Elminster Enraged

CHAPTER FOUR

A small, high-flying cloud of mist crossed the great green sward of pastureland, rushing south for the stout walls of soaring-towered Suzail. Never sundered or driven aside, even by the strongest breezes, the mist headed straight for the capital of Cormyr, taking care to stay higher than any Purple Dragon bowman would trust his eye, and to seem mere wild wisps rather than anything manlike in shape.

The half-ruined mansion of Dardulkyn wasn’t much of a welcoming familiar hearth. Nevertheless, the mist was heading home.

One day soon, of course, this would all be his: every chase and pasture, every palace and high mansion and hovel.

Yes, soon. The nobles were aching for a chance to take out swords and have at each other-the moment they’d finished butchering every hated courtier and the decadent, far-fallen ruling Obarskyrs. Divided, sick of old ways, and hungry for blood, they would be the toys of Manshoon.

A Manshoon none could gainsay. The Netherese postured and sneered from on high, yet were so weak they must needs skulk to power in Sembia and elsewhere, taking command like thieves where truly mighty mages would boldly declare themselves and blast down all defiance.

The Simbul might have fleetingly recaptured her sanity, but she was so feeble that she had to pretend to speak for a dead goddess, and wanted Manshoon-as well as her tamed lapdog Elminster-to pilfer enchanted baubles for her.

Hah. Manshoon the Mighty had no need of magic items. Manshoon need never trifle with them again. Manshoon-

That thought fled from him and was gone, as the towers of Suzail rushed up to meet him. A quickening sea wind brought the tang of salt, seaweed, and dead fish to him, for this mist could smell without a nose.

One more curious little property of vampirism, Manshoon mused, as he drifted over the city wall. He rose higher as he swept on, not out of any fear of war wizard spells or watchers on the walls, but mindful of the wards of the noble mansions he passed over, that might-carelessly or otherwise-extend high into the skies above their turrets and grand gardens.

His lofty vantage revealed something unusual on a street below. A small procession of grand walkers, the gleam of polished plate armor fore and aft, a man in a tabard in the middle … a Crown herald, flanked by what could only be a pair of wizards of war, a trio preceded and followed by two armored Purple Dragons. Big men, in the very best of armor; this must be an important formal call.

Curiosity afire, Manshoon arrowed down, taking care to keep directly over a street where no wards should reach. He should be able to recognize that tabard …

Yes. He was spying upon the herald Dark Dragonet, and those were war wizards, all right. Veterans, by their looks, though he recognized neither of them. The escorting Purple Dragons were huge, muscled and stern-faced giants. None of the three they were escorting were anywhere close to smiling, either. Well, well. Bad tidings for someone.

Manshoon drifted lower, just as the solemn procession arrived on the doorstep of Ambershields Hall.

Soaring stone, bright-gleaming copper doors as high as two men, sculpted winged lions flanking them on a raised stone porch wide enough for twelve men to stand at ease: the city mansion of the Ambershields noble family. Stiff-necked lovers of tradition who’d resisted his attempts to corrupt them just as they resisted the reforms of King Foril Obarskyr. Strong shoulders supported heads of stone.

Manshoon sank down into the ornate carved stonework surmounting the grand front doors of the Ambershields to eavesdrop. Dolphins and seawolves, sporting with merfolk and men with lances riding what looked like wyverns decorated the door; very warlike and striking, to be sure.

“Nay, my orders are not to enter, but to deliver my message from the threshold,” the herald was telling the doorwarden. “Summon him, please.”

If the mist could have crooked an eyebrow in surprise and amusement, Manshoon would have done so. Oh, this was better and better.

Nor was the wait long. Staunch upholders of tradition, to be sure.

“Yes?” Lord Ambershields gave the herald the briefest of nods.

Dark Dragonet bowed, then declaimed grandly and formally, “Lord Ambershields is commanded to hear my words, in the name of the king!”

