Bury Elminster Deep (Elminster Book 7)

by Ed Greenwood

  “Right,” he said slowly. “I’ve seen your truth. I believe you.”

  He backed himself against a wall. “You really don’t intend to conquer Rune or me, or keep our bodies overlong. Just borrow them briefly when you think it truly needful.” He drew his sword. “Yet know this, Elminster of Shadowdale—I’ll resist you still.”

  He held his blade up and ready. “I want to like you. I want to trust you. Yet, your mind is like a mighty mountain, where mine is a small stone.”

  He hefted his sword, looking steadily into Amarune’s eyes over it. “I believe a mind that much more powerful than mine, belonging to a mage who’s had a thousand years and more to practice deception, can lie to me. Not just with words as any man does, but mind-to-mind.”

  He looked at Storm, then back at Amarune. “Is this not true?”

  “It is,” Elminster admitted, “yet there’s another truth you should be aware of, Lord Delcastle. Such a deception can’t succeed when other minds share in the contact and don’t want to deceive. Storm? Alusair?”

  The ghost and the silver-haired woman both nodded and started toward Arclath, but the young noble held up a warning hand.

  “Don’t bother. I’ll grant I’ve been told truth, a princess and a centuries-old Harper attesting to it. It matters not. There’s still nothing that you can say, any of you, to make me agree to let you take over my body. I hate that you can do that to Rune, and even more that she agrees to it, but you can—so isn’t that, before all the gods, enough? The rest of us have to make do with one body in life! If it’s torn apart, we die. Why must you take over her and me and then someone else, building your own army of mind-slaves? Hey?”

  “To save the world,” El whispered, “and never an army.”

  “Sage of Shadowdale, forgive me,” Arclath replied curtly, “but I still don’t believe you. I saw in your mind that you must recruit Cormyr’s war wizards. Are they not an army?”

  “A question, Lord Delcastle,” Storm asked softly. “You swear you’ll never let Elminster into your head or let him ride your body. If Cormyr’s survival hung in the balance, or Amarune’s life, or the continuance of House Delcastle … would you trust me to enter your mind and control your body?”

  Arclath stared at her, feeling his face going hot. He was aroused by the idea and ashamed of being so; could they tell that? Could they all tell that?

  Storm always looked so wise; Elminster always seemed two strides ahead of whatever he thought … and the Princess Alusair had done much, years and years ago …

  He couldn’t take this. Fool or not, he could not—

  He had to get away, off by himself to think. Away even from Rune.

  Slamming his fist against the wall, Arclath spun away from it and ran, swinging his sword as he sprinted as if the empty air were foe upon foe that had to be slashed open and slain.

  No one called his name or ran after him. No one at all.

  Lord Broryn Windstag looked up from the nearly empty decanter and scowled.

  “Back again? Aereld, I told you to leave us alone! We’ve important matters to discuss—”

  The old steward bowed very low. “Y-yes, Lord Master! Please believe me when I say I interrupt you with the greatest of reluctance! You have a visitor, a lord who was a great friend of your father and always welcome in this house, who tells me he comes on a matter of great urgency!”

  Windstag grimaced. The priests had healed him, but somehow the pain lingered—and he hated surprises.

  “Well,” he snarled testily, “announce him, then!”

  The steward bobbed even lower then scurried away, returning before Windstag could finish trading “What now?” looks with his frightened cronies Stonestable, Ormblade, and Handragon. Had the Crown killed Marlin? Were they next? And who was this unexpected—

  “The Lord Traevyn Illance,” Aereld declaimed grandly, bowing low.

  The white-haired lord gave the steward a tight smile and strode into the room. He bore a black walking stick and wore a half-cloak, in the old fashion. His boots were so old and smoothworn that they fitted him like a lady’s elbow-length gloves.

  “Broryn,” he asked gently, “how are you? Word reached my ears that you’d been wounded.”

  Lord Windstag grinned up at him in genuine pleasure. Illance had been a longtime friend and creditor of his father, and was the one man Broryn had been reared to trust.

  Traevyn’s sneering son, Rothgar, was no friend to Windstag, Stormserpent, and the others at this parlor table, but the elder Lord Illance was a different sort of man.

