by Ed Greenwood
From the darkness came only silence, but after a long, motionless time the old bearded mage added quietly, “Thank ye.”
He turned his head to look up at Narnra and asked, “Thy full, proper name, lass, is—?”
Gods, his nose is an even sharper hawk-beak than mine. Narnra looked down into those bright blue eyes—more blue than gray now, as his magic surged around them—and said steadily, “Narnra Shalace. My mother was Maerjanthra Shalace, a jeweler of Waterdeep. My father I never knew.”
Bushy brows arched. “Maerjanthra, eh? I knew a Maerjanthra Shalace of Waterdeep, years back—a sorceress for hire, not a jeweler.” He regarded his floating captive thoughtfully. “ ’Tis not a common name. Describe her, as she is today.”
Narnra let him see her fury as she spat, “A few bones, some dust, and probably a tangle of what’s left of her hair—in a bonepit outside the walls of Waterdeep. She’s dead, wizard.”
The old wizard’s face was unreadable. “I see. Yet in life, she had dark hair and eyes like thine?”
“Yes,” Narnra said flatly, volunteering nothing more.
“How did she die?”
“I don’t know. Murdered with magic, I think, but by whom, I’ve no idea—or they or I would be dead now.”
“I see. Have ye kin?”
“No. Unless my father yet lives.”
“And what know ye of him?”
The thief shrugged. “He was a man. A powerful wizard, I was told.”
“By whom?”
“My mother’s apprentices—gemcutters, all long fled. They were drunk when they said that.”
“Mother dead, apprentices fled—where d’ye live now?”
Narnra shrugged. “The rooftops. By the warm chimneys in winter. The City of the Dead, mostly, in summer.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“And ye earn coins enough to eat by—?”
“Stealing. As you know.”
“For or with anyone?”
“Alone.”
“Any friends?”
“No.”
“Folk ye sell stolen things to?”
“Many.”
“Name some of them.”
Narnra stared into the old wizard’s eyes and said evenly, “Dock Ward holds many men who ask no questions about where something came from—and take care that they know nothing about whoever’s selling it. If the Watch confronts them, they always say they just found it, tossed into their yard—or window—that morning. In turn, I take care not to ask or know their names. ’Tis the accepted way of such business dealings.”
The mage nodded, as if remembering things far away and long ago. “Truth rides on thy tongue well.”
“So reward me.”
“With?”
“My freedom. The way back.”
The old wizard smiled. “High payment for a few civil answers. I’ll have more before we advance so boldly into rewarding, hmm?”
Narnra shrugged again. “The power to dictate,” she observed flatly, “remains yours.”
The wizard below her grew a sudden grin, and from beyond the mists came a faint, swiftly suppressed sound that might have been a Mage Royal’s chuckle.
“Are ye a member of any guild?”
“No.”
“On any rolls?”
“No.”
“Pay taxes?”
Narnra made an incredulous sound. The old wizard grinned again and asked, “D’ye know who I am?”
“No. I can see and hear that you’re an old man and a powerful mage, yes, but no more.”
The old wizard nodded, strolled a few paces away, spun around, and snapped, “What do ye do with thy days?”
“Steal. Sleep. Spy on folk to steal from. Steal. Sell what I’ve gained and use the coins to buy food. Eat. Flee the Watch. Steal some more.”
“What happened to your mother’s shop? House? Goods?”
“Snatched, seized, and spirited away, the moment the city knew she was dead, thank you for asking,” Narnra said coldly. “Some slave-seeking noble sent his men after me.”
The wizard nodded slowly. “I find myself unsurprised.”
The mists suddenly boiled up into a gigantic, looming serpentine head, all scales and great jaws, parting to menace her—
Narnra screamed—and so did the Mage Royal.
The world burst into blinding brightness in a great roaring flood of force that swept the dragon head away and the Silken Shadow after it, tumbling end over end unseeing into—surging flows of power that caught and clung and held her, drawing her down out of roiling chaos into … hanging upright in midair once more.
