Elminster's Daughter

by Ed Greenwood

  She sighed again. “If all that truly protected Azoun was his visible bodyguard, that attack could hardly have failed.”

  The Mage Royal turned to look at Laspeera, and—gasped and reeled in pain.

  Laspeera was similarly stricken, an involuntary moan of anguish bursting from her lips as she stumbled forward. From across the room, among the handful of War Wizards and Highknights guarding the inside of the doors, came more outbursts of pain. One mage toppled to the tiles in a dead faint.

  Rhauligan and the two royals reached out to steady the two, Alusair the swiftest to speak. “What’s happened?” she snapped.

  “The sanctum,” Caladnei gasped, clutching at her temples. “A violent—very large—release of magic! We’re attuned to its defenses. They must have …”

  “Gone down,” Laspeera said, from her knees. She struggled to her feet, pale and sweating, and added, “We must—”

  The door-gong rang. Alusair and Filfaeril spun around and assumed regal poses and expressions in an instant, and Rhauligan moved quickly to take Caladnei’s arm and turn her. The gong signified that the guards outside had intercepted someone having a rightful need to enter.

  Raised shield-spells flickered as the Highknights and War Wizards guarding the inside of the doors opened one of them a trifle. The most senior mage of that guard then murmured a message that his magic took straight to Caladnei, for everyone standing with her to hear: A herald. Alone. We’ve stripped and spell-read him. He wears only a tabard of our proffering.

  Alusair put a hand on the hilt of her sword. “Bid him enter,” she ordered curtly.

  The herald came barefoot, obviously naked under his tabard. He was tight-lipped and pale, though whether his pallor was born of fear or anger those in the room could not tell.

  Only Caladnei did not recognize him. The man was a professional Sembian herald-for-hire of long career and exacting correctness.

  Stopping a careful six paces away, he bowed deeply to the Dowager Queen and then to the Steel Regent before raising his hand in the “cupping empty air” gesture that requests peaceful parley.

  “Speak,” Alusair said.

  “I am asked,” the grand voice rolled out in response, “to request the presence of Queen Filfaeril Obarskyr of Cormyr and Regent Princess Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr at Thundaerlyn Hall in Marsember on the morrow, at First Candlelight, to discuss the bright future of this kingdom with certain noble-born Cormyreans loyal to the realm who are concerned about Cormyr—and represent those who are now the careful hosts of both the infant King Azoun and the retired Royal Magician.”

  Filfaeril and Alusair both cast swift glances at Caladnei, who shook her head to tell them that the claim—about Vangey, at least—must be a lie.

  She mindspoke the two royals: I believe we can protect you if you accept.

  “It shall be our pleasure to attend in Thundaerlyn Hall, at the time proposed,” the Dowager Queen replied serenely, adding a nod of dismissal.

  The herald seemed about to say something else, just for a moment, but instead nodded, made his bows again, and departed. The Obarskyr women stood watching him like grave statues until the doors closed behind him.

  Caladnei turned her head. “Speera?”

  Laspeera was still pale, but her mind-probe had been as deft as ever. “He knows nothing but the words he memorized and cares for their implications accordingly. He was given that message in writing in Saerloon by someone unfamiliar to him—a hired Sembian intermediary, by his looks in the herald’s memory—and paid very well to hasten here to deliver it.”

  “It’s a trap,” Alusair snapped.

  “Of course,” Filfaeril agreed quietly.

  “So we send some spell-disguised War Wizards in your places?” Rhauligan suggested.

  Alusair shook her head. “No. We attend. In person. I’m more than weary of perils unfolding in Cormyr behind my back or when I’m busy dealing with something else—I’m never going to cling to the title of Regent whilst sending others to sweat or die in my place. If the realm means anything to me, I must be there.”

  Filfaeril nodded. “Well said. All of your well-chosen words apply equally to me.”

  “Your Majesties,” Rhauligan protested, “though my heart leaps to hear you speak so, is it wise for the realm to risk both of you in one place? Hazarding the loss of all Obarskyr wisdom and influence, should you—watching gods forfend—be stricken down together?”

