbraskar’s usually hard mouth. “Corellon praise you and damn you, Lady,” he said, in the breath before he started to laugh helplessly.
FIFTEEN
A MYTHAL, MAYBE
It came to pass that Elminster was slain by the elves, or nearly so, and by the grace of Mystra drifted about Cormanthor in the shape of a ghost or phantom, powerless and unseen—akin, some have said, to the lot of scullery maids in service to a highborn lady. Like such wenches, woe would likely befall the last prince of Athalantar if he were to come to the notice of the mighty. The master sorcerers of the elves were powerful in those days, and faster to make war and cast forth reckless magics. They saw the world around them, and all humans in it, as rebellious playthings to be tamed often, swiftly, and harshly. Among certain of the elven, that thinking has changed but little to this day.
ANTARN THE SAGE
FROM THE HIGH HISTORY OF FAERÛNIAN ARCHMAGES
MIGHTY
PUBLISHED CIRCA THE YEAR OF THE STAFF
Symrustar was naked, her face a dark mask of dried blood. She stared out of the shadow cast by her overhanging hair, seeing neither Elminster nor anything else in Faerûn. Foam bubbled at the corners of her trembling mouth as she panted and whimpered. If there was still a whole mind behind those eyes, Elminster could see no evidence of it.
Elandorr must be an even more vicious rival than Symrustar had thought. El felt sick. He had done this, by whisking Elandorr past her defenses and letting him see into her mind. It was his to undo, if he could.
Lady, he said, or tried to. Symrustar Auglamyr, he called softly, knowing that he was making no sound. Perhaps if he drifted right into her head … or would that do more harm?
She half-fell on her face then, as she blundered into the top of a gully, and El shrugged. How could she be made any worse? The danger of a predator was very real, and would grow worse as darkness came. He drifted in past her eyes, into the confusing darkness beyond, trying to perceive anything around him as he called her name again. Nothing.
El drifted through the tortured elven lady, and looked sadly at her backside as she lurched away from him, drooling and making confused, wordless noises. He could do nothing.
In his present state, he couldn’t even stroke her with a soothing touch, or speak to her. He was truly a phantom … and she was possibly dying, and probably mad. The Srinshee might be able to help her, but he knew not where the Lady Oluevaera might be found.
Mystra, he cried again, aid me! Please!
He waited, drifting, looking anxiously into Symrustar’s unseeing eyes from time to time as she waddled onwards, but no matter how long or often he called, there was no apparent reply. Uncertainly El floated along beside the crawling, moaning elven sorceress, as she made her slow and painful way through the forest.
Once she panted, “Elandorr, no!” and El hoped other lucid words would follow, but she growled, made some yipping sounds, and then burst into tears … tears that in the end became the murmuring sound again.
Perhaps even Mystra couldn’t hear him now. No, that was foolish; it must have been she who restored him after his folly at the ruined castle. It seemed she wanted him to learn a lesson now, though.
If he flew back across the mountains and desert to that temple of Mystra beyond Athalantar, or one of the other holy places of the goddess he’d heard of, perhaps the priests could give him his body back.
If they could even sense him, that is. Who was to say they could, where the spell-hurling elves of Cormanthor could not?
Perhaps he’d be noticed if he passed through an unfolding spell, or blundered into the chambers of a mage trying to craft a new magic. Yet if he left Symrustar …
He whirled in the air in exasperation, coming to a wrenching decision. He could do nothing but watch if she got hurt or attacked or killed right now. If he regained his body, surely he could use spells to find her, or at least send someone else to rescue her; the Srinshee, perhaps. He didn’t give much for his chances of convincing House Auglamyr that he, the hated human armathor, somehow knew that Elandorr Waelvor had left their dearest daughter and heir crawling through the forest like a mad-witted animal.
No, he could do nothing for Symrustar. If she died out here, it wasn’t as though she was an innocent who’d done nothing to bring this on herself. No, gods above, she’d earned it many times over before the blundering human Elminster had happened along and she’d seen him as a good fit for her clutches.
