Elminster Must Die

stretch, where by some servant’s oversight no lamps glimmered in the sconces that in an earlier age had held torches.

Into the gloom they plunged, Vandurn snarling orders, and his men beginning to pant, the prisoners stumbling as they were prodded into greater haste.

“Get going!” the swordcaptain barked at everyone. “I’ve half a mind-”

“Well, that’s true,” Vainrence agreed loudly, drawing snorts of mirth from several of the nearest Dragons.

Then it happened.

There was a sudden burst of light around the Royal Magician’s head, and a smaller one abruptly flamed into being around the brow of Lord Vainrence, wildly whirling and crackling bolts of light out of nowhere that stabbed from one man to the other, brightening into a shared nimbus.

“Stop that!” the swordcaptain roared. “Stop it at once!”

Then he saw his prisoners were staggering and clutching their heads as they sagged, clearly as taken aback by the sudden magic as he and all his men were.

The eerie light snarled louder than Vandurn could, drowning out his shouted orders with a louder voice, a panting madwoman’s voice that soared and wavered in lost, mournful pain as it thundered up and down the passage: “El! Oh, my Elminster! Where are you? I need you! I’m dying … dying! Elminsterrrrrrrrrr!” The last word became a shriek, a raw animal cry of agony and need that sent everyone to their knees, clutching their ears as that scream raced through their heads and ran around and around in their minds, howling in desperation and keening in despair … keening …

When at last it faded, Swordcaptain Vandurn lay senseless on his back, his sweat-drenched face staring at nothing. Around him, most of his Dragons were the same, sprawled and motionless; the remainder were curled up and sobbing or groaning, spears fallen and forgotten.

Elminster and Storm stared at each other, their own faces wet and wild.

“Well?” Storm panted, bosom heaving; her Vainrence guise was melting away with every sobbing breath.

“Go to her,” Elminster snapped, snatching things of magic from inside his robes and pouches at his belt in almost feverish haste. “As fast as you can, and feed her everything you have to! Then get back here!”

“But, El-”

“Go! I’ll be fine here. Something’s happened to her, and we must find out what. Go! Use the Dalestride; the time for stealth is past.”

“It’ll be guarded,” Storm warned breathlessly. The Dalestride was a portal linking the Room of the Watchful Sentinel with a certain glade just west of Mistledale. Reinforced by Caladnei, it had survived the Spellplague, and King Foril and his wizards of war and highknights knew all about it; it was never unguarded.

“Good.” Elminster’s sudden smile was as ruthless as that of an old and hungry wolf. “I’m glad of that.” Almost hungrily he added, “I’ll go with you to open the way.”

“If they stand against us-Alusair and Foril, Ganrahast and Vainrence-”

“The wise ones will stand aside and live,” the Sage of Shadowdale told her grimly, snatching her hand and starting to stride back down the passage. “The fools will taste consequences … and Cormyr will be the stronger.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

TALONS AND PEACOCKS AND WORSE

Marlin Stormserpent loved the Old King’s Favorite. Oh, it was stiffly expensive, even to a wealthy noble heir, but it was also one of the most glittering lounges on the promenade, a place to see and be seen in. Not to mention that the food was good, the wine even better.

Moreover, it had been a very useful place to dine in, down the years. Upper-rung courtiers frequented such eateries-fattening themselves on the public purse, stlarn them-and by listening to the excited converse going on around him without seeming to do so, he learned a lot about what was currently afoot in Crown matters. Without all those expensive bribes and even-more-costly spies.

So the younger Lord Stormserpent had made it his custom to take highsunfeast at the Favorite most days, despite the cost. It wasn’t as exclusive as, say, Darcleir’s, derided by the lowborn as “the House of Peacocks” for all the flamboyantly dressed nobility to be found there daily, but the gossip of courtiers tended to be more intriguing than the usual airily empty boasting-or endless complaining about new ways and those who forged them-of nobles. Even when House Stormserpent couldn’t profit from what its heir overheard, Marlin learned a lot of interesting things.

Just now, for instance, word was spreading like wildfire around Suzail of some mysterious invading army that had been slaughtering people in the palace. Parts of which-the table to his right was whispering loudly enough to be heard down the far end of the room-had been, as a result, sealed off to everyone.

“Filled with scores of dismembered corpses,” an underclerk of protocol hissed excitedly.

“The floors ankle deep in pools of congealing blood!” a gentleman usher hissed back.

Not to be outdone, the two cellarers at the table to Marlin’s immediate left wanted most of the room to overhear just how upset Understeward Corleth Fentable was. The man was driving them-to say nothing of the high chatelaine and the clerk of the shield-into seething rages with his prohibitions on anyone opening this door or walking down that passage.

“If we aren’t allowed to go a few more places in the palace, the king’ll find nothing but well water in the glasses set out at this council-and nothing for him and his oh-so-exalted peacocks of guests to nibble on but boiled potatoes with a side of horse mash!”

As the specifics of just what parts of the palace had been made off-limits were excitedly discussed, Marlin had to hide a smile behind his ornate goblet of best Berduskan dark.

Everyone was being kept away from the palace-end of the passage he’d recently used, and the vicinity of the Dragonskull and the Wyrms Ascending.

Which meant that the stalwart wizards of war didn’t know what to do. They’d searched that part of the palace from top to bottom, found nothing useful, and had decided to hide their futility behind the usual cloak of mystery.

So sea and sky were clear, as the sailors liked to say; a certain heir of House Stormserpent could freely use that passage to get back into the palace, take his two items of the Nine to the Dragonskull Chamber, and see if he could summon two flaming ghosts out of them to obey him.

Marlin got rid of his smile, drained his goblet and set it down, and rose, tossing just enough coins onto the table. It was time to fetch a certain sword and a particular chalice and do a little testing. And then …

Well, then it would be high time to set about transforming Cormyr to his liking.

Manshoon turned away from casting careful spells on a thing of tentacles and strolled across the cavern to another of his glowing scenes.

For some months, through a variety of minds he could eavesdrop upon, he’d taken to lurking around Stormserpent Towers.

There were larger and grander noble mansions in Suzail where louder preening peacocks dwelt, and there had never been any particular shortage of idiot nobles desiring to overthrow the Obarskyrs or work smaller treasons … but there was something interesting about the Stormserpents. Young and ambitious Marlin Stormserpent in particular.

Perhaps it was the feeling that something long-brewing and uncontrollable was soon going to break forth, regardless of what befell Cormyr in the process. Marlin was heir of his House and one of an all-too-common sort of noble heir. Purringly handsome and bright-witted-but only about a tenth as brilliant as he considered himself to be. All such tended to be more rash than wise and more ambitious than competent … but that was part of what made spying on them entertaining.