centuries to assemble them; getting greedy is apt to drive you mad.”
Then Elminster’s mind seemed to slide past him, like a great leviathan of a cruising dragon, a body that went on and on, displaying frightening size and power as it rolled past, and rolled past, and went on rolling…
Arclath’s anger was gone, lost in wonder, and most of his fear with it. He felt sudden discomfort, born of El starting to root around in his mind while he sought to keep gazing at Elminster’s… he saw some dark and terrible things, some gruesome deaths and sadnesses that made him recoil, but he could tell the Sage of Shadowdale was hiding nothing, was letting him see and feel whatever he desired.
And Arclath Delcastle discovered he liked the feel of this visiting mind. He liked this old man. Truly liked Elminster, as he was starting-just starting-to really know him, better than he’d ever known anyone before.
The vast mind turned gently and started to withdraw, the dragon sliding past in the other direction now. He’d seen so little of it, yet beheld enough to know one thing: he could trust Elminster of Shadowdale.
Inside his mind or anywhere.
He was suddenly tearful, lost in a joy he knew was silly yet meant so much. Nobles of Cormyr grow up knowing they can trust no one in the world, and that those who trust others are fools or dupes to be used.
Now, at last, he knew- knew — there was one person he could trust.
“Four, lad. There are four, not one,” El murmured, holding him in Amarune’s embrace. “Storm, thy mother, Rune, and Elminster Aumar. Now stop weeping on me; these are Amarune’s best leathers.”
Ah, now there was a rare sight: war wizards who had some common sense.
Riding the body of his mightiest eye tyrant, Manshoon skulked behind a rooftop cistern, watching the Crown mages turn their watch patrol back from Dardulkyn’s mansion.
“Cordon, until full light and reinforcements,” he heard one of them shout. “No rushing in. Cormyr needs live heroes, not dead ones.”
My, my. A philosopher, too. He’d have to remember to use that mage on special missions, once he was Emperor of Cormyr and Beyond. Or imprison him. Perhaps as a brain in a jar.
Grateful that clouds had drifted in to shroud the stars and make this a dark night indeed, Manshoon floated to the edge of the roof-two removed from Dardulkyn’s, with a street separating the wizard’s abode from that last roof-and watched Purple Dragons retreat to positions where they could watch around corners for anyone entering or departing Dardulkyn’s mansion.
Not that they could see all that well. The lanterns were frequent and well tended in this neighborhood, one of the better parts of the city, but a mist off the harbor was beginning to steal through the streets.
The moment he saw visible haloes of light around the lanterns-meaning the mists were becoming thick enough to glow and impede vision-it would be time.
Ah. There. Patience rewarded.
Manshoon glided forward, eyestalks writhing in anticipation.
So, Elminster, care for a rematch? A second annihilation?
Dardulkyn was on his feet finally, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. From the rubble he took up a long, jagged sliver from a shattered doorframe and leaned on it as if it were a staff.
Leaning as if he were old, weak, exhausted… as if he truly needed aid to keep from falling.
Which made Manshoon dare to descend into the half-shell of a riven upper room of the mansion, and from there send forth his mind, slowly and with infinite care.
Are you Elminster, mumbling archwizard? Or another overreaching fool?
The world certainly holds no shortage of those, after all…
Manshoon’s subtle probe felt something sharp and narrow that was focused on the mind he sought. Then another and another, moving restlessly, but not far. The helmed horrors, who were still surrounding the stricken mage, anxious for orders and purpose. Ten of them in all.
His reaching slid past them, as slow and silent as he could make it. Of old, he’d felt far too many of Elminster’s traps close around him…
Dardulkyn was aghast, only now crawling out of dazed disbelief that he could be laid so low so quickly and effortlessly by a young lass who moved like a dancer or a purr-posing playpretty.
Elminster. Not this overblown mage, but the spellhurler who’d shattered a few rooms-and this dolt of a Dardulkyn’s worldview-at the same time.
