"I'm a fool for asking this," he said quietly. "You could burn this place down, and me with it, probably by uttering a single word."
El inclined his head in a slow nod. "But ye're a man and were once a mage, so ye'll ask."
Galdus grinned slowly, shook his head, and said, "Yes. Well… Right, then. Why is all this killing necessary?"
Elminster shrugged. "Because I haven't yet succeeded in talking anyone to death."
"What?"
"I can't get folk to agree with others in peace. Always swords, spells, poison, or just fists come out… and are used." He sipped thoughtfully at his beer and said, "For several hundred years I tried to forge treaties here and handshakes there across Faerun, and trust rulers to keep 'em. Some did so for as long as a year or two, seldom more."
He stared into his beer and added, "I grew tired of threatening and pleading, over and over again. Folk lied to me, smiled, and laughed at my back the moment I'd left. So I did what I had to: told folk clearly what the price'd be if they didn't keep peace in this or that way they'd agreed to. And I made them pay the price when I had to. Sudden respect, or sudden death, was the result. Some folk learned, and that won us peace enough for humankind to rise above scrabbling in the dirt to feed ourselves between goblinkin raids and monster attacks."
El drained his beer. "So men grew rich, and arrogant, and spread across Faerun, making me wonder if I'd really done wrong, as the glorious old peoples, the elves and the dwarves, grew few and hunted. I started to worry about having to slaughter entire realms of men to keep us from laying waste to all Toril, burning down every tree for fuel, and eating all else, and finally each other-and then starving in the desert we'd left, dying off with a world wasted."
Galdus stared at him, swallowed beer without tasting it, and waved at him wordlessly to continue.
"I needn't have worried," Elminster went on, rubbing his sharp nose and looking off into the distance. "Humankind took advantage of its power and leisure to go to war with itself… and still does, year after year. I sometimes wonder if they've managed this any better, in other worlds where there are men, elsewhere in the multiverse."
The Old Mage fixed Galdus with calm eyes. "My job now-with the other Chosen, and the Harpers I helped found, and all the rulers I can dupe or threaten or bargain with-is to keep wars small and the real villains in check so that little folk, like thy family, can grow just a little better off year by year."
Galdus finished his own beer and held out his hand for El's tankard.
"From anyone else," he said heavily, refilling them both, "I'd call this deluded raving. A thousand years…" He shook his head. "Yet I believe you." He said it almost wonderingly and shook his head again as he set a full tankard down in front of the Old Mage. "Say on, please."
Elminster raised his beer in a silent toast. As the two tankards clinked, he asked the bartender, "Have ye never wondered why, year after year, the cruel mages in Thay, Zhentil Keep, Calimshan, and half a hundred other places don't destroy half the Realms in spell duels? Or just lead armies to roll over all of ye and meet to hack each other up in the smoking ruins that're left? Or why those orc hordes out of the northernmost mountains, that cover the land for mile upon mile of grunting goblinkin, don't just sweep over everyone?"
He drained his beer at single gulp. "Slaying," he answered himself, "that's why. Slaying when needful, and only when needful. Some realms have armies to do such dirty deeds. Shadowdale has Elminster."
Galdus swallowed. "When I was young and thought I could rule the world in just a few years, with just a few more spells, I used to talk about the way of the world and how I'd change it. I think all young wizards do, if they've someone to talk to. Later on, I never thought it'd all be for real, or that any halfway sane wizard spoke so, when he grew older." He shook his head and looked up at Elminster. "I thought they all just got twisted with power and greedy for more, and spent their days selling scrolls for gold or stealing spells from tombs or their enemies, or locked themselves away to go slowly mad making spells to open doors silently, or get wet laundry dry, or open stuck corks in old bottles… or blew themselves and their towers to the skies trying to perfect army-reaving magics."
"Most of them do just that," Elminster said softly. "Yet their very self-interest helps the rest of us. They're turned inward to small things, not trying to change the world, but they're in the way of conquerors and monsters. Intelligent folk rightly fear that they'll awaken and do battle if threatened, and beasts find that out the hard way."
Galdus grunted. "It makes one want to have more to drink, thinking about it."
Elminster grinned. "A lot of wizards do that, too."
He straightened in his seat and said, "My thanks for the bitter, Galdus, and the converse. 'Tis seldom I get to talk so freely to someone who'll understand, and more seldom yet that I find someone I dare say such things to. All too-"
And then the very air around him danced with blue sparks, and Elminster saw the bartender freeze in mid-step, mouth hanging open to speak, eyes fixed on nothingness. The front door groaned.
Elminster found that he could still move in that surging web of magic-more than he'd ever felt unleashed before-so he turned toward the door to see who'd wrought it. He might as well see whatever god his words had angered, before they destroyed him.
A thin woman in a black gown was just closing the door behind her. She was alone, and her raven-dark hair, red-and-black eyes, and ivory skin made her look like a vampire. Her gait and movements, too, echoed the sultry, almost pouting manner of many she-vampires Elminster had met, but her eyes were somber as she walked toward the Old Mage.
"Your words have saved you," she said quietly, "and found me the teacher I need-and need to trust. Well met, Elminster."
"Well met, lady," Elminster said, bowing to her. "Who are you?"
"Midnight is the name I am known to most by, but you may call me… Mystra. We must talk."
11
The Castle of Shadows, Kythorn 18
The three Malaugrym stood waiting like patient statues as Milhvar said, "The Shadowmaster High had great hopes for this project. Try not to let him down. But above all else, we want you back safely. If anything goes wrong — anything — use the power of your belt buckles to get back to us. Even if the foe is under your blade or in your hands, break off rather than be taken — or slain. There will be other forays, and other chances."
The three kin nodded, and one of them added a visibly nervous swallow. Milhvar did not smile or shrug. If they lived through this, perhaps they'd grow into Shadow-masters of some use. Huerbara almost was already, only her inability to bridle a too-oft-blazing temper holding her back. But Kuervyn and Andraut were nothings, all swagger and undisciplined thrill-seeking. They still found nightly fun in shapeshifting their ways through Faerunian brothels, and took their greatest satisfaction in leaving without paying!
Dead growth, the pair of them. Milhvar let nothing of this judgment show as he told them all to willingly draw at least a drop of their own blood with a talon, claw, body spur, or other part of their own shape, and signaled the team of Shadowmaster mages to begin weaving the cloaks.
He'd deliberately woven the chain of interlocked spells to be more complex than it need be, take longer — and require more mages — than it needed to, and to be more than a little unstable. He'd no wish to unleash an army of unbeatable flamebrains like Kuervyn and Andraut on Faerun or anywhere else.
When the long chanting and gesturing was done, and a shimmering and dark singing in the air above the three told him the spell-cloaks were done, he stepped forward and added the "secret spell" that linked each magical construct to its wearer, through the drop of blood. This false enchantment added nothing useful to the process, but kept Milhvar essential to the Grafting of every spell-cloak of the Malaugrym. A useful, if dangerous, status to hold.