Spellstorm (46 page)

Revealing a lawn wet as if from a heavy dew, that lacked all sign of a spindle or a hole leading underground.

“Take Tabra,” El told Mirt and Myrmeen, “and a bowl of food if she’s not done, and climb yon hill, and wait there for me. Any Dragon or war wizard who tries to stop ye, tell them to stand aside in the name of the Dragon Throne and the regent, and that they risk the personal ire of the goddess Mystra, too. Luse, ye go with them; leave Halaunt’s
body behind if ’tis easier. Malchor and Manshoon can stay where they are; they’ll keep.”

“We obey,” Myrmeen replied, “but there’s a price.”

The Sage of Shadowdale sighed. “Of course there is. Ye want to know what I’ll be doing, aye?”

She grinned. “Aye.”

“Taking care of the Lost Spell.”

“Now
that
,” the voice of Alusair said nigh his ear, “will be worth seeing.”

“Yet not
feeling
, lass. Remember what befell thee when Tabra crushed Yusendre?”

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed. Get ye gone. And warn yon Dragons and war wizards that if they don’t stay back—right where they are now!—until I’m done, they hazard their lives.”

“And if they don’t believe me?”

It was Elminster’s turn to grin. “Tell them I’ll stop holding back the angry ghost of Vangerdahast—and the even angrier and very much alive Lady Glathra Barcantle. Tell them her wrath is terrible beyond imagining. And show them
this
.”

“That,” Myrmeen said, peering at it rather dubiously, “is one of Shaaan’s severed fingers. One of the nearly cooked ones. You collect trophies, El?”

“Evidently,” the Sage of Shadowdale replied. “Ye might tell them that this is all that remains of the last person to defy me. After I ate the rest.”

Myrmeen chuckled and took the finger. “I’m going to enjoy this.”

He gave her a merry wave and turned to step back inside Oldspires, accepting a ghostly kiss on his cheek from the passing chill that was Alusair as he did so.

She had left Halaunt’s husk of a body slumped in a chair in the entry hall. El gave it a jaunty salute as he opened the door to the kitchens.

He took a quick peer all around, just in case a hiresword had revived or someone else had been lurking in Oldspires all along, but … no. He was alone.

He swiftly retrieved his battered copper chamberpot, did something deft to its rim that released the outer pot from its inner liner, and lifted out that liner to retrieve what he’d hidden between the two soon after first arriving in Oldspires, and fixed in place with a dab of sealing wax to the bottom of the inner pot.

The scroll of the Lost Spell.

El peered all around again. There were a lot of young war wizards whose boldness far outstripped their sensibilities …

No. Still alone. El read the scroll carefully, then tucked it down the front of his robes, into the inner pocket there where several scrolls of mighty magics rode around with him, just in case. He strolled across the kitchen toward the far door—and then stopped, shook his head, took out the Lost Spell again, and murmured at the ceiling, “No one should have this much power.”

Yes
, Mystra’s voice came down to him, sounding warm and affectionate and close, and, at the same time, as thunderous as if she was not only the entire ceiling of Oldspires and the ruined upper floor above it, but all of the cloud-streaked blue sky above that.

I believe
, she added fondly,
you know what to do
.

Elminster blinked, a little taken aback.

As you’ve just proven you know what is right
, Mystra added softly, as she faded away from his mind.
You
do
know what to do
.

El smiled, nodded, and did a slow and careful Weave working that left him shaking and exhausted.

The scroll dissolved between his fingers as the Lost Spell melted away into pure flaming magical energy, akin to spellfire.

El cupped it in his hands and let it rage and snarl there for a moment as he reached out with his mind to the worst of the failing spells that had sealed off the gates.

He guided the fiery energy into that deteriorating magic, refilling and restoring it, making it stronger and better than ever. And then did the next worst gate-sealing spell, and the next. And there was still fire left in his hands.

El used it to double the bindings on all of the gates, rendering them unusable by any but the most powerful and patient wizards, sealing them off behind layer after layer of wards, and ending—for now, at least—the leakage from them.

