by Ed Greenwood
Bury Elminster Deep
( Sage of Shadowdale - 2 )
Ed Greenwood
Ed Greenwood
Bury Elminster Deep
PROLOGUE
Sometimes, Lord Arclath Delcastle thought he was going mad.
Right now, for instance.
He’d risen out of a very pleasant dream of lazing abed with his beloved Amarune, which had turned suddenly into a nightmare of thunderous voices in his head, a scrambling of frightened clawing and clutching, and a rising dread. Hurled into fearful wakefulness, he grabbed for his sword.
Only to find the rafters of a simple King’s Forest royal cabin above him, his Amarune hastening out into the night-and Storm Silverhand throwing herself on top of him, seeking to hold him down.
And managing that very effectively.
Grunt and heave though he might, he couldn’t reach the waiting, just — beyond-his-fingertips pommel of his sword…
Storm’s long, silver hair was alive, its tresses like the monstrous vines of half-remembered nursery tales, lengthening and winding to bind him fast. Those gods-cursed strands shone like armor in the dancing glow of the brazier. Moreover, her warm and sweet lips were glued firmly to his, keeping his cries and curses to muffled mumblings.
No matter how he bucked and strained, her long limbs kept him down. She was stronger than he was-stronger than a smith he’d once wrestled! Not to mention sleek and shapely and pressed against him…
Arousing him, all gods blast it, despite his anger and worry.
Arclath shook his head, managing to free his mouth from hers at last. “Dragon take all!” he gasped. “Will you not let me go?”
“No,” Storm replied firmly, her voice low and regretful. “Not while you’re this upset. You’ll go rushing off into the night and get lost or hurt. And if you do find Rune, you’ll interrupt something needful. Something very important. Something wonderful.”
Was that… awe in her voice?
Arclath swallowed, trying to think through his panting rage, to fight down his anger and frustration.
“Let…,” he gasped, “let me up. I’m… I can’t spend much longer tussling with you in this bed. ’Tisn’t seemly, as… older nobles say.”
“Aye,” Storm said in a dry voice, running one finger along his thigh-past the part of him that was stirring uncomfortably. “I’ve noticed.”
She raised herself on one elbow. “If I let you go, have I your word you’ll not depart this cabin, Lord Delcastle?”
Arclath crooked an eyebrow. “You really think you can hold me?”
Storm descended in a lunge that brought one of her hands around his throat. Her grip was like iron.
“Yes,” she replied calmly. “Yes, I do.”
She was giving him just enough space to breathe. Arclath used it to swallow, sigh, and tell her, “You have my word. Just as long as you tell me where Rune went, and what’s going on!”
Storm grinned. “The eternal demands of the young. I can answer your first. She’s gone somewhere near in the forest, taking Elminster to an… unexpected meeting. As for your second question, your guess, Lord Delcastle, is as good as mine. They should return soon, though, and you can be sure I’ll demand answers from them just as strenuously as you.”
Arclath nodded. “Your terms are accepted. Upon my word as a Delcastle.”
“That’s well spoken, lord,” she replied, in precisely the indulgent tones he’d heard matriarchs of Cormyr’s haughtiest noble Houses use.
Ah, but she was one, now, wasn’t she? Marchioness Immerdusk, and a few more titles since…
Huh. A matriarch less like his mother he couldn’t imagine.
His words were obviously what she’d been waiting for, so she released him.
“Someone,” Arclath said slowly, as he sat up and rubbed his throat, “was speaking in our minds when I awoke. Someone of great power.”
“Yes,” Storm replied calmly, handing him his sword and settling herself in a comfortable sitting position beside him. Her long, silver tresses curled almost demurely around her. Watching Gods, but she was beautiful.
Arclath forced himself to think of Rune, alone in the night.
No, not alone. She had Elminster with her, riding her mind.
He grimaced, his irritation flaring. Storm hadn’t handed him the answer he was seeking. He gave her a glare.