The mists churned and whirled around her with more force than before, trailing sparks here and there, but otherwise, the cellar was much as before—except that the senseless Red Wizard now floated head-downwards.
The old wizard was standing just as before, but his gaze was now bent on the cellar entrance arch. “I did warn ye, Mage Royal,” he said quietly. “Know ye not an illusion when ye see one?”
Narnra found that she could turn her head and did so. Caladnei was on her knees, struggling against what looked like ropes of crawling fire that held her wrists down and away from her sides, looped around her neck, and snarled around her spread knees and her ankles behind her.
“Will ye stand peaceful, and work no magic?” the old wizard demanded.
The Mage Royal of Cormyr glared up at him over the crackling flames and said flatly, “No.”
The wizard shrugged and turned back to Narnra—and in a chilling, throat-choking moment the dragon head loomed in front of her once more.
She knew what it was now and managed to keep from screaming but could not help staring at it, trembling, as those great jaws yawned once more.…
“Lass, did ye ever see anything like this before now?” the white-bearded wizard asked gently, from below.
“N-no,” Narnra managed to hiss. “Take it away!”
The dragon-head dwindled and backed away from her at the same time, shrinking until it was barely larger than her own head—whereupon it became frightening all over again, seeming like the head of a great serpent watching her out of the mist, a snake that could slay her at will while she hung mage-bound.
“Have ye ever seen a living beast like this before?” the old wizard asked again, sharply. The smaller dragon-head turned this way and that, displaying itself to her as a gown-merchant’s model might have done … then sighed back down into the mists and was gone.
“N-no,” Narnra managed to say, suspicion suddenly welling up dark, hot, and choking. Was this old brute …?
The mage pounced. “But?”
“But nothing,” she flared, eyes blazing down at him.
“Truth, lass! Ye lie as badly as a wrinkled rug! Tell me truth!”
“I … Mother’s apprentices used to tell me about dragons. That was a dragon, wasn’t it?”
“How many apprentices?” the old wizard snapped. “Their names?”
“Uh, five, most of the time. Goraun, Rivrel, Jonczer, and the two younger ones, Tantheld and Silen—Rorgel, who was called ‘Silent’ because he almost never spoke. They … Rivrel’s dead; knifed by someone taking things from the shop after Mother died. I think Jonczer was killed too, but I saw only a lot of blood, not his body. The others … disappeared. They may be dead, they may’ve stolen things and fled; I know not.”
“Did ye ever see any of them work magic?”
“No.”
“What exactly did they tell ye about dragons?”
Narnra glared at the old wizard, her suspicions even stronger now. “When they’d been drinking,” she said heavily, “they’d grumble about the dirtier tasks, then wish they were rich bold adventurers and start telling tales of adventurers. Some of them had dragons in them … that ate folk, tore apart castles, and smashed villages flat—I’m sure you’ve heard better. Later, they’d always warn me I shouldn’t mention anything they said to Mother.”
“And did ye?”
“Did I what?”
“Ever talk about dragons, with her?”
“No. Look, sir wizard, she’s dead. Now I’ve told you my name, I’ve told you hers, I’ve even babbled the names of five apprentice gemcutters—and your name remains a mystery to me. So what is it?”
“Elminster Aumar, though most folk know me better as ‘Elminster of Shadowdale.’ I’m also called the Old Mage, the Old Sage, and a lot of less polite names and titles, besides. Wiser now?”
“I’ve heard of Elminster the Great, the Meddler of Mystra, who did things in Waterdeep centuries ago. I guess you’re named after him.”
“Ye could say that, yes.” The old wizard smiled thinly. “Now that we know each other somewhat better, lass, suppose ye set aside thy fury and tell me true: are ye beholden to anyone? Working with anyone? Spying for anyone? Hired out to do any task?”
“No,” Narnra replied, anger flaring again. “No, no, and no again!” So he believed nothing of what she’d said, did he?
“Can’t you tell truth when you hear it? Or d’ye not want to hear words that don’t fit with how you’ve already judged me? You didn’t show yon Red Wizard much kindness!”