  “Lord Illance,” Broryn said eagerly, rising to offer his hand, “be welcome! I’ve paid priests and been healed, and count myself fortunate not to have been at this Council, where I might have taken worse harm!”

  “That’s good to hear,” Illance replied, espying an empty chair against the wall and reaching for it. Aereld got there first.

  As Illance sat and looked wordless thanks at the steward, he made a swift hand signal that sent the old servant racing from the room. Windstag’s eyes narrowed.

  “Will you take wine, lord?” he asked, but Illance waved the offered flagon aside.

  “I’m not here to drink, lad.” He looked around the table. “Forgive my bluntness, but what has befallen this day forces swiftness upon me. These gallant young lords with you—do you trust them?”

  “With my life,” Windstag said slowly. “Why?”

  Illance picked up the nigh-empty decanter, held it up to catch the light, and told it, “I have heard Lord Broryn Windstag makes common cause with Lord Marlin Stormserpent—and others. Are these men all numbered among those others?”

  Around the table faces tightened into wary expressionlessness, and hands stole to daggers.

  “Yes,” Broryn Windstag admitted. “Again, lord, I ask you: why?”

  Illance set the decanter down. “Our brave kingdom is plunging into a time of … strife. Sides will be taken, and those who try to avoid declaring their loyalties will suffer. Here I find myself greeting what some might term a ‘faction.’ I happen to represent an older and more numerous faction that sees itself as too small to prevail in most struggles. Wherefore, I seek to recruit like-minded nobles, joining factions into a larger alliance that might succeed in both saving and reshaping bright Cormyr.”

  “I confess myself interested, lord,” Handragon murmured. “A faction that seeks what, exactly?”

  “You are wise enough to seek no names. A test passed.” Illance let a fleeting ghost of a smile touch his lips. “Know that certain lords of this land believe our good but often misguided King Foril should be, ah, protected by a group of nobles—ourselves and those who join with us. We will hire outland wizards to advise the king—’control’ is such an ugly word—as we employ mages, mercenaries, and loyal Cormyreans who cleave to our cause, to hunt down and exterminate those foul subverters of the throne, the wizards of war.”

  He sat back and looked into the eyes of the young lords around the table, watching them relax in relief … then lean forward in excitement.

  Good. The ring on his finger that could slay them all would not be needed. Yet.

  Lord Windstag could read faces, too. “I think I speak for all of us,” he said eagerly, “when I say we are most interested in—”

  The door banged open without benefit of steward or announcement, and a panting, wide-eyed arrival was in the room before a single dagger could be drawn.

  “Save me!” Marlin Stormserpent gasped, almost collapsing onto the table. “You’ve got to hide me!”

  “From whom?” Handragon snapped.

  “Who’s after you?” Lord Illance asked sharply, twisting a ring on his finger until it glowed.

  Stormserpent’s eyes were wide with terror as he waved a heavy chalice in one hand and a bright-bladed sword in the other.

  “He bursts into your mind,” he hissed in Illance’s face, “and hunts you with beholders!”

  Everyone was on his feet, talking at once. Decanters top
pled, rolled, and shattered unnoticed.

  “What happened, Marl?” Ormblade demanded, his voice louder than the rest. “Who’s after you—”

  “Hold!” Handragon shouted, drowning out the rest of the question. “Who’s this?”

  He was pointing at the door.

  Which stood open again. Framed in it stood the wincing steward, with a man whose stance and garb suggested he was a house servant, but of another household.

  “Osbur? What news?” Illance barked, before adding to the rest of the room, “This man can be trusted!”

  The man bowed then announced huskily, “I am sent by Lord Elbert Oldbridle with a mess—”

  “Elbert? What of your master, Lord Olgarth Oldbridle?”

  “Dead, Lord Illance. Slain by … others, led by a man of Westgate. Lord Olgarth’s last orders to me were to pass on a specific warning to his son, if he fell. I did this, and his son—my master, now—bade me seek you out and give you the warning, too.”

  “Do so.”

