by Ed Greenwood
Arclath stared thoughtfully into the eyes of the mask dancer so close to his. The woman he’d come to love, so swiftly and deeply that he was still a little disbelieving. Had the wizard used a little love magic? But no, he’d been nowhere around when… or had he?
Shards and stars, did any of that matter? He did love his Rune, more than he’d ever loved anyone before, and-and what could he do to thwart this Old Mage, anyhail?
Nothing. Nothing at all, but be there for his Amarune and hope she won clear of Elminster soon, unharmed. Or as unscathed as possible.
Which meant making common cause with the Sage of Shadowdale was the only prudent thing to do.
“Aye,” he said aloud, awkwardly. “There can be. Peace between us, I mean.”
Amarune’s slender-fingered hand clasped his as firmly as any warrior’s, and a bright smile spread across her face.
“Good, glad that’s done,” El growled then, causing her to roll away and fling back the furs. “Rune’s bladder is bursting!”
Understeward Corleth Fentable was in none-too-pleasant a mood, but even if the fearful shadow of Lord Manshoon hadn’t loomed everpresent in his thoughts, Fentable’s displeasure so early in the morning was hardly surprising.
Unless ordered on duty by Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant, he seldom saw the dawn or much of the bright and chill early morning that followed it.
He was here on Hallowdant’s orders, curt and stiff, snapping commands at half a dozen war wizards and twice that many Purple Dragons. More soldiers were standing guard in all the crimson-carpeted passages that led to the newly refitted Hall of Justice, where the Council of the Dragon was to be held. They were making certain all maids, doorjacks, and everyone else stayed well away.
Fentable’s superior would probably have delegated this duty to him regardless, but the understeward had the minor satisfaction-if it could in truth be deemed that-of knowing it was no accident that Hallowdant had suddenly fallen ill. He was doubtless groaning away in his garderobe, enduring the effects of whatever Sraunter had provided for a servant-another of Lord Manshoon’s pawns-to slip into the decanter Hallowdant was wont to sip from whenever he awakened at night.
Manshoon left no detail unattended. As he’d reminded them all to frighten them into utter loyalty.
Fentable’s tight mouth became a thin line of fury.
“The search, saer, is done,” a young war wizard reported. “The chamber is now clear.”
“It wasn’t?” he snapped.
The mage (what was his name, now? Darmuth? Tarmuth?) sighed audibly before replying, “Two mice, a dozen ants and beetles, and a manycrawl. All dead now, and removed. Four miceholes, blocked. We are wizards of war, saer.”
And sensitive indeed about taking orders from mere courtiers, for once, though they weren’t quite certain if they dared defy the understeward, in the absence of Royal Magician Ganrahast and Lord Warder Vainrence to tell them all what to do.
Fentable kept the grim smile he felt like wearing off his face and nodded, lifting his eyes to direct the briefest of glances past the mage’s shoulder at Mreldrake, whose answering nod was almost imperceptible.
“Now ward it,” Fentable ordered, “and close and lock the doors-or lock them first-or-well, do those things in whatever order you need to, to make the Council chamber secure!”
He turned away. The moment the war wizards withdrew, guards would be posted outside all doors into the chamber, so the entire palace-and inevitably, given Suzailan gossip, most of the city, ere highsun-would know the room was secured.
Not that it truly would be. Not with Mreldrake as one of the warders, who would then know the precise details of the ward spell and so be able to modify the many-person teleportation he would later cast in secret at Lord Manshoon’s command, to bypass the wards.
Oh, this was going to be a memorable Council, to be sure.
Amarune made it to her feet and managed two unsteady steps through the tangled furs and blankets before reeling and starting to topple.
Arclath scrambled up to catch her, knowing even as he tried that he was strides away from where he needed to be.
“Rune!” he cried, vainly reaching for her. Amarune flung out a hand, kicked her feet free of the bedding underfoot, and staggered in an off-balance run sideways until she fetched up against the cabin wall and slid down it.
