And, whereas he could leave frustrating and foiling the current Elminster to his tools, finding and destroying the waiting selves, the clones, must now be Manshoon’s foremost task.
Let his noble cabals scheme and slay; when highborn ranks were thinned he could return to that game and still seize the Dragon Throne, or decide who precisely would warm it until he deemed the time ripe for that puppet’s disposal.
Before all, starting now, he would hunt down and destroy hidden Elminsters.
So, where in Suzail, if I were Elminster, would I hide my waiting selves?
Or… wait!
He himself had tasted death many times, often thanks to this same Elminster. He’d grown used to it, had become harder and stronger. Not so his slayer.
This hiding, this failure to strike out at Manshoon, might well mean that Elminster-the awakened clone-was cowering somewhere. That his death had plunged him into fear of Manshoon, so he remained in hiding, using spells to see and hear through a puppet Amarune Whitewave.
Which would mean the question should be, where, if I were Elminster, would I hide myself in Suzail?
Well, somewhere I could keep at least one clone near at hand. Somewhere servants couldn’t stumble on it, nor the general public. Somewhere unlikely to be searched without warning by Purple Dragons or, more importantly, by wizards of war.
Yet, this was the thinking of Manshoon the accomplished ruler and war leader. How would Elminster see things and think?
The man is sly but lazy, thinks himself clever but often takes the easiest way. He’s lasted for centuries and has been the favored servant of a goddess; the man has pride, is pride. And he seeks to be like me, the more successful archwizard, without rising to such dominance the hard way.
What better way to hide from the war wizards and live lazily, in luxury and wielding magic whenever he pleases, than to “hide” himself as a powerful wizard?
Yes!
Why if he was, say, Larak Dardulkyn, he could dwell in the heart of Suzail in a near-fortress, awash in luxuries, able to hurl spells at will without raising suspicion, and be fawned over, to boot!
Larak Dardulkyn…
The most powerful independent mage in Suzail. An ideal mask for an Elminster clone to wear.
Manshoon sprang from his chair and strode into the midst of his scrying spheres.
This one could readily be set to scry that haughty wizard’s mansion, yes…
But when the picture of the mansion swam into view, Manshoon shook his head in astonishment. When had all of this befallen?
The tall mansion of Larak Dardulkyn was half gone, one side torn open to the sky, and in the rubble-heaped heart of the devastation he could see the archwizard huddled on the floor, with ten helmed horrors circling him in a troubled, uncertain floating dance.
Well, now! If this was Elminster, behold a Bane-sent opportunity! Slay him now, while he’s laid low-but go in hard and fast and powerful, in case whoever humbled him is still around. If Dardulkyn wasn’t Elminster, it was still the best chance he could hope to find for plundering the place or coercing the man into becoming another useful thrall.
Manshoon hurried across the cellar. His most powerful beholder would be best-of the living ones, not a death tyrant.
Yes, beholders remain impressive beasts, when it comes to forcing one’s way in.
“There’s no need to worry Arclath’s mother,” Storm told them. “His stricken self got us through the gate- that’s enough. Set him down here.”
They were on the grounds of Delcastle Manor, on a gently rolling grass slope, between a garden carefully planted to seem wild and a more formal terrace that fronted a boundary orchard.
“Too tired for fencing with noble matriarchs, hey?” Mirt grunted as they laid Arclath gently down.
“More than too tired for almost any nicety you care to name,” Storm murmured, “and hoping Arclath can plunder some healing potions from his family vaults-if they hold such treasures-before I’m finished. El, try to do this quickly.”
“Aye,” Elminster replied, his voice still sounding incongruous from Amarune’s young, shapely body. “Lie ye there, Storm, and I’ll put myself between ye and the lad, and we can do this without ye having to even sit up.”
“Healing him again?” Mirt asked, lending his arm for Storm to lower herself to the grass.
“Yes,” Storm replied. “Holding him where he is while he works a spell, actually, but it’s the same thing. I heal as he drains, to keep him stable.”
“I’ll stand back, yonder, and keep daggers at the ready,” Mirt growled. “Seeing as ye haven’t any spells to spare for making me young and thin and strong again. Or stopping my feet hurting.”
Bending over, he peered at Arclath Delcastle’s stiff body, the young lord’s arm crooked and one leg raised to take a next step.
“Does he know what you’ll be doing to him, I wonder?”
Settling himself on the ground, Elminster turned his head and looked into Arclath’s face.
His answer, when it came, was in Amarune’s voice. She sounded half grim and half on the sword’s sharp edge of tears.
“Oh, he knows. Believe me, he knows.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Arclath flung up a hand. “I can move again! All gods be praised! Thank you!”
Amarune’s hand remained on his throat, and out of her beautiful lips-which he’d been about to kiss-came Elminster’s deep voice. “Save thy thanks a bit, lad. We’re not done yet.”
Arclath’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? What are you going to do?”
“Storm,” El asked, “are ye up for this?”
“Yes,” Storm sighed. “It must be done.”
“Aye, it must.”
Arclath scowled and drew his head back, trying to arch away. Rune’s hand on his shoulder suddenly gripped him firmly.
“Suppose you explain what ‘must’ be done before you do it to me, mage.”
“We must peer into thy mind to make certain no one’s influencing ye, spying through ye, or using tracing magic on ye.”
Arclath stiffened. “I knew it! I knew you’d find some excuse to-”
“So, ye were just as clever as ye thought ye were, and aren’t disappointed now, are ye?” Mirt growled, standing above them.
“He’s talking about enslaving me, Lord of Waterdeep!” Arclath barked. “Forgive me if I’m…”
His voice trailed off and his eyes went from furious to frowningly surprised.
Yes, this is what a rude and dishonest old archwizard’s mind feels like, El’s voice said, in the depths of his own head. The words were a sarcastic growl, but his mind was friendly, as affectionate as any whimsical old uncle. Arclath had a brief glimpse of shining, upswept towers gleaming blue-white in the depths of a great green forest, then a laughing bearded face wearing a state crown of Cormyr, a face that almost had to be the fourth Azoun in his prime… then an unclad, beautiful lady flying high in the air in the heart of a lightning storm, her hair wild around her and festooned with lightning that seemed to do her no harm, a lady with eyes of triumphant fire and a face like Storm’s yet subtly different… then he was looking down vast dark halls, endless long passages full of too many images to see, let alone count.
“All right, lad, all right. Don’t try to see all my remembrances at thy first gulp. It’s taken me some twelve
