Elminster's Daughter

by Ed Greenwood

  Skandanther of Saerloon

  Spells Are The Wings That Carry Me High

  Year of the Lion

  Narnra looked up at the magnificent ceiling of the Dragonwing Chamber. Huge sinuous scaled bodies, swirling and rolling over, frozen forever on the verge of bursting forth in full and terrible glory …

  Someone—probably several someones—with skill enough to sculpt something much, much larger than they could see all at once had carved those awesomely beautiful, real dragons. Someone who must have felt very safe and secure here in Cormyr to spend the months, nay, years it must have taken up on ladders in this room, sculpting such a masterwork. Safe, secure, and paid well enough to eat. By a king or queen of Cormyr who loved beauty enough to pay for the making and leave this chamber unused for the sculptors to work. It would take a strong realm, a stable realm, and a flourishing realm to permit that.

  Narnra clung to that thought and let her eyes fall from the magnificence to the emptiness of the vast room. That took confidence and wealth, too, to leave such a large and therefore useful room empty of distraction and so leave the carved ceiling that much more striking to the eye—and the three people standing patiently facing her.

  Rhauligan, the watchful hands-on-weapons agent of the Crown of Cormyr … what she might become. Might.

  Laspeera, the kindly yet powerful wizard. Regal and yet motherly, the sort of person who’s “always there,” a solid part of the furniture trusted by many, who’d be shocked when death finally took her because they’d come to think of her as a pillar of Faerûn. Like folk here had thought of this Vangerdahast … like someone, somewhere, had presumably once thought of Elminster—probably in a land now dust, in a time long ago.

  Caladnei. Her tormentor and the one in command here. The Mage Royal of Cormyr, outranking the older two Cormyreans—and at a glance an outlander, her skin dusky. Probably resented by many at Court, who wanted no stranger seizing power that should rightfully have drifted into their hands.

  Narnra’s eyes narrowed. Laspeera should be one of those, yet she seemed not to be. Wherefore this Caladnei was a witch who ruled minds by magic or … someone worthy of respect, loyalty, even love.

  She stared into the dark eyes of the Mage Royal, who gazed gravely back. Dark brows, stern—but not quite imperious—manner. A little frightening.

  The woman who wanted to invade her mind.

  Narnra found herself breathing faster, almost panting. Part of her wanted to shout in revulsion, part wanted to hit out and run … and part was sneakily eager and excited, wanting to see what would happen. That was the spark in her that had taken her to greater and greater boldnesses on the rooftops, and she loved it—though it was a lure into trouble. There was something else rising in her, too … slow and hesitant, deeply submerged for too long. She could taste it, catching at the back of her throat.

  Loneliness.

  She’d been friendless and alone for far too long, Narnra against all the world … a world that was to her an endless collection of dupes, unseen passing folk, the rich and powerful best avoided, a few sharks cruising as she was, and—authority. The Watch, the Guard, the Watchful Order, the Lords of Waterdeep: the folk who could slay and flog and imprison and maim with impunity.

  Narnra hated, feared, and despised all authority. These three people all held it, Caladnei the most. How much of her fear and defiance was rooted in her own hatred of authority? How—

  Never mind. My choices are rough, and I’ve taken the best one. Mystra even smiled at me. I hope. Let’s get this over with.

  “Well,” she announced quietly, lifting her chin, “I’m waiting.”

  None of the Cormyreans laughed. The two women both took a step toward her—and the Mage Royal stopped, obviously surprised by Laspeera’s advance.

  Laspeera kept on coming.

  “Narnra,” she said gently, “this will go best if you lie down. Right here, on the floor.”

  Narnra blinked at Laspeera then doubled up and sat. The War Wizard sank down with her as if she was some sort of delicate invalid. When she was lying on her back on the floor—staring up at that splendid ceiling again—Laspeera turned and called Caladnei over. Then she stood up and calmly undid her robe, hauled it off—revealing a gown-like underrobe of red satin—and rolled it.

  Silently, she pointed Caladnei to the floor beside Narnra then slid her rolled-up robe under the backs of their heads.

  “A pillow?” Narnra asked incredulously.