His hated foe had done this, either riding the mind of his descendant or, far more likely, cloaking his clone in her shape to escape all blame-for when war wizards used their spells on the real Amarune Whitewave’s mind, they’d find she had no talent for the Art at all.
So, this Dardulkyn was no Elminster, and a weak-spirited preener besides. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be a very useful mind-slave. This mansion, suitably repaired, would make the perfect place to keep all his beholders- the three living ones, the six eye tyrants and pitiful hulk of a seventh, and the five usable beholderkin. After all, if they were ever found, Larak Dardulkyn would be blamed; no one would look further for some other archwizard. Whereas, if they were discovered in Sraunter’s cellar, the Crown would quickly ascertain that Sraunter was as feeble at Art as Whitewave, and go looking for a spellhurler in the shadows behind him.
Yes, this would be ideal. Human thralls in the alchemist’s cellar, and the tyrants here.
His probe became a brutal surge; Larak Dardulkyn barely had time to register astonishment and cap it with affronted rage before his mind was vanquished and quivering.
“Stand up,” Dardulkyn heard his own voice whisper to him, as the helmed horrors all turned to stare at him intently.
“It’s time to act like an archwizard for once, and not a sneering bellows of empty arrogance and overestimation. Be a mighty mage, Dardulkyn. Be me.”
“It’s an ironguard ring,” Storm explained. “It’ll make most swords and other blades pass right through you but do no harm. Don’t trust in it overmuch-anything bearing an enchantment will cut you as usual.”
She held up her hand to show Arclath she was wearing an identical ring, and pointed at Mirt’s and then at Amarune’s.
His love reached out to take his hand, letting Elminster flow back into his mind and link it with Storm’s-warm yet sad, joyous and, yes, arousing-so he could see and know Storm was telling him the truth about the rings.
Then Elminster withdrew again, leaving Arclath awash with relief.
Storm’s mind was dangerous for him. He could so easily fall in love with her and lose himself in rising lust… but crown and throne, it was good to know when one was being told the truth. No wonder olden-times war wizards had mind-reamed nobles and everyone else so often.
“What now?” he heard himself asking, as a gentle night breeze rose and ghosted past, rustling a few nearby leaves in his family gardens.
“Now, lad,” Elminster replied promptly, that deep voice still sounding ridiculous from his Rune’s lips, “we talk. A war council, if ye will. A small, brawl-free one, if we can manage it.”
“My name is Rorlyn Handmane, and I am a lionar of the Purple Dragons,” the Dragon officer answered the cold demand calmly, as if he’d expected it. “I’ve been ordered to investigate what befell here and render any reasonable aid you request, Saer Dardulkyn. Explosions and possibilities of magic gone awry are always of interest to the Crown. Mindful of your stature and accomplishments, senior wizards of war have sent me to make inquiries rather than approaching you-an archwizard who may have professional matters you prefer not to let other workers-of-Art examine-themselves.”
“Your prudent-for once-discretion, and theirs, are appreciated,” the archwizard replied coldly. “Heed these words well, and share them with the other Crown watchers ringing my home before you take them back to the mages who sent you: a rather powerful but peaceful-of-purpose spell went awry, and nothing more. I neither need nor want any assistance in determining details of the resulting damage. What befell is no business whatsoever of the Crown or the wider weal, and for your own safety you should all take yourselves away again. Immediately.”
He stepped forward, to the crumbling edge of what was left of the end wall of his mansion, and glared down at the lionar and the three other Dragons who stood with the officer.
The lionar nodded, raised his hand in salute, and replied flatly, “Your words have been heard. As for our offer and vigilance… you’re very welcome, wizard.”
Then Handmane turned his back on Dardulkyn and his mansion, and marched away.
Manshoon had to stop himself from chuckling. Oh, well said, brave lionar! He made Dardulkyn’s body turn to