When he was finally done, he felt weak and sick. He was reeling on his feet as he staggered through the mansion, heading for Malchor and Manshoon as he rather dazedly tried to decide what should be done about them now.

“Elminster! El! Elminster Aumar! Sage of Shadowdale!”

Those cries were coming from behind him, and sounded very like Mirt and Myrmeen taking turns urgently calling his various names as they caught up to him.

He turned, and saw the by-now-familiar duo hastening their way along the passage after him.

“I thought I told ye to wait for me on yonder hill,” he greeted them testily.

“You did,” Mirt wheezed, “but that was before Cormyr came calling!”

“What?”

There came the squeal of a distant door from behind Elminster, and the tramp of many feet.

He turned, feeling
more
than testy.

Down the passage in the other direction from Mirt and Myrmeen were coming young Tarnmark Lionmantle, the Lord Warder Vainrence, three tall and broad-shouldered Purple Dragons in full coat of plate, and Glathra Barcantle—with Vangerdahast bringing up the rear, trying rather unsuccessfully to hide behind the lady war wizard.

“How did you get rid of the spellstorm?” Glathra demanded, by way of greeting.

El grinned, despite himself. “Have ye been trying to spy on me through it all this time?”

“We have,” she informed him crisply. “In shifts. Lionmantle here is quite pleased it went away on
his
shift.”

“Uh, well met,” Lionmantle said nervously to Elminster, who gave him a grave nod. And a wink that wasn’t quite swift enough for Glathra to miss it.

“And
what
do you mean by that?” she demanded.

El glanced back behind him. Mirt and Myrmeen seemed to have deserted him for a moment, but he could see Lord Halaunt stumping purposefully along the passage to join him. Mirt and Myrmeen emerged from different rooms along the passage, hefting fireplace pokers in their hands as if they intended to use them as weapons.

El turned again to face Glathra—just as the ranks of the Cormyreans drawn up beside her were broken by Vangerdahast bursting forward through them to rush into Myrmeen’s embrace.

“
Dis
gusting,” the Lady Barcantle commented, as the former Royal Magician of the Realm and the former Lady Lord of Arabel kissed ardently, both of them beginning to growl deep in their throats as the lock of their lips lasted longer … and longer …

“We’ll leave them to that, shall we?” Elminster said gently, striding right through the Cormyrean ranks—one of the tall Dragons grabbed for him rather gingerly, but the attempt was belated and halfhearted, and missed—and along the passage.

“Lionmantle!” the Lady Glathra snapped, giving the young noble a shove, and obediently he raced in pursuit of Elminster.

Catching up to him just as the Sage of Shadowdale swung open a bedchamber door.

“Well met,” Elminster greeted Lionmantle dryly, then added, over Tarn’s shoulder, “Glathra, glad ye came. I have a task for thee—one that ye, Vainrence, and Ganrahast together just
might
be able to take care of.”

“And who are you, to be giving the most senior Crown mages of Cormyr orders, here on Cormyrean soil?” Glathra snapped.

“I’m the one who’s pointing out that if ye don’t undertake this service, tending this fell archmage here, one Manshoon by name—aye,
that
Manshoon; ye know
some
lore, at least—he’s going to wake up in great pain, and no doubt in a terrible temper to match, and do so unsupervised in this mansion here on Cormyrean soil.”

Vainrence snapped, “Enough!”

This order was clearly aimed at Glathra, and the Lord Warder hastened to Manshoon, drawing wands from his belt as he went.

“I’m awake,” a weak, husky voice greeted him, “and know you that Malchor Harpell and I reached an accord, and I intend to abide by it. I am no threat to Cormyr, Lord Warder.”

Vainrence stared down at Manshoon for a moment, then turned to Elminster. “And have you any other wizards or like surprises for us, in any of the other rooms?” he asked.

“Aye. Malchor Harpell, whom ye just heard mentioned,” El replied, over his shoulder. “He’s also wounded—and he’s
my
task. I’ll see him home with the help of Mirt here, and Lord Halaunt.”

