The dwarf’s beard bristled as he clamped his mouth tightly shut and glared at her. A deep red hue slowly crept up his neck and across his face and balding head as he walked along in the general laughter. Almost thirty paces passed underfoot before a deep rumbling announced that Delg had joined in.
The morning sun was warm on the old wizard’s face. Elminster stood conferring with the youngest mage of the Knights of Myth Drannor, one Illistyl. The high balcony of the Twisted Tower in Shadowdale afforded a splendid view of the lush green meadows below.
The old sage’s pipe kept going out in the breeze. He tapped it on the stone parapet and said, “Mind ye watch Shaerl while I’m gone … she’s apt to act ere prudence governs. She’s young yet.”
Illistyl, who had seen but nineteen winters herself—rather less than the Lady Shaerl—smiled tolerantly. “Impetuous action being the province of the very young and the very old, my lord?” she asked, eyes all too innocent.
Elminster snorted. “Now girl, grant ye I could sit here happily amid books and all and let the Realms be hurled down and laid waste around me, but ’tis not impetuous nor foolish to lift a hand to prevent such a thing. Some of thy deeds, and those of thy fellow Knights, may be hastily thought on or taken at whim, but I do consider acts ere I take them—consider them well, as all sh—”
“Aye, aye,” Illistyl interrupted him smoothly. “I shall, I shall. As ever.” She patted the Old Mage’s arm. “I would be more at ease if most of us weren’t galloping all over the Dales, distracting those hunting for spellfire … and if Dove and Jhessail could spare more time from their little ones, though I know that above all we must keep such younglings safe. Alone, I can give Mourngrym little aid if aught demanding power or influence should befall.”
Elminster’s eyes were briefly moist. Her softly spoken, archaic words had reminded him of a young maid he had stood with long ago, as beautiful and as skilled in Art, a lady now only ashes. Too many young lasses laughed only in his memories now, gone to dust, naught left of them but their fading writings in spellbooks and his even more faded memories. Abruptly, the Old Mage looked south toward the trees that hid the millpond and the burned flagstones of Syluné’s Hut. Gods be struck down, there is another lost lady, he thought briefly, then swept aside his dark thoughts angrily. I must be getting old!
He raised his eyes to look at lazily drifting clouds and, with an effort he cared not to show, said teasingly, “Perhaps Torm will again come to thy aid.”
Beside him, slim Illistyl stiffened. “You jest, I trust,” she answered coldly.
The old sage’s eyes twinkled merrily as he gravely replied, “Aye. Of course.” He turned then, took her hand gently, and kissed it.
Illistyl stared at him, astonished. His mustache rasped across her knuckles like a bristle-brush for a moment, and she found herself staring into very blue, very keen old eyes. She shivered involuntarily; Elminster’s gaze made her feel quite naked, and more than a little ashamed. It seemed that he saw into the very depths and corners of her being, parting all the shadowy curtains of old jealousies, regrets, and small deceits. And yet his voice, when it came, was both tender and approving.
“I must go, little one,” he said. “I foresee a need to face the archwizards of the Zhentarim before long—and with the spells and monstrous assistance they employ in battles, I’ve no wish to be anywhere near Shadowdale when the fray begins. Forget not what Jhessail and I have taught thee, and follow thy good sense, and all will be well in the ending of it. Thy good reason is more important than all the power ye will ever wield.”
As he released her hand, Illistyl shivered again, closed her eyes briefly as if gathering her strength, and then snorted at him, eyes flashing open. “A lot my good reason will do if Zhentil Keep’s soldiers march down that road there!”
Elminster clucked, reprovingly. “Manshoon has other worries, girl, worse than ye know. Myself, for instance. He needs his armies—or thinks he does, and that’s all the same to us—to face other foes.” He patted her hand. “Abide here and keep the dale safe. Lhaeo will serve thee in need. Mystra shield thee.”
“And comfort thee,” she replied formally, and added, “mind you return speedily, Old Mage. You will be needed—and missed.”
“Many have said so,” he said over his shoulder as he swept down the stairs, “over the years. And when I was not there, the will of the gods unfolded anyway.”
Illistyl shook her head in amused silence, followed him down one flight of steps, and then crossed to a gallery with a window over the meadow.
Below, Storm Silverhand sat calmly upon a magnificent black horse and held the reins of a smaller, fatter dapple-gray for Elminster. Her alert eyes saw Illistyl arrive at the window, and she waved.
Illistyl leaned out and called, “Bring him back soon, good lady. And don’t let him talk your ears off.”
The bard smiled back at her as they both heard Elminster’s voice reply, “And why not? Listening does the young good, and makes the patience of the old supple. Besides, my tongue rests more often than it once did.”
“Truly?” Illistyl called from the safety of her window. “By the gods, you must have been an endless cataract of nonsense in your youth.”
The old sage clambered ungracefully into the saddle, patted the gray reassuringly, and made no answer. The flourishes of his hands as he lit his pipe, however, were eloquent.
He nodded to Storm without looking up, blew a smoke ring in the direction of Illistyl’s window, and set off at a trot. Storm followed, raising her hand to Illistyl in salute.
The youngest mage of the knights watched them ride until they were out of sight. Then she sighed and went down to join Mourngrym and Shaerl. She held dark fears about the days ahead.
“Not so long, now,” Mirt said. “I never thought I could grow tired of the sight o’ trees. Stop me vitals, but this clambering about is hard on old legs!”
“Tell me truth, do,” Delg answered sarcastically, sitting down hard on a nearby fallen tree with a sharp whuff of released breath. “Where, by Marthammor Finder-of-Trails,” the dwarf asked as the others took seats around him, “are we going … if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I don’t mind in the least, friend Delg,” Mirt said grandly and grinned. “I don’t know.”
Delg’s head came up like that of a dog, bristling to strike at a suddenly seen enemy. “You don’t know?”
“He says that a lot, doesn’t he?” Narm said to Shandril in the silence that followed.
Shandril was too apprehensive to reply. She had been looking constantly here and there into the trees around for signs of the Zhents who must be following them, but Mirt’s I don’t know had snatched her attention back to him.
The wheezing old merchant in tattered leather chuckled easily and pointed ahead into the trees. “It matters not exactly where we walk, look ye—as long as we keep alongside the road through the forest toward Arabel, and not too close to it. I hope to come out of the western edge of Hullack as close to deep night as we dare, so that prying eyes are fewer. A certain inn of my acquaintance stands there, The Wanton Wyvern by name. We spend a night in cozy luxury, and walk on west in the morning, suitably disguised. Yer way lies in that direction, does it not?”
“It does,” Shandril agreed cautiously. “And I would walk it with you, I think. But first tell us, Mirt, Lord of Waterdeep, what you know of us and the many who pursue us. I am tired of always running, and never sure why I must, and what awaits me.”
Mirt nodded, not reacting at all to her identification of his rank. “Get used to that feeling, Lady; it’s what life becomes for most of us.” He grinned and added more softly, “Wise caution, Lady. Forgive me if I am brief. These old bones grow stiff if I sit about too long.”