Elminster's Daughter

The outermost of the ward-spells that cloaked the far corners of the room in roiling mists flared into coppery flames of warning, and a telltale chimed.

The darkly handsome young man clad all in black-open-fronted, flaring-sleeved shirt, tight leather breeches, and gleaming

black boots-took his crossed feet down from the footstool, laid aside his book and his goblet, and rose from his chair.

He passed his hand over a dark sphere of crystal that shared its own upswept, teardrop-shaped duskwood plinth with an outer ring of smaller spheres. Another ring of roiling mists obediently wavered into emerald radiance and displayed an upright image in the air: a white-faced man in brown robes that matched his thinning hair was standing uncertainly in the midst of the emerald mists.

The man in black smiled and touched two of the smaller spheres. Two rings of mist fell away into nothingness, and the third took on that emerald hue. The Red Wizard then passed his hand over the largest sphere, and the scene of Huldyl Rauthur vanished.

"Enter the archway and proceed," he told the air calmly. "The way before you is quite safe."

The emerald mists at his feet flowed away to one wall in a purposeful flood and climbed it to outline an archway on the unbroken stone-which promptly split to reveal a long, rough tunnel through rock. A hesitant figure was advancing along it.

"Be welcome," the Red Wizard said quietly. "Importance brings you, I trust?"

"Y-yes," Huldyl Rauthur made reply, as he entered the chamber. "I believe 'tis time." The War Wizard was chalk-white with worry, and his face glistened with so much sweat that it dripped from his chin.

A weak reed, Master Rauthur, Darkspells thought. And weak reeds break.

"Good," Harnrim Starangh told the man he'd bought. "Return to the chamber you came from, and I'll follow in a matter of moments."

As soon as the fearful Rauthur started back down the passage, Starangh passed a hand over a crystal and sent mists billowing up between them once more. He drained his goblet in a long, unhurried quaff, plucked one of the crystals from the plinth and slipped it into his codpiece, and said words to the empty air.

Two men were promptly standing before him, blinking in startlement and alarm. They went pale when they saw who was standing facing them.

Starangh gave the merchants Bezrar and Surth a sharklike smile. "I hope you've eaten well. You're going on a journey."

"Eh? What j-" Bezrar began, but fell silent as Surth kicked his ankle savagely.

Starangh let them both see his smile turn soft and menacing and commanded, "Stand still and silent. Please."

They did so, and he cast an intricate spell that laid a fog of for-getfulness on them. Until it expired, they'd be compelled to seek the retired Mage Royal, being drawn always in his direction-but stripped from them was all remembrance of why they were seeking Vangerdahast or who'd enspelled and sent them. Anyone trying to break the spell before it ran out would reduce the two Marsembans to quivering mindlessness.

They stood like two gaping statues, no longer seeing the man who worked a second, minor spell to place images of the animated suits of armor known as helmed horrors in their minds. "When you see such a one," Harnrim Starangh told his two minions gently, "one of you will throw one of these at it, so as to strike it."

The black-clad wizard took the limp hands of the two oblivious men, and posed them so those of each man were cupped together. From a basket beneath his reclining chair, Starangh scooped many small, shiny, identical objects into those waiting palms: rune-graven ovals of metal that bulged plumply at their centers but thinned to the breadth of armor plate nigh all their edges.

He smiled at his two enchanted idiots, stepped around them to lay a hand on the backs of both of their necks at once, and pronounced another word that made them both vanish.

Humming a jaunty song, Harnrim Starangh made a last adjustment of his crystals and rode a plume of mist down the passage to join Rauthur. It was time to go hunting-for Vangerdahasts were suddenly very much in season.

* * * * *

Aumun Tholant Bezrar blinked, wiped his sweating face, and looked wildly in all directions with every evidence of utter bewilderment. Trees, aye, definitely trees.

As always, standing behind him like one more tree trunk, was his companion in so many crimes, Master Malakar Surth.

Surth was clutching a handful of something that looked like oversized silver coins, and frowning in puzzlement.

Bezrar looked down and discovered that his own fat, sweaty palm was cradling another handful of the same things: ovals of gleaming metal graven with intricate runes-nothing he could read or had ever seen before, but the same things on each one. These long-as-his-fmgers gewgaws bulged in their middles like snail-cakes but were flattened out all around the edges like, well, again like snail-cakes.