“He deserves none, believe me.”
“Hah!” Narnra snarled down from where the mists held her. “What if I don’t believe you? Why should I? You slyly hint that I lie, and that you know a lot more about my mother than I do, and that wizards must do what wizards must do. Well, as to that, all I see and hear is that wizards do just as they please and cloak self-interest in a lot of grand words and hints that they’re doing things important that protect all Faerûn and all of us with it! Yet do they show any proof of this?”
The smile stealing onto the Old Mage’s face seemed a little sad around the edges. “What proof would ye believe, Narnra?”
“I … I …”
Elminster spread his hands. “Ye see? Rage ye have to spare, and no wonder, for I’ve endangered ye and scared ye, and my power lies as sharp as any blade between us. Furious ye are that I trust thee not—yet do ye trust me?”
Narnra stared down at him. “No,” she whispered. “Not yet.”
“Ah. Ye want to. So do I, thee. So how can we build trust between us?”
The thief floating in the mists frowned then said, “Why don’t you tell me some answers to things I ask?”
The white-bearded wizard grinned. “As ye said to me: so ask your questions, and I’ll try to keep to the truth.”
Narnra managed a smile. “When did you first meet my mother, and why?”
“If Maerjanthra Shalace the sorceress is also Maerjanthra Shalace the jeweler of Waterdeep,” Elminster replied, “I first met her in the ruins of a elven palace in the Sword Coast North some seventy summers ago, when she looked to be about the same age as ye are now. She was with a band of adventurers, seeking tomb-riches to plunder—something I was there to foil.”
“Seventy winters? But that’s impossible! Mother …”
“Told ye exactly how old she was, ever?”
“No, but …”
“But by her looks ye assumed she was at most twenty or thirty seasons older than ye?”
Narnra nodded and burst out, “And—and if she was a sorceress, could she have … done something to me? With magic?”
“Ah,” the Old Mage said slowly, “ye begin to see the roots of my interest. Have ye ever had … strange dreams? Feelings of power rising in ye or running through ye? When my magic touched ye, did ye have any … visions? Feelings of power?”
The Silken Shadow looked down at him and shook her head. “No.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. From somewhere beyond the mists came an angry crackle of fire that could only be Caladnei striving to win free or to work magic.
“Then,” Elminster told her gently, “my answer must be: I know not.”
Narnra drew a deep breath and asked, “So if you knew my mother so well, who was my father?”
The wizard shrugged.
The thief floated in silence for a few breaths, frowning at him, then asked, “You said ‘first met’ my mother. How many other times did you meet her?”
“Dozens. Scores.” The Old Mage shrugged. “We dwelt together in Waterdeep, one spring, when I had some business among the nobility of thy city: the house was mine, and a dozen lady adventurers took rooms there.”
“A dozen, with one man—a wizard? Didn’t folk talk?”
Elminster cocked one eyebrow. “Talk? Waterdeep must have changed more than I’d thought.”
The white-bearded man below her seemed to shimmer, and suddenly Narnra was staring at a tall, willowy, high-bosomed woman with a steely gaze and an imperious grace that transcended the ill-fitting, none-too-clean old wizard’s robes that hung upon her body. “Besides, we were a house of women,” a softer, huskier version of Elminster’s voice replied. The mists whirled about the woman, sparks flared, Narnra blinked—and the old wizard was standing below her once more.
Narnra drew in a deep breath. “And were you a woman all the time? Did you live with your renters, or did everyone keep to their own rooms and trust in locks?”
Elminster chuckled. “Ye sound like a disapproving priest, lass. Beyond the outside doors, there were no locks; the rooms were shared. Men—and women—were in and out, as is the normal way of things, and there were fights, and loving … and though I spent much of my time in other, grander houses, wearing other—and grander, if it comes to that—shapes, I lived with those ladies, yes.”
“Slept with them?” Narnra asked sharply. “One Maerjanthra Shalace in particular?”
The Old Mage smiled. “Aye, and aye. This would have been forty-and-some summers back.”
