Elminster was still melancholy when he reached his tower. A handful of days ago he'd watched Shandril Shessair and her half-trained lad Narm set out from the dale, heading for Silverymoon in the North… and, the Old Mage feared, for their deaths. Even with all the Knights of Myth Drannor misdirecting agents of the Cult, the Brotherhood, Thay, and the gods alone knew who else, Narm and Shandril were probably doomed.
Aye, doomed. Elminster of Shadowdale might have commanded the experience great age brings, as well as magics powerful enough to tear apart castle keeps and dragons alike-but such things did not give him any right to tell young folk what to do or to shape their lives for them. Even though the girl commanded spellfire with power enough to rival Elminster, he could not directly intercede. Perhaps his hands were tied especially because she held such power.
The choice had been their own, the trail theirs to take, the consequences their tutors… and the chances of their making it alive to Silverymoon slim. Very slim… even if a certain Old Mage raised a hand to aid them from time to time. Aid them, but not dictate their fate. That would hurt, too, when in the end he heard whatever doom had claimed them.
This sort of dilemma had come up too many times over too many years. It grew no easier to take. Not for the first time, Elminster felt the weight of Mystra's burden and wished he could just grow old as other folk did, laying aside all cares as he sank into gray, endless twilight. Or perhaps he could call out one of his mightiest foes and go down fighting, hurling spells linked to spells and sealed with his own life energy in one last magnificent spellbattle that would reshape the Realms anew, it would give folk such as Shandril a new morning to walk into, fearless and happy, a new world before them.
Maudlin fool. The death such a spellstorm would cause! Entire realms shattered-folk and trees alike twisted for years to come… no. Get out and have a pipe and think more useful thoughts.
As always, Elminster's feet led him to the rocks beside his pool. Their familiar ledges, smoothed by his backside over many hours of sitting, were solid and reassuring beneath him as he looked out across the still waters and made smoke.
Blue-green and thick, it coiled up out of his pipe, sparks swirling in its heart as they sought the sun high above.
Elminster watched them leap and spiral; his eyes saw Shandril hurling spellfire instead, and he wondered how far she'd gotten by now, and if worse foes than bumbling Zhentilar had found her.
Two stones at his feet clicked together, a tiny enchantment that told him someone was coming up the path to his tower. Elminster did not turn to look-not even when they clicked again to tell him his visitor had turned down the short run of flagstones that led to the pool. He merely let the pipe float out of his mouth, and said calmly, 'Fair morning.'
'Oh. Ah, aye. That it is.' The voice was high and uncertain. Elminster looked into eyes that were very blue; they belonged to a young boy he'd never seen before, a lad in a nondescript tunic and gray hose. He came hopping down to the edge of the pool and kicked at a half-submerged stone at the water's edge. He looked back over his shoulder at the Old Mage, and asked, 'You're Elminster, aren't you?'
The Old Mage regarded him thoughtfully. 'I generally answer to that name, aye.'
The boy grinned at him with the impish confidence of youth; an older person would never ha?ve dared utter the next question Elminster heard. 'So what're you just sitting here, an' not making blue dragons turn cartwheels, or the sky go black, or-or-you know?'
'I'm thinking,' the Old Mage said simply. There was a silence, but the lad waited patiently for him to say more. Surprising, for one so young. After a breath or two Elminster added, 'It's a harder thing to do than hurling dragons around or bringing down night during the day.'
'It is? So what're you thinking about?'
Elminster looked warily into those guileless eyes. They stared back at him with no hint of unsavory motive, clear, direct, and innocent; deep, brown, and steady.
Elminster watched a golden light growing in them, smiled inwardly and, without a word or gesture to betray his intent, called into being four balls of writhing fire.
Trailing sparks, the spheres of flame roared away from him, smashed into the boy, and hurled him far out over the pool. There was a ground-shaking blast as the morning exploded into bright flame. The noise was followed by a mighty splash.
The pipe glided to the Old Mage's lips again. He smoked, sober eyes fixed on the roiling waters of the pool, waiting.
He did not wait long. Something smoldering and tentacled rose up out of the pool. The plumes of smoke rising from it thickened as it broke clear of the waters. It no longer looked anything like a human boy. Its mottled, bubbled skin seemed to flow and shift as Elminster watched it grow two limbs that became humanlike arms, the ends parting and melting into fingers. As the coalescing hands waved, butter-colored eyes swam into view in the thicker bulk below, fixing him with a hard stare. The skin parted in a gash that shaped itself into a mouth, that…
The spell the Old Mage hurled this time tore the very water out of the pool. Fish, startled turtles, and slimy plants flapped and spun in the air-and in their midst, bright blue flames raced over the tentacled form as it rose into the sky, screaming and twisting frantically. It struggled, arched a spine it hadn't possessed a moment earlier and then fell limp, a-dangle in midair.
Elminster's eyes were hard as he watched the tentacled mass drift toward him, held fast by his spell. Beyond its smoldering bulk there was a terrific crash as all the water fell back into the pool. Startled birds called, and then flapped hastily away from the trees around.
Elminster frowned. His pipe had gone out.
He guided the dead, tentacled thing to the grass at his feet. It landed with a wet plop, still enshrouded by flickering blue radiance.
The Old Mage snapped his fingers, and a long black staff inset with runes of silver appeared in his hands. He pointed one end of it at the ganglious bulk and waited, eyes never leaving the monstrous form. He raised his chin and said clearly to the empty air before him, 'Torm. Rathan. Come to me, by the pool. I have need of ye.'
He peered around warily, sniffing the air. Such otherworldly foes seldom hunted alone.
It seemed a very long time before he heard thudding feet and the warning clicking of the stones near at hand. The two summoned knights skidded to a stop when they saw the dead thing. They were breathing heavily in their haste, and they held weapons ready.
The slimmer, younger knight in the lead was Torm-a black-haired, green-eyed charmer with a fine mustache. Torm's shoulder was currently being used as a support by the stout and puffing cleric Rathan, whose brown hair and stubbly mustache were disheveled from the run, and whose strong features had gone quite red.
Torm looked down at the dead monster, then back up at Elminster, and he raised an impudent eyebrow. 'Been fishing, have we?'
'This is a shapeshifter,' Elminster replied calmly, 'of a very powerful family who call themselves the Malaugrym. The glow denotes a spell of mine that holds it powerless to work magic.'
Before Elminster could stop him, the thief Torm kicked one still-smoking tentacle. There was no response. Torm shrugged and said, 'Looks dead to me.'
'And that will stop it from using Art? 'The Old Mage's voice was sarcastic. 'My thanks for thy assurance; as one so learned in magic, thy judgment cannot help but be correct.'
Torm shrugged. 'Your blade hits home, Old Mage; I stand corrected.'
Elminster held out the staff, keeping its end pointed at the fallen Malaugrym. 'Take over my binding, Rathan. I must work a spell to seek out any kin of this one who may Lurk near.'
The stout priest took the staff, and Elminster turned away, making complicated gestures and murmuring many odd-sounding words that the two knights could only half hear. Then the archmage paused, raised his hands, and turned slowly around. He nodded with a satisfied air.
Torm raised an eyebrow. Elminster saw it, and explained, 'There was another Malaugrym present the sister of this one. My Art has entrapped her; she cannot use any spells while she remains in Faerun.'
Torm glanced at the trees and meadows around them. 'She fled?'
'For now; she'll return to take revenge on me. Spells I may have denied her, but she can still shift her