So where by all the cozy Nine Hells had these come from-and where was here, anyhow? And how . . . how had he and Surth gotten here?

"Uh, Surth?" he asked, seeking some answers. "Surth?"

"Bite your tongue til it bleeds," Marsember's richest dealer in scents, wines, cordials, and drugs snapped, employing the standard polite port expression for what slightly more highborn Cormyreans usually rendered as "Belt up" or (if they were priests or elders) "Be silent."

Surth was glaring around at trees and vines and the deep damp green vista of more trees, that stretched away in all directions from the narrow trail they were standing on. His manner made it clear that he was blaming the trees themselves for being here-at least for the few moments it would take him to find someone nearby to blame.

"I don't know either," he muttered, as his face turned slowly to regard his longtime partner. And darkened.

"What did you do to get us here, Bez? You must have done something! You're an idiot, you know that? An idiot! You must have fiddled with something enchanted or lit the fuse of that . . . that. . ." His face went clouded, almost frightened, and he waved a dismissive hand. "You know: that . . . man."

Bezrar drew himself up like an indignant walrus, puffing and sweating, and jabbed Surth's chest with one fat, hairy finger. "Now, you listen here, O mighty Malakar! You're the one who's always dabbling with Shar-magic, dark little toys and mumble-spells and all that untrustworthy idiocy! B'gads, you wound me, you do! Twasn't anything I did to get us here! 'Twas that smiling . . . some magic word . . . that green glow . . . him … he gave us these, didn't he?"

He thrust out his handful of shiny gewgaws and said, "He must've, because I sure by all the happy dancing gods haven't seen 'em before! You're holding some too!"

"I know that, you fat little dolt," Surth snarled. "I can see and feel, you know!"

"Odd's fish, but you can't think half as clever as you think you can, now, can you-hey?"

"Oh yes, I can," Surth snarled, reaching for the hilt of his knife.

"Well, then, use your thinking part, whatever 'tis, and tell me how we got here and what these things are and how we get back to Marsember!" the fat smuggler roared, his longknife already out and jabbing warningly at Surth's knife-hand. "Because sure as Shar's a dark lass, this ain't Marsember!"

His shout echoed a little way through the damp trees, and something unseen scuttled away from beside the trail nearby, leaving a trail of quivering leaves.

Malakar Surth drew in a deep breath, wrestling down his temper, and with a firm hand pushed the point of Bezrar's wavering knife aside. "Let me think," he snarled.

Bezrar gave him a sour expression and flourished his hands in mimicry of a high-nosed Marsemban servant bidding a Marsemban noble to pass this way, or partake of this platter of viands, or do something.

Surth stroked at his chin as if its clean-shaven point was home to a handsome beard, stared around at the trees, and muttered, "Can't tell where the sun is, and we mustn't get off the trail. This forest is big!' He shivered suddenly and muttered, "Mustn't be here when night comes."

Bezrar nodded, eyes widening in horror at the thought of long-taloned, creeping forest monsters, slithering closer. … He fought down a cry of alarm and started looking in all directions at once, crouching and waving his longknife wildly.

Surth gave him a sour look and murmured, "Fat, useless idiot!' He held up a hand and said, "This way. I don't know why, but I'm sure this is the right way to head. Shar must be with me-thank you for invoking her, Bez. Come on."

The smuggler stood suspiciously looking in all directions, so Surth plucked him sharply by the elbow while passing, jerking him into a stumbling walk. No sooner had the fat wholesaler regained his balance when Surth took firm grip of his elbow once more and just as firmly propelled him into the lead.

Bezrar shot him a fearful look. Surth favored him with what was intended to be a reassuring smile and said, "Go on, but mind you go quietly. Don't worry. I'll be right behind you."

Bezrar's reply was a growl. The smuggler didn't quite dare to say that knowing Malakar Surth was right behind you was no cause for a lack of worry.

He needed Surth to do the thinking-and to be with him in this vast and rustling wood. The mere thought of-what was that?

"Mask and Tymora love me!" he cried, as a warrior in full armor rose up from behind some bushes, visor down and drawn sword in hand. "Surth?"

"I see him," Surth said in a strange voice. Bezrar cast a very quick glance back over his shoulder to see why his partner's voice sounded like that-and saw that Surth had lifted one of his gewgaws in a trembling hand and was staring at it with a weird expression on his face.