  “Something to keep you both from splitting heads open on the hard floor,” Laspeera replied rather severely, “if emotions surge. Now, hold hands and begin.”

  “Yes, Mother,” Caladnei replied in a gently mocking voice. Narnra found herself smiling. The Mage Royal murmured a long, complicated rising and falling incantation, and … the dragons overhead went away.

  Warm and dark, descending, the darkness around flashing with a bewildering whirl of half-glimpsed bright scenes, bursts of sound, surges of anger, amusement, even weariness …

  [Narnra.]

  [Narnra, hide not.]

  Surge of energy, darkness going rubyshine, lights and noise coming fast …

  [Narnra Shalace!]

  I’m here. What do you want of me?

  [Show me your mother.]

  Raven-black hair and kind emerald eyes, bent over her in a face as white as bleached bone, cheekbones that made her look as exotic as she was beautiful, tender deft hands cradling her so firmly and yet gently. Maerj, the apprentices called her … Mother Maerj, comforting her in a dark room, her sniveling still loud around them. “There, there, my little one. Dreams can be bright as well as terrible. Like meals, some are good and some bad, but we need them all, just the same.…”

  As always, Narnra found herself aching to reach out and clutch her mother’s fingers, to cry her name, to speak her love and loneliness so Mother Maerj would hear and smile and tell it was all right, everything was all right.

  [Of course. Come away, and see something of mine that will hurt less.]

  Sudden raucous laughter, and thick smoke in a low-beamed, crowded, candlelit inn common-room. Swaggering men with bright goblets in their hands and weapons strapped all over them, striding past and then—noticing her, and leaning close to peer.

  “What’s this? Caladnei of the Scrolls, eh? You read scrolls for fees? What idiot can’t read a scroll?”

  “One who has a magic scroll, sir, but can’t work spells,” Caladnei’s young but firm voice said quietly, tight with the fear of coming trouble.

  Three young, bristle-bearded, red-with-drink faces were leaning over her now, peering—and breathing the fumes of golden Sarthdew she hadn’t coin enough for even a finger-flagon of, all over her.

  “You a mage? Who’d you study with?”

  “No one, sirs. I … my spells come from within.”

  “Well, now. What say your parents about that?”

  No lass restlessly chafing under the rule of parents and afire to see the wider world likes to be thought of as a child out on the sly, and Caladnei’s voice was stiff as she replied, “My parents let me find myself and make my own dealings with Faerûn. Do yours?”

  There were snorts and roars and guffaws of mirth, and one of the men bawled, “I like you, lass! Want to ride with us?”

  “Where is it you ride, sir, and for what?”

  “Across all wide and splendid Faerûn, Lady Caladnei—in search of adventure and lots of these!”

  An eager hand un-throated a purse and spilled dozens of heavy gold coins across Caladnei’s little table with a flourish, leaving her gaping at more money than she’d ever seen in her life before. Some of the coins rolled, folk everywhere leaned to see—and a shorter man in the group, almost a boy by his looks, plucked up one rolling coin and tossed it idly with two fingers … right down the front of her dress.

  There was another roar of laughter, and Caladnei knew her face was burning. The mirth spread around The Old Cracked Flagon, and she clenched her fists, wishing she wer
e anywhere but here.

  “Yours, lass,” the first man roared. “Yours to keep—and plenty more like it if you come with us! We need more magic to back up our blades!”

  “Oh, but …”

  “Hold, now,” the oldest face among the men looming above her table said quietly. “We’d best talk to her parents. I don’t want to be hounded as a slaver, snatching young lasses …”

  “Gods, Thloram, anyone can see we’re not slavers! Nor lechers, neither—we’ve got Vonda for that!”

  “Aye,” a buxom woman whose lush curves were spilling out of a loosely laced bodice purred, sidling past the men to appraise Caladnei with an almost contemptuous eye. “And I can handle the lot of you! Don’t worry, dear, I’ll see that they’re too weary to come pawing you. Oh, stop laughing, you hogs! Here, dear, take a handful of these coins, and pr’haps Marcon will stop leering at you quite so overeagerly!” She turned. “Stop pestering locals, you louts, or we’ll have more trouble! She’s barely old enough to—”

  “I’m coming with you,” Caladnei announced suddenly, standing up and hearing the stillness of utter astonishment spread across the common-room in an instant. “Keep your coins—I’ll win my own.”