As the noble nodded curtly, the herald swept on. “This same message is being delivered all over the city, right now, to all the heads of noble houses known to be in Suzail. King Foril Obarskyr, who sits the Dragon Throne and hath lawful and absolute dominion over all Cormyr, has taken to heart the misgivings of the foremost families of the land to many of his recent decrees. It is his most royal decision to cancel the Council of Dragons and spend the next season meeting personally with any and all nobles who desire to speak with him, to discuss privately and frankly their ideas for the governance and future of Cormyr, that all notions and wants be given fair and full hearing. The nobility of Cormyr are deeply thanked for attending the council and for their staunch love and caring for the realm, and are asked to return peacefully to their homes and the affairs they laid aside to attend, while a wiser King Foril considers what they have told him thus far, and begins these private meetings.”

Lord Ambershields made reply to this with another curt nod.

“Tender my thanks, good herald,” he said coldly, and he closed the door in Dark Dragonet’s face.

The herald shrugged and turned away, waving the Purple Dragons to accompany him. A moment later, the Crown party was hurrying away to make the same proclamation to the next eager audience.

Hovering above the door arch of Ambershields Hall in a pale writhing of mists, Manshoon gloated.

“The Obarskyr grip on the Dragon Throne has become a last, frantic clutch,” he murmured to himself. “And it’s slipping. My empire will rise soon.”

“Glemmeraeve soup,” Lady Marantine Delcastle announced with pride, setting the steaming tureen before them.

Catching her son’s look, she added sharply, “Yes, I made it myself. Not catching the glemmeraeves-netting sea turtles is a bit beyond my skills-but I did all the rest. I do snare ground garanth.”

Arclath gave her a wide, admiring, and genuine smile.

She held his gaze suspiciously a moment longer, then relaxed into a smile of her own, deftly swept the lid off the tureen in a smooth move to prevent trapped beads of moisture from raining down on the table, and reached for the ladle.

Wanting to hear all about what had been unfolding at court, Arclath’s mother had not only invited Storm and Amarune to a late eveningfeast at Delcastle Manor, she’d banished the servants from the room to “keep unwanted ears at a distance,” and was serving the meal herself.

Arclath was clearly astonished, but carefully refrained from any comment on how well his imperious she-dragon of a mother did serving duties. Lady Delcastle was the deft and attentive equal of any smoothly gliding maid-and far, far politer than her usual self, to boot. Patient, too. Though she had professed to want to hear all the latest from court, which nobles had been saying and doing what, and all the clack about the future of Cormyr, she hadn’t yet pressed her three guests for gossip. She usually pounced on every uttered word, wheedling and threatening with fierce enthusiasm and without pause, as if in great haste to wrest forth the next juicy revelation.

Seeing her smile grow increasingly strained, Arclath took pity on her. Her maid act was perfect, but who knew when all this forbearing would be too much, and she might explode?

“I’m sure the herald’s visit was a surprise, Mother,” he said politely, pouring more wine for everyone before she could. “You’ll be wanting to hear something of what we’ve seen and heard, out and about in the city, yes?”

“Indeed,” Lady Delcastle said gratefully. “I’m … less than patient in my desires to know whatever gossip may have reached your ears as to which nobles are obeying and supporting the king, which factions are crying open defiance, who’s posturing, and in what ways? Has the king made warning examples of anyone, yet? Has any jack or lass been sent to a very public bad end? I-”

She abruptly clamped her mouth shut, shook her head fiercely, and relaxed into another smile. “Forgive me; I was starting to babble.” She shot her son a look, and added dryly, “Yes, dear, I was about to erupt. Your mounting fear was all too apparent.”

“Your glemmeraeve,” Storm murmured, spoon in hand, “is marvelous.”

“Thank you,” Marantine Delcastle said in genuine pleasure, taking up her own spoon. “You like the hint of mustard?”