"Malakar!" he snarled. "Help me here!"

His eyes back on the armored warrior, he moaned in fear as the silently menacing Purple Dragon drifted toward him. Aye, drifted-gods above, it was floating! Its feet were right off the ground, toes pointing downwards like a knight laid out for his tomb!

Yet that helmed head was turning to look at him then at Surth then back again, and the gauntleted hands were swinging that great naked sword up and back, ready to slash down and slay-

"Surth!" the smuggler almost wept, his longknife shaking in his hand. "Aid!"

Something bright flashed past his shoulder, tumbling end over end at the floating warrior. It struck that armored breast-and the world exploded in bright blue fire and ringing, tumbling shards of battle-steel that half-deafened Aumun Bezrar and flung him off his feet back past a tree or two and crashing down among bushes, very hard roots, and wet dead leaves, with pieces of riven armor pattering onto the ground all around him.

"Bezrar?" his partner cried in fear, stumbling blindly forward along the path and groping at the air. "Bez, where are you?"

Bezrar blinked at the leaf-shrouded sky overhead, deciding he was still alive and could hear things through a faint ringing in his ears and could feel all parts of his body with not much more than the usual pain. He rolled over hastily, driving his longknife into wet moss and earth as a handle, to puff his way to his knees and see . . . Malakar Surth stepping straight into a tree, shrieking in alarm, turning to run, and taking three wild, windmilling strides into-another tree.

Surth sat down hard, clutching at his head, and Bezrar, surveying the now-empty path, found himself laughing wildly.

His chortles died away abruptly as he felt his free hand trembling. He looked down and discovered that he was clutching one of the gewgaws like a stone ready to throw and that it was glowing slightly, a blue radiance that pulsed and faded under his astonished gaze. More than that: somehow, in the moments of fear since he'd first seen that armored head rise into view, his free hand had opened two of his pouches, tossed away the palm-flasks of wine he carried there, and thrust all of the rest of the gewgaws into the emptied pouches.

"Mystra, Lady of Magic," he prayed hoarsely, watching the trembling in his hand grow stronger and realizing that something was urging him to return to the trail and take it ahead in that direction and to go nowhere else. "What by all your sacred mysteries is going on?"

Surth, he saw, was struggling to his feet, holding out another of the gewgaws in one hand as if it were towing him forward.

"We . . . we're being led like mules," he gasped, suddenly drenched in fear-sweat. "Oh, gods, we're going to die!"

As if in reply to his words, another silent armored warrior floated into view along the trail. It headed purposefully for Surth, raising its blade as it came.

Surth threw the gewgaw in his hand, and Bezrar hastily buried his face in the moss and leaves.

The blast was even bigger this time.

The tug of the thing in his hand grew insistent. He struggled to his feet and stumbled toward the trail. Surth was reeling among the trees-and there was already another gewgaw in his hand.

"Oh, Bane and black doom," Bezrar muttered helplessly, as he found himself heading for the trail as fast as his shaking limbs could take him.

* * * * *

"Wait," Rhauligan said suddenly. "What about that . . . protection?"

"The stars of Mystra did not bar me," Laspeera said, "and nothing steered me in my reading. I think."

"You truly think the goddess herself . . . ?"

"I don't know," Caladnei said firmly. "Narnra . . . did you see seven stars? Blue-white fire?"

The Silken Shadow stared at the three Cormyreans, sudden hope kindling. I could play this as a shield, try to win free of this room and these three, and . . . and . . .

As she discovered she didn't know what she'd want to do if she did win her freedom, Laspeera suddenly turned her back.

She's still reading my thoughts! She knows this would be a ruse.

"No," the senior War Wizard said firmly, turning around again to face Narnra. "Where the Mother of Mysteries is concerned, Narnra, none of us who work magic can be sure of anything. Your mind has already shown me that you saw seven stars go out, one by one, as the Mage Royal used spells on you. Yet Mystra's protection may still encloak you, whether you know it or not."

Caladnei nodded gravely. "I'd not like to proceed unless you say so, Narnra Shalace. Mystra may take note of your willingness or your refusal. So … what say you?"

My choice handed right back to me. Narnra stared at the three Cormyreans, wondering what other twists this day might hold . . . and what she should say now.

The three Cormyreans stared back at her, waiting.

