Elminster in Hell

Chapter Twenty-Two

THE EMPTYING OF ELMINSTER

The voice he loved so well seemed to come curling huskily up out of the fire. 'Why Aglarond? Are you growing tired of scouring the same old places, O Sword of Mystra?'

The bearded man in black abruptly stopped his pacing to peer into the crackling flames. 'Auluua?' he cried. Teacher?'

'The same.' Flame crackled up in leaping tongues. 'I am a little lonely, Prince of Athalantar. The years pass, and I sit waiting of nights… and you never call.'

Elminster almost ran into the fire, arms outstretched to embrace-nothing. Firelight danced across his face as he swayed above the hearth, sudden tears hissing down into the blaze at his feet.

'Your boots will scorch, El,' the Srinshee said, her voice softer now, and less playful. 'Stand you back, and leave off weeping, or you'll have me sobbing too.'

Almost reluctantly Elminster did as he was bid, staring into the flames. 'How is it that ye come to me?' he asked in wonder.

'You called on me-just now, in your muttering. When you said 'This mage murderess must be the Srinshee's peer at hurling deadly spells.' My peer, indeed!'

El grinned and strode across the chamber, waving his hands. 'Well, she must be. Look ye: emissaries battle with spells in the palace of Aglarond, and this seneschal-'prentice, the Simbul, who's not been heard from before, hurls them all down with her spells-thrice!'

He ran out of room to pace across, and whirled around to stride back. ' 'Tis not easy work, impressing Red Wizards, but this mysterious wench has done so mightily. Instead of signing her realm's surrender, Great Queen Ilione signs a treaty with Thay that makes them nearly allies! Everywhere among mages I hear talk of this wild-tempered woman and her slaying spells, and they tell of Ilbrul the Ramshorn, who claimed to hail from Netheril, and Englezaer the Enchanter, and the spell hunters Ammarask and Brastimeir the Bold all going down in battle against her! Aglarond grows too strong, I say-and this Simbul must be stopped!'

'That roster of the fallen is true, every one… and yet, bold lion, there was a time when you admired strong she-wizards! Or does your memory of fair Cormanthor and the glorious time of Myth Drannor fade?'

'Nay, but Mystra bids me nurture magic, not stand idly by whilst one ambitious mage, man or maid, cuts down wizard after wizard, snuffing out so much learning in moments!'

'So why have you not long since cloaked yourself in wrath and mighty weavings and lain waste to Aglarond, trampling down this Simbul at its heart? Are you afraid?'

Elminster snorted. 'Foolish I may be, but afraid? Only of doing the wrong thing, if I may flatter myself thus far. Nay, whenever I resolve to challenge this Simbul, I hear Mystra whispering, 'Look well, first.' '

'And so?'

'I've been too busy with other matters of magical import and service to Mystra. Yet too much time has passed, and 'tis more than fitting that I now cast down this Simbul… after looking at her deeds and manner as Mystra bids, of course.'

'You seem to have already made up your mind she must die, Sword of Mystra. Yet it might not prove so simple as all that; do you not fear defeat and death at the hands of this obviously mighty mageslayer? She is dangerous… she could kill you.'

Elminster spread his hands. 'I could be overwhelmed and slain at any time, and what will the measure of my life be then? I am nothing but some small part of the service I have done to others.'

The flames seemed to shape a smile for him; a smile he knew so well that tears welled up again almost to choke him.

'I fade, El, so heed me now: If you go to Aglarond, go armed for the worst spell battle of your life. Go also with an open mind and prepare to be surprised.'

There was a great puff of spark and ash, and the fire went out, plunging the room into darkness.

Ahhh, and you were surprised. You certainly did your part to make fair faerun an exciting place for mages-out i'm still not seeing the secret magic I seek, am I?

[bright images flying]

'Rumor, Lord Elminster, runs like a yapping dog; the truth creeps like a silent snail in its wake.'

Elminster sighed and nodded. 'A nice phrase, Thauntar. Yet the wizards are dead- and an impressive heap of them, too.'

The one-eyed warrior shrugged in his mismatched old armor and replied, '1 try to see truth, as the Lady we both serve taught me to, and I apprehend you may have heard far more than what is true. The treaty is not a war alliance, but a non-aggression pact. Aglarond achieves its own survival-for a few years, at least-and Thay wins an unopposed chance to infiltrate and influence…. In the longer term, they will absorb Ilione's realm with a minimum of cost and effort.'

Elminster shrugged.

Thauntar raised one rusty gauntlet and added, 'Moreover, this agreement was won only after the one called the Simbul slaughtered three sets of visiting Thayan emissaries.'

'Aye, and why would she do that? Were they all rude to her?'

'What Thayan isn't rude to nigh everyone outside Thay? But there's more, Lord: All of those envoys turned out to be wizards eager to spell-slay everyone in the palace, once they were settled inside it.'

'I heard this Simbul blasts almost every mage she meets with-and yet I can scarce believe the sum of her harvest, in so short a time!'

'The Simbul, Lord… and mark my words: she destroys only those who strike against Aglarond.'

'Oh, come-mages from Cormyr?'

'An embassy arrives from a city in Chessenta this very night, Lord. Yet Thayan agents lurk within its ranks. So, too, did Cormyr unwittingly harbor serpents of Thay.'

Elminster frowned. 'I thank thee for thy counsel, wise Thauntar. I will go and see this Thay-slayer for myself.'

'That's always best,' the warrior agreed. They nodded and then embraced, clapping each other's shoulders. Waving their hands in salutes, they parted-the one in a whirl of spell sparks, and the other trudging on up over the hill in worn boots.

I suppose you loved him too, this brawny warrior?

No, but Mystra did.

And?

And nothing. He died.

Hah! Her time and attention wasted!

Not so. She does not regard humans as tools, to be measured by their usefulness to her ends of the moment, but rather as flowers to be nurtured in a garden. Each passing year holds a better display, and affords grander possibilities.

[diabolic snort, clawing aside of memories like cobweb curtains, pain visited on gasping wizard]

Stop wasting my time, elminster.

The Mouth of Moreyeus shuddered in open fear as the slender, wild-haired woman in the simple mauve gown languidly made the hand sign for peaceful parley. Her waist was girt about with a sash, not a belt, and she bore no