“Mustard and … daeradorn wine, in the snails … well simmered before you added in the garanth gravy,” Storm said slowly, savoring the last of a spoonful. “Beautifully done.”

“Best soup I’ve ever had,” Amarune echoed softly. “I wish I could cook like this.”

Lady Delcastle beamed. “You shall, Rune, you shall. I sport in my kitchens all too rarely these days, I’ll admit, but-” She interrupted herself with a slice of her hand through the air like an executioner’s axe. “Later. Gossip first!”

Storm almost managed to quell a snort of amusement, which made Arclath say hastily, “Well, Mother-not that this will come as fresh news-the realm is still astir. The wiser and more loyal lords, such as Spurbright and Wyvernspur, are soothing and calming in all directions-and trying to get the most flame-tempered lords out of Suzail and back to their country keeps before more trouble erupts. While the likes of Lady Harvendur and Lady Dawningdown are working their usual verbal poison, spreading malicious rumors and setting as many lords and ladies at each other’s throats as they can. The entire city garrison of Purple Dragons is patrolling the streets in endless overlapping shifts-”

“In crowds, not patrols,” Storm murmured.

“In crowds, yes, to keep nobles’ bodyguards from fighting with each other. If a punch is thrown in a tavern, the Dragons flood in even before the shouting begins. The Crown is trying to keep trouble firmly sheathed.”

“Amid an ever-increasing flood of noble complaints about the high-handed misuse of the soldiery against loyal and innocent citizens, I suspect,” Lady Delcastle said dryly.

“Indeed. Some legitimate complaints, too.”

“Oh? Such as?”

“Well, for one, the Crown’s inability to ah, ‘eliminate or at least curb’ increasingly bold outlaw bands raiding in the northeastern reaches of the realm.”

“The usual orcs and lawless blades, north of Hullack? Taking advantage of all the shouting and the lords all gathered in Suzail for the council?”

“Some of that, but there have been some bolder raids than usual. Broadshield’s Beasts, for one, have been going right into towns, and not just by night, to-”

He broke off as Storm tensed beside him, and his mother’s face changed. Following her gaze, Arclath cast a swift glance back over his shoulder.

Unannounced and unescorted by servants, three silent visitors walked into the room, anonymous in long, dark nightcloaks. Their hoods were up, hiding their faces, and their hands-and any short weapons they might be holding-were unseen inside flared, long-hanging sleeves.

“Purple Dragon forfend!” Lady Delcastle burst out, more astonished than afraid. “We are invaded!”

She twisted a ring on her left hand, which obediently began to glow, ere springing to her feet to thunder, “Halt! Halt and reveal yourselves!”

Arclath was already out of his chair, his sword sliding out.

“Stay your steel,” the shortest, burliest-and nearest-of the three dark-robed guests snapped at him, “in the presence of the king!”

Arclath knew that voice, even before its owner threw back her cowl: Wizard of War Lady Glathra Barcantle. The other two unhooded themselves more slowly, revealing themselves as Royal Magician Ganrahast, and … King Foril Obarskyr, the Dragon of Cormyr.

Arclath bowed deeply to the king, and Amarune hastily bobbed to her feet to thrust back her chair and give herself space to kneel. Storm kept her seat but smiled and nodded a friendly wordless greeting to the aging monarch-and Marantine Delcastle went right on giving him her best glare.

Ignoring the wand in Glathra’s hand that rose to aim right at her, the matriarch of Delcastle Manor spat, “Is there a reason for this unwarranted, unwanted invasion of my home? Has Cormyr fallen so far that we no longer ask admittance, sending heralds ahead to request the honor of a meeting? Is the realm at war? Or have you just utterly forgotten due courtesy and the rights of citizens-those same rights you daily trumpet and hurl in every highborn face?”

“Mother,” Arclath murmured.