The door had banged open by then, and Storm-clad in her worn leathers, with fresh kindling in her arms-had burst through it, flung the wood at one wall, and launched herself across the room.
Arclath got there first.
“Rune,” he pleaded, putting his arms around her, “are you all right? Be well!”
“No, I’m not all right,” his lady muttered-and it was her voice, thank the gods, not Elminster’s!
“That wizard is draining the life out of you, somehow,” Arclath snarled, helping her to her feet. “We’ve got to get you to a mage we can trust, to do something about this!”
“No,” Amarune said, turning to look into his eyes, their noses bumping. “No, ’twasn’t El. The goddess took it. Mystra.”
Arclath gaped at her, and then frowned in anger and worry. He turned to look at Storm-and was frightened to see her even more concerned than he was.
CHAPTER FOUR
DARK VILLAINY AGAIN
Th-that’s the last!” the carter panted through the curtain of sweat streaming down his large, reddened face. He backed hastily away from the silent men who’d been catching every hay bale he’d tossed, stowing them somewhere in the darkness beyond the alchemist’s alley door.
Panting even harder, he almost fell twice in his feverish haste to get around to the front of his wagon and whip his dozing drays into motion, to race away from Sraunter’s.
It was as if the carter expected death to reach after him. But Manshoon merely favored the dwindling, rattling wagon with a lopsided smile, straightened from his indolent lean against the wall, and sent the slack-faced men he’d been dominating into tossing hay bales back to the alleys. The spells he’d cast on them would slay them-and the carter, too-when he uttered a certain word. He’d do that well before highsun, long before any inquisitive Purple Dragon might think to get around to questioning them about anything.
If matters unfolded as planned, the good soldiers of Cormyr would be rather too busy for inquisitions when the sun rose over Suzail in the morning.
Manshoon closed and barred the alley door. Then he strolled into the littered chamber Sraunter was pleased to call his “concoction room,” where the alchemist was still feverishly busy at his task.
Under the lash of Manshoon’s spell, Sraunter was muttering and scuttling over his stained and scarred worktables, dancing and dashing across the room time and again to check and recheck various bubbling, glowing bowls.
Those hay bales had to be doused with something that would produce poisonous, oily, clinging smoke when they were set afire, and they had to be doused very soon.
But Manshoon trusted that Sraunter knew his work. He had three different mixtures curing, any of which should be enough to clear the Council chamber in frantic haste-and turn anyone stubborn enough to linger into a corpse. Three dooms should be enough to foil any single spell cast to quell smoke, and if the courtiers had ever heard of prudence (and what courtier hadn’t?) the mixtures should also be more than enough to make the courtiers delay holding the Council until they’d made sure no other perils were lurking.
Manshoon managed to keep himself from rubbing his hands in glee, but a fierce grin spread across his face. Ah, with his old foe gone, dark villainy was truly fun again!
“What is that? Smoke?” Amarune pointed at the chill wisps drifting and coiling in the deepest shade, where the trees stood dark and thick.
“Ground mist,” Storm and Arclath replied in unison. The young noble chuckled and gestured grandly at Storm to continue.
With a smile, she obliged. “What sailors call ‘fog’ when it’s near the docks or at sea. Found here most mornings. ’
Tis the damp rising as the day warms.”
“Huh,” the dancer replied, hunched against the cold under the trees. “Doesn’t feel very warm yet.”
“Agreed,” Storm replied, cocking her head at a faint rustling in the distance. Fox, or the like, heading home.
All around the three humans, creatures of the woodland day were awakening; the King’s Forest was astir. El was back in her boots for now; Rune was herself again; and Arclath was leading them north, keeping to the forest but following the road.
It wasn’t far off to their right, and Storm had been expecting to see patrolling foresters for some time. The cabin was well behind them, but the cozy, private Delcastle hunting lodge Arclath had promised stood, according to him, more than a day’s brisk walk northward.