* * * * *

"Well, Lady Joysil, I'm certain that everyone believes they have the misfortune to live in truly troubled times for Cormyr," Lady Honthreena Ravensgar observed, triumphantly taking the largest nut-cake with one hand and reaching for her just-refilled goblet with the other. "But truly I think we do." She waved a profusely ring-adorned hand and added, "Oh, I know that dreadful Devil Dragon no longer menaces half the realm, gulping up knights and soldiers like snacks while ores and goblins march, but . . . really, are things any better now?"

Lady Baerdra Monthor did not wait for the Lady Joysil Ambrur to answer but said darkly, "Well, unlike some at this table, I am truly a daughter of Marsember-and any misfortune to befall the Obar-skyrs and the precious Royal Court in Suzail delights me! I'd be just as happy if they all fell down some dragon's gullet by nightfall today and let us regain rule of our own city! All these flirtations with Chauntea and boy kings and that unspeakable Alusair riding wild over half the kingdom-"

"The male half, dear," old Lady Hornsryl Wavegallant observed meaningfully-then tittered.

Lady Monthor waited for the ripple of catty mirth to die, and then resumed her verbal onslaught right where she'd left off. "- While some unknown little hussy of an outlander runs the War Wizards, and Obarskyrs trammel the rights of nobles here, there, and everywhere! Gods above look down, could they do worse?'

"Well," Lady Thornra Bracegauntlet said gently, "my sympathies lie with Filfaeril. A true Queen, of dignity and breeding, watching in silence all those years whilst Azoun bedded everyone who didn't flee in her skirts the moment his pennants were seen atop a distant hill-"

"Ah, yes," Lady Monthor sighed, looking at the ceiling in fond reverie and almost spilling her goblet.

But for the briefest of exasperated sighs, Lady Bracegauntlet ignored the interjection, and swept on. "-then watching her own daughter tear the codpiece off any young man to take her fancy, while the other daughter goes all foolish over a bad noble and goes and dies bearing his child-and how are all the rest of us to know it's legitimate and deserves to someday wear a crown?-and-"

"Years must pass before that little brat gets measured for any crowns," Lady Ravensgar said darkly. "There's many a royal get that's been fitted for his coffin before his coronet!"

"Oh, stop hinting, Honthreena!" Lady Wavegallant said firmly. "If you've started or joined one of these little conspiracies, tell us! We want to hear all about it! As for Filfaeril, I hear she's doing quite well in the bedchamber herself these days with that old stuffy fool of a sage, Alaphondar!"

The Lady Joysil Ambrur had said little and continued to do so. She smiled over her favorite tallglass, watched her wine and cakes disappear with frightening rapidity, and deftly tugged out the choicest gossip. The nine noble ladies of Cormyr who'd been lucky enough to receive an invitation to this highsun-sup cooperated with enthusiasm-for they were only too eager to demonstrate how in the know they were. Little hard truth about conspiracies emerged, but Caladnei the Mage Royal, the Steel Regent, and the Dowager Queen Filfaeril and her antics with Alaphondar all came in for some colorful conversation.

After all, she thought with a smile-aside from occasional uncomfortable duties in the bedchamber regarding the provision of family heirs, and spending as much money on fripperies as possible, of course-that is what noble ladies are for.

* * * * *

Rauthur turned suddenly. "What was that?"

"My . . . diversion," the Red Wizard murmured. "Merely a few bewildered blunderers encountering the helmed horrors to snare the attention of your fellow War Wizards-just in case some of them are in the habit of spying on Vangerdahast."

Huldyl Rauthur mopped his pale face, sighed, and whispered, "Right. I see. Well, here we are. This is one of the 'back ways in' to Old Thun-er, Vangerdahast's sanctum."

"Old Thunderspells? I've heard that term before," Starangh murmured. "Are we likely to encounter alarm spells, or guardians?"

"No, no, we're inside all that. Vangey can't do spellwork if his own castings keep setting off alarms and spell-backlashes. We just have to keep fairly quiet, because he has a guest."

"Who might that be?"

"I don't know, but he's talking to someone who's right here to move things for him, not someone at the other end of a farscrying spell or crystal." The War Wizard led the way cautiously along a dimly lit passage that smelled of damp earth. The tiles were damp underfoot, and the rough-block stone walls were pierced at intervals by closed doors. "Pantries and such-oh, there is one thing we have to watch out for!"