Lady Delcastle rounded on him. “Don’t ‘mother’ me, whelp! I bore and raised you, and expect your loyal support! I-”

“Merely desired to point out,” Arclath interrupted her smoothly, “that you’ve asked His Majesty enough questions and that you owe him a breath or two to provide answers before you bury him under the next part of your tirade. As a man, I know when I’m reaching my limits of queries-and my mind is far less burdened than that of our Dragon.”

“That’s for certain,” his mother replied with tart triumph. “Coherent thoughts all too seldom-”

“Cormyr is not at war,” King Foril put in gently, his voice bringing instant silence. He added a wry smile. “Yet.”

He took a step forward. “I apologize unreservedly for the invasion of your home and, ah, family peace, Marantine. I’d not have done this were matters not grave. I appeal to your love of Cormyr to give us of your patience, and I assure you that none of your people have been harmed in our intrusion. Is your friend and colleague Elminster here?”

“What?” Lady Delcastle asked, at the same moment as Arclath and Amarune both replied, “No.”

“Why do you seek him?” Storm asked calmly.

“And why here?” Arclath asked sharply, earning his mother’s approval. She nodded vigorously at his question, still favoring her unexpected guests with a stern frown. “Has Elminster been seen at Delcastle Manor?”

“No, no,” Ganrahast said in a soothing voice. “We, ah, traced Lord Delcastle to this place.”

“How?” Amarune snapped with sudden fire, surprising everyone. “Are you keeping watch over Arclath?”

“Ah, no, no,” Ganrahast replied hastily, with all the uneasy smoothness of a temple priest unused to blunt challenges, “we merely hoped to find Lady Storm”-he favored Storm with a bow-“and Lord Elminster in his company.”

“Evade not the question,” Lady Delcastle snapped. “You traced my son magically, I take it? How, exactly? This high house and most others have wards to prevent such pryings, wards that I assure you will be renewed and redoubled on the morrow, but I demand to know by what means, as well as by what right, you presume to-”

“The means,” Glathra said flatly, “are a state secret.”

In the suddenly silent wake of her words, she realized everyone in the room was regarding her with a sour expression. Even Ganrahast.

“I’m permitted to say more?” she asked him, dubiously. “Is this wise?”

The Royal Magician sighed. “Tell them,” he murmured, waving to her like a grand orator presenting a learned speaker.

Glathra sighed in clear exasperation and misgiving, then said to those seated around the table, “The name Vangerdahast will not be unknown to you. His continued existence to the present day should also come as no surprise to present company. Well, when Lord Delcastle here was recently assisting the mage Elminster to make use of the body of Wizard of War Appledown, Vangerdahast cast … a little something on Arclath. He didn’t tell us this until now, whereupon we made immediate use of it.”

“To find your way here. Does this trace persist?”

“You’ll have to ask Vangerdahast, but he gave us to understand that our use of it ended it,” Glathra replied reluctantly.

The snort Lady Marantine Delcastle emitted then was loud and impressive. “As if anyone can trust anything that old terror says,” she told the ceiling. “I recall a night when he told me he’d respect me deeply in the morn-”

“Not now, Lady Delcastle,” Glathra said hastily. “Please, not now.”

King Foril’s widening smile was a little sad. “We hastened here to confer with you, Lord Delcastle, hoping to find Lady Storm and Lord Elminster, too. We do not want strife between the Dragon Throne and Elminster, whom we judge could slay or harm many war wizards, given that the Crown and court are at present so beset by rebellious nobles and lurking enemies of the realm in Sembia and elsewhere-but his thefts of magic items in Cormyr must end.”

“Foril,” Lady Delcastle asked with a faint smile, “have you learned the habit of stern royal decrees at last? ’Tis a bit late, mind, but-”

“I have, Marantine,” the Dragon of Cormyr said gently, his quiet voice again bringing silence. “Yet pray distract the converse not. I have tarried too long, and in so doing plunged us into urgency. Lady Storm-I address the Marchioness Immerdusk now, as her monarch-where can we find Elminster?”