  [Enough. Now … what’s this? Something hidden, not just from me, but from yourself … something old. Let’s see.…]

  Cowering in her cot late on a dark night, as angry voices soar up the stairs. A man with a fluting, patrician accent—some noble on the city, she knows not who—is shouting at her mother.

  Too far away to hear, too scared to slip out into the chill to hear better.

  Her mother’s replies, too faint to make out the words, but cold and angry and sharp-edged.

  The voices building, louder and faster, slashing and snapping like crossed swords—then suddenly a mighty roar that shakes cot, room, stairs, and all. A startled shout amid its thunder and … silence.

  No! No, I don’t want to see this! I never wanted to see this again! It never happened! Never never NEVER!

  [Easy, Narnra. See something else of mine, now. Something happier.]

  Laughter and warm firelight, and Marcon pouring a river of gold coins down onto her body while Bertro and Thloram Flambaertyn grin and clink goblets with her, all of them bare and a-tangle amid the furs. Rimardo hooting with laughter across the room and springing from the top of an ornate wardrobe—newly purchased, every bit as fine in its carving as her father’s best work and priced accordingly, too—onto an unseen Vonda, who shrieks with laughter and mock pain and slaps him energetically. Umbero intoning solemnly through the midst of all the merriment: “Truly Tymora smiles upon we of the Brightstar Sash! I make the count to be a full six thousand full-weight gold coins, not counting what you’re playing with in here, and the odd ones!”

  [But enough of my good times. Let’s see something of like excitement from you … yes.]

  A warm summer night, all the roofs of Waterdeep flooded in full moonlight, and Narnra in her shift gazing out at it all from her high bedroom window. A ghost of a breeze from inland, warm and dry and banishing the smells of salt and dead fish. The stirring excitement of putting one leg over the windowsill—something forbidden, something daring.…

  The roof-slates rough underfoot but reassuring and standing now right out under the moon and glorious vault of stars, only a few tiny clouds torn and tattered off to the north. Nothing between her soft skin and all the warm night but light, gauzy fabric. Boldly striding down the sloping roof to the edge to get a better view of great Waterdeep spread out before her and dark Faerûn beyond. Looking idly over the edge, seeing that it was a long, killing way down to the garden but being utterly unafraid.

  Suddenly, in the distance, across the silver vista of roofs, a lone dark figure darting and leaping—a thief? Someone hurrying on the rooftops. Heart suddenly in throat, Narnra looking around at the roofs nearby, that one so close … a quick run in bare feet, a leap, the warm wind in her hair, and landing catlike with a gentle thump that might just have awakened a servant if the Maurlithkurs forced one to sleep in their attic. On across their larger, sagging roof—tiles starting to go in one place, sliding askew—to the one beyond and perching there amid on an unfamiliar dormer hidden from her own window by the peak of the roof.

  Perching like a carved gargoyle or an owl looking for prey, long legs doubled up, feeling truly alive, and laughing at the excitement. Castle Waterdeep soaring just over there and the great dark shoulder of the mountain beyond, with the tiny winking lights of lanterns where guards were at their lofty posts, looking down on … her.

  Rush of fear, heart hammer-beating, laughter, springing aloft, and turning a cartwheel on a flat bit of roof ere landing to strike a wide-armed, defiant pose. “Yes! Here I am! Come and get me!”

  Excitement like fire in her veins, leaping from roof to roof, and finally back home to her waiting sill and in—in to wash filthy feet so she’d not be caught come morning. Looking back at the window knowing a whole new world—her world—lay waiting now, every night she wanted it.

  [Ah. See then my moment of bold venture.]

  Dimmer moonlight and Thloram murmuring, “Easy, now. The rest of us have come this way before, and returned. ’Tis safe.”

  Caladnei’s hand trembling with fear as she holds it out to him then turns to face the cold, steady blue fire that bides so impossibly between the two ancient stone pillars. Cracked and vine-covered, nothing like the splendor she’d envisaged: no glowing runes on gleaming metal nor sinister guardians …

  The first portal she’d ever seen, and merely being this close to it left her wet and shaking in terror.