And yet he was almost as guilty of her present state as if he’d broken her mind and body himself.
He had to get back to the city, and hope that he could communicate with someone. At that thought, El hurled himself through the trees, not caring if he went around or through, racing back to the streets and grand homes of Cormanthor. He thrust himself right through the glowing armor of a patrol leader who was just directing his warriors into the formation he favored for leaving the city.
Dusk was falling. El swooped through a line of glowing globes of air that hung above the second street he came upon, illuminating an impromptu party. Though one of them seemed to bob and flicker after he passed through it, he could feel nothing.
He turned toward the Coronal’s palace once more, and saw soft light coming from part way up a tower he’d never noticed before. The last light of day was fading off across the gardens; he slowed near the window and saw, in the chamber within, the Coronal sitting in a chair, apparently asleep. The Srinshee was leaning on one of its arms and speaking to the six court sorceresses, who sat in a ring all around.
If he had any good hope of aid in Cormanthor, it lay in that room. Elminster rushed excitedly along the side of the palace, seeking a way in.
He found a slightly open window almost immediately, but it led to a storeroom so securely sealed off from the rest of the palace that he could go no further. He boiled up out of it again, frustration rising; every moment wasted was more of the conversation in that lighted chamber that he wouldn’t hear. He raced along the wall until he found one of those large windows whose “glass” was no glass at all, but an invisible field of magic.
He felt a slight tingling as he darted through it, and almost whirled to go through again, in hopes that this heralded a return to solidity, but no. Later. He had a gathering to eavesdrop on now.
He knew what room he needed to enter, and his sense of direction was supported by the three tinglings he felt as he drew near it, and encountered spell after spell of warding. The Srinshee certainly didn’t want anyone to overhear what was going on in that room.
Its door, however, was old and massive, and therefore worn so much by centuries of swinging that there was a sizable chink around the frame. El darted in excitedly, and raced right through the ring of listening sorceresses to circle the tiny figure at their heart.
The Srinshee gave no sign of feeling or hearing him, as he bellowed her name and waved his hands through her. El sighed, resigned himself to more of this silent ghostliness, and settled down to hover above the empty arm of the Coronal’s chair, to listen in earnest. He’d arrived, it seemed—thank Mystra—at the best part.
“Bhuraelea and Mladris,” the Srinshee was saying, “must shield Mythanthar’s body at all times—and themselves besides, for any foe rebuffed in an initial strike at Emmyth will surely seek out the source of his protection and try to eliminate it. His mantle bests any of ours, and I suggest only one augmentation: Sylmae, you cast the web of watching I gave you so as to mesh with Emmyth’s mantle. You and Holone must then take turns observing it. It will lash back at anyone seeking to pierce it with spells by itself, yes, but such attackers may be well protected, and suffer no harm at all. I want you two not to strike at them, but simply to ide
ntify them and inform us all as soon as possible.”
“That leaves us idle again,” the sorceress Ajhalanda said a little sadly, her gesture taking in herself and Yathlanae, the elven maid who sat at her elbow.
“Not so,” the Srinshee said with a smile. “Your shared task is to lay spells that listen for anyone in the realm who utters the names ‘Emmyth’ or ‘Mythanthar’ or even ‘Lord Iydril,’ though I suspect few of the Cormyth of today recall that title. Identify them, try to follow what they’re saying, and report back.”
“Anything else?” Holone asked, a little wearily.
“I know what it is to be young, and restless to be doing things,” the Srinshree said softly. “Watching and waiting is the hardest work, ladies. I think it best if we meet here four morns hence, and switch tasks.”
“What will you be doing?” Sylmae asked, nodding in agreement with the Srinshee’s plan.
“Guarding the Coronal, of course,” the Lady Oluevaera said with a smile. “Someone has to.”
Mouths crooked with amusement around the circle. A half smile played about the edges of the Srinshee’s mouth as she turned slowly to meet the eyes of each of the six in turn, and receive their slight nods of agreement.