“You never saw her after that?”
“Nay, our paths crossed every few years, when I came to Waterdeep for some purpose or other.”
“My mother was your mistress?”
“No, I’d not put it that way—nor would she have done. She had her lovers, and I mine. We liked to talk and catch up on things for an evening, when the gods granted us time and chance.”
Narnra glared at him. “When did you last … spend the night together?”
Elminster regarded her thoughtfully. “ ’Twas either twenty or twenty-two years ago.” A smile crossed his face. “Ye seem to be drifting into thinking I fathered ye. That cannot be.”
“Oh? How so?”
“Wizards are targets all their lives, lass … and all too vulnerable, most of the time. Bearing a child is no light thing to one who works magic, and becoming with child unintended can be deadly—not just to the babe and its mother. Magic can twist the unborn into monsters.”
“Wherefore?”
“Wherefore most mages use magic to prevent what isn’t wanted or know when ’tis safe to not take such trouble.”
“Were you both ‘most mages’?”
“Maerjanthra was. Stronger bonds are laid on me.”
“ ‘Stronger bonds’? What ‘stronger bonds’?”
“Mystra, the goddess I serve, decides when her Chosen shall—”
Narnra’s head swam.
Chosen? Then this could only be the Elminster.
Worse than that: at the sound of Elminster saying the divine name Mystra a blue-white fury of fire seemed to burst silently in Narnra’s head—a conflagration that flew apart into seven whirling stars before she could even gasp.
They spun themselves into a circle, she had the impression of a gigantic but unseen feminine smile, and in the heart of the circle of stars a dark and long-hidden door seemed to fall open in her mind. Through it she heard Goraun chuckling to Jonczer, “Ah, Maerj tricked the Old Bearded One this time! I’m going to love seeing the look on his face when he finds out! Lord High-And-Mighty Blackstaff looked sick enough for the both of them when he came to the door. Aye, that was him—for once the tavern-lasses told you true! Seems Maerj went to him for a spell to let her have the Old Meddler’s child under his nose, so to speak, and Khelben threw her out of his tower … onl
y to come to the door like a beggar half a day later, with a face as long as last winter and a scroll in his hand. He said Divine Mystra herself granted—and commanded—it!”
Seven stars flashed, and that warm, impish smile came again, a thrill that left Narnra shivering, somehow. She found herself still floating in the mists, staring grimly down at the bright blue eyes and wry, smug smile of the white-bearded wizard.
So this, after all these years of wondering, was her father.
This old, smiling worm.
Elminster the Meddler. As powerful as a winter storm and as corrupt and willful as a Lord of Waterdeep. A man she could so easily despise or hate. The man whose magic was holding her captive and testing her words even now.
The man—her gaze went reluctantly to the inverted body of the Thayan, arms dangling, eyes dark and empty—whose magic could slice into her mind like a barber’s razor, whenever he desired. Whenever he suspected she was hiding something of value from him.
The Silken Shadow clenched her hands so tightly that her fingernails pierced her palms. Blood welled out—and she clenched them all the tighter.
She must say nothing of Goraun’s words and hope that Khelben and the goddess Mystra went right on keeping the secret they’d so obviously kept from Elminster of Shadowdale for longer than she’d been alive.
If they did not, he might destroy her or try to keep her captive to train and command her … and whatever he tried to do, half Faerûn would come riding hard to take either her life or her freedom.
Narnra Shalace’s days as a target would no doubt be all too short.
She’d always feared magic. All thieves do. Hated, feared, and mistrusted magic—how could any folk who lacked it not feel that way? Oh, the young gasped at its wonders when Watchful Order magists blasted things or cast illusions at festivals, but … all that power. If it was ever turned against you …
And another thing: were she to be transformed with a wave of Mystra’s hand into a mighty mistress of magic to overmatch Elminster himself, she’d still hate such a life. Being a thief was hard, chancy work—but it was hers, battles fought at her choosing, skills she’d won on her own, fresh challenges she set herself, excitement and independence and … and what she was used to.