by Ed Greenwood
Caladnei! {sobbing anguish, blind clawing and fighting}
[My apologies, Narnra. I’ve known sorrow too.]
Hurrying home to Turmish on a borrowed horse after hearing the dark news, along winding upland lanes to the tiny Turmish village of Tharnadar Edge. Her mother had been born there and now was gone, lost at sea, not even any bones to bury.
Her father Thabrant, still tall but now dark-eyed, grim, uncaring. A hollow shell of a man with no vigor left in him, not even any tears. She’d cried for the both of them, arms fierce around him. He’d stood like a statue, quietly telling her he’d never trust gods again.
He told her he was going to go home to Cormyr to die. “On the smallest ship I can find, Cala, with the worst crew. I hope Talos and Umberlee take me when we’re on the waves, as they did her. I’ll go to their altars and curse them both before I go aboard.”
No chance for either of them to say goodbye to the swift-tempered, passionate bird of a woman who’d been the hearthstone for both their lives: Maela Rynduvyn, slender, deft, and quiet-footed. Her hair russet, the same strange eyes she’d given Caladnei, dusky-skinned, most comfortable barefoot in old clothes. Drowned in a storm off Starmantle on her way to Westgate to see a long-lost sister.
Her father had held his gnarled woodcarver’s hands awkwardly that day, the first time Caladnei had ever seen him do so. He’d cradled empty air as if he were carrying something precious or hoped to catch it by never looking at it but keeping always ready. He hadn’t looked at the meal Caladnei had made for them both or at anything but her. She’d shivered often that night as she lay unsleeping in the dark watching him sitting by the window staring back at her—because she knew he wasn’t seeing her but her mother. Only her mother.
Mage, I don’t CARE about your dead mother or anything of your life! I just want this to be over and you to be out of my mind, my—my—
[Easy, Narnra. Easy. Show me the first thing that comes into your mind.]
Alone and hungry, that first winter, being passed a flagon by a man with an easy smile, slouched outside the open door of his hut in Dock Ward. It was more than wine, a fire in her belly that soothed and drove off the chill and helped her laugh. They told jokes and tales and snorted at each other’s mimicry of the street merchants, and after a time Urrusk had taken her inside to swipe the flies from a half-gnawed roast goat-leg and hand it to her.
Her empty stomach had made her pounce on it and gnaw like a panther, and he’d laughed all the more, refilling her flagon often and just laughing when he fumbled with her lacings and couldn’t find her belt and fell on his face against her shins.
Another man had lurched in the door and backhanded Urrusk away. “Dolt!” he’d snapped. “I hire you to lure the slaves, not ruin them!”
With a growl he’d reached up into the crowded tangle of oddments in the rafter and brought down some jangling manacles, advancing on Narnra with a glint in his eye that suggested he might continue where Urrusk had been hauled off, after he—
She fought weakly as he snatched at her wrists. His fingers were as cold and hard as stone when he caught her, and he’d lifted her like a doll toward a ring set into one wall, chuckling. Then up from behind him Urrusk had lurched, face twisted in rage, and thrust the chain of the second manacle around the larger man’s throat, ere hauling hard.
The big man’s eyes had bulged as he roared and tugged. Narnra had put her shoulders to the wall and kicked him between the legs, as high and as hard as she could, ending up bruisingly on her behind on the littered floor as he staggered, found a wall with his face … and she was out into the night like a rushing wind, running blindly with a Watch-patrol soon after her.…
{Fear disgust rage helpless rage revulsion}
[Narnra, be easy. You’re not the only one who knew trouble in Waterdeep.]
Sweating and panting in that upper room in the house off Soothsayer’s Way, where old Nathdarr ran his school of the sword better with one eye than many men can fight with two. Caladnei the only lass in the room, her desperate leaps and nimble bladework slowly turning his contempt into grudging admiration, until the night when Marcon and Thloram burst in breathless to shout at her to flee with them—now!