“I know it chafes not to be working unfettered, you six,” she added softly, “but I suspect the time for that will come soon enough, when the prouder houses of this realm realize that a mythal is going to curb their own spellhurlings and covert activities. Then our troubles will begin in earnest.”
“How far may we go, should things come to open spell battle in these ‘troubles’?” Holone asked quietly.
“Oh, they will, spellsister, they assuredly will,” the Srinshee replied. “You must all feel free to do what you feel needful; blast any foe at will, to death and beyond. Hesitate not to strike out at any Cormanthan whose intent you are sure of, who works against the Coronal or the creation of a mythal. The future of our realm is at stake; no price is too high to pay.”
Heads were nodding in somber silence, all round the circle. The Coronal chose that moment to snore; the Srinshee regarded him affectionately as the six sorceresses smiled and rose.
“Hasten!” she bid them, eyes shining. “You are the guardians of Cormanthor, and its future. Go forth, and win victory!”
“Queen of Spells,” Sylmae intoned in a male-sounding roar, striking her chest, “we go!”
This was evidently some sort of quotation; there was a general ripple of mirth, and then the six sorceresses were on the move in a graceful swirling of long hair and robes and longer legs. El cast a brief, sad glance at the Srinshee, who still could not hear his loudest cry of her name, and followed the one called Bhuraelea, making careful note of the face and form of Mladris, in case keeping silent escort to her became necessary instead.
As it happened, the two tall, slender sorceresses kept together, striding down a palace corridor with the haste of a storm wind. “Should we eat something, do you think?” Bhuraelea asked her fellow mage, as they stepped out past the last palace ward-field and turned themselves invisible. El, hovering close by, was relieved to see that they remained clearly visible to him, though their bodies now seemed outlined with a bluish gleam, like strong winter starlight reflected off snow.
“I brought some food earlier,” Mladris replied. “I’ll summon it before we enter his first ward.” She wrinkled her nose. “Wait until you see his tower; some old males embrace the idea of ‘home as dump’ rather too wholeheartedly.”
The two sorceresses were passing a jack of mint water and a cold grouse pie back and forth as they slipped through the glowing wards that surrounded the rather ramshackle tower of Mythanthar the mage. Starfall Turret resembled a long, grassy barrow-hill, pierced along one side with windows, and rising at its north end into a squat, rough-walled stone tower. Its yard was an overgrown tangle of stumps, fallen trees, and forest shrubs and creepers. In the dusk, they looked like a dark chaos of giants’ fingers stabbing the darkening sky.
“Ye gods and heroes,” Bhuraelea murmured. “Defending this against stealthy foes would take an army.”
“That’s us,” Mladris agreed cheerfully, and then added, “Thank the gods, our foes aren’t likely to be any too stealthy. They’re more apt to try to crush the wards with realm-shaking spells, and then follow up with more.”
“Three wards … no, four. That’ll take a lot of blasting,” Bhuraelea observed, as they finished the pie and licked their fingers. A light flared briefly in one of the high windows of the tower.
“He’s at it already,” Mladris said.
Bhuraelea grimaced. “He’s probably been ‘at it’ since he stepped out of the Chamber of the Court,” she replied. “The Lady Oluevaera told me he’s apt to be more than a bit single-minded. We could dance nude around him and sing courting songs in his ear, she said, and he’d probably murmur that it was nice to have such energetic young things around, and could we please fetch yon powders for him?”
“Gods,” Mladris said feelingly, rolling her eyes, “grant that I never get old enough to be like that.”
Out of the empty air very close by a cold voice said smugly, “Granted.”
An instant later, Faerûn exploded into many leaping lightnings, bright arcs that raced hungrily through the air to stab through the gasping, staggering sorceresses and snarl onward. Mladris and Bhuraelea were snatched off their daintily booted feet and hurled back over shrubs and brambles, with smoke streaming from their mouths and flames spitting fitfully from their eyes.
