The Best of the Realms, Book II

IV. The Trap

Nathchanczia’s white face goes even more bloodless and her pretty throat works as she swallows, licks dry lips, swallows again, then whispers, “T-to kill you. I was sent to do so.”

“Aye, and under the compulsion of?”

The sorceress shakes her head, tears glistening in her eyes. “I cannot say his name, or the spell he laid on me will slay me.”

Elminster makes an airy gesture with one hand that accomplishes two ends: It causes Storm Silverhand to silently back away, her face grave, and his floating pipe to relocate itself smoothly by her shoulder. The air seems to prickle with expectation as the Old Mage smiles—in a teeth-baring, mirthless manner—and takes a step toward the trembling sorceress.

“So ye face the gentle choice: betray him and die, or defy me… and die. Ah, ‘tis a hard road we who work magic must walk. Time and again we are forced to confront ourselves, and see what we are, and are becoming. Nathchanczia, who are ye?”

The woman in black stares at him like a small animal caught in a trap, shudders, closes her eyes, and weeps silently, hissing, “No… no… no.”

“One who needs more courage in the face of death,” Elminster observes gently. “Yet that’s no rare failing. Let me release ye from the certainty of imminent demise, and tell thee that I’ll myself name the bowman who aimed thee hither. His name would be: Aundaman of Thay.”

The name echoes strangely as it falls from his lips, and a hush falls on the scene, flowing out across the garden like a chilling shadow.

Nathchanczia’s eyes flash open, fixed on the Old Mage in sudden triumph, and from her unmoving breast bursts a sudden roaring magic, a ravening stream of hungry fury that slams into the white-bearded wizard and sweeps him away utterly, in a white searing that claws at the hedge beyond but is hurled back into curling, fading smokes by something unseen.

Yet its dread work is done, and as the searing spell dies the sorceress from Neverwinter smiles coldly at Storm Silverhand, gathers herself, and observes with cruel glee, “And so Elminster of Shadowdale is revealed as no more than an old fool at the end, out of sheer pride springing the trap the Red Wizard laid within me, to bring about his own doom!”

She raises one clawlike hand and adds with a sneer, “And so also shall pass the Bard of Shadowdale this day, at the hands of Nathchanczia of Neverwinter!”