Then there was a sudden burst of light behind her-warm, golden light, like sunlight.
Elminster turned a face wet with tears toward the light before Sharantyr could. Upon his face she saw a look of recognition, then of pleasure, then of faint exasperation. His voice, when it came, was calm and gentle, as though he'd just looked up from a soothing book while at ease beside his beloved pool.
'Noumea,' he said, 'why must ye always be just a little too late?'
Elsewhere, deep and dark, something stirred in musty gloom. A hand slid out from under a shroud thick with dust, pushing the fabric aside, and took up the rod it knew would be there. The rod of rulership. Just in case.
The hidden crypt was dark, its air stale and bad, but only a few steps were needed to cross to its door, pull down the ornate handle, and shove hard.
Thick wax broke and fell away in crumbled ruin, and light flooded in. A startled man in black armor turned with a curse, hands darting for a scabbarded sword.
The hand that did not hold the rod shot out of the darkness and closed around the man's throat before that blade could be drawn. A slow, cold voice said, 'You know my orders. You are never to be without a weapon in your hand. Seal up this place again and await the doom I shall pronounce on you. After dinner.'
The speaker released the man, heard him fall to his knees with a strangled cough, and strode on. The cobbles ahead rose up in a long ramp toward the sun and the streets of the city above. He was halfway up the ramp when the guard far behind him managed to call hoarsely, 'Yes, Dread Lord. Your will be done.'
He did not look back.
The streets of Zhentil Keep were crowded. The weather was fair and trade brisk. Startled looks were many, but even the thickest crowds parted or melted away, as if by magic, at his approach.
Manshoon strode steadily across the city toward the Tower High. This long walk in dusty garments meant that his enemies-accursed Elminster doubtless among them-had won. Again.
The black-robed, dark-eyed Lord Archmage of Zhentil Keep checked then, half turning to look back. Had there been other bodies-more waiting Manshoons-lying in the crypt beside him? How many times had he made this walk?
How many more times would he make it, in seasons and years and ages to come? And would it ever seem less lonely?
24
Gentle hands touched her shoulder. Sharantyr stopped her agonized struggle to sit up and sagged back thankfully into the comfort of those hands. Looking up, she saw Elminster's old, bearded face looking down at her, lined with compassion.
She moved her lips, found them very dry, and managed to ask, 'Do I look that bad, Old Mage?'
Elminster smiled then. It came slowly but stretched his face with pleasure for a long time before he said, 'Well, ye are certainly better than I'd feared, lass-Shar. Lie ye back awhile and rest. I need the ring that is healing ye now, to use on these two impetuous Harpers, or we may lose them.'
Sharantyr managed a nod and smile, though pain still raged within her at every movement, and she felt weak and sick. Itharr and Belkram must feel far worse.
Elminster's slow, careful hands turned her on her side, pillowing her head on her arm, before he drew off the ring. Its loss left a cold tingling in that hand. Then slow waves of pain came from her other arm, her sword arm, where the wizard's bolt had burned.
'Lie easy, Shar. We've given Manshoon a death this day. Not his final one by any means, but he'll be a weak wizard for a time, and that is something.'
Past the kneeling archmage, Sharantyr saw what was left of her sword-a half-melted, misshapen sliver of twisted metal. Her eyes went to Elminster's hand, where Manshoon's lightning had struck. She swallowed and looked away. The fingers handling her so gently were only ashy stumps.
Sudden tears blurred her sight, and she stared at the sword until she could see again. Beyond it stood Noumea.
The Magister's face was happy as Elminster rose and turned toward her. 'It's all right, Old Mage,' she said. 'I've used my magic on the two Harpers. They sleep, but they'll be fi-' She broke off, eyes widening in horror. She was staring at Elminster's burned hand.
Sharantyr felt fresh tears welling up in her eyes. The image of Noumea's shocked, wounded face would be with her forever.
Nothing should ever happen, to make folk look like that.
A burning rage began to build in her, bringing a lump to her throat. 'Manshoon,' she snarled through her teeth, 'one day you'll pay for Saharel and all the other pain you've caused, if I have to cut my way through an army of your lackeys to get to you. This I swear.'
Elminster turned to look at her. His face wore surprise and anxiousness, and just a hint of pity.
Sharantyr lay there in rising pain and gasped, 'Don't look at me like that, El. I can… protect myself. I–I can stay on my feet long enough to cut down Manshoon, when my chance comes.'
Elminster just shook his head and knelt to put the ring of regeneration back on her finger. 'Oh, Sharantyr,' he said softly. 'There are such better things to do with thy life than to waste it in ending his.' He stroked her hair, as Noumea came hesitantly closer. 'I've lost Saharel- and others, before her-to him. Don't add thyself to his take. I need ye, lass.'
He knelt then to kiss her cheek, and Sharantyr felt a wetness on her forehead as he straightened up again. A tear had fallen on her.
The Magister came to stand over them both. A blue-white glow was growing around her slim hands, and her eyes were very dark.
'Elminster,' she said quietly, 'I would heal thee, if I you would allow.'
The Sage of Shadowdale peered up at her, beard bristling. He looked very old just then. 'Do ye dare, Noumea?' he asked. 'The power I hold can be deadly to those who touch me with magic. One Zhent wizard died when he tried a stealspell on me.'
He waved his charred hand at her. 'Ye hold much of Our Lady's power. What if ye touch me with it and release what I hold? We could both be slain, and the Realms laid waste around us.'
The Magister wavered, seeming a very frail and unsure young girl for a long breath.
Then she said, as quietly as before, 'If that is the price, then let it be so. I would not want to live on as a mage if Mystra's power will let me topple towers, deal death, and blast apart peaks but not let me heal one I am honored to count as a friend, who has rendered this world such service as few understand and none I know can equal.'
She faced him while Sharantyr clenched her hand around the familiar tingling of the ring and held her breath. Silence stretched.
Then Elminster thrust his charred hand toward her and said simply, 'Thank you. Do it.'
Noumea stepped forward, extending her own hand. The blue-white glow around it grew stronger. She reached out slowly.
They touched, and the radiance was suddenly blinding. Sharantyr closed her eyes, shaking her head against the searing white light in her head.
She heard Noumea gasp raggedly, then hiss in pain.
'Easy,' Elminster rumbled, and Sharantyr heard the Magister moan in reply. She opened her eyes again but could see nothing.
She heard Noumea stagger backward, and heard the panting breaths that followed.
'By Our Lady,' the Magister said unsteadily, 'but that was close, as close to disaster as I ever want to be. I never knew… Art could… hurt so much.'
'I did,' Elminster said, and Sharantyr heard pride in his voice as he added, 'I am pleased, indeed, Lady, that
