by Ed Greenwood
A kitchen Elminster wouldn’t mind relaxing in, himself, to sip warm soup with his boots off and battered old feet up on the table, with Storm winking at him as she menaced his toes in mock fierceness with her carving knife. With onions sizzling in a pan and the promise of a really good meal rising to tantalize his nose, setting his mouth to watering …
El smiled tightly as he firmly shook his head to banish the daydream and bring himself back to the tunnel he stood in, a short stroll away from being under the grand, sprawling royal palace of Suzail. It was a narrow, low-ceilinged way, ancient and crumbling … but not unguarded.
Quite possibly not just by the guardians he knew, but by new perils. The soaring seat of rulership it led to was, after all, under the protection of a society of young and ambitious wizards. Mages who must all be under orders to watch for the infamous Sage of Shadowdale and to destroy or entrap him if at all possible.
And if there was one thing a long, long life in Faerun taught even a slow-witted man, it was that all things are possible.
He took a step closer to the royal palace-and abruptly stopped, peering into the darkness ahead.
Something had moved, something brown and … bony.
Ah. An old friend, of sorts, if he wasn’t mistaken.
El felt in a belt pouch, brought forth a pinch of powder, used his other hand to do the same to another pouch as far away from the first as his girth would permit, then brought his hands together and rubbed.
A faint glow kindled where the two powders met and mingled. He lifted his glowing palm like a pale, feeble lamp and stayed where he was.
As the first, familiar guardian shuffled into view.
He’d guessed right. It was a human skeleton, trudging with slow, unsteady menace. As it came, it raised a sword dark with rust.
Elminster gave it a calm stare. “Do ye really want to strike at me? Will thy shrewd strike bring crowning triumph to thy day?”
Empty eyesockets stared at him, expressionless but somehow uncertain. Then brownish bones shifted-only spell-bleached skeletons were truly white, all bards’ ballads notwithstanding-and the sword wavered down again.
The old man in the ragged robe waited patiently. Three of his calm breaths later, the undead guardian of this nigh forgotten, deep passage of the palace undercellars stepped back to let him pass.
With a smile and a nod, he did so, looking back only once. The skeleton was staring after him, as still as a statue, its sword still point down.
Elminster walked on into the darkness. It was a curious thing; down the many years of his long life, he’d spent not all that much time in the Forest Kingdom. Yet being back in the haunted wing of the royal palace of Cormyr, he felt at home.
He belonged.
Not back under the trees of Shadowdale he knew and loved so.
These cobwebbed shadows and empty, echoing rooms had somehow stolen into his heart and head and had become home.
Just when had that happened? And how?
Elminster came to a halt. Here, at the lowest spot in the passage, where the walls glistened with seepage, there was always a puddle of water. Sounds from the palace end of the tunnel always echoed here, clearly audible far from their source, and unless a foe was hard on one’s heels with a blade drawn or a spell on his lips, ’twas always worth halting for a breath or two to listen for what might be waiting in one’s near future.
Aye-there! The scrape of a boot, again. Someone was waiting up ahead where the passage opened out into the wider undercellar. Someone who’d already grown bored.
“My foot’s asleep again, stlarn it,” came a thin, waspish male voice, startlingly loud and sudden. “Taking his godsfire-damned own time about it, isn’t he?”
“Huh,” another, deeper male voice muttered in reply. “Probably wounded and wary-and so, slow. Thal didn’t see him, remember; just Storm Silverhand heading away from the city wall right quick. Meaning the Old Mage’s wits are his own again, or she’d not leave him-so back here he’ll come. Back to where the magic is.”
“Where he’ll find us ready for him.”
“I hope.”
“You doubt the Royal Magician’s wisdom in this?” That was a snapped, swift challenge.
The reply was wearily calm. “How many went up against him out at Tethgard-and how many came back alive?”
There was a short silence before the other man snarled, “I don’t want to talk about it. I … Things did not go well.”
“So much half the palace knows-as all of Suzail will, tomorrow. How’s Tethlor?”
There was a loud sigh. “Still in a bad way, to tell true. Almost as bad as Elminster.”