  “Where’s our Caladnei of the Scrolls?” Thloram murmurs.

  From somewhere she finds just enough will to force out a laugh and stride forward into waiting blue fire, biting her own tongue in terror to keep from sobbing.…

  [Now, d’you recall your first theft? Show me.]

  The next summer, a night just as warm, Narnra better at tumbling, bolder now. Often perching gargoyle-like on gables and around corner-spires, watching folk of Waterdeep through their bedchamber windows—and learning much more than some young lasses do.

  Brawls and drunken fights and hurried little deals in dark streets and alleys, a knifing or two, many snatch-and-run thefts … and this night, one such that leaves a fat merchant on his backside grunting in pain and a fleet-footed, desperate loader-of-wagons pelting down an alley, heavy purse in hand … turning right beneath Narnra’s perch and racing up a rickety, groaning outside stair, gasping raggedly for breath, snatching out a hand to a door-catch—and freezing to peer in the narrow lit sliver of window, stand uncertainly for a moment with a whispered curse at someone recognized within, and strain up on tiptoe to perch the stolen purse up on the edge of the roof overhead. Going inside, door banging closed, to raised voices and Narnra so excited she thinks she’s going to be sick.

  Dare she? Watch-lanterns down below and armed men tramping, clouds blotting the moon … and like a night-viper, Narnra crawling chin-first down the steep roof, grazing the tiles with her body as she keeps low, Watch officers calling closer … down to where she can put her hand on the purse, heavy and excitingly solid. And draw it oh-so-slowly back and up to where she turns and steals away with it. Opening it on another rooftop a safe distance away, when a cloud rolls on to let the moon stab down and show her coins galore between her hands!

  [But things have gone darker for us both, haven’t they?]

  Great batlike wings and loose brown scales bristling from a gigantic bulk, shoulders like shifting boulders as the wings spread in a banking glide down …

  Down toward her, great jaws gaping wide, stinging tail lashing the air.

  “Help! Help!” Bertro calling weakly, blinded by his own blood, Umbero sprawled senseless or dead over him.

  Caladnei cursing just for something despairing to say as she starts to run right at the swooping wyvern with no spells left and only a broken sword in her hand, running like a mad thing into the jaw
s of doom because her friends need aid.…

  [No, I’ll spare you those deaths. Every bloodletting leaves a stain on those who see it. What of the death that overturned your world?]

  No! No, damn you, mage! I don’t WANT to—don’t—

  Her mother working late that last night, before the great blast that left her broken and burned amid the shattered shell of her front parlor. Magic killed her, of course, but whose? A wizard who hated her? No, someone hired to slay—but by the House of Artemel, or the Lathkules, or another?

  Bresnoss Artemel himself had brought the tiara to her shop, ringed by eight bodyguards openly wearing Artemel livery. Its glory-rubies had been the size of Narnra’s fist, even the smallest ones were as large as her thumb. They were to be recut and set in matched pairs into a navel-length pectoral.

  Maerjanthra had pinned the fine chain of the pectoral up on a cloth-covered dummy to begin the task, even as word had raced through the streets that a tiara worth millions in gold had been stolen from the bechamber of House Lathkule, the finest jewelers among the nobility of Waterdeep. Then—

  No! {furious turmoil, claw thrust shake} NO! I won’t see this! I WON’T!

  —Later, wandering alone and despairing across the pitiless rooftops, weeping and raging. The rubies gone from the shop before Narnra, flung out her windowsill by the heaving shuddering of the explosion, could even climb back inside to … to …

  Get out of my head, Caladnei! Get back go away leave me!

  On the rooftops months later, as that winter came stealing in with ever-colder breezes, still heartsick, still wondering: Had it been the Artemels, wanting to silence Lady Maerjanthra of the Gems so she could never reveal that the rubies had come to her in a tiara? Or the Lathkules, wanting to obliberate a long-time rival at gemcutting, perhaps thinking her the tiara-thief? Had an apprentice betrayed her mother, whispering to the Lathkules, or …?