And found her half smiling at him, a knowing twinkle in her eyes. She looked like someone bursting with a happy inner secret.
“Well,” he snapped, “who was it?”
“Such manners, Lord Delcastle,” she reproved him. Then she laughed like a little girl and said, “It certainly seems to be a goddess many have long thought dead. Mystra, the Greatest of All. The One. Our Lady of Magic.”
Arclath stared at her, his mouth falling open.
Was she mad? Or mistaken?
And if not, what doom would this bring down on Cormyr, and all the world besides?
CHAPTER ONE
KNEELING TO A GODDESS
As he directed Amarune’s borrowed body to pad cautiously through a pale white labyrinth of moonlit trees, Elminster felt himself trembling.
This almost had to be a trap, after all this time-yet, nay, nay, it was her, his Mystra! It was!
He could feel her! He knew that feeling, could never forget the touch of her mind on his… this was Mystra, the vivid blue mists of power swirling around the edges of his mind…
A sharp stick underfoot hurt his-Rune’s-bare feet, and El sank to all fours to crawl like a beast. He tingled with eager haste and had to remind himself to look for what peril that might be aprowl in the King’s Forest.
Halting on a tree-cloaked ridge in the rolling, deepening woods north of the cabin, one hand raised like a questing cat’s paw, he listened hard.
He heard distant stirrings of brush to the northeast, probably well across the Way of the Dragon, then silence. Broken by a brief, faint hooting even farther westward.
Still and silent, Amarune’s dancer’s body poised like a statue, El waited.
Long enough for even a lazy hunter to become impatient he held still, but nothing else moved that he could hear. And the sleekly muscled body he was occupying had far better hearing than what he’d grown used to in recent centuries.
Some of his excitement washed into her sleeping mind, at rest in one dim corner of the brain he steered. Amarune rose slowly toward wakefulness, her dreams growing restless, as she tasted his eagerness.
Ye’re as giddy as a lass fleeing her first kiss, El reproached himself, as he crawled on down a ferny slope of wet dead leaves toward a dark bank of old, leaning trees. Steady, Sage of Shadowdale. Where’s that world-weary yawning that ye do so well?
Part of him smirked, but through the lacy curtain of his mirth, El fought to quell ever-wilder excitement as he reached the bottom of the slope.
Only to lose his breath under a thrilling onslaught of fresh nerves as he felt the nearness of Mystra. Right ahead of him.
A weighty taste in the air came from the silent gloom behind a rising old tree that smelled of bear.
He didn’t even have time for a hint of fear before he saw a dark wall of fur that must be that beast shambling away along the line of trees, afire with Mystra’s power just as his own mind was.
Blue fire deepened in his brain, bringing certainty. The goddess of all magic was riding the bear’s mind just as he was riding Amarune’s.
Before El knew it, the moonlit trees were behind him, and he was crawling into bear-smelling darkness, over muddy, loose stones in a musky earthen den tapestried in descending roots and floored with gnawed old bones green with mold. As he crawled on, the ground dropped down into a stony cavern tall enough to stan
d in, aglow with Mystra’s fire.
Where two great, keen eyes he’d not seen for long centuries suddenly opened in the air in front of him.
Stealing away his breath again.
Elminster gazed into them, dumbstruck. Floating orbs of silver-blue fire regarded him with love and an excitement to match his own. Eyes he’d feared he’d never see again.
Amarune’s body lacked the feel for the Art that his aching old frame had possessed, but strain though he might, he could sense nothing false about what loomed before him. This was Mystra, though the heat in his mind remained a whispering echo of her full power.
Yet Our Lady of Mystery could easily hold back, cloaking her divine might to seem less than she was, and often-usually-did so. The eyes of deepening silver-blue fire were linked by softly coursing threads of the same radiance, lines like lightnings too gentle to crackle or spit, to… things strewn among rocks on the cavern floor.
A gauntlet with gems inset in the knuckles, a wand, a ring, other small items still hidden among the stones.