The Sage of Shadowdale smiled wryly in the darkness and started walking forward again. Reception foreguard or not, he wasn’t getting any younger.
As he went, he felt in the breast of his jerkin beneath the scorched smith’s apron and among the pouches at his belt for the things he’d probably need when he reached the far end of the passage. Handy things, Storm’s Harper caches, if one didn’t mind wearing gowns at the flashier end of the wardrobe …
Yet all gods blast this creeping madness and the magic he dared not hurl. He was going to have to waste so much time arguing with fools, instead …
Like yon two, standing with thumbs hooked through their belts, barring his way with confidence that was probably more outward seeming than truth. One was in faintly glowing black leathers: a highknight of Cormyr. The other wore the robes of a wizard-and any wizard walking around the royal palace of Suzail, even its dingiest, deepest undercellar, must be a wizard of war.
They stared back at him. The old, bearded man striding unconcernedly up the passage in the darkness, alone and swordless, didn’t look like a great wizard. His clothes looked as old as he was, worn and none too clean and befitting a laborer who saw few coins and even fewer baths. Old, down-at-heel boots, stained and patched breeches, and a burn-scarred apron over a jerkin. The belt at his waist sagged onto his slim hips, loaded down with bulging pouches. He was hefting something in each hand; both somethings were small, dark, and round. And he was smiling.
Elminster gave them both a polite nod as he came to a halt and let silence fall.
It didn’t last long.
“We’ve been waiting for you, old man,” the one in robes said, his waspish voice now all smug menace.
“I had in fact figured that out, youngling,” Elminster replied pleasantly. “Once, I’d’ve been flattered, but down my long years so many have lain in wait for me that the thrill is quite gone.” He peered at them both, one after the other, tendering the same gentle smile. “I do hope ye’re not disappointed.”
Two faces glowered at him. One belonged to a highknight he knew, one Belsarth Hawkblade, a grim, oft-unshaven man of brutal ruthlessness but iron-hard loyalty to the Crown. The other was the man in robes and had a face unfamiliar to him-but kin to one he’d seen briefly in the fray at Tethgard; that of a war wizard busy mastering the art of the headlong, panic-ridden retreat. Scared down to his boots, he was.
“Hawkblade,” he asked, nodding toward the pale, tight-faced mage, “who’s thy friend? Wizard of War-?”
“Lorton Ironstone,” the wizard answered curtly, not waiting for Hawkblade to speak. “And I am charged to ask you, Elminster of Shadowdale, if you will now surrender yourself peacefully into our custody to face the king’s justice.”
“Charged by whom?”
“Ganrahast, Royal Magician of the Realm,” Ironstone snapped. “At the request of the king himself, Lord Vainrence gave us to believe.”
Elminster nodded. There would be a third member of this welcoming foreguard, probably busy creeping up behind him right then …
“Well?” Ironstone snapped. “We require a reply, Old Sage of Shadowdale! In case it’s escaped your notice, we’re in Cormyr here-where we uphold the laws, not you. Laws that apply even to clever old archmages who customarily defy rules and do as they please. You, Elminster, stand accused of theft of Crown magic and of mur
der-of many sworn highknights of the realm, including their lord commander, and of no less than four wizards of war.”
“Murder? I was abed with my lady at night, out under the stars in the depths of the forest, when a dozen men set upon us, hurling spells despite my warnings that doing so would mean their deaths. We were attacked by a force that well outnumbered us, and we fought to defend ourselves. Some of our attackers fled by magic, and the rest perished in battle. Ye-who were not there-now deem their deaths ‘murder’? A murderer is one who goes seeking the deaths of others and achieves them. They tried to be murderers, aye. They were also warned, all of them-and learned too late that foolish aggression has consequences.”
Elminster paused then to give Ironstone a smile as thin as a ghost’s. “A lesson ye, too, might well ponder at this time.”
