Elminster in Hell

Khelben met her gaze and nodded grimly. 'She is a captive. Magic imprisons her and drinks of her power- magic such as I have never felt before and do not yet understand.'

Laeral stared at him in horror. 'Who in all Faerun has the power to hold Great Mystra captive?'

Khelben smiled bitterly. 'Why, another god, of course.'

So, you give me more of your friends worried about your absence. How touching. Well, then, clever wizard: give me another of mystra's memories, wherein we see some of these friends of yours trying to work magic to find you. Then, perhaps, we'll get somewhere in this sword play of crossed and clashing remembrances that amuses you so….

As ye wish.

Mock me not, wizard! [mental slap]

I never mock, devil, [mental slap returned]

[pain; astonishment] you dare?

No, Lord Nergal. But Mystra does.

[confusion… fear] she's aware, with you… Within you?

Not now. But she can be, if ye disturb the right-excuse me, the wrong- memory. Then she will come, and all thy work will be undone.

[fear, anger] no. She can have no power over me here. Devils rule in hell.

Of course. Nice throne, by the way.

[red fires of anger] so you never mock, little man?

Never. Try to remember that.

[dark glare] unfold the memory, elminster aumar.

'The gods alone know where they are, by now,' Storm said quietly. 'I think Elminster wandered westward-but he could have passed through any of a dozen secret gates. With a single step he could have reached the other side of Faerun… or even another plane.'

'A cheery thought,' Shaerl observed sardonically. 'Shall I tell Mourngrym to revise dale defenses to include a dozen unknown, invisible, but all-too-exposed gates that invading armies can rush through?'

'Easy, wench,' Jhessail told her, patting her hand. 'Have some more firequench.' She pushed the decanter of ruby-red liqueur across the table. Illistyl made a silent grab for it as it moved away from her and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Jhessail. She returned it, with interest.

'Ladies, ladies,' Storm sighed, shifting her feet down from atop the table. 'Must we spit and snarl like rival kittens?'

Illistyl shrugged. 'It's what we've always done before,' she observed with impish serenity.

Shaerl giggled. A breath later, others joined her. The Lady of Shadowdale had brought the two sorceresses to Storm's farmhouse late, after most of the men in the Twisted Tower-including her man, Lord Mourngrym- were abed. Afternoon was a more usual time for these tongue-wag sessions, but they'd all been too restless to sleep and had met by chance, padding barefoot around the tower in their nightcloaks.

Storm Silverhand had also been awake when they'd come calling. As they approached, the three had heard her talking softly to someone, but when they'd gone through her open door, she'd been alone, a lute idle across her lap.

They'd sung a song or two, tossed around gossip of the dale's doings, and come at last to Elminster's sudden absence.

Illistyl had been surprised to see unshed tears standing in Storm's eyes. The lady bard had said little and continued to do so-but her sadness lay like a shadow in the room, enfolding them all. Illistyl felt it as keenly as any other but could think of no kind way to shake it away. Her gaze flicked down the table to find Storm's knowing eyes upon her.

Illistyl burst out, 'Storm, what's wrong? I'd like to help, but I don't even know just-'

She broke off, startled, as a bat as large and black as a cloak flapped heavily in through the open doorway, circled low over the table, and writhed in the air in front of the fireplace. An instant later, it had become a tall, gaunt woman in a black, tattered gown. Her hair and eyes both danced wildly, and a fierce pride leaped in her face as she glided toward them.

'Sister!' Storm greeted her with a welcoming smile. 'Will you take some firequench with us?'

The Simbul shivered like a cat after a fright. 'Later,' she said, taking a seat at the table. 'After I try to learn what we both want to know.'

'All of us, here,' Storm replied quietly. 'I've sent two wood men out after them, too. Two who harp.' Across the room, the strings of her harp seemed to sing faintly.

The Simbul looked around at them all, not smiling, nodded to each, and without pause bent her head and began whispering words of Art.

A heavy tension grew in the room. The candle flames shrank to steady, watching pinpoints. The Simbul sat at the center of the gathered power, black and unmoving. Her shoulders shook. She gasped, and the candle flames leaped and flickered again. The room was somehow brighter-and yet, Illistyl thought, looking at the Simbul's forlorn and ravaged face-it seemed no safer or warmer.

The Witch-Queen of Aglarond looked around at them all and said simply, 'I'll need your help, all of you. Join hands with me, and I'll try again.'

Without hesitation the women leaned forward around the table, the liqueur decanter standing like a red flame before them. The Simbul closed her eyes, shuddered again, and began to gather her will. As before, the room grew dim.

'Think,' she muttered, 'think of Sharantyr. Picture her face, her voice, what she looks like when she moves. We must key upon her, for Elminster is cloaked to seeking magic.'

Obediently, they thought of Shar. Jhessail's eyes closed, her face calm. Illistyl and Shaerl both frowned, eyes scamched in concentration. Linked to the Simbul, they could feel her draw in her power, feeding on their thoughts, emotions, and yearnings.

Power swirled around the room. Then the Simbul hurled her questing, searching thought outward, a long way. Like a fisher's hook into dark waters, she fell into a void of seeking where those linked to her could not follow.

After a long, tense silence, the Simbul shook herself like a dog coming up out of water. 'We need more. All is twisted, all gone wild. Sylune… please?'

Three pairs of wondering eyes saw Storm and the Simbul's fingers part. Out of the smoky air between them, two slim, faintly glowing hands seemed to grow, gaining substance in ghostly silence. Each clasped a living hand.

A gentle whisper said, 'I am here. Try now, Sister.'

Shaerl, Jhessail, and Illistyl looked at each other for a frightened moment, stared at the half-seen, ghostly figure between Storm and the Simbul, closed their eyes, and threw themselves into seeking Sharantyr.

An eternity passed. The candles burned lower. They breathed as one, low and deep. Toril, with awesome slowness, rolled steadily beneath them.

They heard someone whimper, and the circle was broken.

Storm held only empty air, and the Simbul fell heavily facedown on the table, upsetting the decanter.

'Storm?' Shaerl asked anxiously, half rising. 'Is she-?'

'Exhausted,' the Bard of Shadowdale said faintly, leaning back in her chair. 'As I am. It's a magic few know- thankfully, or there'd be mindless mages across half Faerun, in short order.'

Jhessail rescued the decanter and silently held it out to Storm. Storm stared at it dully for a breath or two, then deliberately took it, unstopped it, and took a long pull. When she replaced the stopper again and handed it back, it was almost empty.

'Storm,' Illistyl asked quietly, her voice almost steady, 'was that-?'

'Our sister, Sylune,' Storm answered, as quietly. 'Yes. It was, and what we tried did more harm to her than to either of us.'

She turned dark eyes up to theirs, and added, 'So now you know. Take up die weight of another secret, for the good of the dale.'