“Some blood of my mortal self spilled on these trifles of Art in the time before I became Mystra,” came the warm whisper of the goddess, both in his head and filling the cavern as if she were awakening in purring languor right beside his ear. “When you came nigh, El, the nearness of your mind alerted me. I am… preoccupied much, now.”
“Ye collected these things when ye were Midnight?” El blurted, trembling in a sudden chaos of wanting to know so much, yet not knowing what he dared ask. Her love-or at least fondness-was in his head and all around him, But something was subtly different in it, a distance that had not been there once, or rather one that had grown since Midnight had ascended to replace the Mystra his far younger self had first touched and tasted. Gone was the Mystra whose mind would long ago have merged with his to let them converse wordlessly, thoughts flashing.
Something was rising in him, something urgent. Before he quite knew what it was, he felt a flash of confusion and wonder, alarm strangled by awe. Amarune Aumar had awakened.
“I did,” the Lady of Magic replied as if nothing had happened, though fond regard washed out of her bright silver-blue fire into Amarune, causing a mental turmoil of astonished pleasure tinged with bewilderment. “The bear keeps them safe here, and I see through his eyes and guide him. It is good you came to me, El; I have many unfinished tasks for you.”
“L-lady?” Rune dared to blurt, then. “Who are you?”
“I,” the fire behind the eyes replied, as tenderly as any gently drawn sword, “am Mystra. I am magic.”
That last word became a thunderclap that raced away into unseen distances, only to return a rolling echo of deep, teeth-chattering force that made small stones fall and patter in the bear’s den, and the living roots groan and murmur all around them.
I am the fire in all things. That whisper came soft and calm, uttered only in the depths of their shared mind.
Then Mystra seemed to shake herself and added, “More than ever, El, I need your service. You I can truly trust, where so many others have turned from me or fallen. I can coerce, of course, but I will no longer make that mistake of lesser gods. The work of slaves is nigh worthless. For deeds to have true and lasting meaning, they must done willingly. Elminster Aumar, El mine, are you still mine? Are you with me?”
“As ever,” Elminster burst out, finding himself on the choking edge of tears in an instant. “Goddess, command me!”
Blue fire flooded through him, leaving him gasping, overwhelmed by Mystra’s pleased satisfaction.
“You must be my roving hands, skulking alone,” she said, eyes flashing with resolve, showing power enough to make Amarune’s mind cower. “I charge you to preserve magic wherever and whenever you can, keeping to the shadows as much as possible. Bold confrontations and invoking my name are clumsy marks of pride I would fain put behind me forever. So, El, be my-forgive me, Amarune-my Silent Shadow.”
Amarune fought to make her lips gasp; El was too distracted to relinquish control over them. He felt amusement washing through his mind on tides of blue fire as Rune managed her gasp, then gave him a rueful mental shove as she yielded her mouth back to him. It was some moments later before he managed to reply, “Lady, I will.”
“Employ disguises. Be the thief you once so ably were in Hastarl. Steal and copy magic, and then hide the copies so that, whatever befalls the originals, my Art will survive for those yet unborn.”
“Lady,” Elminster repeated, “I will.”
“Recruit new Chosen, and gather them here for me to confer with. I need many, and they must be different from my daughters and from each other, for that kinship was another misstep. Yet, we both know how rarely the needed loyalty and strength are found together-and above all, I must have those I can trust.”
El nodded, remembering Khelben and Sammaster, Laeral, and too many elven ladies who were all so willing, yet had faded so swiftly under the ravages of too much Art. Betrayals, defiances, independence, and weaknesses. Gone, now, all of them. Gone…
His Alassra, fled and mad somewhere, brain-burned by the roaring Blue Fire that was not Mystra, the plague of wild fury that had snuffed out the lives of thousands in a blazing instant, and many more in the days and seasons that had followed…
“Lady,” he said huskily, “I will.”
“Continue what you have done so well for so long: preserve and strengthen the Art-not magic bestowed by others, but magics worked by the caster’s own craft and knowledge.”