The nobleman came up beside her, Amarune on his arm. “Suppose,” he began conversationally, “you unfold to us just a little more of the, ah, life you and Elminster have been leading hereabouts these last few seasons. Our wizards of war seem to regard you as great foes of Cormyr.”
“That view of us appears to be gaining popularity among them,” Storm agreed. “As the passing years take from us older, wiser war wizards and elder courtiers, there is a growing ignorance of us and of She whom we serve-Mystra-in the wake of the great tumult that befell the Art. El and I find this somewhat annoying, given the centuries of work we’ve put into guarding Cormyr so that it’s still here for these magelings to strut about in.”
She smiled, shrugged, and added, “ ’Tis true each new youngling must be taught, but we’re getting older and clashing with arrogant idiots is less and less enjoyable.”
Arclath grinned. “Arrogant idiots like me, for instance?”
Storm shook her head. “You’re no idiot, Arclath Delcastle. Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake or Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant- those are idiots. Neither believe we are anything more than common thieves who’ve seen some threescore summers and spent some of those seasons worming our ways into the royal palace.”
Arclath rolled his eyes. “Come, now. You’re not expecting me to believe all those tales about you being thousands of years old, rearing Azoun the Great, tutoring dread Vangerdahast, and suchlike, are you?”
Storm lifted an eyebrow. Arclath rushed on.
“Oh, you’ve borrowed grand reputations from folk out of legend, I’ll grant, but there are no war wizards standing here to impress now. I’ve heard tell you’re really Stornara Rhauligan, and Elminster’s really Elgorn Rhauligan, your father? Older brother? Grandsire? The two of you are supposedly longtime lowly palace servants who were caught stealing magic items and dismissed for it. Some say you’re Harpers or spies for Westgate or Sembia. I… well, I don’t know what to think. It’s just the three of us out here, so let’s have truth, shall we?”
Storm Silverhand stopped and turned to face him, her hair stirring around her like dozens of restless snakes, and her eyes two silver flames. “I don’t expect you to believe anything at all, Lord Delcastle. I’ve noticed your opinion of us changes like the weather, but I hope you’re wise enough to arrive at shrewd judgments of folk, given enough time. So now that we’re together, you’ll watch and listen to us and draw your own conclusions accordingly.”
Arclath came to a stop, too, and faced her. On his arm, Amarune looked from one of them to the other, frowning.
“Very well,” he said calmly. “In the interest of mutual trust, let us assume that the answer you’re about to give me is utter truth and that I’ll believe it. So who are you, really? You and the cloud of slithering ashes who calls himself Elminster?”
“I am Storm Silverhand. Some ninety summers ago, I was the Bard of Shadowdale. Elminster is… Elminster. The Sage of Shadowdale, the Old Mage of legend. We were-are-both Chosen of Mystra, the goddess of magic. Her servants. Her Highknights, if you will.”
“Mystra. A dead goddess, who once ruled-corrupted, some say-all magic.”
“That Mystra,” Storm said calmly, silver tresses still playing around her shoulders like serpents. “Yes.”
“You’re not going to tell me she’s still alive? And that she has some secret, sacred mission for Rune?”
“No,” Storm replied. “I don’t have to.”
Arclath arched one eyebrow. “Oh? Why not?”
“Because I know she’s alive and can tell you myself,” Amarune interrupted firmly. “I’ve met her. And if she has some secret task for me, she’s said nothing about it.”
“Yet,” Arclath told her darkly.
Storm smiled. “Good,” she said briskly, starting to walk north again. “You know who El and I are and as much about Mystra as any mortal dare trust in. We can cover the rest whenever we’ve time to waste talking. As we trudge toward this family hunting lodge of yours, for example.”
Arclath frowned. “Lady… Immerdusk, do you prefer? I don’t believe we’ve quite finished establishing where we stand. Elminster steps into the mind of my beloved whenever he pleases, and is forcing her to…” He felt a sharp tug on his arm.
