Whereupon two gigantic eyes opened out of nothingness behind Elminster and the Simbul and stared right through them at Caladnei. RECKLESS IDIOCY, PERHAPS, BUT BRAVELY DONE, CALADNEI OF CORMYR. MOREOVER, YOUR SUSPICIONS OF NARNRA ARE WELL FOUNDED. NO SECRET CAN BE KEPT FOREVER, AND YOU HAVE SHIELDED IT-I HOPE-JUST LONG ENOUGH.
Caladnei stared into those great glowing orbs, fighting to find words as exultation rose in her, her face awash in sudden, silent tears. . . .
A lone, hooded figure in leathers sprang out of her crouch and was away like the wind, sprinting across the cellar floor as swiftly as any arrow. A few blue-white stars seemed to curl around her heels, just for an instant.
Glarasteer Rhauligan shook himself like a wet dog and burst out of his own trembling rapture at a run, slapping something into Caladnei's hands as he went.
She stared down at what she held, not comprehending what it was for a mind-whirling moment: a gleaming steel vial.
Drink, his firm, warm mind-voice came to her, along the spell-link that hadn't yet expired, and be healed. Worry not; I carry two more.
Only one other Harper scrambled to intercept the racing Silken Shadow. Narnra flung her last purse of sand into his face, vaulted a trembling War Wizard, and was gone up the stairs, panting for breath.
The older, stouter Rhauligan lumbered along in her wake at a slower, grimmer speed, threading a less bruising way through the enthralled crowd of Cormyreans.
Through the mind-link of tumbling stars, the amusement of a goddess crashed over them all in a vast flood, forcing most in the cellar into helpless, gasping laughter.
As they rocked and slapped thighs and shouted helpless mirth, those giant eyes winked out, Elminster and the Simbul vanished along with all their mist-curling radiance-and the overwhelming presence of divinity was suddenly . . . gone.
Laughter died swiftly, as half-dazed War Wizards and Harpers clutched at each other for support, blinked, and sighed their various ways down from rapture. Many started swearing, and not a few bent over to brace themselves like winded soldiers and collect their wits.
"That . . . that was something," a grizzled Harper said weakly, grounding his sword. Beside him, two War Wizards turned and embraced each other, their uncontrollable shudderings slowly slackening into tremblings.
Standing alone still facing the dark emptiness that had held two Chosen and their goddess, the Royal Magician of Cormyr stood shaking and silent, clasping the vial to her breast and weeping uncontrollably.
A woman in trim dark robes slipped out of the crowd of Cormyreans and went to Caladnei. She was careful to circle around the Mage Royal so as not to startle her by clasping her from behind-but never slowed in her advance.
Without really looking up Caladnei saw a lock of hair that had recently gone white amid many tresses, and its owner's erect and graceful walk, and knew as gentle arms went around her that her comforter was Speera.
Laspeera. She wasn't sure she quite dared to call Laspeera In-thre Naerinth, the second-in-command of the War Wizards for many of Vangerdahast's years of service, by the nickname the royal family used for her. Laspeera, the lady she'd been afraid would resent and attack an unknown adventurer from Turmish, anointed out of nowhere by the increasingly difficult and much-feared old Vangerdahast . . . but who'd instead become a firm friend, remaining a loved and trusted diplomat and a cheerful tower of strength and moral guide for the War Wizards and the nobility of the realm alike.
Not for the first time, she wondered what Laspeera's true thoughts were, behind her unfailing graceful politeness. Many a courtier could act and speak one way and believe and covertly advance quite another, and far too many kings had fallen by trusting the wrong smiling face for too long.
Yet she could not stop crying, and Speera's arms were warm around her, rocking her as affectionately as an older sister might.
"One of the high points of any life, yes," Laspeera murmured, "and so of course devastating when it's over . . . but Gala, life goes on, and there'll be others-if you work to make them happen."
That jerked Caladnei upright, to stare at the older War Wizard. "Speera?" she blurted. "You called me 'Gala'!"
Laspeera winked at her. "Mystra take me," she murmured, "so I did. How presumptuous and graceless of me. My tongue must have run away with me."
She kept hold of Caladnei and so was ready to catch her when the Mage Royal collapsed into sudden, snorting laughter.
Six
There's one sure way to know ye've reached a city where merchants rule: ye'll see a knife clutched ready in every hand. If the merchants have gone so far as to practice the misrule of kings, some of those hands will no longer be attached to bodies.
One of the highest peaks of the Storm Horns, that great shield-wall of mountains that defend Cormyr's western flank, is Tharbost. "The Lord of Storms," some call it, and it glares eternally out over Tunland, so high and wind-shrouded that few creatures lacking wings know that the lofty tip of its spire was broken off in dragon-battle long ago, leaving behind a small, flat high table. A rampart of teethlike rocks at the western lip of this lofty perch affords a little shelter against the full raking fury of the winds, so when breezes slacken, humans who somehow reach the summit of Tharbost might hope to stand thereon for a short time before the tireless wind-talons pluck and whirl them down again.
Two humans were standing there now: figures that had simply appeared there out of what minstrels were wont to call "empty nowhere" moments before, without any fuss of flowering magic or deadly struggles of climbing.
The wind moaned in a deadly rising, whipping the tattered black robe one of them wore up into a most immodest flapping, but she stood unconcernedly-showing no signs of struggling for balance or feeling the icy wind-chill-side by side with a figure who spat out the end of his beard for the third time and muttered a small, sharply worded magic to keep it down.
The Simbul grinned at him. "Strange, how you worded your cantrip to tame your beard but not my dress."
"Presume to alter the fashion statement of a woman who's also a queen? I'm widely considered a meddling fool, Lady Fire, but I'm not that much of a meddling fool."
Though the sorceress no more than smiled fondly, merry laughter rolled around the summit, shaking Tharbost and setting some of its rocks to singing out echoes.
THIS IS WHAT I MISS MOST ABOUT LAYING ASIDE MORTALITY, Mystra told them a trifle sadly, when she'd mastered her mirth. NO ONE TEASES ME.
Elminster lifted his head, grin widening-and his beard promptly flew up into his face to forestall whatever he'd been going to say.
NO, OLD MAGE, THAT WAS NOT A REQUEST FOR YOU TO START DOING SO. HEAR AND BELIEVE. As a coda to that emphatic statement, Elminster's beard slapped down to its tamed position once more.
The Simbul promptly burst into laughter at his revealed expression, so it was left to the long-suffering onetime Prince of Athalantar to observe, "Ye cannot have snatched us here, Divine One, just to hear us banter. Ye've more to impart, eh?"
OF COURSE. WHENEVER POSSIBLE-ALASSRA SILVERHAND, HEED ME TRUE!-YOU ARE TO SUBVERT RED WIZARDS RATHER THAN SLAUGHTER THEM.
The Simbul lifted an eyebrow. "'Subvert'?"
LAY DEEP-MIND SUGGESTION SPELLS TO GENTLY NUDGE THE THAYANS INTO ACTING AS I DESIRE THEM TO. SOME WILL YET HAVE TO BE SLAIN, BUT TOO MANY HAVE A CAPACITY TO CRAFT NEW MAGICS AND EXPAND MORTAL USE OF THE WEAVE, TO LOSE THEM ALL.