by Ed Greenwood
Myrmeen burst into tears, and groped for Elminster’s arm. When he proffered it, she clung to him, dragged herself upright, and fought down her weeping until she managed to gulp, “Yet it would g-give me g-great pride and pleasure to bear and raise your heir, Lord Vangerdahast, to be trained as a wizard loyal to Cormyr.”
Elminster lifted an eyebrow. “Mystra smile, but ye work swifter than I do, Vangey!”
Out across the trampled grass, Vangerdahast made reply—with a very old and very rude gesture.
* * * * *
A blood-drenched, battered figure rose from a heap of the dead in the shattered ruins of Thundaerlyn Hall, shook aside some ashen, still-smoking splinters of balcony, and limped across the rubble-strewn floor, a notched and bent sword in hand.
“Mother?”
Another figure arose serenely out of heaped bodies not far away.
“I’m not dead yet,” the Dowager Queen replied with a weak smile, wiping blood from the sword in her own hand with the hem of her jeweled gown. She surveyed Alusair critically. “Which is more than I can say for you. You always did like getting dirty, didn’t you?”
“Indeed,” Alusair said with a sudden laugh, embracing her mother. “And I still do.”
Purple Dragons, Highknights, and War Wizards were eyeing them from a discreet distance and shuffling closer. Filfaeril chuckled and told her daughter, “Come, find us that portal back to Suzail, or we’ll have to spend the rest of the night answering questions!”
* * * * *
“Come, lass,” Elminster said to Myrmeen, “ye need to eat. There’ll be naught to see now for some days, until all our castings are done.”
He turned away to lead the weary and saddened Lady Lord of Arabel to a chair—only to freeze as a voice thundered behind him. Joysil’s voice.
“Mage, I’ve learned of your recent wranglings with a certain young lass of Waterdeep—where is she right now?”
Something in that grim tone made Elminster spin around, letting go of Myrmeen’s hand and stepping away from her in haste.
“Ah,” Elminster replied with a grin, “ye know the saying about wizards never letting slip their secrets?”
“Almost as well as I know the one about how tasty wizards can be,” the song dragon growled. “So I’ll amend my question into two lesser ones: Do you know where she is, and is she safe?”
“Aye, and I hope so. Thy interest in her proceeds from—?”
“Dragons eat their secrets, man. Let me unfold this my way. There’s one more thing to be said. We know each other rather better than you realize.”
“Oh?” El asked, spreading his fingers to display the rings on them—rings that winked with the light of awakened magic. “Is there an old score ye need settled? Some share of my hoards, perhaps? Or is it my skin ye seek?”
“Once we sought each other’s skin, Elminster of Shadowdale—ardently and often.”
The Old Mage’s eyes narrowed. “What name and shape did ye wear then?”
“For some years I was the sorceress and jeweler Maerjanthra Shalace of Waterdeep.”
Myrmeen gave Elminster an incredulous look and found the Old Mage’s face every bit as astonished as her own.
He managed a pale smile then bowed deeply to the looming dragon. “Well, well—ahem—my apologies for knowing ye not, Joysil. So ye’re Narnra’s mother!” He shook his head, adding hastily, “Well, now. I … I’ll tell her only much later, I think, when the lass is ready for such news.”
“Wise choice,” Joysil said in dry tones.
Elminster cast a swift glance at Myrmeen. Fresh tears were streaming down her face, but she waved him away as she sat in a chair. Not just away. She was waving him toward the dragon.
The Old Mage looked up, swallowed, and asked, “Wha … ah, how d’ye feel toward me now, ah, Lady?”
“Joysil. Call me Joysil.” The great dragon head lowered, those burning eyes seemed to sear through him, and the jaws beneath slowly … smiled.
“I must confess I’m—pleased—to see you so taken aback. You’re learning, El … learning doubt at last. Archmages who know just how to rule the world scare me, and you were worse than most. One bed one night, another the next, no thought for the ruin you left behind or what I went through, tearing free from Shar. Too many realms to conquer, liches to blast, other wizards to humble—all stars in your eyes and rushing to save Faerûn, that was you. And yet I … I love you still.”
“Ye …”
“I loved you then for the same reason I’m still fond of you, Old Mage. Your tenderness. Your gentleness, your understanding. Never lose that, El, or I might just awaken, leave Cormyr undefended, and come looking for you.” Joysil sprang aloft.
“I—I still care for thee, Maer—Joysil,” Elminster called quickly, stepping forward.
“I know, El. I know. So keep yourself alive for years to come, hold that madness at bay, be happy with the Queen of Aglarond—and look after our Narnra well—without smothering her.”