“Lord Delcastle,” Amarune said sharply, “you will refrain from making assumptions about me, and from thinking I’m some sort of cow or pet snail, docile and brainless, whom you can discuss as if I’m not here.”
“Forgive me, Rune, but that’s just it,” the young nobleman said earnestly, staring into her eyes. “I don’t know if your brain is your own, right now, or if that old wizard is inside your mind forcing you to think one way or another and even keeping you from knowing it!”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Amarune flared. “Do you think for one momen-”
“Easy, lass,” Storm murmured, reaching out a hand to the dancer. “He can’t know. He hasn’t shared his mind with Elminster or anyone, and so can’t feel what it’s like, or-”
“I’m not letting-!” Arclath roared.
Storm’s slap to his codpiece startled him into silence midsnarl, leaving him staring at her.
“No one is suggesting you’ll have to,” she told him gently. “I was merely soothing Rune by pointing out to her that you have no way of knowing what it’s like when El is in your head. Let me tell the both of you right now that I’m deeply unhappy about his entering Rune’s mind, and I would have fought him to try to prevent it had I not thought it was necessary. His… ah, invasion makes it very hard for us to trust each other… but that’s all we can do now. Plead with you, is perhaps a better way to put it. Trust us. Please. Or this is going to end badly for us all, and soon.”
Arclath was astonished to see tears glistening in her eyes.
Storm smiled wryly and added, “Lord Delcastle, you should thank us. A tenday back you were bored and wandering through the days, chafing at the meaninglessness of your existence and desperate to find some purpose in your life. We’ve taken care of all of that. Welcome to the grandest life of all. Welcome to saving the world.”
Manshoon realized he was smiling again.
The alchemist must be almost done, now. Sraunter had already nodded at one mixture, frowned and stood back, and slowly let himself smile at the second, before carefully shifting it off the heat of the small fire in his grate, Now he devoted his complete attention to the third.
Since forcing the man into nightlong brewing-if that was what alchemists called it-Manshoon had kept himself out of Sraunter’s mind, not wanting to distract him at a crucial moment, or frighten him any further.
Instead, the future emperor of Cormyr had kept back in the shadows, idly examining the alchemist’s shelves for substances that might prove useful in the future, and thinking.
The moment he had effective control over Cormyr-open and absolute command or several steps short of that-he’d set the Dragons of the realm to hunting down Storm Silverhand.
She must be taken alive, with her wits undamaged.
Interrogating her at leisure should yield to him much he desired to know. Secrets of the Chosen, where magic was hidden, and the whereabouts of The Simbul-the onetime Queen of Aglarond, whose Art had been mightier
than Elminster’s own. Mad and far too magically powerful for anyone’s safety, that one must be destroyed.
Sraunter turned and nodded eagerly, sweat dripping from his chin. “Ready. All three, ready.”
Manshoon let his smile widen. “Good man. You have saved Cormyr from itself.”
Horns blew a fanfare that the cool morning breeze carried far across Suzail, summoning the invited-the nobility-to the Council of Dragons.
Mreldrake hardly needed the arrival of the hurrying palace doorjack, and Manshoon’s surge from that man’s dark and knowing eyes into his own mind, to know it was time to begin his castings.
Manshoon’s mind was already sharing a crisply clear vision of the soaked and ready hay bales that Sraunter was igniting.
Few mages could translocate fiery materials without troubles, but Mreldrake’s mind was filled, overwhelmed, and steadied by Manshoon’s own, and the hay bales were only just beginning to burn.
Mreldrake caught a glimpse-briefly, before Manshoon firmly sealed that sight away and forced him back to full concentration on the complex spells he was working-of someone else Manshoon was scrying.
It was a noblewoman, unfamiliar to Mreldrake, who had long since risen and checked her appearance in her mirrors more than once already. The fanfare had brought her out onto a balcony to peer excitedly between towers and over grand roofs and the leafy tops of trees at the soaring royal palace of Suzail.