He swallowed, and strove to sound calm, even casual. “Imprisonment and lengthy spell interrogation. I would be regarded as a traitor to the Dragon Throne.”
Three cowled heads nodded, ere the centermost spoke again. “I’m glad you’re aware of that,” came the flat reply. “It buys you our acceptance.”
Mreldrake waited, trying to avoid showing his fear.
“Acceptance of your proposal,” added the leftmost figure. They sat facing him, their faces hidden in their deep cowls. “We shall feed and house you, and bring to you what we deem prudent of what you request for your spell researches-in return for your complete obedience, your compliance to remain within these walls, and betimes your willingness to take direction from us regarding the nature of your magical work.”
“Should you offend against this pact,” the last of three murmured softly, “the price will be your life.”
“Terms that should be clear and simple enough for even a wizard of war to understand,” the centermost cowled mage said coldly.
“Former wizard of war,” Mreldrake dared to say. He got a silent shrug by way of reply, ere the three cowled figures rose abruptly in a swirl of dark robes and strode for the door.
Something glowed in the air above the vacated center seat. It was a disembodied human eyeball, floating in midair, wreathed in a faint and fading blue radiance.
It stared coldly at Mreldrake. He gazed glumly back, not hiding his sigh.
Across the room a heavy iron door slammed. He heard the rattle of a key in a lock, ere that sound was drowned out by the sharp klaks of heavy metal bolts crashing into place. One, two, three bolts.
He was locked in. By wizards greater in Art than he might ever be. One of them-the cold-voiced, tall one who’d sat in the center of the trio-had eyes that glowed more than a man’s would. By their pale gleam, he’d seen enough of the dark, dull-skinned, drawn face around them, with its black teeth and tongue, to recognize a shade. He was a captive of fell Netheril-or of renegade Netherese.
Not that he could begin to tell which alternative was worse.
CHAPTER TWO
Out of clever ruses, Sage of Shadowdale? No more sly spells up your sleeve, Elminster? Die, this time! Die forever!”
He was shouting wildly, Manshoon knew, babbling along the slippery edge of weeping in his rage, as he hurled spell after spell. Magic to rend, heave up, and scatter the ground into which he’d driven Elminster down.
Powerful magic. At his behest earth and stones flew in all directions, his reckless blasting magics opening up a deep, raw pit in front of the cave.
Down, down, five man-heights and more, and still his spells tore and clawed and dug. He had to make certain Elminster was gone. Shattered, dead-utterly, completely dead.
“Where is his blood?” Manshoon shrieked. “Where?”
Fury overwhelmed him, red and yellow mists flooding his mind and blinding him. Through that haze he gasped and snarled out incantation after incantation, until every last battle spell was gone.
Leaving him gasping in his beholder body, somewhere in the wilderlands nigh Shadowdale.
Almost dazedly he worked the magic that would return him to human form. He would fly back to Suzail as a mist, as he, being a vampire, could. Back to the city where, in a cellar, one of his beholders would be shriveling and collapsing, ruined and gone.
Yet if-if-he’d truly destroyed Elminster of Shadowdale at last, the loss of one enslaved eye tyrant would be nothing. Nothing at all. A price too small even to think about.
Tentacles, eyestalks, and levitation melted away in a queasy shifting that still felt unsettling, even after thousands of transformations. And Manshoon found himself standing on the lip of his deep delve, silently seething.
Elminster had to be dead. No one could have survived that!
Yet he’d seen no body, not one smear of blood …
Bah! His magic must have vaporized the old fool, reduced Elminster to dust lost amid all the sand and specks of dirt and rock drift.
For an instant, as something made him calmer, Manshoon felt a slight sense of disorientation, as if gazing upon memories not his own. Then it passed and he promptly forgot the feeling, lost in a new confidence that took hold of him and told him firmly that Elminster was gone for good. Even if the Sage of Shadowdale wasn’t destroyed, the right thing for Manshoon to do was to move on, to proceed with life as if his hated nemesis was no more.
Elminster was destroyed. The original Elminster, that is-for of course the fool would have copied Manshoon’s brilliant ploy, and crafted clones of himself. Any archmage would.
“Which means,” the founder of the Zhentarim murmured aloud, as he turned slowly all around to make sure no one was watching, and no stricken Elminster was desperately crawling away, “I must now hunt down all the lesser, later Elminsters. To ensure the Old Mage is gone forever, never to return.”
He could see no fleeing, cowering, or spying creature-not so much as a songbird. He was alone. Permitting himself a long, slow smile, Manshoon became mist. He circled the edge of the pit where his longtime foe had perished, then soared into the sky, flying in a wider circle and peering down to look for spies from on high.
None. Finally, he allowed himself to gloat.
“You found your doom at last, old goat of Shadowdale-and behold, it was me!” Great wild bellows of laughter rolled out of him then, in a flood of exultation.
Mirth and triumph that died away all too soon in fresh anger as Elminster’s remembered taunts came to mind … the Old Mage’s laughing face, the Sage of Shadowdale defying him and lecturing him and … and …
Bah! He’d rend them all, every one of those hated laughing faces. And the clones were just a part of the work ahead. Identifying and eliminating all of Elminster’s descendants must be part of this, too, for there was a chance-a good chance-the Sage of Shadowdale had hid “echoes” of himself inside them. It’s what he himself would do, after all, and Elminster was no better than he was, wherefore of course …
So his victory this day was a beginning, not an end. It would take years to find and eliminate every clone and all of Elminster’s offspring, so he couldn’t drop all his other plans to do it. He would not.
He, Manshoon Emperor-to-Be, would proceed with conquering Cormyr-just not declaring himself openly as ruler until he could be certain Elminster was gone. Rather, he’d use various human puppets, putting one after another on the throne to face all the work of ruling and the inevitable assassination attempts, leaving himself free to hunt Elminster, coerce nobles, and gather his own arsenal of blueflame items, too, if they were so important.
Let Mystra, if Mystra truly had returned, treat him with respect for once. Favor Manshoon as he deserved to be favored.
After all, if she could rely on Elminster-become intimate with Elminster, if the tales could be credited! — her tastes could not be too lofty to encompass Elminster’s better.
And if there was no Mystra and the mad former queen of Aglarond had merely been raving, deluding herself into thinking Mystra was guiding her, he’d seen enough of what an idiotic young noble could do with blueflame ghosts to know blueflame magic was worth having, regardless.
Yes. Yet he was getting ahead of himself. Return to Suzail first, to his bases there, the shop and home of Sraunter the alchemist and the half-ruined mansion of Larak Dardulkyn. There to sit and take wine and ponder. Decide which of his puppets to awaken, how precisely to proceed in conquering Cormyr, and where to begin seeking Elminster’s clones and blueflame items. It would not do to-