“Lady, I’ve done that for so long,” El told her truthfully, “that I do not know if I could now refrain from doing so. It is what I do.”
“It is. Yet the fall of Azoun heralded your newest task. It is time to do what Storm and Dove have both suggested. By any means you deem best-becoming their head or turning their leaders to my service-recruit Cormyr’s wizards of war. They must become the ready allies, helping hands, and spies for all my Chosen.”
All my Chosen?
Ah, Storm and Alassra, of course. If there were more, and Mystra desired him to know of them, she would reveal them…
She was right, of course. If he was to manage any of these tasks, he sorely needed new allies-with his own body lost to him, Alassra crazed, Storm’s magic all but gone, and the work already far more than he and Storm could handle.
“Soon enough, you’ll again have a body of your own,” Mystra murmured among El’s racing thoughts. She was reading them, of course, and “In the meantime,” the goddess whispered, “I can aid the one you have. You have been sorely wounded in my service.”
The silver-blue fires changed, and in the mind they were sharing, Amarune recoiled in fear.
The floating eyes flared larger, brighter… and nearer.
“Embrace me,” Mystra commanded.
Somewhat warily, with Amarune on the verge of whimpering at the back of their shared mind-an image of her fearful staring eyes flaring to outshine Mystra’s huge orbs-Elminster stepped forward and spread his arms wide.
The shield-sized eyes of silver-blue drifted together, merging in smooth silence right in front of him, and flaring into silver lightning that shocked through him. His arms flew apart convulsively, and then tightened again around the lightning as if it were something solid he could crush. Not that Elminster was thinking of crushing anything.
Or thinking at all.
He was too busy screaming in pain.
The high, throat-stripping shriek of a young female dancer lost in agony and horror spat out of him into the night, as lightning slammed through him, his every hair standing on end like a straining dagger, snapped back out of him, then roared back into him again. It was as if a thousand spears thrust through him, tore back out, and then thrust right back in repeatedly through the same gaping wounds.
Elminster was dimly aware of falling to his knees and shuddering helplessly. He was caught on the bright spears of lightning, unable to collapse onto his face… unable to do anything.
Every time the lightnings
snarled out of him, they took life with them, vitality that was not returned when they stormed in again.
Amarune was sobbing, or trying to, but her body could not breathe, could no longer make a sound. Her brain was awash in roaring silver fire, flames of power that thundered through her mind and might well have destroyed it had Elminster not been grimly fighting to stay himself, to cling to what was Elminster of Shadowdale amid the hungry fires of a goddess.
Around him, blue fire was being beaten back by silver flames, flames that circled him-and then darted into him.
Elminster tried to scream, but all that came out was a strangled squeak.
Mystra-if it was Mystra-had drained much energy from his borrowed body but was now at work on steadying his mind, forcing back the roiling blue fires that had lurked there for nigh a hundred years.
“There, my champion,” Mystra whispered as tenderly as any mother. “Go forth renewed. Greater and more magic you can now work without madness coming upon you, but not an unlimited amount. I cannot do more. Go now, until next we meet.”
Silver fire left him then, leaving only chill darkness.
Elminster stood forlorn, blind in the darkness.
Something soft and tender stroked his face and arm, turning him and leading him back. Out and up, stumbling over unseen things underfoot, once more into the moonlight.
Weak and dazed, reeling, with Amarune cowering in mute terror in a corner of their shared mind, Elminster shivered in the night.
Bare and chilled, feeling sick and empty-kiss of Mystra, half of Rune’s energy must be gone-he staggered up rises and down slopes, through countless trees. The way was not long, but he would have been lost had a tiny silver star not guided him until the dark bulk of the little lodge loomed out of the night.
He leaned against its front wall beside the door, shuddering, until he could master his breathing enough to stand upright and square his-her-shoulders.
Amarune was still drawn into herself, but El could put the pain and horror of the lightning firmly behind him and take satisfaction in the healing that had been done to him.