The empty chair beside him turned by itself. Itharr nodded and said, 'That's your truename, isn't it?' Silence gave him reply. He drew a deep breath and said, 'Well, I think it is. And you are a friend-no, a sister'-he heard a sharp intake of breath from nearby-'to a fellow Harper. Know, then, that my truename is Olanshin, and I would be pleased to know thee.'
Belkram nodded at the formal words and added, 'And mine, unseen lady, is Kelgarh. Well met.'
Itharr was startled, then, to feel the touch of soft, cold lips upon his cheek, then wetness. But he was a strong man and a Harper, and did not flinch or bring his hands up but only smiled.
He did not wipe the tears from his cheek. Storm looked at him with an expression of thanks and pride that Itharr would remember to the end of his days. She said huskily, 'And mine, friends, is not mine to give. If I could, know you that I would.'
Belkram nodded. 'We understand,' he said, rising from the table with the dishes in his hands. 'Mystra forbids.'
Storm looked at the empty air. 'Truly, sister,' she said with a smile, 'we've two good ones this time.'
The reply, when it came, startled them all: a hissing, ghostly whisper. 'You'll need them,' was all that Vethril said.
When they were out on the dale road, walking toward the junction that would take them to Elminster's tower, Itharr turned to Storm and said quietly, 'That's your sister Sylune, isn't it?'
Storm smiled and nodded, and Itharr saw that her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. 'What's left of her,' she said, very softly.
'We'll come back to visit you both, when we can,' Belkram added. 'She's tied to your house, isn't she?'
Storm nodded. 'Would that Elminster were, too,' she replied. 'It would often make my tasks much easier.'
One never pays all that much heed to what one has and what one has grown used to, Elminster reflected wryly, looking down at his left hand. Yestermorn these fingers could have hurled lightnings or raised walls of shimmering force with but a thought, but now they could call forth nothing. The same as the hands of most men, the Old Mage reminded himself. Few have been as fortunate to face life with the arms and armor of Art I've wielded. And, oh, Mystra, but I've grown used to it!
Lady, why me?
An instant later, Elminster raised his head defiantly and looked about. Why? he thought, then answered his own question. Because, look ye, I was the best she could turn to. The best. No less.
So I carry her power within me. It has unmanned me, aye, but my wits are still my own, my strength-forgive me, Jhessail! — has not failed me… yet. I may be old, but I carry wisdom and experience more than most. I've seen what one can and cannot do with a blade, and can show most young swagger-swords a thing or two!
Perhaps I should seek out Storm and practice some blade work. But no. She also carries Mystra's burden. What if one or both of us were hurt by some mischance, or by the attack of a Manshoon or Ghalaster? What then? We'd perish, aye, but what of Mystra's spilled power? Lost to the Realms forever, perhaps blasting Shadowdale to dust on the way? Or stolen by a tyrant-mage to use as a whip to bring the Realms to their knees before his rule? No, that's out. Even meeting with others who bear the burden would be ill judgment, with all the foes I've made.
Storm abides in Shadowdale. I am too close to her already. Besides, the longer I tarry here, the more likely someone calling on me for aid will discover what has befallen me. When the word gets out, Shadowdale first, and then what I hold dear in the Realms, will be doomed as I am doomed. Absent, I remain a threat-someone who might return in fury to smite down any invader.
I must go. Slip away, and lose myself-forever, if my magic does not return. Whither, then?
There was a sudden burst of laughter around his very feet. Bewildered, Elminster looked down. He'd walked one of the narrow trodden paths that twist and cross in Shadowdale's backwoods like the web of some giant forest spider. The children he'd seen before, joined by several other dale urchins, had dashed about by other ways. At length and by chance, they'd met with him. Surprise and delight lit their voices as they crowded around his robes, patting and tugging.
Elminster managed a smile and found his gaze caught-and pulled in, as a fisherman drags close his catch-by a pair of very brown, very beautiful eyes. They belonged to a little girl, the one who'd earlier pretended to be the Simbul. Her hands and frock were dirty-she'd evidently fallen down or been pushed-and she was barefoot, but she drew herself up under his gaze with unconscious dignity. Her eyes alight with wonder, she crossed her arms on her breast and bowed from the waist as they did at court in Suzail and on the Sword Coast when meeting royalty.
Elminster stared down at her, oddly touched, his mouth curling in a smile. The bow had been done out of respect, not in the obsequious or emptily formal way he'd seen so often in real courts. He gave her the low, hand- sweeping bow of gallant knights in return, solemnly and with none of the archness with which he bowed to, say, Torm of the Knights in jest.
The girl was silent for a moment and then, very slowly, she blushed. Wonder sparkled in her eyes. She turned suddenly and made as if to dash away but halted, like a bird snagged upon a thorn, as another young voice rang out in protest.
'Jhaleen, you promised! You said you'd ask him! Well, here he is, so…'
The girl, her eyes very large, looked back at the boy who'd spoken and then at Elminster, like a trapped hare. Elminster smiled invitingly.
Jhaleen blurted out, 'Lord Elminster! Old Mage! Make magic for us, please! Please!' A chorus of young voices joined her bold one, and she added excitedly, 'A dragon flying. Only a little one, just for us!'
Elminster smiled, felt tears near again, and knelt down to embrace her. 'Not this morn, little one,' he said softly, his eyes very blue. 'Magic must be saved up, like coins, and used only when other ways fail.'
She blinked up at him, disappointed, and Elminster chuckled and rubbed her cheek with the back of one long, gentle finger. He remembered, then, where he'd seen this brown-eyed girl before. In one of his dreams.
'Nay, be not downcast, Jhaleen. I see some things, know ye, in my dreams. Things I know will come to pass, in summers still to come.' He leaned close to her, and whispered for her ears alone, 'I've seen thee-much taller than now, and stern-riding a dragon.'
She looked into his eyes and saw truth, and her mouth dropped open in awe and trembled just a little in fear. It is one thing to dream of dragons, and quite another to know with cold certainty that someday you will be touching one. More than that; flying high above the ground on a dragon's scaly back, with empty air as high as castles beneath you, and a twisted death below should you fall.
Elminster chuckled, and clapped her on the shoulder. 'Go on playing thy games,' he said, 'and watch close what the Queen of Aglarond says and does when she visits us. And perhaps ye will befriend and even come to command dragons.' Then he rose and walked slowly away from them all.
White-faced and silent, Jhaleen watched the Old Mage as he moved away into the depths of the forest. She'd seen the glint of tears in the archmage's eyes and could only think he foresaw something terrible that would happen to her. She stood watching him go until the trees hid him from view, then turned and hurried toward the path that led out of the trees toward home.
'Jhaleen, where be you going, then? Don't you want to play at high magic, anymore?' the boy who'd pretended to be Elminster called.
Jhaleen wheeled around so suddenly that the smaller children, who'd followed her out of habit, jumped back in apprehension. With a fierceness that surprised even herself she hissed, 'I'll never play games about magic again! Never. It's… not something to play at.'
She turned about again and ran out of the woods as if the black-armored warriors of Zhentil Keep were chasing her, faster than she'd ever run before. Her lungs burned and tears swam before her eyes, but the black terror that ran after her was worse.
Her fleet bare feet pounded along the earthen paths, stumbling and hurrying, until she came out into the dapped sunlight at last. Panting like a winded horse, she tore her way through young branches and, with a little shriek of fear, almost ran into someone. A tall lady clad in leather armor stood in the meadow beyond, brown hair
