The Making of a Mage

by Ed Greenwood

  Gods, he’d have to stop eating those snails! Ammuthe had been right, as usual … oh, gods, why had he ever doubted her?

  Sated, they floated in each other’s arms, hiding from the brightness of highsun in the shade of an old and mighty tree.

  The white flames were gone, and Mystra seemed only a languid, beautiful human woman. She rested her head on his shoulder and said softly, “Now your road must be alone, Elminster, for the more I walk Toril in human form, the more power passes from me, and the less I become. Thrice I died as Myrjala, watching over you—here, in Ilhundyl’s castle, and in the throne room in Athalgard … and with each death I am diminished.”

  Elminster stared down into her dark eyes. As he opened his mouth to speak, she put fingers over his lips to still him, and went on. “Yet you need not be alone—for I have need of champions in the Realms: men and women who serve me loyally and hold a part of the power over Art that is mine. I would very much like you to be one of my Chosen.”

  “Anything, Lady,” Elminster managed to say. “Command me!”

  “No.” Mystra’s eyes were grave. “This you must freely agree to—and before you speak so quickly, know that I am asking of you service that may last a thousand thousand years. A hard road … a long, long doom. You will see Athalantar, with all its folk and proud towers, pass away, crumble into dust, and be forgotten.”

  Those dark eyes held his, and Elminster floated, looked into them, and was afraid. Staring into his eyes, the goddess went on. “The world will change around you, and I shall command you to do things that are hard, and that will seem cruel or senseless. You will not be welcome in most places … and your welcome in others will be born of fawning fear.”

  She drifted a little apart from him and turned them both, until they hung upright in the air, facing each other. “Moreover, I will not think ill of you if you refuse. You have done far more already than most mortals ever do.” Her eyes glowed. “More than that, you fought at my side, trusting me always, and never betraying me or seeking to use me for your own ends. It is a memory I shall always treasure.”

  Elminster began to weep again. Through the tears, he managed to say huskily, “Lady, I beg of ye—command me! Ye offer me two things that are precious indeed, thy love and a purpose for my life! What more can any man ask than those? I would be honored to serve ye … make me, please, one of thy Chosen!”

  Mystra smiled, and the world around seemed brighter. “I thank you,” she said formally. “Would you like to begin now, or have some time to ride your own way and be yourself first?”

  “Now,” Elminster said firmly. “I want no waiting for doubt to creep in … let it be now.”

  Mystra bowed her head, exultation in her eyes. “This will hurt,” she said gravely as her body drifted in to meet his again.

  As their lips touched and clung, lightning leaped from her eyes into his, and the white fire was suddenly back, roaring up around them deafeningly, searing him to the bone. Elminster tried to shriek with pain, but found he could not breathe, and then he felt himself torn, tugged, and swept away into the rising flame, and it did not matter anymore.…

  “Such tales you tell!” Ammuthe was working herself up into a fine temper as she walked. She tossed her head, and that magnificent hair swirled in the sunlight. “Always such fancies—so, well enough, my husband dreams when awake as well as when he snores! I give the gods thanks for that, and in silent despair put up with it! But this time—a whole cart of our cheeses let fallen to be snatched up by who knows who? Too much, indeed, my lazy sluggard man! You shall feel more than the edge of my tongue, if every single one of those chee—”

  Ammuthe broke off in midtirade, staring up at the grave-shrine on the hill. Trembling with renewed fear, Bethgarl nonetheless allowed himself a small, leaping moment of satisfaction as Ammuthe shrieked, spun about, and ran headlong into his chest.

  Bethgarl staggered back, but held her firmly. “None o’ that, now,” he said, not too loudly, casting a wary eye up at the streaming, roiling sphere of white fire above the shrine of Mystra. “We’d gather up all the cheeses, you said … I’d not eat at our table again until you’d seen the money for them, you said … well, presently, good wife, I shall grow hungry. I know I will, and—”

  “By all the gods, Bethgarl! Shut thy mouth and run!”

  Ammuthe made as if to jerk free of him. Bethgarl sighed and let her go, and she was off like a rabbit, bounding down the hill again, hair streaming behind her. Bethgarl watched her go, fought down a sudden wild desire to laugh, and turned back to his cart. One of the cheeses had fallen off into the grass. He dusted it thoughtfully, put it back, picked up the handles, and pushed the cart on toward Hastarl, ignoring the sudden cries of his name from far behind.

  As he passed the shrine, he looked up at the ball of fire, and winked at it. Then he swallowed. Cold sweat trickled down his back, and he struggled against rising fear. Carefully he pushed the cart on down the hill, not hurrying. He could have sworn that as he stared at the flames, a pair of dark, knowing eyes had met his—and winked back at him!

