"She's gone," he mumbled, rather unnecessarily. Lhaeo nodded, and bent over him.
"Aye," he said gravely, "but what has she done to you?"
Through fresh tears, Elminster met a gaze that was wary and the gray of cool steel. He noted Lhaeo's ready grip on a belt dagger and made no move with his own hands.
"I am still myself," he said quietly. "Or as much as I can be with no magic left to me."
Lhaeo stared at him in shocked silence for a long time. Then he whispered, "Old friend, I am sorry. Very sorry indeed." He knelt down and took Elminster's hand. "Gone for good?"
Elminster shrugged and then slowly nodded. "I fear so."
Lhaeo's look was grave. "There is no gentle way to ask this," he said slowly. "You have lived beyond most men. Without Art, will you soon crumble away?"
Elminster grinned feebly. "Nay, Lhaeo. Ye're stuck with me awhile longer."
"Then I suppose," Lhaeo said solemnly, "you'll be wanting to get up off this floor. I haven't swept it yet today."
In a dark chamber far away, the silent, floating ring of beholders drew back as Manshoon, High Lord of Zhentil Keep, gasped and halted in his cold address to them. He stumbled, caught himself, and straightened to face them again, but on his bone-white face was a look of fear it had not worn for years.
The beholders waited watchfully, many dark and glistening eyes staring at the human archwizard, ready to rend him in an instant if it should be needful.
Manshoon looked around at all those eyes, took a deep breath, and licked suddenly dry lips. "Something has happened. Something terrible." He shook his head in disbelief. "Bindings have failed all across the Realms."
The largest beholder drifted a little nearer. The cold, hissing voice of Ithaqull sounded coldly amused as it rolled out around the archmage. "An event that has possibilities, does it not?"
As the sun went down over Shadowdale, Elminster sat, long pipe in hand, beside a placid little pool. Power still roiled within him, but there seemed less of it now than at first. Perhaps it was leaking away or leaving him by some means prepared beforehand by the Lady of Mysteries, or perhaps he was just getting used to it.
He raised a finger and tried to light his pipe with a little cantrip he'd learned long ago. Nothing happened. He tried again, holding up his finger and staring at it as he gathered his will.
The spell was still there. He'd had it in his mind before Mystra had spoken, though he couldn't feel any enchantments hanging ready any longer. He could think clearly and remember all that he'd done, but Art simply would not come to his call. Feeling a little ashamed, he stuck his pipe, unlit, back in his mouth and stared out across the water.
Night came creeping across the sky like thieves' fingers, long, dark blue clouds coming in low from the west. Small croakings and singings sounded around the pool. Amid the stones at its eastern edge, Elminster sat as if he were stone himself, and made no sound at all.
Lhaeo came out to him with a steaming jack of hot spiced wine. Elminster only smiled a little as the scribe placed it in his hand, and looked up with eyes that did not see. Lhaeo put a hand on his shoulder in answer and went back in. Elminster did not speak, for he was very busy talking-in his mind, which was a crowded place just then.
The Divine Lord Azuth was there, and with him Noumea, the Lady Magister. There was also Storm Silverhand and High Lady Alustriel and Nethreen. Most of all Nethreen: Witch-Queen of Aglarond, widely feared across the Realms as the fiery-tempered, awesomely strong archmage the Simbul. Elminster loved her very much.
They'd held each other and whispered their truenames in the wake of the coming to power of the spellfire-maiden, Shandril Shessair. Since then-in their own independent, far-traveling ways-they'd been lord and lady to each other.
In the flurry of mind-spoken questions, comfortings, and advice, the Simbul's quiet voice tore at Elminster's heart the most. As night came to Shadowdale, Elminster sat amid the ever-louder chorus of crickets and bullfrogs, and thanked his friends for their care and good wishes. Feeling sick at heart, he told them plainly that he didn't know what to do now. Concerned thoughts flew like flashing swords, but in their midst the Old Mage grew ever more tired and heartsick. He was beginning to feel that the power to link thoughts with others who carried the burden of Mystra's power was a curse, not the comfort and safety it was intended to be.
Yet the Old Mage cared for all who reached out to his mind this eve, and none of them were unfriendly or unperceptive. They knew he carried a terrible measure of power he did not know how to call on. Worse, they all knew his own Art, or at least his means of grasping magic, was gone. They knew, too, that he was very tired and wanted to be alone.
One by one they wished him well and withdrew. Soft soothings echoed and re-echoed in his mind. Elminster felt their own weariness, bewilderment, and fear for Mystra and for the fate of them all, and had no comfort to give. He saluted them as they parted, until at last-as he knew would happen-only one thought-voice remained, riding his mind with the easy familiarity of intimacy.
Nethreen. Lady most mine. Elminster let her feel his gratefulness. I am right glad of thy company.
I know, Lord, came the calm reply. I know. I was ever lonely until I came to thee and found another I could trust.
Elminster smiled in the darkness, and then hastily caught his pipe as it fell. I love thee, Lady.
And I thee, Lord. Stop all this formal fencing, El. We're alone now, and you're in perhaps the worst danger you've ever really faced. Have you decided what to do next?
Elminster's sigh slid into a rueful grin. No. I've thought, but not decided. I was hoping-
That between us all, we'd decide on a path for your feet? came the dry reply. That is not laid on through life for any of us, Old Mage. You of all folk know that well. The rebuke was lost in the same ruefulness that Elminster felt, shared for a moment before it faded. When the Simbul spoke again, her mind-voice was gentle. Will you come to me? There is a hidden place deep in the Yuirwood, a refuge I've used before, as others of Aglarond did before me.
Nay, Lady. Elminster's feelings were firm and certain about this, at least. This danger is, as ye say, mine to face. Moreover, I menace any mage I am near. Even if I did not love thee, Aglarond needs thee against the spite and greed of Thay, whose meddling mages would be that much closer to me in thy refuge than they are now.
Right now, all who learn of your misfortune and would do you ill know exactly where to find you, Nethreen reminded him sharply. Don't misthink yourself into a grave, my lord! Her mental tone shifted into curiosity. Why are you a danger to any mage? Are you afraid the power in you will tempt me, or another like me?
Elminster's reply was subdued. I know not if Mystra's power will leak from me. Mayhap it will be unleashed in some sort of magical blast. In either case, it may destroy any mages near, or render them feeble witted or dead to Art as I am now.
Moreover, I am sure to attract the overly ambitious, if ever my fate becomes known. I would not want ye to face hourly visits from the likes of Ghalaster of Thay; that Calishite, Murdrimm the Hierarchmage; or Manshoon, backed by all his Zhentarim. One or a number of them, working against thee or me, might taste too much of Tymora's good fortune. Those who would seize Mystra's power will do anything, and more than anything, to get it.
What must we do, then? The Simbul's voice seemed close to tears.
If ye would help me, Elminster replied carefully, feeling his way as he spoke to her, watch over Mourngrym-and Randal Morn in Daggerdale-as I have done, and help the Harpers as best ye can. Storm will tell thee how. I need thee to take on my tasks while I am unable to do them-if ye deem the doing necessary and good, for I will not tell thee how to judge, or that I have been right in what I've done.