The war wizard’s reply was an unlovely sneer. “Hoary old advice from a lone graybeard with a large mouth? I quake. Between, that is, gasps of disbelief at what some have the effrontery to say to try to justify their misdeeds. You admit you slew loyal Cormyreans who were on Crown business, while defying them. So you’re a murderer. Don’t seek to evade your fate through clever words. Nor by claiming you’ve led a long and high-minded life protecting and defending everyone.”
The old man cast a swift look back over his shoulder, as if he could see clearly in the darkness, then faced the two Cormyreans again, still hefting the small items in his hands, and shrugged. “Yet I am a protector and defender. Why should that not be my justification? Ye are a wizard of war and use that to account for what ye do and the arrogance with which ye do it.”
Ironstone was unimpressed. “You? Protector of what? Your own interests, most likely, that you trumpeted as those of Mystra when you were challenged. You were a meddler, a defier of authority, and a foe of kings. You never stood for any law, order, or rightful government-not like our mighty Vangerdahast.”
“Thy last two sentences, I’ll grant. I was not like him, though he grew to increasingly see matters as I did, as the years did to him what they did to me. He began as my apprentice-and in those days, when folk spoke of Vangey and used the word ‘mighty,’ the next word they always uttered was ‘annoying.’ ”
Hawkblade hastily quelled something that sounded suspiciously like a snort of mirth.
War Wizard Ironstone shot him a look then turned his head to thrust that same glare at Elminster, who added, “Peace, fairness, and order I’ve sought, aye, but I’m still seeking a ruler who consistently seeks to achieve those, as opposed to finding them by accident from time to time. I may yet find one, mind; I’ve only been looking for twelve centuries or so.”
“So you presume to sit in judgment of the Dragon Throne? To decide for yourself if you’ll obey us?”
El faced him squarely. “I do. Most folk, even if they see a looming danger, do nothing. A problem for someone else to deal with, they tell themselves. They make excuses or shut it out of their minds or keep busy with the everyday things in their lives. So they do nothing. I don’t.”
“Making you, in my eyes, a rebel or at the very least an outlaw.”
“Ah, another of those lawkeepers who decides on guilt without bothering with the little inconvenience of a trial or looking beyond first impressions or any of that. So tiresome, aye?”
“You mock me, old man. I say again, you stand in Cormyr and are subject to my authority, and I-”
“Nay. Not even the lowliest Cormyrean is subject to thine authority. If ye’d said ‘our authority,’ bothering to include the good knight who stands beside ye-”
“Enough bandying words. You dare not use your magic, I’m told, so you’ll surrender to us now or we’ll kill you.”
“And how ‘lawful’ is that, young Ironstone?”
The war wizard smiled thinly. “You can stand where you are; you can advance, and so fall within reach of Sir Hawkblade’s sword; or you can flee, giving me the right to kill a fugitive seeking to escape our custody.”
“I see. Victory at all costs.”
Ironstone shrugged. “Nothing matters in a fight-except winning.”
Elminster’s eyes were cold and steady on him, blue blazing up among the gray. “Oh? If nothing matters, lad, there’s nothing worth fighting for.”
“I tire of this,” the war wizard snapped. “Hawkblade, take him!”
El promptly flung the something in his right hand into Ironstone’s face. It exploded in a little burst of black powder that sent the mage sobbing to the floor in a frenzy of agonized helplessness, clawing at his face as he tried to gargle and shriek through his weeping.
“Black pepper!” the highknight snarled, snatching out and hurling a dagger at Elminster’s throat. “You won’t catch me with old Harper tricks!”
He sprang forward, his sword singing out of its scabbard-as Elminster plucked the thrown knife out of the air, whirled, and flung it hard into the throat of a second wizard of war, who was stealing cautiously up behind the Old Mage with a wand held ready. It struck pommel first, stunning the young newcomer into a wheezing inability to breathe. He toppled to the passage floor, clutching his throat.
Elminster kept on turning, coming round to face Hawkblade again in time to duck his left hand just under the sweep of the knight’s reaching sword-and almost delicately lob the something in his left hand up into the highknight’s face.
It burst with the same instantaneous ease as the pepper bomb, but its effects were very different. A sudden, blinding blaze made Hawkblade shriek and warmed Elminster’s face as he ducked aside, eyes shut tight against the short but brilliant explosion. He kept on going until he fetched up against the passage wall. Then he turned and opened his eyes to survey the ruin he’d caused.