While she worked to become better with steel, her companions of the Sash had run riot spending their coins in the City of Splendors. Rimardo and Vonda had foolishly tried to rob a noble, and his men had captured them and tortured them to death, forcing from them the names of all in the Brightstar Sash … as the noble’s guards had jeeringly told Marcon whilst trying to impale him in a tavern, less than an hour ago.
He and Thloram had fought their way clear, with a mob on their heels and four guardsmen in livery dead, and now the Watch had joined the hounding. If she still had most of her gold, they knew where they could buy room together inside a crate being loaded onto a wagon for transport out of the city this night.
Nathdarr’s look of admiration had melted back into sour disgust. He was shaking his head as they ran out the back way into the night—but when the mob came howling up to the front door of his training-room, he’d calmly put his sword through one, two, and three of them before drawing breath.
Such fun. So did you outlive all the others then come running to Cormyr to hide?
[Cruel, Narnra. I’ll show you why I parted ways with the Sash. You deserve that much.]
With Thloram dead and buried in the Rift, Marcon was the only one left of the jovial band who’d plucked her up from her table at the Cracked Flagon. Oh, he’d found replacements—more blades and wizards than ever, younger and even more apt to swagger than Bertro had been—but the fun was gone. Too many sad memories, too many absent smiling faces.
Wherefore she hadn’t bothered to tell Marcon when Meleghost Telchaedrin had sent word that she should come to him in private. If some decadent Halruaan wanted to make an end of her, so be it. We all greet the gods sometime, and Caladnei was past caring when her time would come.
The Sash was here in the Telchaedrin family towers to accept a commission. Sarde Telchaedrin wanted them to hunt down a renegade heir before the bloodtaint spell he’d crafted spread death to every corner of Halruaa. It was a task Caladnei mistrusted, but the coin being offered was staggering—another mark of suspicion that her younger comrades in the Sash didn’t seem to see … and Marcon obviously didn’t want to notice.
Lord Meleghost was an older uncle of Lord Sarde, considered “an odd one” by the few Halruaans Caladnei had been able to mention his name to. In his younger days he’d gone adventuring outside the Walls, bringing back strange tales of colorful Faerûn beyond the mountains. He was alone when she arrived in the high-vaulted, empty marble hall, standing on a high dais by a great oval window as tall as six tall men. Even beside it, Lord Meleghost was a very tall man.
“Welcome,” he murmured without the usual elaborate courtesies, extending a hand to her. “Thank you very much for coming, and please accept my assurances that I mean you no harm and intend no deceit.”
Caladnei blinked in surprise then gave him a smile and her hand together. “You seem in haste, Lord—a pace and a plain manner I must admit I find pleasing. Please unfold your will to me without delay.”
Meleghost nodded, peering at her over his long nose like an old and weary bird of prey, and said, “As you wish. This commission is a ruse that will lead you into disaster. Sarde is steering you into unwittingly attacking a rival family of our realm. You should depart Halruaa—alone—now.”
Caladnei nodded slowly. “I’ve been uneasy about this from the first.” She took a step forward and asked, “Why are you telling me this?”
Meleghost also stepped forward until their faces were almost touching—his breath smelt pleasantly of old spices—and murmured, “I once adventured with your father, and I mindscry him from season to season so we can chat together. Child, Thabrant is dying. He dwells in a hut in the hills north of Immersea in upland Cormyr and fails slowly—but he’s grown desperate to see you. He said to tell you that
his pride is all gone now and he needs you.”
Caladnei stood trembling on the edge of tears, swallowing hard. The old Halruaan folded comforting arms around her and bent his forehead to hers.
A moment later, grieving and confused, she felt a fire flooding into her mind, bright white and irresistible.…
She gasped, or thought she did, and suddenly the thrill of a new spell was in her mind, laid out clear as crystal for her to see: a translocation spell that could snatch her from place to place. Teleport! This was the magic wizards called teleport.
This should help you to flee Halruaa, so long as you never try to use it inside one of our buildings—including this one.
His voice was like soft thunder in her mind. Impulsively she said back to him, I cannot thank you enough, but I insist that this not be a gift, but a trade. This is the best magic I know. Please take it.