“I … of course. Her safety shall be—”
“The pleasure you endure now,” Joysil said in a voice as dry as the desert, “in return for the pleasure we shared then.”
She flapped her wings once, circled so low over the Old Mage that Myrmeen cried out in alarm, and whispered, “Farewell, El. I do love you.” She soared away, silver-blue in the lowering sun.
Elminster went to his knees as his spell flung his thought after her: I love thee, Joysil, and I love our Narnra. Trust in me.
He got back of flare of amusement. Trust. Of course.
Elminster stayed on his knees, watching the sky where Joysil had gone for some time.
“Well, now,” he said finally, getting up with a wince and a hand on a stiffening hip. He didn’t look at the Lady Lord of Arabel, and she watched him in silence.
“Well, now,” Elminster muttered again, several times, as he peered into larders, drew forth tureens, and gathered kindling for the hearthfire.
“He hasn’t taken very good care of the place,” a familiar voice floated out of the distance.
Myrmeen’s head jerked up. “Laspeera!”
“Well, you know Vangey,” another voice agreed wryly, and Caladnei led three rather battered-looking women down a rubble-strewn passage into the kitchen. “Aha,” she said as Elminster straightened up from the growing fire. “He had help destroying things. I might have known.”
The Crown Princess asked sharply, “So what happened, Mreen? Is the realm now at war with Elminster of Shadowdale?”
The Dowager Queen Filfaeril stood with her, both of them stained with blood and looking as if they’d been in a battle.
Myrmeen shook her head, fresh tears glimmering in her eyes. “No,” she quavered, “but I’m not sure what to tell you first. I …”
“What befell in Marsember?” a new voice asked from behind the two highest-ranking War Wizards, causing them in turn to whirl around. “Am I now holding the last living Obarskyr?”
The glow of a spell was just fading around the ankles of Storm Silverhand, who stood with the infant Azoun cradled in her arms, the sage Alaphondar at her side, Florin Falconhand standing watchfully by with two swords drawn—and Narnra flanking him, drawn daggers in both hands.
Of course, everyone started talking at once.
* * * * *
Storm, Florin, and, surprisingly, Alaphondar and Filfaeril all pitched in with the cooking, and the resulting feast was wonderful. Much later—magic being a wonderfully useful thing—the shattered kitchen had become a haven of warmth and softly leaping firelight, wherein all sat at ease with boots up and glasses to hand—save for the snoring King of Cormyr.
It was the first time in years that Narnra Shalace could remember being truly happy.
“Forgive me,” Myrmeen asked her politely across the table, “but I hear the swifter, harsher speech of Waterdeep on your tongue. What brought you to Cormyr?”
Narnra smiled. “I was thieving and followed a man I failed to rob, who intrigued me
.” She nodded across the room, to where a white-bearded wizard was gently spell-rocking a conjured cradle for Azoun Obarskyr and humming a nameless tune, while rubbing the feet of a bootless Storm Silverhand as she groaned in contentment. “Elminster of Shadowdale,” Narnra explained, “who turned out to be my father.”
“Elminster?” Myrmeen asked. “Your father?”
“Yes. Wherefore I happen,” Narnra added, “to be one of the two or maybe three women in all Waterdeep who aren’t breathtakingly beautiful.”
“Well, luckily the gods didn’t give you the worst of his hawk-nose—or his beard,” Myrmeen chuckled. “I remember from my younger days that being stunningly gorgeous was more bother than it was fun—being as I wasn’t an empty-headed, spiteful little bitch of a noble, looking to spend my days marrying one nobleman and bedding all the others after revels.”
Narnra nodded, drew in a deep breath, and turned to Caladnei. “So now that you know all about me, will you still have me in your service? Or slay me?”
“Of course I’ll still have you,” Caladnei replied warmly, and turned her head to look at the Lady Laspeera. “As for why, you’re the best one to make answer, Speera.”
Laspeera nodded. “Narnra,” she said gently, “I, too, am a daughter of Elminster. Welcome, sister. Truly, I am.… and there are a lot of us.”
“Myself, for instance,” Queen Filfaeril said calmly, causing Cormyrean jaws to drop all over the room. “Though neither of us knew it for some years.”
“Gods,” Myrmeen said, turning to gaze at the bearded man by the cradle. “You have been busy, haven’t you?”
EPILOGUE
Humans like to mark endings—but such events are seldom the real end of any tale.
Amaelree Windhover
One Elf in Minstrels’ Robes
Year of the Splendid Stag
Brine. This leaking cog was loaded with sides of pickled beef—bound for Sembia. Witch of the Dragon Waves, indeed. Harnrim Starangh sighed and hastened down the companionway. His spell would wear off in moments—if some vengeful War Wizard didn’t trace him by it before then—and none of the other ships in Marsember were showing any signs of leaving soon.