Two young fools of wizards of war writhed on the floor, fighting just to breathe, Ironstone’s blinded face wet with streaming tears. Hawkblade-just as blind and in far more pain from the dazzle powder, to boot-was slashing the air with desperate, brutal savagery. He was also turning toward the sounds El had made coming up against the wall, so Elminster lost no time in ducking down to pluck Ironstone’s handy dagger from its belt sheath in case he needed something to parry with.
It was a nice toy-enchanted to glow upon command, and so could buy him one hurled spell this side of insanity-and he smiled at it as he hastened on into the palace.
Behind him, Hawkblade tripped over the third member of the foreguard, the wizard who’d held the wand-ah, and that useful thing should be retrieved, too! — and crashed headlong to the floor, hacking so hard behind himself as he went down that sparks rang from the stones.
Elminster turned to look for the wand-and another dagger came whirling out of the darkness to strike and rebound off the one he’d just purloined, so hard that it numbed his fingers and made a sound like a bell.
“Hold, intruder!”
That new voice belonged to another highknight-or at least a knight-at the head of four or five heavily armored fellows. They had another wizard of war with them, too. Safely at the back of the group, of course.
Elminster sighed. If he turned back, they’d have the gods alone knew what sort of guards and traps and wards waiting to greet him, the next time he tried.
The knights rushed forward, swords out and spreading out as they came. A telltale glow moved with them, a starlight sheen in the darkness that warned any mage they were magically protected.
El sighed again. If, that is, there was a next time.
One spell would have to do it, then he’d be scrabbling in his pouches for the last few Harper tricks. If he was still alive enough to do anything.
“Hold, men of Cormyr! Down steel, all! Wizards of war, stay your spells! This is a royal command!”
That voice was as hard as swung steel and as cold as the winter wind, and it came from behind the highknights, who swung their heads around to see whence those orders had come.
A pale glow lit the darkness of the cellars, a cold and flickering halo around a striding woman in full plate armor. Helmless and w
ild-haired she came, with eyes like two dark flames and arms flung wide.
The Steel Regent, looking for all the realm like her huge portrait in the Hall of Approach before the Throne Chamber; Princess Alusair Obarskyr, as she’d been in the prime of her life, long before.
She was dead, of course-must be-and a moment later the knights realized they could see through her in places, as she strode toward them.
“ ’Tis a trick!” one of them snarled. “A false seeming, cast by yon villain!” He pointed one gauntleted finger at Elminster and turned to resume his charge at the old man.
“Highknight Morlen Askalan,” the princess snapped, still striding hard and fast, “are you loyal to the Dragon Throne or not? You heard me! Throw down your weapon, and stand where you are!”
“You’re a ghost or a spell cast by this enemy mage!” the knight growled, waving his sword at her. “My oath is to the king!”
“Do none of you know me?” the apparition demanded, striding among them. A highknight swung his sword through her; it passed through her arm and breast as if through empty air, earning him only her scowl.
“You’re Alusair, you are,” another knight muttered. “Bedder of nobles, war-leader of the realm, fiery daughter of the Purple Dragon himself.”
“And you’re a ghost,” Highknight Askalan repeated. “You wander the haunted wing of the palace, and moan how the realm has fallen since your day!”
Alusair strode right up to him, a bitter smile twisting her lips. Despite himself, Askalan flinched back from her dark gaze.
“My, my,” she remarked. “Overheard and spied upon, as usual-what must a girl do to get a little privacy around here?”
And she strode right through him. In her wake he toppled to the passage floor with a crash, numbed and helpless, sword skittering away across the stones.
Alusair never slowed but stepped right through the weakly struggling Lorton Ironstone-who collapsed onto his face with a sigh and lay still-and walked on to Hawkblade. His struggles, too, ceased, and she dealt with the war wizard who’d come at Elminster from behind, ere she turned back to the thoroughly cowed highknights and said quietly, “I gave an order. Swords down, men. Now.”