“That view of us appears to be gaining popularity among them,” Storm agreed. “As the passing years take from us older, wiser war wizards and elder courtiers, there is a growing ignorance of us and of She whom we serve-Mystra-in the wake of the great tumult that befell the Art. El and I find this somewhat annoying, given the centuries of work we’ve put into guarding Cormyr so that it’s still here for these magelings to strut about in.”
She smiled, shrugged, and added, “ ’Tis true each new youngling must be taught, but we’re getting older and clashing with arrogant idiots is less and less enjoyable.”
Arclath grinned. “Arrogant idiots like me, for instance?”
Storm shook her head. “You’re no idiot, Arclath Delcastle. Wizard of War Rorskryn Mreldrake or Palace Steward Rorstil Hallowdant- those are idiots. Neither believe we are anything more than common thieves who’ve seen some threescore summers and spent some of those seasons worming our ways into the royal palace.”
Arclath rolled his eyes. “Come, now. You’re not expecting me to believe all those tales about you being thousands of years old, rearing Azoun the Great, tutoring dread Vangerdahast, and suchlike, are you?”
Storm lifted an eyebrow. Arclath rushed on.
“Oh, you’ve borrowed grand reputations from folk out of legend, I’ll grant, but there are no war wizards standing here to impress now. I’ve heard tell you’re really Stornara Rhauligan, and Elminster’s really Elgorn Rhauligan, your father? Older brother? Grandsire? The two of you are supposedly longtime lowly palace servants who were caught stealing magic items and dismissed for it. Some say you’re Harpers or spies for Westgate or Sembia. I… well, I don’t know what to think. It’s just the three of us out here, so let’s have truth, shall we?”
Storm Silverhand stopped and turned to face him, her hair stirring around her like dozens of restless snakes, and her eyes two silver flames. “I don’t expect you to believe anything at all, Lord Delcastle. I’ve noticed your opinion of us changes like the weather, but I hope you’re wise enough to arrive at shrewd judgments of folk, given enough time. So now that we’re together, you’ll watch and listen to us and draw your own conclusions accordingly.”
Arclath came to a stop, too, and faced her. On his arm, Amarune looked from one of them to the other, frowning.
“Very well,” he said calmly. “In the interest of mutual trust, let us assume that the answer you’re about to give me is utter truth and that I’ll believe it. So who are you, really? You and the cloud of slithering ashes who calls himself Elminster?”
“I am Storm Silverhand. Some ninety summers ago, I was the Bard of Shadowdale. Elminster is… Elminster. The Sage of Shadowdale, the Old Mage of legend. We were-are-both Chosen of Mystra, the goddess of magic. Her servants. Her Highknights, if you will.”
“Mystra. A dead goddess, who once ruled-corrupted, some say-all magic.”
“That Mystra,” Storm said calmly, silver tresses still playing around her shoulders like serpents. “Yes.”
“You’re not going to tell me she’s still alive? And that she has some secret, sacred mission for Rune?”
“No,” Storm replied. “I don’t have to.”
Arclath arched one eyebrow. “Oh? Why not?”
“Because I know she’s alive and can tell you myself,” Amarune interrupted firmly. “I’ve met her. And if she has some secret task for me, she’s said nothing about it.”
“Yet,” Arclath told her darkly.
Storm smiled. “Good,” she said briskly, starting to walk north again. “You know who El and I are and as much about Mystra as any mortal dare trust in. We can cover the rest whenever we’ve time to waste talking. As we trudge toward this family hunting lodge of yours, for example.”
Arclath frowned. “Lady… Immerdusk, do you prefer? I don’t believe we’ve quite finished establishing where we stand. Elminster steps into the mind of my beloved whenever he pleases, and is forcing her to…” He felt a sharp tug on his arm.
“Lord Delcastle,” Amarune said sharply, “you will refrain from making assumptions about me, and from thinking I’m some sort of cow or pet snail, docile and brainless, whom you can discuss as if I’m not here.”
“Forgive me, Rune, but that’s just it,” the young nobleman said earnestly, staring into her eyes. “I don’t know if your brain is your own, right now, or if that old wizard is inside your mind forcing you to think one way or another and even keeping you from knowing it!”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous!” Amarune flared. “Do you think for one momen-”
“Easy, lass,” Storm murmured, reaching out a hand to the dancer. “He can’t know. He hasn’t shared his mind with Elminster or anyone, and so can’t feel what it’s like, or-”
“I’m not letting-!” Arclath roared.
Storm’s slap to his codpiece startled him into silence midsnarl, leaving him staring at her.
“No one is suggesting you’ll have to,” she told him gently. “I was merely soothing Rune by pointing out to her that you have no way of knowing what it’s like when El is in your head. Let me tell the both of you right now that I’m deeply unhappy about his entering Rune’s mind, and I would have fought him to try to prevent it had I not thought it was necessary. His… ah, invasion makes it very hard for us to trust each other… but that’s all we can do now. Plead with you, is perhaps a better way to put it. Trust us. Please. Or this is going to end badly for us all, and soon.”
Arclath was astonished to see tears glistening in her eyes.
Storm smiled wryly and added, “Lord Delcastle, you should thank us. A tenday back you were bored and wandering through the days, chafing at the meaninglessness of your existence and desperate to find some purpose in your life. We’ve taken care of all of that. Welcome to the grandest life of all. Welcome to saving the world.”
Manshoon realized he was smiling again.
The alchemist must be almost done, now. Sraunter had already nodded at one mixture, frowned and stood back, and slowly let himself smile at the second, before carefully shifting it off the heat of the small fire in his grate, Now he devoted his complete attention to the third.
Since forcing the man into nightlong brewing-if that was what alchemists called it-Manshoon had kept himself out of Sraunter’s mind, not wanting to distract him at a crucial moment, or frighten him any further.
Instead, the future emperor of Cormyr had kept back in the shadows, idly examining the alchemist’s shelves for substances that might prove useful in the future, and thinking.
The moment he had effective control over Cormyr-open and absolute command or several steps short of that-he’d set the Dragons of the realm to hunting down Storm Silverhand.
She must be taken alive, with her wits undamaged.
Interrogating her at leisure should yield to him much he desired to know. Secrets of the Chosen, where magic was hidden, and the whereabouts of The Simbul-the onetime Queen of Aglarond, whose Art had been mightier than Elminster’s own. Mad and far too magically powerful for anyone’s safety, that one must be destroyed.
Sraunter turned and nodded eagerly, sweat dripping from his chin. “Ready. All three, ready.”
Manshoon let his smile widen. “Good man. You have saved Cormyr from itself.”
Horns blew a fanfare that the cool morning breeze carried far across Suzail, summoning the invited-the nobility-to the Council of Dragons.
Mreldrake hardly needed the arrival of the hurrying palace doorjack, and Manshoon’s surge from that man’s dark and knowing eyes into his own mind, to know it was time to begin his castings.
Manshoon’s mind was already sharing a crisply clear vision of the soaked and ready hay bales that Sraunter was igniting.
Few mages could translocate fiery materials without troubles, but Mreldrake’s mind was filled, overwhelmed, and steadied by Manshoon’s own, and the hay bales were only just beginning to burn.
Mreldrake caught a glimpse-briefly, before Manshoon firmly sealed that sight away and forced him back to full concentration on the complex spells he was working-of someone else Manshoon was scrying.