  He laid one hand on a vial at his belt, and asked, “Though I risk treason and my own death, dare I allow you to so endanger the realm while I have power left to prevent you?”

  The Dowager Queen put a swift hand on Alusair’s swordarm to forestall any word or action and smiled.

  “Rhauligan, the loyalty and service of you and men who act and feel as you do is Cormyr’s backbone and its splendor, not the surname shared by we two. Yet in truth my daughter and I are both now expendable so long as Azoun lives, is kept safe, and is guided and instructed well. You must trust us that he is.”

  She impulsively stepped forward and wrapped her regal arms around Rhauligan in a fierce hug.

  As he blinked in astonishment, she snapped into his ear, “I, too, am sick unto death of standing watching when I could be—should be—doing! If Thundaerlyn Hall be a trap, so much the better! My Azoun would not have wanted me to sit idle as the passing days carry me ever closer to the grave … as he never did!”

  Filfaeril thrust him away to stare into his eyes and added, “If it makes you feel better, Rhauligan, you may hide ready in Thundaerlyn and run to my rescue if needful—but you may not stand in front of me like a shield, or bundle me into some cloak-closet ‘for my own good’! Do we understand each other?”

  Rhauligan went to one knee, brought her fingertips to his lips, and said huskily, “Lady, we do.”

  * * * * *

  “I said back, Florin!” the young lass snapped again, as the ranger charged forward, blade raised. Her fingers never slowed in their deft weaving—but mere paces away, her double ended the swifter casting of a spell with a flourish and a cry of triumph.

  Reddish-purple light burst into being in that one’s hands and raced forth in thin, arrow-straight beams from every one of her fingers, stabbing at the lass who’d warned Florin off … only to strike something unseen in front of her target, claw at that barrier, and rise skywards in a building, trembling wave.

  Florin Falconhand decided it was prudent to obey that warning and sprang hastily away to the side and rear of the lass who’d hurled the spell—and who was now grimly pouring her will and perhaps other magics into it, drawing lips back from teeth in a soundless snarl and trembling to match the arcing fires of her spell.

  A thin sheen of sweat sprang into being all over her as Florin watched. He took a step toward the lass who was hurling fire—and the other identical young lass repeated her warning, in a waspish, somehow familiar tone that made Florin’s eyes narrow.

  Could this be … Elminster?

  His gaze went to the straining, warring magics overhead, where those fires were being thrust over and around, curling back toward their creator from above.

  The sweating lass knew her danger and was already eyeing the roiling power above her. Abruptly she sprang aside with a curse, ending her flow of fire—but the overhanging doom followed her like a great gliding dragon as she scrambled … and suddenly fell from above with a crash that shook the meadow.

  Florin was hurled from his feet as the ground heaved and the stricken, desperately shouting lass vanished from view in the flames. Her double, who’d sent this doom against her, stood still and firm.

  Something confusing happened in the rolling, swirling inferno, and the lass engulfed in it was abruptly some twenty paces off, sobbing on the ground … still caught in fading, flickering coils of her own flame that had clung to—and made the journey with—her.

  Florin cast a quick glance at the lass standing calmly then started toward the fire-wreathed one, looking back for a warning that did not c
ome.

  The spell-flames were dying away swiftly, now, and the lass within them was beating at the ground in pain, writhing and weeping, raising a sooty and tear-wet face to Florin that was—no longer feminine at all!

  Florin pounced on the wounded man, ignoring the threads of smoke rising from the blackened and ashen remnants of robes. A pain-twisted face tried to shape a word, so he slapped that mouth with the wet greenfins still in his hand. By the time the smoldering man had finished sputtering and spitting, his wrists were pinned to the scorched turf under the ranger’s knees.

  “Elminster?” Florin called back at the other lass.

  “Indeed,” a familiar voice replied. “None can hope to deceive ye, gallant Florin!”

  The ranger’s reply was a swift, rude snort of derision, followed by the words, “This dog has the look of a rogue mage. Should I be slaying him about now?”

  “Nay. I’ve a use or two for him yet. Hold him still, will ye?”