  “ ‘Competing cabals from Sembia and from Westgate are seeking to subvert senior courtiers of Cormyr during this unrest, so as to either influence or outright rule the Forest Kingdom. Beware Kormoroth and Yestrel and the Lhendreths of Saerloon.’ Those were his exact words, Lord Illance.”

  “Thank you, faithful Osbur. Take yourself back to Lord Elbert, and convey my sympathies for his father’s demise. Tell two of my men—the warriors in red you passed, outside the gates—that they’re to accompany you, on my orders, for a safe return to your new master. With the city in an uproar, some nobles may see messengers as targets.”

  The servant bowed low, gave thanks, and departed, the steward going out with him and firmly closing the door.

  Stonestable raised his flagon to Illance. “Lord Oldbridle—the unfortunately deceased elder—was of your faction, I take it?”

  “Father and son both,” Illance replied calmly, guiding the still-panting Stormserpent to a chair. “Olgarth will be missed, for his fellowship and his prudence. This last news he sent, I’m afraid, surprises me not in the slightest. Lords, we stand squarely at the heart of … interesting times for us all.”

  Marlin Stormserpent made a confused, almost sobbing sound, and all eyes went to him.

  “The realm at war … what have I done?” he quavered, staring around at their frowning faces. “What have we all done?”

  Many young nobles of Cormyr might be languid do-nothings, but there was nothing at all wrong with Arclath Delcastle’s legs or lungs. He was racing like a harbor-gale wind, dwindling into the dark and echoing distances of the haunted wing with impressive speed.

  With a sigh that would have done any exasperated mother proud, the ghost of Alusair Obarskyr sped after him.

  “What’s she going to do to him?” Amarune demanded, trying to see where the fleeing noble went. Her voice was that of an angry, frightened young mask dancer, not the rougher tones of the Old Mage.

  “Protect him,” Storm replied. “This is the haunted wing, remember? Spells, traps, even a few walking skeletons …”

  “Elminster,” Rune said fiercely, “I require the use of my body. Now.”

  “So ye can pursue him, too? Catch and comfort him? Of course,” the wizard within her said—and was gone, falling from her in a thick, momentarily blinding cloud.

  “Thank you!” Amarune gasped. And sprinted off into the gloom.

  “By the gods,” Mirt growled, “but the lass can run! They’ll have to be swift spells, traps, and skeletons, to do aught to—”

  “Thank you for that cheery thought, Lord Moneylender,” Storm told him tartly, as ashes flowed up her legs in an eerie rustling stream, into the tops of her boots.

  The moment the stream had ended, she started to run, too.

  Mirt sighed gustily, shrugged, and lurched after her, his ragged old boots flapping.

  “Rather than tarry alone, I may as well join the parade,” he growled aloud, hurling himself along passages and across cobweb-hung chambers. “See Cormyr, dance with its skeletons, leave my mark. Or find my grave at last.”

  Unseen, behind him, a spider as large as the puffing Waterdhavian’s head descended on a thread of its own making, to survey the spot all the noisy humans had just departed.

  Torn remnants of its web hung everywhere; there was much work to do. As always.

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  THE HAPPY REIGN OF CHAOS

  The last of the smoke is gone,” the young mage—Caldor Raventree, a keen-to-prove-himself lad from Arabel—reported, throwing his shoulders back like a Purple Dragon on parade. “Sixteen spells it took us, to make sure.”

  “Good,” Wizard of War Yarjack Blamreld replied curtly. “So, who’s been found?”

  He had Dragon officers trotting up to keep him apprised of that throughout the cautious search of Stormserpent Towers, but he was interested to see if Raventree was a “do my job and pay no attention to anything else” sort, like the last eager youngling he’d been saddled with … or someone who just might turn out, after some firm training, to be halfway useful.

  “Names, I know not, but I saw the Lady Stormserpent and twoscore others, all of them garbed as house servants. I’ve heard nothing of Lord Marlin Stormserpent being found, yet.”

  “How many dead?”

  “Six or seven, but the priests say more may die. There’s much coughing among the revived, and none can walk yet.”

  Absently Blamreld caught hold of his scraggly beard, tore a fistful of loose hair out of it, and flung it away into the breeze. He always did, when thinking hard.