Even Elminster was taken by surprise; how had he missed seeing the cruel-faced elven mage who was now rising, a vengeful column of mist turning solid, above the tangled garden? Clouds of radiance were swirling in from all directions to join the thickening form of the sorcerer. As he grew taller and more solid, he calmly continued to lash the coughing, sobbing sorceresses with crackling streams of lightning, allowing them no moment to recover or escape.
Sparks fell in showers from the elf’s hands as he stepped forward, treading on the empty air with a mincing swagger of satisfaction. El felt a stinging pain as they drifted through him and winked out. He swirled around the mage, swooping and shouting in silent futility.
The innermost ward had been no ward at all, but the cloudlike, alert form of the mage, awaiting aid, intentional or otherwise!
“Haemir Waelvor, at your service,” the elven sorcerer told the two ladies, when their burned and trembling bodies were so enwrapped with lightnings that they couldn’t move. “The Starym seem to be delayed—perhaps wanting me to do the dirty work before they deign to appear. It matters little, now that I have your life-energies to feed my shield-sundering. You’re here to protect feeble-witted, doddering old Mythanthar, I take it? A pity; you’re going to be the death of him instead.”
Bhuraelea managed a groan of protest; little black flames leaped from her mouth. Mladris hung limp and silent, her eyes open, staring, and dark. Only a pulse racing in her throat showed that she yet lived.
El felt rage rising in him like a hungry red tide, demanding release. He turned ponderously, letting the anger build into shaking energy that burst out at last in a long, soundless charge that took him through the lightnings that bound the two sorceresses, and straight at the Waelvor mage.
Halfway there he arched and cried out in silent pain and surprise. He could feel the lightnings! Their caster could see and feel his contact, too; Haemir’s eyes narrowed at the sight of his suddenly crackling, spitting, somehow dimmed bolts of lightning. What was dragging at them so?
Waelvor’s lips thinned. Old Mythanthar, or some other meddler? It mattered little. He snarled something, and moved one hand in a quick spell that spun a dozen slicing blades to clash in the air at the point of the disturbance.
El watched the blades appear and tumble down behind him, and rose up out of the lightnings feeling both pain and exhilaration. Some of their energy was racing around inside him, making him tingle unpleasantly, and scattering sparks from his mouth and eyes.
The Waelvor wizard’s eyes widened in surprise as he dimly perceived the lightning-lashed outline of an elven—or was it human?—shape, an instant before it smashed into him.
El struck with all his force, lashing and slashing, trying to overwhelm Haemir Waelvor through sheer ferocity. When he “touched” the mage, he felt no solidity, only a tingling as the lightnings rolled out of him, then searing pain as the interlaced spells of the wizard’s mantle tried to tear him apart, phantom that he was.
While Elminster rolled in midair screaming soundlessly in agony, Haemir Waelvor shook his head, roaring, his own lightnings spitting and coiling from his mouth in their rude return. The pupils of his eyes suddenly turned as milky and sparkling as a white opal—a look El had last seen years back, in the eyes of a mage who’d just fallen victim to his own confusion spell.
El shook his head and screamed again, trying to gain control of his own pain-wracked form. So, he could hurt—or at least cause pain and confusion to—folk he rushed through, could he?
Shuddering, he drifted away to a distant vantage point to watch, knowing he could do nothing to aid the two sorceresses, who lay slumped where the failing lightnings had released them.
He needed to know how long it would take a wizard to recover—and if swooping through one as a spell was being cast would ruin and waste the magic. He’d have to go through this punishment all over again.
Mystra, let this elf be a long time recovering, El said in fervent prayer. But it seemed Mystra was contrary-minded, or at least hard of hearing, this day: Haemir was already staggering about, feeling for his surroundings with an outstretched hand, holding his head, and cursing weakly. El was sorely tempted to gather himself and plunge through the elven mage again right now, but he needed to know what sort of damage his passing through an elf would do. And hadn’t this smug Waelvor mage said something about the Starym showing up? It might be best not to be all that clearly visible whenever a group of cruel elven sorcerers arrived, looking for trouble.