item. A few may yet be the perfect slaves they were intended to be. All that have thus far emerged have been wreathed in eerie blue flames, and so are known among wizards as ‘blueflame ghosts,’ though what rages around them are not flames any stoker of a hearthfire would recognize, and they are not ghosts.”
“And some of these items are in Cormyr.”
“Indeed. Notably some containing members of a once-famous band of adventurers known as ‘the Nine.’ Rumor has spread among certain of your fellow nobles that all of the Nine-including the lady mage who later became notorious as the bride of the Blackstaff, and one of the Chosen of Mystra-are secretly under the command of a handful of Cormyrean nobility, who can use them to slay, harass, or seize things from rivals or … anyone. As is the way of rumors, these views are overblown. It’s highly likely that the Lady Mage of Waterdeep never survived to be imprisoned, and it’s simply untrue that nobles are striding around this fair realm right now knowing what prisoners are linked to their baubles and covertly using them.”
“Yet.”
The darkly handsome man smiled like a wolf. “You continue to please me. ‘Yet,’ indeed. In truth, a very few nobles do have custody of one of these imprisoning items, and others are kept in the royal palace in Suzail, the property of the Crown-who, so far as can be determined, have no idea what they’re harboring.”
“And as these blueflame ghosts may well be very dangerous, it’s best they be handled through expendable dupes. Nobles and courtiers you can manipulate.”
The darkly handsome man was suddenly beaming. “Your mind outleaps storm lightning.”
His guest eyed him thoughtfully. “You’re not telling me much,” she said. “Of course.”
“Of course. Prudence is not unknown to me.”
The noblewoman regarded him in silence for as long as it took to enjoy another slow swallow of wine, then asked, “And so?”
“So our work together shall begin. Worry not about contacting me; I’ll speak to you when I desire to-and I’ll be aware when you feel the need to contact me. You should assume that I am aware of your smallest breath and your slightest facial expression, from this moment on.”
That earned him another silent, cool look. “And so?”
The brief ghost of a smile did touch the man’s lips at that. “Your first tasks shall be these. Legend recalls Elminster, sometimes known as the Old Mage or Elminster of Shadowdale; he is real and is somewhere in this city right now. Seek to learn what guises he uses and what he’s busy doing. Learn also what magic in the royal palace and royal court buildings can easily be removed. Be aware that I have other eyes, ears, and hands in the palace; sadly, like the high houses of many a kingdom, it comes furnished with traitors behind every door. Feel free to liberate all you can without bringing Crown suspicion or pursuit down upon you-so long as you bring every last enchanted item, hiding or holding back not one of them, to me for inspection. The items I deem needful to my purposes, I shall retain; the rest you may keep for your own ends. Go now.”
The lady who betimes called herself Talane set down her empty wineglass, said formally, “My lord,” bowed her head, and withdrew.
The darkly handsome man regarded the door she’d closed behind her for some time before he murmured, “And if you dare turn traitor on me, Lady, I’ve someone who will enjoy dealing with you appropriately. Someone too dead to disobey me.”
He took another glass from the sideboard, filled it with Arrhenish, sipped, then made a face at himself in the mirror.
“I
Giving the mirror a smile, he tossed the wineglass casually into the fireplace. As the musical peal of its shattering died away, he sketched a herald’s flourish with one languid arm and added mockingly, “All hail Emperor Manshoon.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Wild terror had seized Elminster the moment he summoned his wits to begin casting the guise of Elgorn Rhauligan on himself-the madness. Come hard and early.
So he’d given up trying the spell and stood shaking and sweating in the dank deep darkness, disgusted and alone.
Storm was gone on her slow, careful, skulking way back to Shadowdale, overland by back lanes, winding creekbeds, and game trails to the familiar trees where, of late, Yelada and the elves kept busy preventing her farm from vanishing entirely back into the forest. Back to the farmhouse hearth where Alassra, too, always ended up sooner or later, seeking warmth and solace no matter how sunk in madness she was.
A kitchen Elminster wouldn’t mind relaxing in, himself, to sip warm soup with his boots off and battered old feet up on the table, with Storm winking at him as she menaced his toes in mock fierceness with her carving knife. With onions sizzling in a pan and the promise of a really good meal rising to tantalize his nose, setting his mouth to watering …
El smiled tightly as he firmly shook his head to banish the daydream and bring himself back to the tunnel he stood in, a short stroll away from being under the grand, sprawling royal palace of Suzail. It was a narrow, low- ceilinged way, ancient and crumbling … but not unguarded.
Quite possibly not just by the guardians he knew, but by new perils. The soaring seat of rulership it led to was, after all, under the protection of a society of young and ambitious wizards. Mages who must all be under orders to watch for the infamous Sage of Shadowdale and to destroy or entrap him if at all possible.
And if there was one thing a long, long life in Faerun taught even a slow-witted man, it was that
He took a step closer to the royal palace-and abruptly stopped, peering into the darkness ahead.
Something had moved, something brown and … bony.
Ah. An old friend, of sorts, if he wasn’t mistaken.
El felt in a belt pouch, brought forth a pinch of powder, used his other hand to do the same to another pouch as far away from the first as his girth would permit, then brought his hands together and rubbed.
A faint glow kindled where the two powders met and mingled. He lifted his glowing palm like a pale, feeble lamp and stayed where he was.
As the first, familiar guardian shuffled into view.
He’d guessed right. It was a human skeleton, trudging with slow, unsteady menace. As it came, it raised a sword dark with rust.
Elminster gave it a calm stare. “Do ye really want to strike at me? Will thy shrewd strike bring crowning triumph to thy day?”
Empty eyesockets stared at him, expressionless but somehow uncertain. Then brownish bones shifted-only spell-bleached skeletons were truly white, all bards’ ballads notwithstanding-and the sword wavered down again.
The old man in the ragged robe waited patiently. Three of his calm breaths later, the undead guardian of this nigh forgotten, deep passage of the palace undercellars stepped back to let him pass.
With a smile and a nod, he did so, looking back only once. The skeleton was staring after him, as still as a statue, its sword still point down.
Elminster walked on into the darkness. It was a curious thing; down the many years of his long life, he’d spent not all that much time in the Forest Kingdom. Yet being back in the haunted wing of the royal palace of Cormyr, he felt at home.
He belonged.
Not back under the trees of Shadowdale he knew and loved so.
These cobwebbed shadows and empty, echoing rooms had somehow stolen into his heart and head and had
