Bending over, he peered at Arclath Delcastle’s stiff body, the young lord’s arm crooked and one leg raised to take a next step.
“Does he know what you’ll be doing to him, I wonder?”
Settling himself on the ground, Elminster turned his head and looked into Arclath’s face.
His answer, when it came, was in Amarune’s voice. She sounded half grim and half on the sword’s sharp edge of tears.
“Oh, he knows. Believe me, he knows.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Arclath flung up a hand. “I can move again! All gods be praised! Thank you!”
Amarune’s hand remained on his throat, and out of her beautiful lips-which he’d been about to kiss-came Elminster’s deep voice. “Save thy thanks a bit, lad. We’re not done yet.”
Arclath’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? What are you going to do?”
“Storm,” El asked, “are ye up for this?”
“Yes,” Storm sighed. “It must be done.”
“Aye, it must.”
Arclath scowled and drew his head back, trying to arch away. Rune’s hand on his shoulder suddenly gripped him firmly.
“Suppose you explain what ‘must’ be done before you do it to me, mage.”
“We must peer into thy mind to make certain no one’s influencing ye, spying through ye, or using tracing magic on ye.”
Arclath stiffened. “I knew it! I knew you’d find some excuse to-”
“So, ye were just as clever as ye thought ye were, and aren’t disappointed now, are ye?” Mirt growled, standing above them.
“He’s talking about enslaving me, Lord of Waterdeep!” Arclath barked. “Forgive me if I’m…”
His voice trailed off and his eyes went from furious to frowningly surprised.
Yes, this is what a rude and dishonest old archwizard’s mind feels like, El’s voice said, in the depths of his own head. The words were a sarcastic growl, but his mind was friendly, as affectionate as any whimsical old uncle. Arclath had a brief glimpse of shining, upswept towers gleaming blue-white in the depths of a great green forest, then a laughing bearded face wearing a state crown of Cormyr, a face that almost had to be the fourth Azoun in his prime… then an unclad, beautiful lady flying high in the air in the heart of a lightning storm, her hair wild around her and festooned with lightning that seemed to do her no harm, a lady with eyes of triumphant fire and a face like Storm’s yet subtly different… then he was looking down vast dark halls, endless long passages full of too many images to see, let alone count.
“All right, lad, all right. Don’t try to see all my remembrances at thy first gulp. It’s taken me some twelve centuries to assemble them; getting greedy is apt to drive you mad.”
Then Elminster’s mind seemed to slide past him, like a great leviathan of a cruising dragon, a body that went on and on, displaying frightening size and power as it rolled past, and rolled past, and went on rolling…
Arclath’s anger was gone, lost in wonder, and most of his fear with it. He felt sudden discomfort, born of El starting to root around in his mind while he sought to keep gazing at Elminster’s… he saw some dark and terrible things, some gruesome deaths and sadnesses that made him recoil, but he could tell the Sage of Shadowdale was hiding nothing, was letting him see and feel whatever he desired.
And Arclath Delcastle discovered he liked the feel of this visiting mind. He liked this old man. Truly liked Elminster, as he was starting-just starting-to really know him, better than he’d ever known anyone before.
The vast mind turned gently and started to withdraw, the dragon sliding past in the other direction now. He’d seen so little of it, yet beheld enough to know one thing: he could trust Elminster of Shadowdale.
Inside his mind or anywhere.
He was suddenly tearful, lost in a joy he knew was silly yet meant so much. Nobles of Cormyr grow up knowing they can trust no one in the world, and that those who trust others are fools or dupes to be used.
Now, at last, he knew- knew — there was one person he could trust.
“Four, lad. There are four, not one,” El murmured, holding him in Amarune’s embrace. “Storm, thy mother, Rune, and Elminster Aumar. Now stop weeping on me; these are Amarune’s best leathers.”
Ah, now there was a rare sight: war wizards who had some common sense.
Riding the body of his mightiest eye tyrant, Manshoon skulked behind a rooftop cistern, watching the Crown mages turn their watch patrol back from Dardulkyn’s mansion.
“Cordon, until full light and reinforcements,” he heard one of them shout. “No rushing in. Cormyr needs live heroes, not dead ones.”
My, my. A philosopher, too. He’d have to remember to use that mage on special missions, once he was Emperor of Cormyr and Beyond. Or imprison him. Perhaps as a brain in a jar.
Grateful that clouds had drifted in to shroud the stars and make this a dark night indeed, Manshoon floated to the edge of the roof-two removed from Dardulkyn’s, with a street separating the wizard’s abode from that last roof-and watched Purple Dragons retreat to positions where they could watch around corners for anyone entering or departing Dardulkyn’s mansion.
Not that they could see all that well. The lanterns were frequent and well tended in this neighborhood, one of the better parts of the city, but a mist off the harbor was beginning to steal through the streets.
The moment he saw visible haloes of light around the lanterns-meaning the mists were becoming thick enough to glow and impede vision-it would be time.
Ah. There. Patience rewarded.
Manshoon glided forward, eyestalks writhing in anticipation.
So, Elminster, care for a rematch? A second annihilation?
Dardulkyn was on his feet finally, shaking his head and mumbling to himself. From the rubble he took up a long, jagged sliver from a shattered doorframe and leaned on it as if it were a staff.
Leaning as if he were old, weak, exhausted… as if he truly needed aid to keep from falling.
Which made Manshoon dare to descend into the half-shell of a riven upper room of the mansion, and from there send forth his mind, slowly and with infinite care.
Are you Elminster, mumbling archwizard? Or another overreaching fool?
The world certainly holds no shortage of those, after all…
Manshoon’s subtle probe felt something sharp and narrow that was focused on the mind he sought. Then another and another, moving restlessly, but not far. The helmed horrors, who were still surrounding the stricken mage, anxious for orders and purpose. Ten of them in all.
His reaching slid past them, as slow and silent as he could make it. Of old, he’d felt far too many of Elminster’s traps close around him…
Dardulkyn was aghast, only now crawling out of dazed disbelief that he could be laid so low so quickly and effortlessly by a young lass who moved like a dancer or a purr-posing playpretty.
Elminster. Not this overblown mage, but the spellhurler who’d shattered a few rooms-and this dolt of a Dardulkyn’s worldview-at the same time.
His hated foe had done this, either riding the mind of his descendant or, far more likely, cloaking his clone in her shape to escape all blame-for when war wizards used their spells on the real Amarune Whitewave’s mind, they’d find she had no talent for the Art at all.
So, this Dardulkyn was no Elminster, and a weak-spirited preener besides. That didn’t mean he couldn’t be a very useful mind-slave. This mansion, suitably repaired, would make the perfect place to keep all his beholders-the three living ones, the six eye tyrants and pitiful hulk of a seventh, and the five usable beholderkin. After all, if they were ever found, Larak Dardulkyn would be blamed; no one would look further for some other archwizard. Whereas, if they were discovered in Sraunter’s cellar, the Crown would quickly ascertain that Sraunter was as feeble at Art as Whitewave, and go looking for a spellhurler in the shadows behind him.