The spell of flight? I have it, but gladly I’ll accept yours. A true daughter of Thabrant Swordsilver to deal thus in honor. Fare you well, Caladnei, and have a good life.
Weeping, she kissed his cheek, whirled away, and fled. It took a good few teleports to reach upland Cormyr.
[Do we understand each other enough, yet?]
Yes. Damn you, yes.
[That’s good. I like you, Narnra Shalace. I hope you can come to like me. But all is going dim around us because this is … tiring. Very tiring. You’ve been thrashing like a hooked fish.
Caladnei, I FEEL like a hooked fish!
Up from the rushing darkness, like a fish swimming up to sunlight, up to the brightness and noise and—
Flash of silver, crash of cascading swirling water, bells and horns and bright burning …
Narnra found herself staring into the eyes of Caladnei—which were a deep brown-red, and royal blue at the center, she saw suddenly—and the Mage Royal was looking back at her.
They were both weeping silently, faces wet with tears, as they lay together on their sides, locked in a fierce embrace.
Over Caladnei’s curves Narnra could see Laspeera and Rhauligan standing watchfully near, she holding a wand ready, he a drawn sword.
Trapped. Trapped and bound and cheated.
In sudden red rage Narnra tore herself free of Caladnei in a welter of shoves, slaps, and thrusting knees and hurled herself back into the air and away.
The Mage Royal’s shielding spells flared into life like white flames, enshrouding Caladnei from view.
Narnra landed, rolled, and came up running. Laspeera and Rhauligan were moving—keeping between her and the doors!
She swerved away from them both, sobbing bitterly, and ran to the farthest empty corner of the chamber—where she slammed her fists against the unyielding wall until they hurt too much to go on pounding.
She sagged, forehead against a smooth and uncaring wall, and sobbed until she was empty. Empty and … alone.
“Well?” the Mage Royal asked softly, from behind her. “Not the usual training I give agents, but are you a mite more … content?”
Narnra whirled around to glare back at her. “Where’s my freedom?” she snarled. “Mind-chains, you give me! What you choose to show of your past and what you want to take of mine! Content—hah!”
Caladnei’s face looked as unhappy as her own. As Narna watched, a fresh tear welled out of her eye and ran down her pale cheek.
“And your choice?” the Mage Royal whispered, holding out her hand like a beseeching beggar.
Narnra looked at it and whirled to look away, breathing heavily.
What choice have I? Where in all Faerûn can I run to?
What will she do to me if I refuse?
Her mind whirled an image back to her once more: that glimpse of Caladnei trembling with fear before the first portal she’d ever seen—then forcing a laugh and striding forward into its blue fire biting her own tongue in terror …
Caladnei, running toward a swooping wyvern with no spells left and only a broken sword in her hand, because her friends needed her …
Friends. Someone to laugh with. That brought a new scene: Caladnei laughing by a fire, laughing to cover her embarrassment and pain as old tuft-bearded Thloram gave her warm spiced wine and pulled back the sleeping furs to lay her bare for all to see and sew up the sword-gash she’d taken in their victory that day …
Thloram, lying broken and dead after a fall in the Great Rift, his jests and his comforting hands and his splendid hotspice stews gone forever in an instant …
She would have liked to have known Thloram.
This woman had lived so much more than she had.
Like the legends said Elminster had, and still did, after a thousand years of battles and monsters and fell wizard-foes.
It was a long, silent time before Narnra said slowly, not looking up, “I believe, Mage Royal, you’ve found yourself a new—and, gods curse you, loyal—agent.”
Eighteen
REVELATIONS AND MISSIONS
Know thy traitors and who’s the kin of whom, and that’s half the deaths delayed. Averted, one more optimistic might say, but I’ve never been one of those. I’m the other sort of fool.
Szarpatann of Tashluta
Advice to the Doomed:
A Chapbook for Would-Be Rulers
Year of the Twelverule
In a high, narrow, and deserted hallway outside the Dragonwing Chamber, Huldyl Rauthur frowned thoughtfully. If the echoing spillover of the Mage Royal’s mind-ream hadn’t been wrinkling his face in pain, he’d have been grinning.
