Elminster was wise enough to give Storm this time to drift into slumber under the watching stars. It would ease her heavy heart. For himself, however, it was enough to have her beside him. Of the sisters he’d reared, Storm was the most his friend, even if he loved the Simbul more as mate and companion. Elminster smiled up at the stars and was happy.
“El,” the beloved voice beside him came softly, “you know I love riding Faerûn with you … but tell me; where are we bound this time, and why?”
“We go to meet a certain old enemy of mine, and do a certain thing,” Elminster said carefully. “Is that enough?”
He heard the grin in her voice. “Of course. You phrase nothing so eloquently.” With easy grace, she rolled up to one elbow and looked down at him. “And the ‘why’?”
Elminster looked into her level gaze and melted. “It is part of an ongoing game I play against—certain folk. A very old and deep game, to limit the power of those who watch from shadows in this world. The Malaugrym—aye, ye remember them, I know—are after Shandril of Highmoon. Her affair’s by no means clear and done yet. We’ll doubtless meet in Silverymoon, these Shadowmasters and I, to do spell-battle over her …. What we do now will become important then. “’Tis more important that the Shadowmasters have no benefit from what I’ve left undone than that the Harpers or Shandril—or Toril itself—gain strength by what we do, if we prevail ….”
Storm laughed softly and kissed him. “I love it, Old Mage, when you’re so forthcoming and open.” She lay down again beside him. “Never change, will you? Promise me that.”
“Ah, lass,” he said sadly. “That’s one of the promises none of us can keep.”
He lay there in silence until she slept, holding her hand tightly. When her slumber was deep, he waved his free hand, and a spellbook floated silently out of the night to hang above his nose. Spellfire was but one of Elminster’s little secrets; another was the fact that he no longer needed to sleep.
The old, familiar symbols and phrases filled his mind again as they had so many times before, but he did not let go of Storm’s hand, even for a moment. Throughout life, one does not miss any chance to hold onto the things that are really precious, if one is truly wise.
A cool wind whipped around the mages and howled off east, along the old and broken rock ridges of the Stonelands. It brought faint, far-off howls with it.
Ramath involuntarily looked over his shoulder, but the black-robed wizard beside him only smiled.
“Whatever it is would have to travel much of the night to reach us, mageling, even if it knew we stood on this spot. My Art will turn it away if it tries. So stand easy.”
Ramath shook his head. “I’ve tried, Dread Master—but whenever I look where it’s dark, I see her.”
“Who?” The question was sharp.
Ramath swallowed. “A light-haired girl … shrouded in flames.”
“What? She’s here, and moving about, hidden from all but you by magic? Or can you see rocks and trees through her; do you see something from your dreams?”
“A dream image I suppose, Master—yet I’m not asleep. I see her walking amid trees, with a dwarf, a wizard of about my age, and a fat man in floppy old boots. They’re just walking, not seeing me or anything—but they’re always heading this way, straight toward us ….I walked to the cliff over there—you saw me—and it seemed the same; straight toward me. It’s—I’ve never known anything like this before.”
Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr regarded him coldly for a moment, and then said very softly, “Who has spoken to you of such a band of travelers?”
Ramath looked startled. “No one, Dread Master. I’ve not heard of or seen any of these folk before—I was hoping you’d know what spell or ghost was affecting me.”
“I think I do,” the Dread Master replied. “Go down to the Zhentilar swordmaster by the fire and tell him to come up to me. And pay close heed to these images you see. When you return, I shall want a full and detailed account of anything new that you’ve seen. Hasten.”
Obediently his apprentice scrambled away along the path. Stroking his sharp-pointed chin thoughtfully, Ghaubhan Szaurr watched him go.
The wind flung the wizard’s cloak out behind him like a black sail. Ghaubhan stood on the rocky height feeling its tug and listening to it flapping as excitement rose within him: Ramath had some sort of magesight, the gift of Mystra or Bane or some other dark power—and Shandril of Highmoon was coming this way.
Spellfire would be his soon; Ghaubhan could almost taste it. He thought how best to place the warriors—stupid brutes all, but useful against the maiden’s companions—for the battle to come. It was even more crucial to use his magelings so they stood no chance of tricking or turning on their Dread Master. Best if they all died at the maid’s hands—men turned to ashes by spellfire could tell no tales to seeking magic, and could not whisper against him. If one ashen corpse wore Ghaubhan’s cloak and ring, in fact, they’d think Ghaubhan Szaurr fallen.
And given time to master spellfire while in hiding, this lowly tutor of magelings would become a Dread Master indeed! Then the high lords of the Keep had best look to their Art, for the Zhentarim would soon have a new master …. If that book he’d found in old Asklannan’s spell library spoke truth, any man whose blood joined with one who wielded spellfire stood a chance of gaining it himself. That joining, moreover, would be a pleasure ….
Ghaubhan grinned wolfishly in the dark, and waited for the hurrying steps of Ramath to announce the mageling’s return. He’d bear watching, that one … such sight does not come from empty air; how came he by it? Fzoul and his upperpriests thought Ghaubhan Szaurr served the Cult of the Dragon; only Manshoon and a few senior wizards knew he in truth worked for the Zhentarim …. Was this Ramath a spy for Fzoul, then? Was he sent by someone in the Cult who’d become suspicious of Ghaubhan’s loyalty? What fell and mysterious power moved the young fool? None known to a lowly Dread Master, for sure ….
“ ‘Fell and mysterious power!’ I like that,” Gathlarue said softly in the night-gloom. “It has a certain ring ….”
“It does,” Mairara agreed. “This Dread Master is an engaging half-wit all around. Such twisted cruelty … such lame deceits.”
“Lame they may be,” Gathlarue said, “but it is my hope he does gain the spellfire. Not only will he be straw in our hands, but it will be entertaining to the utmost, watching him destroying most of the Brotherhood as he seeks to master it.”
“Fun watching, to be sure,” came the reply, “so long as he holds the Zhentarim together long enough to destroy Elminster of Shadowdale first. If we feed this Ramath visions for long enough, our ambitious Dread Master will not dare to start the foolishness too early. I would see Elminster perish soon, and the Brotherhood is the only blade we can wield that seems strong enough to slay him.”
“There are others,” Gathlarue said softly. “If we could turn the one called the Simbul against him …”
“They love each other strongly now.”
“Precisely,” Gathlarue said. The slow smile that stole onto her face then made Mairara shiver despite herself. “Precisely ….”
Nine
Death Behind Thee, Its Claws upon Thy Shoulder
Time is the thief that knows no locks.
“Fare thee well, too, Baera,” Mirt said roughly, and then his arms were tightly wrapped around her, squeezing as though by mere strength he could hold onto some part of her afterwards. The fat Harper, looking somehow sleek and striking this morning after her bath, gripped him back just as hard, and they stood locked like two wrestling bears for a long moment.