Storm met the king’s gaze directly. “I know not. Both his fate and current whereabouts are unknown to me. He thrust all three of us back here to Cormyr in some haste. Yet rest assured he has no more need to take any magic from anyone, save for a few, very particular things. None of which, so far as I know, are to be found any longer within the Forest Kingdom, let alone the grasp of the Dragon Throne.”

“Blueflame items?” Glathra snapped, as if interrogating a less than cooperative prisoner.

“Blueflame items,” Storm confirmed.

“How can we trust you?” Glathra asked bluntly. “Forgive me, Lady Immerdusk, but you Chosen-you Harpers, for that matter-are known to say anything to get your own way, and we have no way of proving your words true.”

Storm gave her a wry smile. “Rather like courtiers, or wizards of war, or nobles, aren’t we?”

“There! That’s just what I was speaking of! You turn me aside with a snide-”

“Lady Glathra,” the king of Cormyr said firmly, “enough.” He gave her both a quelling look and a raised reproving finger to still any protest, then he turned back to Storm.

Who said gently, “I should remind everyone I’ve known Elminster for a very long time, and serve the same Divine One he does. Forgive me, Glathra. Hear me, look into my eyes, and judge my honesty as I tell you: Elminster serves the goddess Mystra, as I do, before all other loyalties, even over his love of Cormyr-but he has been watching over Cormyr, in one way and another, for centuries. Longer than every king or queen, each Royal Magician and battle commander, every last highknight and gallant Purple Dragon veteran, Elminster has worked against Cormyr’s foes, so this land could survive to settle its own scores, find its own way, and forge its own destiny.”

“Forgive me, Lady Immerdusk,” Glathra replied. “I think you sincere, and don’t wish to give offense, but I must point out that pretty speeches are just that. You attest to Elminster’s nobility of purpose, but we have most lately seen him as a thief, who repeatedly and very rudely defies rightful authority-and just now, we see him not at all. You tell us of his long service to the realm, but right now he could be anywhere, doing anything!”

“And courtiers deem we nobles ‘rude,’ ” Arclath told the ceiling.

Storm put a quelling hand on his arm, and told Glathra, “Indeed he could be. Yet I’ve spoken with him on many recent occasions, spending more time with him than any other person alive, and can tell you that Elminster very much wants to work with the wizards of war-behind the scenes, that is, neither threatening the independence of the Dragon Throne nor awakening fears among your nobility that yet another sinister wizard seeks to make them dance to his desires. He’ll contact you when he can. Service to Mystra governs him now, and has hold of him.”

“I accept that,” King Foril announced. “Let us have no more dispute as to the truth of what Lady Storm has told us. We can trust that Elminster is done with taking Cormyr’s enchanted items, and would be our ally. Good.” He nodded to Ganrahast and Glathra as if giving them a silent command, started to turn away … and then turned around again to give Storm a level look. “And you? Can we count on your loyalty?”

Storm regarded him calmly. “I am Mystra’s servant first, and a Harper second, but serving and defending Cormyr has been one of my dearest strivings for some centuries now. Ask Alusair or Vangey, and you’ll hear those words affirmed. I’ll help Cormyr in any way I can, that Mystra forbids not.”

“You speak of the Lost Goddess as though she yet lives,” Ganrahast observed thoughtfully.

“Yes,” Storm replied challengingly, “I do. Doubt not my sincerity nor sanity, Royal Magician. To do so would be a mistake.”

Glathra shook her head. “Does anyone here suppose, just suppose, that you can be induced to tell us a little of what’s been going on, this last tenday or so? Your running around the palace day and night, to the haunted wing and the royal crypt and seemingly every last broom closet we possess; the Sage of Shadowdale jauntily stealing all of our royal treasures that bear the slightest enchantments; that parade of you and the rest striding into the palace to use the Dalestride Portal … all of that?”

Storm smiled. “How much time can you spare? There’s a lot to tell …”