The backlash outpourings were making both the Highknight Rhauligan and Mother Laspeera herself wince. Huldyl could feel their pain, too. Between them, Caladnei and this sorceress Narnra must have minds to overmatch any twenty War Wizards of the realm combined. Mother Mystra, make that any twoscore mages of Cormyr.
So this little thief-lass was the daughter of the Great High Elminster himself, eh? Small wonder Caladnei had rushed to make her an unwilling agent of the Mage Royal, a sort of “Highknight on probation.” Well, well.
It would be best to tell no one, not even Starangh. Just in case Huldyl Rauthur needed something important to bargain with for his own life someday.
He’d better wait a few breaths and let everything settle down in there before knocking. Reporting the trouble at the sanctum to Laspeera was urgent, of course, but as the sayings went, prudence was prudence, and an overbold War Wizard is a swiftly dead War Wizard.
* * * * *
“Gods bless you, Narnra,” Rhauligan said roughly from somewhere behind her.
They’d waited for her and kept silence while she made her choice.
Narnra drew in a deep breath, spread both of her hands on the cold wall, and pushed hard, forcing herself to turn around and face them without taking however long she might have needed to muster up enough courage.
Her choice was made, the first bend of her road ahead clear before her.
“Command me, Mage Royal,” she forced herself to say. She even managed a smile.
* * * * *
Suddenly, Huldyl Rauthur was no longer alone in the corridor. A Purple Dragon winked into existence, gave him a smile, and raised one hand beckoningly.
The warrior’s face melted—just for a moment—into that of the wizard Darkspells.
Huldyl considered fainting for a moment then settled for just swallowing hard and obediently walking toward the Red Wizard, who smiled, became a Purple Dragon again, and led the way through another door.
* * * * *
The anklet was doing its work perfectly. Even better, Caladnei thus far suspected nothing. A trifle too slow and trusting still, our Mage Royal …
Elminster smiled wryly. To say nothing of the increasingly slow wits of one Elminster of Shadowdale.
Caladnei’s thoughts had certainly been in turmoil this last little while, as she kept a hostile mind sane within her own, but the anklet’s light prying had been more than clear on one matter: Narnra Shalace was his daughter.
“Bless ye, Mystra,” he murmured
. “This now calls for bolder action.”
He called to mind her likeness there in his paper-littered study and with a soft-spoken spell built it from a vivid mental image to an apparently solid figure in leathers, glaring at him through dark hair. Its pose was frozen as he strolled around it, peering critically and adjusting hips there and height of shoulder there.…
He frowned, beckoned with his finger, and told the curved pipe that answered his summons, “I can’t remember how she walked and held her hands when she moved. Time to go and take a peek.”
Leaving the pipe floating mutely in front of a fading Narnra, he turned, took a step, and vanished.
* * * * *
The bard wore leathers that were gray with age and thick with road-dust. His face was largely hidden behind a pewter tankard as tall as a short warrior’s breastplate, and he sat hunched over a table in the gloom in the back corner of this particular taproom in Suzail because this—specifically, the broom-closet door behind him—was where the portal-link to Marsember was.
Roldro Tattershar didn’t think too many folk of Cormyr, even Highknights and War Wizards, knew about this particular portal anymore. Not even most of his fellow Harpers had heard of it. Wherefore Roldro took care to affix a villainous false mustache onto his upper lip whenever he visited The Green Wyvern and employ garb far different from his customary floridly flamboyant dress.
However, as he set down his tankard on this particular occasion, he choked and almost swallowed his mustache when the air right in front of him wavered and suddenly produced two men, standing with their backs to him where there’d been nothing but empty air before. Swiftly and silently Roldro put his head down on his arm and let his tankard loll and lean in his thumb, looking every inch the passed-out drunkard.
“I can’t stay long!” the shorter man hissed, running a nervous hand through the few strands of brown hair that were left across his balding pate. “I was about to report the ah, troubles at the sanctum to Laspeera. A lot of palace duty-guards saw me pass!”