The throne turned slightly at Dhalgrave's bidding, as he looked about at them all. 'I say 'regrettably' because his failure leaves that task undone, for one of you to accomplish. Hear this. My successor as Shadowmaster Supreme, head of House Malaugrym, shall be the one who accomplishes the utter and final destruction of the mortal of Faerun known as Elminster of Shadowdale, once Elminster Aumar of Athalantar, and the wearer of many other names in the years between. He is the greatest foe of this house, and I shall not go into the final shadow until I have seen him o'erthrown.'
He looked around again, as if waiting for someone to fill the silence he'd left them… but no one did.
'There is a practical reason for this slaying, beyond the pride and passion of avenging the fallen of this house- too many, by far-he's destroyed down the years. An archlich of Faerun, one Saharel, ceased to exist in a battle not long past. Her ending leaves Elminster, as far as we know, the only being besides myself who knows how to wield, empower, or destroy the Crown and Stars of Malaug I wear. He is, therefore, the only foe who can break our power over shadow and end the life all of us have known.
'For the younger and more arrogant among us, hear me and believe. Not only our dreams of greater power in Faerun and in the Etherimm would be swept away-but all the lesser foes the Malaugrym have made down the ages would rise, here in the shadows and elsewhere, and rend us. You'd not then be striving with each other to decide who'd replace me, but fleeing as far and as fast as you could just to cling to life-existence, locked in some shape of lesser power that would begin as a disguise and might soon become a prison.'
Dhalgrave rose to stand on air in front of the Shadow Throne. He grew taller, his ivory skin darkening as the batlike beginnings of wings stirred at his shoulders. He raised his left hand to show them all the fast-flashing, bright Doomstars dancing excitedly about it, and snarled, 'Elminster must die! This wizard must be de-strayed!'
Several of the senior family members echoed in thunderous unison, 'This wizard must be destroyed!' and the very pillars of the castle flashed with sudden light as the Doomstars tolled once more. The ripple of chaos that burst from the circling gems and rolled outward in all directions through the shadows threw many of the assembled Malaugrym to their knees and terrified many of the younger kin-who'd never felt such power before — by clawing them, rudely and with casual ease, out of their carefully chosen shapes.
'If you would rule the house and realm of Malaug, Dhalgrave's voice boomed out over them all, augmented by the Shadowcrown until the echoes were painful in their ears, 'go and slay Elminster, and speedily. For if I pass and he yet lives, the hand that wields this Crown and these Stars may be his, and doom will come to us all! Go, and work his death!'
'Death!' they cried in chorus and rushed off into the shadows, thrust away by the power of the Crown's compulsion, growing wings and tails and claws as they went.
Dhalgrave sat, his chin on his hand, and through his Crown watched them from afar. Where the compulsion faded, the younger ones sped on, hunger and fury in their faces. But many of the older kin slowed, and shifted shapes thoughtfully, and shook their heads.
Dhalgrave smiled a cold smile but did not use the Crown to further compel or rebuke them. Deep within, he felt as they did.
Many times that he could recall, Elminster's final and utter death had been a breath away, no more; but always he'd slipped away, cloaked in trickery and distractions and luck. Mystra's Luck. The favor of the goddess who watched over him, doted on him as he grew older and more bent to her will, a crabbed shadow of a man who served her with helpless loyalty. Always she shielded him and sent aid to snatch him back from his final doom.
Yet now her own power was failing, and her own foes were on the move. Bane for one. If only a small part of that one's schemes were accomplished, there'd be a time when the mortal wizard would be left to stand alone- and at last, at long last, Elminster's Doom could be accomplished.
It was time for the Malaugrym to earn their long-awaited victory, and past time for them to win and enjoy it. Then he could rest, his essence stealing into the Shadow-crown to join the other elders there, awakening only when he desired to, with the thoughts of the Shadow-master his to whisper in and all the accumulated memories his to sort and seize upon, until the wearer of the crown saw things his way, and did as he bid… as even now he did the bidding of the whispering elders who'd worn the crown before him.
