The Temptation of Elminster

'I would,' El said eagerly, striding forward.

Saeraede rose from the throne and held up her hands in warning.

'Remember,' she said gravely, 'you'll see Karsus instructing himself how to cast those spells, and the rune will then be dead forever, its spells…spells neither you nor any living mage may now be able to cast…lost with it.'

She took two slow steps away from Elminster, then turned back to face him, pointing down at the rune. 'If you want to preserve its power and be able to view it again hereafter, there is a way … but it will call greatly on your trust.'

Elminster's brows rose again, but he said merely, 'Say on.'

Saeraede spread empty hands in the age-old gesture traders use to show they are unarmed, and said gently, 'You can channel energy into the rune through me. Touch me as I stand upon the rune, and will your spell to seek the rune as its target. The bindings set within me by Karsus will keep me from harm and deliver the fury of your magic into the rune. One powerful spell ought to do it … or two lesser ones.'

The eyes of the last prince of Athalantar narrowed. 'Mystra forfend,' he murmured, raising a reluctant hand.

'Elminster,' Saeraede said beseechingly, 'I owe you my life. I mean you no harm. Take whatever precautions you see fit…a blindfold, bindings, a gag.' She extended her arms to him, wrists crossed over each other in a gesture of submission. 'You have nothing to fear from me.'

Slowly, Elminster stepped forward and took her cold hand in his.

Nineteen: More Blood Than Thunder

The thunder of a king's tongue can always spill more blood than his own weight in gold before dawn the next morning.

Mintiper Moonsilver, Bard, from the ballad Great Changes Aborning first performed circa The Year of the Sword and Stars

Saeraede's touch was cold…colder than icy rivers he'd plunged into, colder even than the bite of blue glacial ice that had once seared his naked skin.

Gods! Elminster struggled to catch his breath, too shocked even to moan. The face so close to his held no hint of triumph, only anxious concern. El stared into those beautiful eyes and roared out his pain in a wordless shout that echoed around the cavern.

It was answered a moment later by a greater roar, a rumbling that shook the cavern and split its gloom with a flash of light…a flash that made all of the runes briefly catch fire, and sent a slim, stealthy figure shrinking back hastily into its crevice, unregarded.

One of her best spells, shattered like a glass goblet hurled to stones…and it could not be any doing of this helpless, shuddering mage in her hands. Oh, dark luck rule: were there spells on a Chosen that called for aid by themselves?

Saeraede straightened, eyes blazing, and snarled, 'Who-?'

The light that stabbed down the shaft this time was no flash of destruction but a golden column of more lasting sorcery. Four figures rode its magic smoothly down into the cavern of the throne, boots first.

Three of the men in that column of light were old and stout and amazed. Caladaster, Beldrune, and Tabarast were all staring in awe at their companion. The quiet Harper had just broken a spell that had shaken the very trees around in its passing, and swept away a thick stone floor in the doing with a casual wave of his hand. He'd taken a few steps forward, smiled reassuringly at them, and another gesture had swept them up into waiting radiance and borne them down the shaft together in its glowing heart.

'Elminster,' the fourth man said crisply, as his boots touched the stone floor as lightly as a falling feather kisses the earth, 'stand away from yon runes. Mystra forbids us to do what you are attempting.'

A gasping Elminster had only just then recovered the power of speech. He turned with a stiff, awkward lurch, limbs trembling, and said sharply through lips that were thin and blue, 'Mystra forbids us to do, never to look. Who are you?'

The man smiled slightly, and his eyes became two lances of magical fire, stabbing across the cavern at Saeraede. 'Call me…Azuth,' he replied.

'The spell failed again, l-lord,' the man in robes said, his voice not quite steady.

The Lord Esbre Felmorel nodded curtly. 'You have our leave to withdraw. Go not where we cannot summon you in haste, if need be.'

'Lord, it shall be so,' the wizard murmured. He did not…quite…break into a run as he left the chamber, but the eyes of both guards at the door flickered as he passed.

'Nasmaerae?'

Lady Felmorel lifted unhappy eyes to his and said, 'This is none of my doing, lord. Prayers to Most Holy Azuth are as close as I come to the Art now. This I swear.'

A large and hairy hand closed over hers. 'Be at ease, lady. I cannot forget that hard lesson any more than you can. I know you forget not, and transgress not. I have seen your blood upon the tiles before the altar, and seen you at prayer. You humiliate yourself as only one who truly believes can.'

A smile touched his lips for a moment, and stole away again. 'You frighten the men more now than you ever did when you ruled this castle by your sorcery, you know. They say you talk with Azuth every night.'

'Esbre,' his lady whispered, holding her eyes steady upon his despite the blush that had turned her face, throat, and beyond crimson, 'I do. And I am more frightened right now than ever I was when Azuth stripped my Art from me before you. All magic is awry, all over the Realms. It will be down to the sharpest sword and the cunning of the wolf once more, and not one of our hired mages will be able to aid us!'

'And what is so bad about trusting only in sharp swords and the strong arms and cunning of warriors?'

'Esbre,' the Lady Nasmaerae whispered, bringing her lips up to brush his…but too slowly for him to miss seeing the bright glimmer of unshed tears welling up in her eyes, 'How long can you stand against foe after foe without the spells of our mages to hew them down for you? How many sharp swords and how much cunning does an orc horde have?'

A chiming as of many bells rang out across the chamber. It nearly deafened Elminster, as the chill wind that carried it raced through him, searing him once more into frozen immobility. The ghostly mist that had been Saeraede was spiraling about him, coiling and twining…seemingly unharmed by the beams of fire Azuth had hurled, that roared through her into Elminster.

Ice, then fire…fire that lifted him off his feet in a whirlwind of battling mist and flames and set him down again staggering, too overwhelmed to do more than bleat in wordless pain.

'Here,' Tabarast mumbled, through lips that were white and trembling with fear, 'that's our Elminster you're smiting, sir…Your, er, Divineness, sir!'

'Break free of her,' the Harper who was Azuth said quietly, his gaze no longer flaming…but now bent on the pain-narrowed eyes of Elminster, 'or you are doomed.'

'I'd say you're doomed anyway,' a sneering voice said from above…and five staves spat in unison, hurling a rending rain of doom down the shaft.

The Overmistress of the Acolytes strode through the black curtain of hanging chains with every inch of the cruel authority that made her so feared among the underclergy. The cruel barbed lash rode upon her shoulder, ready to snap forward at the slightest act or omission that displeased her, and her face beneath the horned black mask wore a smile of cruel anticipation. Even the two guardian Priestesses of the Chamber shrank back from her, she ignored them as she strode on, the metal-shod heels of her thigh-high black boots clicking on the tiles, and shouldered through the three curtains of fabric into the innermost place of the Dark-lady's contemplation…the Pool of Shar.

A figure moved in the gloom beyond the pool: a figure in a familiar horned headdress and deep purple mantle.