Which was odd; if Elminster had slain one of his clones and the next had awakened, it would do as he’d so often done-found some way to hit back, hard. Swiftly, too.
Not so boldly as to sacrifice yet another of his selves, but to make it very clear to Elminster that he hadn’t been vanquished and was back undeterred.
So what, then, was Elminster now up to?
Well, meddling, of course. ’Twas what the Old Fool did. Trying to rule thrones from behind them, sway this lord into giving him food and a bed while he stole magic and coins from that lord, or in this case the royal family of Cormyr. Stay close to the rich and powerful, whisper in their ears, get them to do what he wanted them to do-just as he’d been doing for centuries.
Manshoon knew the lure of power himself. It was the elixir; there was nothing stronger.
Yet, he’d done it all himself, not ridden the skirts of Mystra the Mighty, never stolen into the heart-and bed-of a goddess to shelter in the warmth of her smile and fondness. He’d earned his might, where sly old Elminster had wormed it out of a doting goddess. Oh, that worming had worked, all right, and who could have foreseen that the great goddess of All Art, Our Lady of Mystery, the goddess, would fall?
Of greater importance now was this: with the Weave to call on at will, and all Mystra’s servitors and other Chosen to use and abuse, Elminster had become lazy in his own Art. Had spent years doing this and doing that, for Mystra and for himself, but seldom honing greater Art, mastering more magic.
So the great Sage of Shadowdale, alone now with all his friends and easy power gone, was behind and beneath Manshoon the truly mighty.
Be he Orbakh of Westgate or Manshoon of the Zhentarim before that, he himself had worked the greater Art and had improved his skills through his own work, not by godly gifts or reliance on abundant ready aid. He was the better mage, the true archwizard.
Which in turn inevitably meant Elminster, the sly but lazy, could but follow in Art where Manshoon had led.
Was Elminster not seeking to steal all the magic he could? Oh, to feed his mad, chained-somewhere lover, yes, but did he not examine each enchanted item he took, to learn all he could before he took it to her?
So, while Emperor-to-be Manshoon rode the minds of all he chose, Elminster must be a step behind, doing what Manshoon had formerly done. Using many selves, clones awakened when their predecessors were destroyed.
Yes, that was it. Must be…
He had killed Elminster, had destroyed him. Burst right through his body, dismembered him, then burned him to ashes.
Accomplishing all of that quickly, leaving his foe unattended for not even an instant, all the while watching hard for the slightest sign of any escape. There had been none at all.
So somewhere, as Elminster had died, Elminster’s next clone had awakened. Fearing to face death again at the hands of the one who’d so effortlessly slain him, he’d used magic to disguise himself as a young lass-the mask dancer who was his own descendant-and no doubt forced the real Amarune Whitewave into stasis, in some hidden cave or crypt, to await his future need.
Which would come when he mastered the Art of riding the minds of others, as Manshoon could now do, and took over his descendant’s younger, stronger body for good.
In the meantime, there must be other clones of Elminster, hidden deep in Suzail.
And, whereas he could leave frustrating and foiling the current Elminster to his tools, finding and destroying the waiting selves, the clones, must now be Manshoon’s foremost task.
Let his noble cabals scheme and slay; when highborn ranks were thinned he could return to that game and still seize the Dragon Throne, or decide who precisely would warm it until he deemed the time ripe for that puppet’s disposal.
Before all, starting now, he would hunt down and destroy hidden Elminsters.
So, where in Suzail, if I were Elminster, would I hide my waiting selves?
Or… wait!
He himself had tasted death many times, often thanks to this same Elminster. He’d grown used to it, had become harder and stronger. Not so his slayer.
This hiding, this failure to strike out at Manshoon, might well mean that Elminster-the awakened clone-was cowering somewhere. That his death had plunged him into fear of Manshoon, so he remained in hiding, using spells to see and hear through a puppet Amarune Whitewave.
Which would mean the question should be, where, if I were Elminster, would I hide myself in Suzail?
Well, somewhere I could keep at least one clone near at hand. Somewhere servants couldn’t stumble on it, nor the general public. Somewhere unlikely to be searched without warning by Purple Dragons or, more importantly, by wizards of war.
Yet, this was the thinking of Manshoon the accomplished ruler and war leader. How would Elminster see things and think?
The man is sly but lazy, thinks himself clever but often takes the easiest way. He’s lasted for centuries and has been the favored servant of a goddess; the man has pride, is pride. And he seeks to be like me, the more successful archwizard, without rising to such dominance the hard way.
What better way to hide from the war wizards and live lazily, in luxury and wielding magic whenever he pleases, than to “hide” himself as a powerful wizard?
Yes!
Why if he was, say, Larak Dardulkyn, he could dwell in the heart of Suzail in a near-fortress, awash in luxuries, able to hurl spells at will without raising suspicion, and be fawned over, to boot!
Larak Dardulkyn…
The most powerful independent mage in Suzail. An ideal mask for an Elminster clone to wear.
Manshoon sprang from his chair and strode into the midst of his scrying spheres.
This one could readily be set to scry that haughty wizard’s mansion, yes…
But when the picture of the mansion swam into view, Manshoon shook his head in astonishment. When had all of this befallen?
The tall mansion of Larak Dardulkyn was half gone, one side torn open to the sky, and in the rubble-heaped heart of the devastation he could see the archwizard huddled on the floor, with ten helmed horrors circling him in a troubled, uncertain floating dance.
Well, now! If this was Elminster, behold a Bane-sent opportunity! Slay him now, while he’s laid low-but go in hard and fast and powerful, in case whoever humbled him is still around. If Dardulkyn wasn’t Elminster, it was still the best chance he could hope to find for plundering the place or coercing the man into becoming another useful thrall.
Manshoon hurried across the cellar. His most powerful beholder would be best-of the living ones, not a death tyrant.
Yes, beholders remain impressive beasts, when it comes to forcing one’s way in.
“There’s no need to worry Arclath’s mother,” Storm told them. “His stricken self got us through the gate-that’s enough. Set him down here.”
They were on the grounds of Delcastle Manor, on a gently rolling grass slope, between a garden carefully planted to seem wild and a more formal terrace that fronted a boundary orchard.
“Too tired for fencing with noble matriarchs, hey?” Mirt grunted as they laid Arclath gently down.
“More than too tired for almost any nicety you care to name,” Storm murmured, “and hoping Arclath can plunder some healing potions from his family vaults-if they hold such treasures-before I’m finished. El, try to do this quickly.”
“Aye,” Elminster replied, his voice still sounding incongruous from Amarune’s young, shapely body. “Lie ye there, Storm, and I’ll put myself between ye and the lad, and we can do this without ye having to even sit up.”
“Healing him again?” Mirt asked, lending his arm for Storm to lower herself to the grass.
“Yes,” Storm replied. “Holding him where he is while he works a spell, actually, but it’s the same thing. I heal as he drains, to keep him stable.”
“I’ll stand back, yonder, and keep daggers at the ready,” Mirt growled. “Seeing as ye haven’t any spells to spare for making me young and thin and strong again. Or stopping my feet hurting.”