"You . . . you're maddening," Narnra snarled, fists clenched. "You—you heartless monster!"
"That's right, hurl back views that force ye to think by name-calling—'tis the grand old tradition, let it not down! Anything to keep from having to think, or—Mystra forfend—change thy own views!"
Narnra glowered at her father. "Just how am I to learn how to think? By being taught by you?"
"Some folk in the Realms would give their lives for the chance to learn at my feet," Elminster said mildly. "Several already have."
He turned away. "However, I think ye're not ready for that, yet. I'm too useful to ye as the villain who sired then spurned ye, Old Lord Walking Blame For All Things Dark. No, I think ye must find thy own teachers in thy own way, taking no hint from me. See how well ye've received the few words of advice I've offered here and now?"
Narnra took a deep breath and wrestled down her rage. "So what advice would you give me, Old Lord, about where to go now and what to do? Not how to govern my own wits and what views to hold—but what to do next?"
Elminster met her gaze again and said, "Come into my Tower and have a cup of tea. Let thy anger fade, and we'll talk. I'll give ye some baubles of magic and mutter a lot of stale old advice then whisk ye with my Art to wherever ye desire to be—and hand thy choice right back to ye. As I see it, ye can travel and adventure and broaden thyself right away ... or reward Caladnei's trust by serving her as a loyal agent—then, when ye grow restless, steer her into giving ye tasks that let ye travel Faerun and see as much of it as possible. Ye'll always be welcome here, and one of the trifles I'll hand ye will enable ye to call on me from afar should ye need aid ... or even, make the gods gasp, advice."
Narnra stared at him and snapped, "The tea, I'll accept." She looked down at the Red Wizard. "And him?"
"He lies in pain, awaiting thy judgment. Were ye very cruel, ye could just leave him, or tell me to carry him off across the field to yonder anthill, to itch and burn whilst we sip. Or I could restore him to full vigor and give him a wand to smite us all with. The choice is thine."
"And if I said healing and the wand?" Narnra asked, her whisper a challenge.
"I'll do it... but have ye given thought to the consequences?"
"Yes," she snapped fiercely, setting her jaw. "Yes, I have. Do that for him. Do it for me."
Elminster muttered something, made a shape in the air, then stared at a spot above the Thayan. A smooth, tapering stick of wood promptly appeared there and floated serenely above the twisted Red Wizard as the Old Mage cast a more elaborate spell.
Harnrim Starangh gasped once, writhed and arched briefly, shuddered all over—and sprang up, pale and sweating. He faced Elminster with wild eyes, but the Old Mage stood like a statue.
The Red Wizard cast a quick glance at Florin, whose sword was now drawn back for a deadly throw, then gave both Narnra and Elminster odd looks, snatched the floating wand out of the air—and vanished.
Elminster calmly muttered something, waved at the place Starangh had been, and turned away, offering Narnra his hand.
She did not take it, but followed him up the flagstone path to his squat, leaning rough-stone Tower.
"Not much of a grand fortress, is it?" she asked tartly.
He shrugged. "We heartless monsters must make do."
Not quite hiding a smile, Florin opened the door for them, waving them within with a grand gesture that was only slightly spoiled by being made with a handful of still-dripping fish.
"Enter within," he said. "Old Lord Walking Blame and guest. I'll stand guard here for returning Red Wizards, whilst you . . ."
"Try to learn to speak civil words to each other," Narnra replied a little wearily, stepping past him into the dusty gloom.
Behind her back, the two men exchanged glances. Elminster nodded to the ranger, said gently, "Do that," and went inside.
* * * * *
In a high window not far away across Shadowdale, Storm Sil-verhand lounged with harp in hand, singing softly to herself. Her farm chores were done, and it was time and past time to take some ease, even for daughters of Mystra . . .
In mid-song she became aware of a shimmering below as her wards sprang to life. She stilled her strings to call, "Yes?"
Standing in her courtyard, ringed with crawling blue fire, was a gaunt, trim-bearded man holding something under his cloak. "Good lady," he greeted her gravely, "I am Alaphondar Emmarask, High Royal Sage of Cormyr, and I bring a thing most precious with me. Pray banish your fires."
Storm set aside her harp and swung herself through the window, floating gently down to join her unexpected guest. She made an intricate one-handed gesture as she descended, awakening an unseen magic that seemed to satisfy her. Her next gesture made the flames sink away to nothingness.
"Be welcome, Lord Sage," she said politely. "Will you stay, take shelter, and dine? I've pheasant roasting over one hearth and a cauldron of rabbit stew a-building in the other."
"Thank you, Lady Silverhand. I cannot say what my reply to your kind offer will be until I have your decision as to my . . . burden."
"The king you're hiding under your cloak? He's right welcome, too," Storm said dryly. "I'll endeavour to keep you both safe—and unseen. No doubt some in Cormyr would be quite upset to learn you're here, and others . . . would become all too eager."
Alaphondar's smile was rueful. "Lady, you state matters very well. I'll stay if you'll have me. How strong are your wards?"
Storm's smile was broader than his. "I am a Chosen of Mystra," she reminded him gently. "Take off your boots, soak your feet in yonder oil, and let me have a good look at the next scourge of womanhood in the Heartlands."
Alaphondar winced. "Lady . . ." he started to protest then fell silent.
"I have my own reputation," Storm replied, "remember? Which reminds me: How is Fee?"
Alaphondar winced again. "Harpers see all, indeed. My royal lady was well and happy when we parted some hours ago. I hope—oh, gods, I hope—that I shall see her so again, soon."
"You," Storm said, sliding an arm around his shoulders, "need a drink. Sit you down, and I'll get a scrying-crystal—and you can watch over Filfaeril whenever you desire. Now, off with those boots, and haul forth young Azoun before he suffocates under that dirty old cloak of yours!"
* * * * *
Narnra shook her head at the dusty stacks of parchment and books crowding all around her and seemed eager to escape to the spartan, less-cluttered kitchen, where a pass of Elminster's hand made the hearthfire rise under a kettle. The Old Mage pointed at a shelf. "Teas. Choose."
Narnra dubiously examined the jars thereon. "Dragonskull?"
"Just a little," Elminster replied. "Powdered fine, of course."
Narnra gave him an incredulous look. "So what," she asked chal-lengingly, "dare I assume is in tea labelled 'Finest Thayan She-Slave Skin'—as this jar is?"
"One of Lhaeo's little jests. I'm sure it's far from the 'finest' skin."
Narnra sighed, shook her head and defiantly held out the Thayan jar to Elminster. He took it without a word.
Silence stretched between them—enlivened by the climbing cry of the kettle—until Narnra became restless.
"So impart," she said, peering around the little kitchen, "some of that dusty old advice you spoke of."
"We all have to die and can take nothing of mortal riches or power with us," Elminster replied promptly. "I've died several times already—and on at least two occasions started over with nothing, not even my name. So unless the cold decay of undeath beckons ye, remember, it ends for us all. What matters is what we do with the brief time we have."