  As he spoke, the likeness of the young, hawk-nosed lass melted away from him, revealing an older, hawk-nosed, weatherbeaten, and very familiar Old Mage of Shadowdale—who promptly bent and, with a grunt, picked up the stricken lass he’d been carrying when he appeared.

  Florin shook his head slightly and asked, “Are you going to tell me why all three of you arrived wearing the same shape? And who it really belongs to?”

  “No,” Elminster replied serenely, “to thy first, but as to thy second, this in my arms is truly herself: a lass from Waterdeep—a thief, so watch thy pockets—hight Narnra Shalace. That beneath ye is a Red Wizard of Thay.”

  The handsomest man in Shadowdale received this news with no evidence of surprise, merely asking, “Will any of you be staying for a nice fish fry?”

  “I’m afraid I know not, yet. We wait upon the temper of a woman.”

  “A—?” Florin looked down at the broken, white-faced body that Elminster was laying tenderly beside him. “This Narnra?”

  “Indeed. Hold the Thayan securely, now. Defeating his spell was a simple matter of calling on the defensive enchantments of my tower, but now I must work a rather exacting magic.”

  “I should hope so,” the ranger murmured. “Sloppy spells give mages a bad reputation—when the wrong castle gets blasted to dust, the wrong thousand folk slain, and so on.”

  Elminster gave Florin a sour look. “Aren’t there some ladies somewhere ye could be causing to swoon about now?”

  Florin raised both his eyebrows and the still-dripping bunch of fish. “With these?”

  The Old Mage sighed, gestured for silence, and cast his spell. In the creeping silence that followed, both men watched as Narnra’s broken body slowly became whole again … and that of the Red Wizard took on her injuries, sinking and twisting under Florin. As the Thayan began to gasp and moan in pain, Narnra’s eyes fluttered open, and she stared up at them and felt her limbs—and sudden lack of pain—in wonder … and growing apprehension.

  “W-where am I now?” she murmured. “There was a rooftop … something falling …”

  Elminster took her shoulders and gently helped her to sit up. “That was just magic, lass. Bad magic.”

  As Narnra got a good look at the unfamiliar green trees and meadows of Shadowdale, and the pinched, pain-wracked face of the Red Wizard beside her, all the color drained out of her face—and she flinched away from the hands on her shoulders.

  “Will you send him back like this?” Florin asked quietly, eyeing Narnra’s shaken face.

  “Nay,” Elminster said quietly. “I’ll teach him some magic, show him why I made some of the moral choices I did, then set him loose … and he’ll choose his own fate, for good or ill. The world needs Red Wizards just as it needs carrion-worms. Let’s see if I can steer this one. My Lady The Simbul herself cannot slay them all. However …”

  He looked at his daughter, and said, “This wizard tried to slay ye with his spells just now, back in Marsember. I place his fate in thy hands.”

  He put a hand on Florin’s arm to signal the ranger to rise and step back. Together they withdrew, leaving Narnra sitting facing the Red Wizard. Hastily, she scrambled to her feet, and backed out of his reach, snarling, “Keep back!”

  With an obvious effort, the Thayan started to speak. “I am too … maimed to work spells or offer you violence.”

  “You tried to kill me!”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “I needed you gone to impersonate you. To learn the secrets of Elminster.”

  She glared at him, then at the Old Mage, then back at him and spat bitterly, “You’re no better than he is!”

  “True,” Starangh whispered. “Right now, I’m much worse.”

  “What good are his secrets to you?”

  “Power,” the Thayan husked. “All mages crave power.”

  Narnra’s eyes blazed. “To make slaves of the rest of us!”

  Starangh tried to shrug, but the movement brought such pain that he ended up writhing and groaning.

  “Why don’t you apprentice yourself to him or some other mage?” Narnra asked. “Why kill and deceive?”

  “Trust someone else as my master? Leave myself so vulnerable? That road is the way of the fool,” the Thayan told her, his voice a little stronger.

  “Trust,” Narnra told him furiously, leaning forward to drive her words home with slow, soft emphasis, “is a strength.”

  “You are a fool,” he replied.

  “And you’re a cruel idiot,” she replied scornfully. “Are all Red Wizards of Thay like you? Preening villains?”

  Starangh shook his head. “Just kill me and have done taunting.”