"Rauthur," the wizard called Darkspells said silkily, laying a hand on the War Wizard's shoulder, "I don't like surprises. You should know that by now."

"Uh, ah, yes, Lord! I-I-merely mean I forgot to mention something! Uh, tha-that Vangerdahast conjures pairs of floating eyes and flying hands that he uses as fetch-and-carry servitors . . . they won't be along here, but we mustn't go left up ahead or we may run into them-and of course, he sees through them, and . . ."

"Yes, that would be unfortunate. Is there anything else you're having difficulty remembering, friend Huldyl?"

"N-no, Lord Harnrim. I-uh, through here. There're steps up. You wanted to see Vangerdahast at work. . . ."

"Indeed," the Red Wizard breathed, his voice the merest of whispers and his hand remaining on Rauthur's shoulder. "Show me."

Unseen behind the trembling War Wizard, Starangh's other hand slipped the crystal out of his codpiece and held it ready in his hand-just in case.

The worn stone steps were a narrow, short flight that ascended into a sort of garden room, where benches held shallow trays of flourishing herbs and food plants beneath a ceiling of curving glass. Outside, a great ring of thickly grown trees surrounded the domed ceiling, which lay in its own little clearing-and among them, the Red Wizard could see the motionless forms of a dozen or more helmed horrors-so many empty suits of armor, floating tirelessly upright in the shade-gloom.

Rauthur had laid a hand on Starangh's arm, and he turned his head to glare-only to see the War Wizard pointing down.

Through a gap between two of the old bedding trays, more glass could be seen: a wall, this time, that overlooked an adjacent room whose floor was much lower. Starangh found himself looking down on the moving heads of a man and a woman.

Rauthur did something delicate with the air around them. There was a momentary flicker of magical radiance-the merest of ripples-and voices could be faintly heard, the words of the man and woman below.

The Red Wizard bent his head forward to listen intently.

A tiny whirlwind of flames circled in midair as Vangerdahast peered critically at it. "Not enough," he grunted, "Not enough."

Tiny threads of lightning spurted from his fingertips and crawled unsteadily through the air, flickering and darting to join the pinwheel of flames . . . which flared into greater life, wobbled-and promptly collapsed into winking sparks and fading smoke.

Vangey slammed one hand down on the table and rose on it to lean forward and watch every last instant of his spell dying.

"Not a success," Myrmeen Lhal observed gently from the chair across the room where she sat in full armor, her drawn sword across her knees.

Vangerdahast growled deep in his throat as she'd heard many a hunting-dog do and whirled around to glare at her. "I can't work with you watching me, curse it, woman! Why don't you take your sword and your armored self out into the woods and shred some small, furry things? Leave me be!"

"No," the Lady Lord of Arabel said sweetly, smiling at him with her chin cradled in her hands. Her gauntlets, he noted wearily, were perched on the great carved horns of the chairback. "I like small, furry things-even ones that wear wizards' robes and growl at me grumpily."

Vangerdahast growled again, more angrily this time, and brought his other hand down on the table with a crash.

"Patience in all things, Lord," she murmured. "If you expect to craft entirely new spells to bind dozens of dragons, you can't expect every spell to be a simple thing-or other mages would have done it already and bound every last one of them thousands of years ago."

"I've seen enough," the Red Wizard murmured in Rauthur's ear, "and shall take my leave of you. Conduct me to where it's safe to depart."

Huldyl Rauthur nodded and led the way quickly back down the steps to the passage, and along it the way they'd come. Halfway along the corridor he paused beside a door and muttered, "Lord Starangh, within are some of the floating eyes and flying hands that I know how to attune and activate. Would you like to use them to, ah, see farther through the sanctum than we've walked, thus far?"

The Red Wizard smiled. "How thoughtful-but no, thank you. Not this time. You've been very helpful and useful, Rauthur-and I trust shall remain so." He clapped the War Wizard warmly on the shoulder and added, "For of course, to betray me is … to die."

With that last whispered word ringing in Huldyl Rauthur's ears, the War Wizard found himself suddenly alone, staring at-the empty passage.

Mother Mystra, he's gone right through the wards! The wards it took Vangerdahast days of fighting just to modify!

Huldyl Rauthur shivered all over, like a wet dog, swallowed with an effort, and hurried back to the garden room, to restore the silence shield.

So this is what true fear feels like-and everything up to now has been mere . . . apprehension.

Gods, deliver me.