From time to time, Dhalgrave wondered, as they did, just what had befallen Malaug, the father and founder of them all. Dead, it was said, and by Elminster's hand, others held. Yet none of the elders had any memories of that death, only of a disappearance and many rumors cloaking it, like the fabled Cloak of Shadows, Malaug's lost secret, whose wearer would lead the house to true greatness.
He was looking forward to seeing that.
Shadowdale, Kythorn 14
'And you just left it there, all blood and tentacles, for Jhaele and her boys to clean up, and Shar and my two young blades to explain away?'
Storm Silverhand shook her head in disbelief, one shapely eyebrow raised, as she came around the table with a platter of fresh cheese-laced cornbread hot in her hands.
Elminster nodded as he reached for a slice. 'Well, aye,' he said, 'but-' As he'd expected, she steered the platter deftly out of his reach to offer it first to the Simbul.
The Queen of Aglarond, hair and robes as wild as always, was frowning fiercely and muttering under her breath as she added a fourth layer of shielding spells to those she'd already woven around Storm's farm. She waved her sister away without even looking at the platter.
The lady bard sighed, rolled her eyes, and thrust the platter at Elminster. He smiled serenely, bowed with courtly politeness and, with delicate fingers, took a single slice. Storm set the platter down on the table and slid into the nearest chair to get out of the way. As she'd expected, she had sat down just in time to get clear of the flight of a pewter butter-crock and a knife, gliding in from the pantry to see to the slice he'd selected… as well as another dozen or so slices that rose one by one from the platter as the knife approached.
Storm was surprised when the Old Mage took the next chair and sent the first buttered slice drifting over to her, and the second to hang waiting by his beloved's still-murmuring mouth.
The Simbul finished her cloaking spells, smiled her thanks to them both, and attacked the bread with her usual voracious hunger. Storm watched her with a fond smile. Nethreen spent too much of her time rushing about the Realms as a raven or worse, eating nothing or things best forgotten. When she did dine, she had to approach many meals with cautious suspicion, thanks to the deadly designs of Thay.
Another slice rose from Elminster's plate to near the Simbul's mouth just as she finished the first, and Storm knew from the wizard's surprised expression that Sylune was at work, unseen but sharing the kitchen with them all. Dead she might be, but the Silent Sister had gone right on helping and caring for others.
'Well?' Storm prompted Elminster gently, leaning forward with her chin on her cupped hands.
'I look upon it as a Harper training exercise,' the Old Mage told her airily, waving a dripping slice of buttered bread. He didn't notice when Sylune's ghostly hands tore it away to take to the Simbul, leaving him with just a crust.
'Explaining away dead bodies?' Storm asked, amused.
'Yes, I suppose-' She broke off with a snort of mirth as Elminster brought his slice down to take a bite, found he had possession of only a crust, and regarded it with deep suspicion.
'The problem with Faerun these days,' he said heavily, 'is that ye can't trust anything to be as it should be, or once was. Anything at all.' He glared at the offending crust darkly. Storm bit down on a knuckle to keep from laughing aloud at his baffled expression.
And then he winked and dropped the pretense and the clowning together, leaning forward to fix her with a disconcertingly level gaze. 'I suspect that the Malaugrym spy on us all, often, watching for any chance to seize influence in Faerun with little risk, and rushing in whenever events fall right for them.'
The Simbul nodded. 'I know they do,' she said between bites, butter running down her chin. 'Last summer, thinking to thin the ranks of the ambitious apprentice magelings of Thay, I set two slaying snake spells to seek out anyone who spied on a-well, on an attractive-looking trap I set up, that concealed nothing. Both of the spells struck within a day. When I followed them up, I found two headless bodies sprawled half in one shape and half out of another. Malaugrym, without a doubt.'
There were grim nods, confirming similar experiences. Elminster pushed his plate aside and continued, 'The point is, they're no doubt aware of the increasing chaos of Art in Faerun, of Mystra's waning powers, of Saharel's final death, and of my own weakness. They must see this as a shining opportunity-perhaps the best they'll ever