  So, who got into a noble mansion undetected—through a cordon of Dragons and Crown mages, himself among them, yet—and caused poisoned smoke to rise from smashed vials throughout the place, before vanishing again? Sending a beholder, or perhaps the illusion of one?

  “You can entrust the questioning of the pris … er, survivors, to me,” said Raventree. “Ah, overseeing it, that is. Of course, all of our fellow Crown mages will be—”

  “Of course they will. And so long as they remember as well as you do that these good Stormserpent folk are blameless citizens and not prisoners, I have every confidence I can leave this in your hands. The count of the dead is now—?”

  “Ah, still seven, Yar—ah, Saer Blamreld.”

  “Just ‘Blamreld,’ Raventree. We’re all wizards of war here!”

  “Uh, yes, sae … er, Blamreld.”

  Blamreld scratched his bulbous, unlovely nose. “Search the place again. Loose floorboards, bookcases that move, any wall that looks thick enough to hold a hidden passage … seek not just young Stormserpent but every last sword and chalice, goblet, flagon, or loft-stemmed metal bowl. Oh, and any concealed coin, gems, or weapons. Bring them all here to me. Our fox has probably fled, but if he has a den here, I want it found.”

  Raventree managed to hide his sigh of exasperation with a curt nod before he raced off into the mansion again.

  Yarjack Blamreld strode away, passing the steady stream of underpriests arriving to help tend the still-coughing folk of Stormserpent Towers. Lady Stormserpent had been safely whisked to the palace, apparently healthy, and safely away from the clumsy interrogations of young Raventree. That was what mattered.

  That, and the beholders, of course. If those terrors were real and not illusory. Glathra and all the veterans had to hear about them, at once.

  Out on the Promenade, an air of worry and excitement prevailed—and everyone was talking, in a din that made Blamreld wince more than once. Many commoners with hastily loaded carts seemed to be in a hurry to leave the city, and servants in a riot of liveries seldom all seen at once under the open sky in Suzail were milling about trading gossip about the war at Council.

  Interestingly, although watchful Dragons were much in evidence, there was no sign at all of nobles or their bodyguards, nor any fighting in the streets.

  The talk around Blamreld as he strode purposefully back to the palace was in agreement on one matter,
though: Cormyr was heading for civil war. Fast.

  “I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered to himself, tearing out another generous handful of beard.

  Wizard of War Welwyn Tracegar shook his head grimly. “They’re saying Foulweather was killed, and Briarbroke, too. Not that either’s much loss, but if the realm is plunged into war …”

  “Barelder and Tantorn, I heard,” his fellow Crown mage Joreld Nurennanthur replied, as they strode along Battlebanners Passage paying no attention at all to its familiar and seemingly endless succession of faded trophies. They were headed for a moot with the Lady Glathra that neither was eager to attend. “Not worth anyone fighting for, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Huh. I’m thinking some lords’ll fight over anything at all, right now, and that’s what Glathra and the rest are so worried about. I just hope her worry doesn’t mean she gets to screeching and cuts our pay or sets us to guarding dung heaps in the stables, or some such. She’s a right battlebrand when she gets going!”

  “I wish she would get going, somewhere far from here! Then the rest of us could sit down over wine and good cheeses and the best palace cooking, king and every last lord, and sort it all out. Or just sit feasting and arguing for a year or more, while we go on living our lives with nary a hint of war! Why—”

  Someone burst out of a door and raced across the long passage, far ahead. One person. A man with a sword.

  Tracegar and Nurennanthur traded looks, then shrugged in unison. Such a sight would be cause for full and instant alarm at any other time, but since the disaster at Council, the palace seemed bursting with scurrying servants and messengers, and clanking Purple Dragons, too.

  Those Dragons waved shields and spears wherever they went, and though this hadn’t been a Dragon in armor, and he’d had a sword and not a spear, it was just one man.

  They strode on and looked left and right when they reached the spot where the running man had crossed the passage. The door he’d come through and the one he’d left by both stood ajar. The narrow passages beyond both were empty and dimly lit. As usual.