Hiloar was alone in his cell rather than sharing it, and aside from the wards, it had no other way out except through solid stone walls. All of which still stood undisturbed-like the wards. At some time during all the bandinage, he’d simply slumped, unnoticed by his fellow prisoners until his fall. Slumped because his throat had been slashed open, the cut so deep that it had gone almost right through his neck. The blood was … copious.
The nobles in the nearest rooms were the most frightened. One was shouting-no, two, now, make that three as another took it up-that the castle must be haunted, and it was Farland’s “Crown duty” to get them all “out of here” to somewhere safer. The always-half-flooded dungeon cell in Immerkeep, the manacle pits in Wheloon, the dank mold-infested prison cellars in Marsember-anywhere!
Farland sighed, considered some choice curses but flung them aside unuttered, and decided he’d just about reached the same conclusion these scared nobles were so unpleasantly voicing. Though by any sober measure, he commanded less than a sixth of the manpower he’d need to keep any sort of control over such highnosed and well-connected prisoners, once they departed Irlingstar. Not to mention that taking such a bold step without permission from above would mean his neck and worse. He needed clear orders confirming any such move, and a good tell-truths talk with senior courtiers and war wizards-Lord Warder Vainrence, for one-before he let one noble outside the castle.
“Gulkanun? Longclaws?” he growled, going to them so they could hear him through all the shouting. “If we’re to move anyone, I need you to try to magically contact the lord warder … and failing him, Ganrahast himself.”
Both Crown mages nodded.
“Of course,” Gulkanun replied, “but we’ll be needing someone to stand guard over us while we work. Forcing a contact through the wards won’t be easy.”
“Guarding? We’ll take care of that,” Arclath announced calmly. At his shoulder, Amarune nodded-and flourished a knife she should not have had. Farland lifted an eyebrow.
Then he shook his head wryly, told them all, “Of course,” and he started pointing, to arrange Delcastle, his lass, and himself around the two mages in an outward-facing armed ring.
The two war wizards had barely begun casting when another scream rang out, from some castle chamber nearby. A high and despairing cry that soared above the angry shouting from the cells, stilling them-before it was cut off suddenly, to end in horrible wet, choking gurgles.
El had to get away from everyone, to where her will could be gathered not just to hurl Art, but to listen for a response from somewhere distant, and to try to feel where that somewhere was. Just as fast as she could.
Halfway down a steep stone stair, well away from any cell or guard, she stopped, sat down against a cold stone wall, closed her eyes, and tried to fight down her panting. So she could reach out …
Alassra, I’m here! Where are ye?
Her silent call rolled out into echoing distances, rolled … rolled … El strained to listen and to feel, seeking any response.
Nothing.
She tried again. Alassra, beloved, ’tis me, Elminster. Ye called, and I’m here. Where are ye? How can I help ye?
Rolling out … away … away … Nothing.
Nothing but a sudden burst of searing white fire, like a slap across her mind, a roaring bright inferno too distant and painful to locate-
Before it was gone, leaving her with silent nothing again.
Again she called, straining, snatching out one of the drow daggers she’d taken from that shattered Underdark citadel, the one that had prickled with a faint enchantment. She bent her will fiercely upon it, trying to drain its magic to bolster her calling …
After what seemed a long time, the black glass dagger sighed into gritty dust in her palm, and El called again, loud and strong. To no avail.
She hadn’t the Art to reach her Alassra. Or she was too late. Always too busy, always too far away …
“No,” she sobbed aloud, suddenly furious.
She stood up and slammed one shapely drow fist against the wall beside her. There was a flash like awakened fire, a deep-throated boom, and the wall cracked, tiny shards clattering down the steps below her.
Arrrgh! Magic when she didn’t need it, but it failed here when sheeeeeARRGH!
“Elminster!”
That shout from back down the passage above was frantic, and came from the lungs of a young man and a young woman. Voices he knew: Arclath and Amarune. Eyes of Mystra, but why did someone always need her?
“Haven’t I served long enough?” she spat down the deserted stairwell. “Why me? Why always me?”
She whirled around and raced back up the stair, her eyes blazing, the rage that had been building in her for years-centuries-rising almost to choke her.
Ye’ve called, and Elminster is coming. Ready thyself, Realms.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I am no cheap swindler, lackey! I am Lady Jalassra Dawningdown!” Eyes flashing and wattles quivering-or so it seemed to Rensharra, given the pendulous display of scented and powdered dewlap across the desk-the outraged noblewoman shot to her feet, her bejeweled earrings dangling, and snarled, “You’ll die waiting for me to pay these outrageous demands!”
The highborn Lady Dawningdown spat copiously on the tax documents Rensharra Ironstave had prepared and just finished politely explaining with largely gentle observations noting that however noble one happened to be, one could not escape paying annual cobble-and-lantern taxes on every additional city property one purchased. The bill was high because modest fees on sixty-one Suzailan homes, shops, and stables, when combined, did mount up, but of course could be paid out of the rents those properties brought to their owner, namely Lady Jalassra Dawningdown.
Then she stormed out of the office of the lady clerk of the rolls, viciously decapitating a defenseless plant and its vase with her goldhandled cane on her way.
Rensharra sank back into her chair with a sigh, passing a weary hand over her face. Nobles! Were they all going to be like this, forevermore?
Spitting fury and defiance seemed to be the favored tactic for them all this season. Ignore the bills, turn away tax collectors, or set dogs or more exotic pets on them, and when the bill was upped for late payment-a season late-storm into the palace offices. To claim penury in just-bought fine garments and in a staged or real towering fury.
Rensharra set about tidying Lady Dawningdown’s thick file to clear the desk for the next one.
Nobles disputing their taxes always demanded to speak to the chief responsible official-herself-and always smashed things, bellowed or venomously hissed threats, and stormed out again when they were done. To await the next and even higher bill, so they could repeat the same so-polite, cultured performance. However, noble bellowers always paid up before the Crown started confiscating property in lieu of payment, she’d noticed.
The lady clerk of the rolls drew in a deep breath and allowed herself to relax. Perhaps the day would get better, after this.
Perhaps.
“Well, well,” an unpleasant voice drawled from the landing above. “What have we here? Why, a dark elf, I do believe, one of those evil and dangerous creatures, yet so beautiful! Such a tempting evil! It’s almost our duty to slay it, yes?”