by Ed Greenwood
“And who are you, to be giving the most senior Crown mages of Cormyr orders, here on Cormyrean soil?” Glathra snapped.
“I’m the one who’s pointing out that if ye don’t undertake this service, tending this fell archmage here, one Manshoon by name—aye, that Manshoon; ye know some lore, at least—he’s going to wake up in great pain, and no doubt in a terrible temper to match, and do so unsupervised in this mansion here on Cormyrean soil.”
Vainrence snapped, “Enough!”
This order was clearly aimed at Glathra, and the Lord Warder hastened to Manshoon, drawing wands from his belt as he went.
“I’m awake,” a weak, husky voice greeted him, “and know you that Malchor Harpell and I reached an accord, and I intend to abide by it. I am no threat to Cormyr, Lord Warder.”
Vainrence stared down at Manshoon for a moment, then turned to Elminster. “And have you any other wizards or like surprises for us, in any of the other rooms?” he asked.
“Aye. Malchor Harpell, whom ye just heard mentioned,” El replied, over his shoulder. “He’s also wounded—and he’s my task. I’ll see him home with the help of Mirt here, and Lord Halaunt.”
Frowning, Vainrence looked into that room, and asked, “Lord Halaunt?”
The old noble nodded, from where he stood by the bed in which Malchor Harpell lay, blinking up at Vainrence, and muttering, “I heard. I, too, reaffirm the accord.” Yet he looked at Elminster when he said those words, not at the war wizard.
Lord Halaunt did address the Lord Warder directly. “Yes,” he said slowly but firmly, his eyes flashing fire as he looked at Vainrence. “I … have learned much, since these my latest guests came.” He put a hand on Elminster’s arm, and from within him Alusair said into Elminster’s mind: Can I keep this body? It will be very useful to have hands and—and so on—again.
Halaunt’s beyond restoring, he thought back at her, so why not? Let the master of Oldspires be seen to undo some of the evil he did. A, ahem, shining example to other nobles.
Lord Halaunt sighed then, and drew himself up straight and tall. “Nobles,” he said aloud. “It always comes back to us nobles.”
“Later is soon enough for philosophy and self-recrimination,” Mirt told him. “It’s a fair walk to Longsaddle from here; we’d best get started.”
“There are other gates, ye know,” El grinned. “But yes, we’d best get started. Lord Warder, best leave your Dragons to guard the mansion until the servants return. Ye never know who might come walking in.”
“Are those words aimed at us?” Glathra snapped.
El chuckled. “Ah, lass, lass, never change. Cormyr hath sore need of thy smooth diplomatic skills in these troubled times.”
He turned back to Vainrence. “I’ll visit ye anon. We must talk. These two wizards—and a far worse one—managed, however briefly and ill-fatedly, to reach accord on … well, call it a code of conduct for mages. I’m thinking such a code would be a good thing indeed to spread across Faerûn, if it were anchored in the support of the wizards of war. That is, if they professed and were seen to abide by it.”
“What’s this?” Glathra and Vangerdahast snapped, in almost perfect unison. “What did you just say?”
El grinned at them, and added to the Lord Warder, “As I said, I’ll visit ye and Ganrahast, and we’ll talk. Ye can even bring Glathra to the table; ’twill be entertaining to watch her explode.”
MIRT SAT BACK, set down his cutlery with a satisfied sigh that somehow became a belch, and let his gaze drift all around. The great dark beams overhead were the cleanest and least dusty he’d ever seen, with neat bunches of herbs drying from hooks, and underfoot was the smoothest flagstone floor he’d ever laid boot on, yet everything in this house amid the trees was simple and cozy …
Relaxing, that was it. Here, he could be utterly at ease.
He and Elminster had cooked a simple but hearty meal together, here in the kitchen of Storm’s farmhouse, not exchanging a single word about Oldspires or murdered wizards or Lost Spells.
Elminster was cleaning his plate now, too, and lifting his glass in a silent toast.
They drained their wine together, belched in contented unison, then said the same word to each other: “Dishes.”
Somehow, here in this lovely deserted house in Shadowdale, washing the dishes wasn’t a chore. Gazing out the windows over the sink, into an eating garden where the plants were as tall as trees, watching the sun sink slowly lower …
“Storm keeps beds made up, even when she’s not here,” El told Mirt, from the cupboard he’d just swung open to start putting just-wiped dishes away.
The Old Wolf grinned. “Perhaps to collapse into around dawn, to start snoring then, and my thanks for the offer, but if you’ll point me in the direction of wherever I can find doxies for hire, hereabouts …”
El chuckled, flung wide the front door, and pointed out into the approaching twilight.
“If ye turn left at the road, take it down to the crossroads, and turn right there, the place ye seek stands on the south side of the road ye’ll find thyself on. Right across from my old tower; the bald rock they call the Old Skull soars up behind my tower, and watches over it. If ye reach the bridge over the Ashaba nigh the Twisted Tower, ye’ve gone too far.”
“Thanks,” Mirt said, clapped him on the arm, and lurched out.
El watched the old moneylender wheeze his way down the path and disappear through the creaking gate—that Storm left in a creaking state these days, by way of being a doorbell—chuckled, shook his head, and started stowing dishes away.
“Is there any more wine?” a soft voice asked from behind him.
The Sage of Shadowdale stiffened—and then visibly relaxed, and turned around with a happy smile.
The goddess Mystra was sitting at the cleared kitchen table in the seat Mirt had warmed, smiling back at him.
“As ever, you deserve my thanks,” she said. “So thank you, El. You are … one of the treasures of being Mystra.”
“Even when things don’t go as ye’d hoped?” he asked, pouring her a brimful glass.
She took it, sipped deeply, sighed in pleasure—and smiling, waved away his proffered pan, with the last of dinner.
“Especially then. And stop tempting me with the food, you old rogue; it smells so good.”
“Ye don’t eat?”
“I feed more, these days, on the pleasure of others, as they taste and grow satiated,” she replied. “It feels odd, yet increasingly … right. Fitting.” She raised her glass again, swirled it, and said, “You did good work once more, despite my foolishness in trying to meddle yet stand back. How could I have avoided weakening you, my most useful servant—not to mention the closest friend I have—if in the throes of it, you didn’t think I was leaving it all up to you?”
“So did ye tell Storm and Amarune it was all up to them?”
“Yes, and they’ve gotten themselves into a fine mess, so I’ll be having Alusair guide the others home while you go and rescue your partner and your heir.”
El grinned wryly. “So it’s all up to me again, is that it?”
“Of course,” the goddess replied, and then, in perfect mimicry of Elminster’s own sardonic voice, added, “Isn’t it always?”
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