Frowning, Vainrence looked into that room, and asked, “Lord Halaunt?”

The old noble nodded, from where he stood by the bed in which Malchor Harpell lay, blinking up at Vainrence, and muttering, “I heard. I, too, reaffirm the accord.” Yet he looked at Elminster when he said those words, not at the war wizard.

Lord Halaunt did address the Lord Warder directly. “Yes,” he said slowly but firmly, his eyes flashing fire as he looked at Vainrence.
“I … have learned much, since these my latest guests came.” He put a hand on Elminster’s arm, and from within him Alusair said into Elminster’s mind:
Can I keep this body? It will be very useful to have hands and—and so on—again
.

Halaunt’s beyond restoring
, he thought back at her,
so why not? Let the master of Oldspires be seen to undo some of the evil he did. A, ahem, shining example to other nobles
.

Lord Halaunt sighed then, and drew himself up straight and tall. “Nobles,” he said aloud. “It always comes back to us nobles.”

“Later is soon enough for philosophy and self-recrimination,” Mirt told him. “It’s a fair walk to Longsaddle from here; we’d best get started.”

“There
are
other gates, ye know,” El grinned. “But yes, we’d best get started. Lord Warder, best leave your Dragons to guard the mansion until the servants return. Ye never know who might come walking in.”

“Are those words aimed at us?” Glathra snapped.

El chuckled. “Ah, lass, lass, never change. Cormyr hath sore need of thy smooth diplomatic skills in these troubled times.”

He turned back to Vainrence. “I’ll visit ye anon. We must talk. These two wizards—and a far worse one—managed, however briefly and ill-fatedly, to reach accord on … well, call it a code of conduct for mages. I’m thinking such a code would be a good thing indeed to spread across Faerûn, if it were anchored in the support of the wizards of war. That is, if they professed and were seen to abide by it.”

“What’s this?” Glathra and Vangerdahast snapped, in almost perfect unison. “
What
did you just say?”

El grinned at them, and added to the Lord Warder, “As I said, I’ll visit ye and Ganrahast, and we’ll talk. Ye can even bring Glathra to the table; ’twill be entertaining to watch her explode.”

M
IRT SAT BACK
, set down his cutlery with a satisfied sigh that somehow became a belch, and let his gaze drift all around. The great dark beams overhead were the cleanest and least dusty he’d ever seen, with neat bunches of herbs drying from hooks, and underfoot was the smoothest flagstone
floor he’d ever laid boot on, yet everything in this house amid the trees was simple and cozy …

Relaxing, that was it. Here, he could be utterly at ease.

He and Elminster had cooked a simple but hearty meal together, here in the kitchen of Storm’s farmhouse, not exchanging a single word about Oldspires or murdered wizards or Lost Spells.

Elminster was cleaning his plate now, too, and lifting his glass in a silent toast.

They drained their wine together, belched in contented unison, then said the same word to each other: “Dishes.”

Somehow, here in this lovely deserted house in Shadowdale, washing the dishes wasn’t a chore. Gazing out the windows over the sink, into an eating garden where the plants were as tall as trees, watching the sun sink slowly lower …

“Storm keeps beds made up, even when she’s not here,” El told Mirt, from the cupboard he’d just swung open to start putting just-wiped dishes away.

The Old Wolf grinned. “Perhaps to collapse into around dawn, to start snoring then, and my thanks for the offer, but if you’ll point me in the direction of wherever I can find doxies for hire, hereabouts …”

El chuckled, flung wide the front door, and pointed out into the approaching twilight.

“If ye turn left at the road, take it down to the crossroads, and turn right there, the place ye seek stands on the south side of the road ye’ll find thyself on. Right across from my old tower; the bald rock they call the Old Skull soars up behind my tower, and watches over it. If ye reach the bridge over the Ashaba nigh the Twisted Tower, ye’ve gone too far.”

“Thanks,” Mirt said, clapped him on the arm, and lurched out.