He had to get out of Cormyr. With but three spells left to him—and certain superiors among the Red Wizards certain to be looking for him with even more fury than these law-mages of the Forest Kingdom—the mighty Darkspells was going to have to vanish for a while. Perhaps for a long while.
He had been close. So close …
Harnrim Starangh permitted himself a single soft but heartfelt curse before he worked the magic that would turn him into a ballast-stone … and toppled into the filthy water of the bilges.
* * * * *
Glarasteer Rhauligan was in no mood for delay. His burden had fainted as he’d carried her along dark and secret tunnels from the portal. The palace room they were in now was off limits to all but War Wizards, who were lazyrobes all, which meant that instead of a lantern that had to be lit, there’d be a hooded glowstone right about—here.
In the revealed radiance the Highknight selected a row of steel vials from one of the crammed shelves and started biting off their corks. Why they couldn’t make these so they were easy to open one-handed, he’d never know.
He forced three of them down Nouméa’s lovely throat before her eyes fluttered open and her flank ceased to feel like … well, like some butcher of a nobleman with a sharp sword had slit it open.
“T-Thank you, sir,” she murmured, staring at him. “You’re … Rhauligan. A Highknight of Cormyr, I believe. I owe you my life. Why? What do you intend for me now?”
Rhauligan shook his head. Quick-tongued, these Sembian nobles, even while weary and weak with half their life-blood spilled. “Bed rest in one of the state guestchambers yonder,” he told her, “a meal if you’re up to it—and I’m certainly going to feast, even if you want nothing—and we’ll talk in the morning. Cormyr has a certain shortage of nobles the realm can trust, right now.”
“And one cast-aside highskirts woman from Sembia can make a difference?”
“Lady, one person can always make a difference—and their name need not be Azoun Obarskyr, Vangerdahast, or even Glarasteer Rhauligan, for that matter. What’s Cormyr—or any fair realm—but a lot of lone persons, who believe in the same thing?”
“This is the dream you believe in?” Nouméa murmured, as Rhauligan picked her off her feet and carried her into the next chamber.
“Lady fair,” Rhauligan told her, as he laid Nouméa gently on a bed and started to arrange pillows behind her head, “ ’tis what gets me up in the morning.”
* * * * *
Bezrar made a choking sound and lurched toward the rail. The Witch of the Dragon Waves was starting to roll and wallow already, with the harbor barely astern.
“Nine blazing Hells,” Surth hissed, swallowing hard to keep his own gorge down, “are you going to do that all the way to Yhaunn?”
His fat business partner’s reply was a whirl of impressive alacrity to grip Malakar Surth’s throat with fingers that were as hard as their arrival was sudden.
“You shut up, for once, Cleversneer,” Aumun Tholant Bezrar snarled furiously, “or by all the gods I’ll—”
He fell silent to gape up into the sky and shrank away from Surth to cower.
Surth whirled around to see what had frightened his partner, knowing as he did so that it was an action he was going to regret.
He was right. Out of the mists something was gliding past, slow and low and menacing. Something larger than the Witch of the Dragon Waves, and far more graceful: a gigantic fang dragon with a rainbow-hued swath of scales on one flank.
When it was quite gone, Bezrar and Surth swallowed in white-faced unison, there as they cowered on the deck of the creaking, wallowing merchant cog.
“We can’t reach Sembia swift enough for me,” Surth whispered, though in truth he cared not if the rolling ship beneath him was bound for Yhaunn or the Pirate Isles, or Westgate, or anyplace else in all wide Faerûn that wasn’t controlled by Red Wizards. Yet.
“Well,” Bezrar growled, from beside him, “at least we’re well away from Darkspells, and all his schemes. That one made me shiver, I can tell you!”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
When he created the FORGOTTEN REALMS® universe almost forty years ago, Ed Greenwood had no idea (despite always working with the best of intentions) that he’d wind up exploring Hell in a novel. Yet it’s occurred to him that, given the real estate in these pages, things can only get brighter for him (and the wizard Elminster) from here onward.
Ed hails from a book-crammed farmhouse in Ontario, Canada, where he writes many game adventures, short stories, and books. The former have won awards, while the latter have been translated into over twenty languages and taken him all over the world, where he delights in meeting fans. His recent books include the novels Silverfall, The Kingless Land, and The Vacant Throne.
FORGOTTEN REALMS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast, Inc., in the U.S.A. and other countries ©2001 Wizards of the Coast LLC
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