Divine Mystra herself granted-and commanded-it!'
Seven stars flashed, and that warm, impish smile came again, a thrill that left Narnra shivering, somehow. She found herself still floating in the mists, staring grimly down at the bright blue eyes and wry, smug smile of the white-bearded wizard.
So this, after all these years of wondering, was her father.
This old. smiling worm.
Elminster the Meddler. As powerful as a winter storm and as corrupt and willful as a Lord of Waterdeep. A man she could so easily despise or hate. The man whose magic was holding her captive and testing her words even now.
The man-her gaze went reluctantly to the inverted body of the Thayan, arms dangling, eyes dark and empty-whose magic could slice into her mind like a barber's razor, whenever he desired. Whenever he suspected she was hiding something of value from him.
The Silken Shadow clenched her hands so tightly that her fingernails pierced her palms. Blood welled out-and she clenched them all the tighter.
She must say nothing of Goraun's words and hope that Khelben and the goddess Mystra went right on keeping the secret they'd so obviously kept from Elminster of Shadowdale for longer than she'd been alive.
If they did not, he might destroy her or try to keep her captive to train and command her . . . and whatever he tried to do, half Faerun would come riding hard to take either her life or her freedom.
Narnra Shalace's days as a target would no doubt be all too short.
She'd always feared magic. All thieves do. Hated, feared, and mistrusted magic-how could any folk who lacked it not feel that way? Oh, the young gasped at its wonders when Watchful Order magists blasted things or cast illusions at festivals, but … all that power. If it was ever turned against you . . .
And another thing: were she to be transformed with a wave of Mystra's hand into a mighty mistress of magic to overmatch Elminster himself, she'd still hate such a life. Being a thief was hard, chancy work-but it was hers, battles fought at her choosing, skills she'd won on her own, fresh challenges she set herself, excitement and independence and . . . and what she was used to.
'You old, lying bastard!' she spat, the words bursting out before she thought to stop them. 'You toad! You smug, lecherous spell-tyrant!'
Elminster blinked up at her. 'I've heard such words before, aye, and deserved many of them-though not from someone who knows me as little as ye do, lass. I'd thought we'd stopped all this hissing and snarling for the sheer dramatic effect of thy outrage. Why so hostile now, little one?'
'If you knew,' Narnra hissed, voice trembling as she fought to master it. 'If you only knew!'
Bright blue eyes narrowed. 'Is there something I should be learning amongst your thoughts, daughter of Maerjanthra?'
The Old Mage raised one hand, and Narnra bit her lip and cursed herself for a fool. Doom and icy despair were upon her-and she'd called them down on herself with her own rage and over-loose tongue! Mask and Tymora and Mystra, all, hear me! Aid, if I can win one small shard of mercy! Hel-
As if the gods had heard her and made immediate answer, the cellar shook, tiny sizzling bolts of lightning washed across the ceiling, clawing and spitting, and the mists fell away-just like a bedsheet on a wash-line the Silken Shadow had once sliced with her knife. The Red Wizard fell with them, crashing limp and face-first to the stone floor.
Narnra was also descending, though it felt like drifting down through something soft and thick rather than falling. She was still well off the floor when Elminster spun around to face the cellar arch-and something obligingly appeared there.
Four somethings, actually: four pillars of whirling sparks that occurred quite suddenly, out of thin air, the writhing form of Caladnei of Cormyr in their midst. Dark figures stepped out of those sparks, gesturing in unison-and the Mage Royal's fiery bonds became four tethers that held her helpless between the four newcomers. Four bald, dusky-skinned men whose heads were marked with intricate black tattoos advanced in careful unison. They wore maroon robes and much jewelry, and the eyes in their hard, ruthless faces glittered with anger-and glee.
Elminster spread his hands, fingers twitching and eyes half-closed, for all Faerun as if he was feeling something invisible in the air.
'Stand aside, old fool,' one of the four snapped. 'You must be of the conspiracy to so leash the Mage Royal of Cormyr-but your life, like hers and that of this masked wench, is forfeit. No one mistreats a Red Wizard and lives!'
The Old Mage murmured something, still seemingly in a trance-and Thauvas Zlorn rose and advanced to meet the nearest of his newly arrived countrymen.
'My thanks for this rescue, Naerzil,' he said with a widening smile. 'Slay none of these, but keep them captive, for their minds hold-'
'Be silent, Zlorn,' the foremost Red Wizard said coldly. 'Your fate remains to be decided by those we both answer to, and your orders and suggestions are unwelcome.'
'Ah. Such a pity,' Thuavas Zlorn murmured, in a voice oddly unlike his own-and sprang forward to throttle his fellow Thayan.
The startled Red Wizard fell with a crash, struggling to keep iron-strong fingers from his throat and eyes. When he slapped Zlorn's arm aside, Thauvas thrust two fingers into Naerzil's nostrils and jerked the man's head back, slamming it onto the stone floor.
The fiery strand leading to Caladnei sprang away, spasming and coiling-and the other three Red Wizards dragged her away, shouting sharp, alarmed incantations.
The two men twisted and struggled on the floor, grunting and cursing-until Naerzil laughed in triumph beneath his foe, and a tattoo on his forehead erupted into blue, crawling flames. They swirled, took the shape of leaping talons, and tore at the face of Thauvas Zlorn.
Blood spurted, an eyeball burst, and the squealing Thayan arched backwards, Naerzil shoving and kicking to gain freedom. The blue flames tore at Zlorn's face and throat until he had nothing left to scream with-but even as his slayer scrambled out and away, chuckling, the dying Thayan formed a sphere with his empty hands-echoing movements that had just been made by Elminster, who was swaying dreamily in the distance-and the blue flames fell from his ravaged face to swirl within those fingers . . . then leap out like a striking serpent at the startled face of Naerzil.
Thauvas Zlorn slumped to his knees, making liquid mewing sounds of pain, but Naerzil's head blossomed into a blinding whirl of blue flames, racing around and around it in a sphere so swift-snarling that no shout, if Naerzil had tried to make one, could be heard.
The blue radiance suddenly burst into sparks and went out-and a headless body toppled to the flagstones, not far from Thauvas.
Flashes and high singing sounds were all around Elminster by then-but the looks on the faces of the Red Wizards told Narnra that they'd been expecting their spells to do much, much more than make a little light and noise.
'Who are you?' one of them gasped, at last, as his most powerful spell sighed into nothingness, leaving nothing but impotent lines of smoke curling up from his fingertips.
'Elminster of Shadowdale, at thy service-or rather, at the service of Thay, which land will be vastly improved by the extinction of all Red Wizards,' the white-bearded wizard replied merrily. Little flames began to leap and wink between his raised, spread fingers. Between them, like a traveling jester, the Old Mage gave the quailing Thayans a wide, crooked smile.
'Hold!' one of them snapped desperately. 'Harm us, and this woman dies!'
He made a beckoning motion with one hand, and the line of fire clinging to the back of it tightened. As its keening song rose into a shriek, Caladnei of Cormyr rose with it, clawing at her throat desperately, her body quivering like a plucked bowstring as the other two Red Wizards tightened their ends of the spell-bonds.
Faces pale, the Thayans glared at Elminster-who stepped swiftly in front of Narnra to shield her from them as her boots finally touched the floor.
The Silken Shadow shot a startled glance at the Old Mage's back as she crouched, ready to spring in any direction that might seem safest, and wondered if the best thing for all Toril for her to do-though it would mean her death-would be to spring at Elminster with her best dagger drawn, and open his throat wide. The Chosen of Mystra