  Bethgarl reached the bottom of the hill and looked back. Fire still pulsed and glowed. Whistling, he pushed his cart on to Hastarl, and frowned curiously at the hubbub by the gates. There seemed to be a lot of folk out in the streets today, all of them excited.…

  EPILOGUE

  There are no endings save death, only pauses for breath, and new beginnings. Always, new beginnings … it’s why the world grows ever

  more crowded, ye see. So remember, now—there are no endings, only beginnings. There; simple enough, isn’t it? Elegant too.

  THARGHIN “THREEBOOTS” AMMATAR

  SPEECHES OF A MOST WORTHY SAGE

  YEAR OF THE LOST HELM

  Elminster floated back from somewhere far away indeed, and found himself lying naked on a slab of cold stone, smoke rising from his limbs. As the last gray wisps curled up and drifted away, he raised his head and looked down. His body was unchanged, unmarked. A shadow fell across him, and he turned his head. Mystra knelt over him, nude and magnificent. Elminster took one of her hands and kissed it.

  “My thanks,” he said roughly. “I hope I serve thee well.”

  “Many have said that,” Mystra replied a little sadly, “and some have even believed it.”

  Then she smiled and stroked his arm. “Know, Elminster, that I believe in you far more than most. I felt the Lion Sword’s enchantment stripped away by dragonfire that day when Undarl destroyed Heldon, and looked to see what befell, and saw a young lad swear vengeance against all cruel wizards and the magic they wielded. A man of great wits and inner kindness and strength, who might grow to be mighty. So I watched over him as he grew, and liked the choices he made, and what he grew to become … until he came to confront me in my temple, as I knew he would in the end. And there he had the courage and the wisdom to debate the ethics of wielding magic with me—and I knew that Elminster could become the greatest mage this world has ever known, if I only led him and let him grow. I have done that∼—and El, lovely man, you have delighted me and surprised me and pleased me beyond all my hopes and expectations.”

  They stared into each other’s eyes, and Elminster knew he’d never forget that calm, deep gaze of infinite wildness and love and wisdom, however many years might lie ahead.

  Then Mystra smiled a little and bent to kiss his nose, her hair brushing his face and chest. El breathed in her strange, spicy scent anew for a moment and trembled with renewed desire, but Mystra lifted her head and looked southeast, into the quickening breeze. “I need you to go to Cormanthor and learn the rudiments of magic,” she said softly.

  Elminster raised an eyebrow. “ ‘The rudiments of magic’? What have I been hurling about so far?”

  Mystra looked down at him with a quick smile. “Even knowing what I am, you dare to speak so—I love thee for that, El.”

  “Not what you are, Lady,” Elminster dared to whisper, “but who you are.”

  Mystra’s face
lit up with a smile as she went on, “Power, yes, but without discipline or true feeling for the forces you’re crafting. Ride south and east from here to the elven city of Cormanthor … you’ll be needed there in time to come. Apprentice yourself to any archmage of the city who’ll have you.”

  “Aye, Lady,” said Elminster, sitting up eagerly. “Will the city be hard to find?”

  “Not with my guidance,” Mystra said with a smile, “yet be in no haste to rush off. Sit with me this night and talk. I have much to tell you … and even gods grow lonely.”

  Elminster nodded. “I’ll stay awake as long as I can!”

  Mystra smiled again. “You’ll never need to sleep again,” she said tenderly, almost sadly, and made a complicated gesture.

  A moment later, a dusty bottle stood between them. She wiped its neck clean with one hand, teased out the cork with her teeth like any serving-wench, took a sip, and passed it to him.

  “Blue lethe,” she said, as Elminster felt coot nectar slide down his throat. “From certain tombs in Netheril.”

  Elminster raised his eyebrows. “Start telling,” he said dryly, and then glowed in the midst of her tinkling laughter.

  It was a sound he treasured often in the long years that followed.…

  Thus it was that Elminster was guided to Cormanthor, the Towers of Song, where Eltargrim was Coronal. There he dwelt for twelve summers and more, studying with many mighty mages, learning to feel magic, and know how it could be bent and directed to his will. His true powers he revealed to few—but it is recorded that when the Mythal was laid, and Cormanthor became Myth Drannor, Elminster was one of those who devised and spun that mighty magic. So the long tale of the doings of Elminster ‘Farwalker’ began.

  Antarn the Sage

  from The High History of Faerûnian Archmages Mighty

  published circa Year of the Staff