  “Why? Do words of sense truly hurt you more than wounding magic?”

  “Kill me,” he pleaded, furious and ashamed.

  “No,” Narnra snapped, turning away. “My father shall have his chance to twist and shape you, as he does to so many. Why should you escape my fate?”

  * * * * *

  The flash and flare of magic in their faces sent Vangerdahast staggering back into Myrmeen even before the great silver-blue, scaled bulk burst into being, shattering the low passage ceiling with a roar of mingled exultation and pain then bursting forth skywards, flooding the sanctum with sunlight.

  With a surge of wings and claws, the song dragon turned and pounced on the War Wizard Telarantra, rending her limb from limb before she could even shriek—to turn and hand the dripping result to Vangerdahast.

  “Here’s your traitor,” she said, in a soft and vast echo of her human voice.

  Back on his feet, Vangerdahast stood facing her calmly, as Myrmeen scrambled to her feet to defend him with her blade.

  However, the song dragon did not strike. “Why,” she asked the former Royal Magician, “did you spare me?”

  “Lady,” Vangerdahast replied gruffly, “you fought for your cause as I fight for mine. You’ve long dwelt among folk of Cormyr and must enjoy our company somewise to have persisted so long in doing so. I bear you no malice—and hope to turn you to support my plans.”

  “So I might become one of your willing defenders,” she replied, a touch of bitterness in that great voice. “Exhibiting the grand destiny of … a useful tool.”

  Vangerdahast sighed. “Of course you’ll see dragon-binding as evil. In truth, I’d avoid it if I could find a better way—but for me, all other things fall before my devotion to Cormyr.”

  “What has Cormyr done for you to deserve this devotion?”

  The old wizard sighed. “Lady, defending this fair realm is what I do. There is no higher calling, no greater task, no brighter boon to all Faerûn than this.”

  The great dragon head shook in resignation, those burning turquoise eyes never leaving those of Vangerdahast—yet searing also into Myrmeen’s wary gaze. “What will you do now, Vangerdahast, if I fly away, gather a dozen dragons, and return to destroy you—and your precious sanctum—utterly?”

  The old wizard shrugged. “Try me.”

  “Are you
not afraid?”

  “No,” the retired Mage Royal replied. “I’m growing too old to fear for this wrinkled old hide.”

  “Do you not fear for your precious realm?”

  Vangerdahast raised both of his empty hands in expressionless silence—and spell-links shone forth in the air like silver spiderwebs, spanning emptiness between the rings on his fingers and the winking radiances of risen spells and a dozen revealed wands. They formed a vast and glowing ring around Joysil and pulsed powerfully enough that she did not—could not—doubt that they could destroy her in an instant.

  The song dragon regarded them … and shivered. “Will you use these? If I try to fly away now?”

  Vangerdahast shook his head. “Nay. Sworn to defend Cormyr I am, but in her defense I’ll stand and fight those who come against her and me. I’ll not lash out and become a tyrant over those who may menace her or rival me. I will never make Cormyr into the likes of Thay, or Zhentil Keep, or Mulmaster, just to keep its name on maps.”

  He started to pace, as if forgetting how close and powerful she was, and added, “I’ve far more to worry over than dragons—I’ve the usual treachery among nobles, traitors among the War Wizards, and more than one eager Red Wizard all seeking the downfall of the Forest Kingdom. Any of them is apt to do more harm to Cormyr just now than dragonkind of any sort.”

  He stopped and turned to face Joysil again. “I don’t intend to bind any unwilling dragon—and now I must take steps to link the spells you so fear to my own life, so that if I’m slain they’ll destroy themselves and leave no mage empowered to bind you or your ilk.”

  The dragon’s turquoise eyes studied him thoughtfully. Joysil sprang into the air, swooped low and away behind some trees, and flew away, her wingbeats fast and furious.

  Myrmeen and Vangerdahast stood in the sunlight watching her distant form dwindle, until the old wizard sighed, shook his head, and peered about to see if there still was a passage he could traverse ahead of him. At his shoulder, Myrmeen said softly, “You’re either the greatest fool I’ve ever met—or the greatest man.”