"Old friend," he said to the retired Royal Magician, stepping past Myrmeen, "why not this: Use thy own spells to bind thyself as thy kingdom's guardian? Become a dragon. We Chosen can aid thee in that aim with spells to do so that will transform thee, lengthen thy years, and enhance thy vigor."
Vangerdahast frowned. "One dragon, to defend a realm? Not even the Devil Dragon could stand against. . ."
"No," Joysil said in her soft thunder. "Not one. I've long sought a purpose to go on living, and I believe I've found it. I'll willingly join you in stasis, as your consort."
Vangerdahast gaped at her. Then, very slowly, he turned to peer back into the ruined kitchen of his sanctum, at the tearful woman standing there.
"No," Myrmeen whispered, face white and working. "No, I cannot give up being human. I—I . . . Vangey, forgive me!"
"There's naught to forgive, lass," two old wizards said in unison. Then they stopped and traded uneasy grins.
Myrmeen burst into tears, and groped for Elminster's arm. When he proffered it, she clung to him, dragged herself upright, and fought down her weeping until she managed to gulp, "Yet it would g-give me g-great pride and pleasure to bear and raise your heir, Lord Vangerdahast, to be trained as a wizard loyal to Cormyr."
Elminster lifted an eyebrow. "Mystra smile, but ye work swifter than I do, Vangey!"
Out across the trampled grass, Vangerdahast made reply—with a very old and very rude gesture.
* * * * *
A blood-drenched, battered figure rose from a heap of the dead in the shattered ruins of Thundaerlyn Hall, shook aside some ashen, still-smoking splinters of balcony, and limped across the rubble-strewn floor, a notched and bent sword in hand.
"Mother?"
Another figure arose serenely out of heaped bodies not far away.
"I'm not dead yet," the Dowager Queen replied with a weak smile, wiping blood from the sword in her own hand with the hem of her jeweled gown. She surveyed Alusair critically. "Which is more than I can say for you. You always did like getting dirty, didn't you?"
"Indeed," Alusair said with a sudden laugh, embracing her mother. "And I still do."
Purple Dragons, Highknights, and War Wizards were eyeing them from a discreet distance and shuffling closer. Filfaeril chuckled and told her daughter, "Come, find us that portal back to Suzail, or we'll have to spend the rest of the night answering questions!"
* * * * *
"Come, lass," Elminster said to Myrmeen, "ye need to eat. There'll be naught to see now for some days, until all our castings are done."
He turned away to lead the weary and saddened Lady Lord of Arabel to a chair—only to freeze as a voice thundered behind him. Joysil's voice.
"Mage, I've learned of your recent wranglings with a certain young lass of Waterdeep—where is she right now?"
Something in that grim tone made Elminster spin around, letting go of Myrmeen's hand and stepping away from her in haste.
"Ah," Elminster replied with a grin, "ye know the saying about wizards never letting slip their secrets?"
"Almost as well as I know the one about how tasty wizards can be," the song dragon growled. "So I'll amend my question into two lesser ones: Do you know where she is, and is she safe?"
"Aye, and I hope so. Thy interest in her proceeds from—?"
"Dragons eat their secrets, man. Let me unfold this my way. There's one more thing to be said. We know each other rather better than you realize."
"Oh?" El asked, spreading his fingers to display the rings on them—rings that winked with the light of awakened magic. "Is there an old score ye need settled? Some share of my hoards, perhaps? Or is it my skin ye seek?"
"Once we sought each other's skin, Elminster of Shadowdale— ardently and often."
The Old Mage's eyes narrowed. "What name and shape did ye wear then?"
"For some years I was the sorceress and jeweler Maerjanthra Shalace of Waterdeep."
Myrmeen gave Elminster an incredulous look and found the Old Mage's face every bit as astonished as her own.
He managed a pale smile then bowed deeply to the looming dragon. "Well, well—ahem—my apologies for knowing ye not, Joysil. So ye're Narnra's mother!" He shook his head, adding hastily, "Well, now. I... I'll tell her only much later, I think, when the lass is ready for such news."
"Wise choice," Joysil said in dry tones.
Elminster cast a swift glance at Myrmeen. Fresh tears were streaming down her face, but she waved him away as she sat in a chair. Not just away. She was waving him toward the dragon.
The Old Mage looked up, swallowed, and asked, "Wha ... ah, how d'ye feel toward me now, ah, Lady?"
"Joysil. Call me Joysil." The great dragon head lowered, those burning eyes seemed to sear through him, and the jaws beneath slowly . . . smiled.
"I must confess I'm—pleased—to see you so taken aback. You're learning, El ... learning doubt at last. Archmages who know just how to rule the world scare me, and you were worse than most.
One bed one night, another the next, no thought for the ruin you left behind or what I went through, tearing free from Shar. Too many realms to conquer, liches to blast, other wizards to humble—all stars in your eyes and rushing to save Faerun, that was you. And yet I ... I love you still."
"Ye . . ."
"I loved you then for the same reason I'm still fond of you, Old Mage. Your tenderness. Your gentleness, your understanding. Never lose that, El, or I might just awaken, leave Cormyr undefended, and come looking for you." Joysil sprang aloft.
"I—I still care for thee, Maer—Joysil," Elminster called quickly, stepping forward.
"I know, El. I know. So keep yourself alive for years to come, hold that madness at bay, be happy with the Queen of Aglar-ond—and look after our Narnra well—without smothering her."
"I ... of course. Her safety shall be—"
"The pleasure you endure now," Joysil said in a voice as dry as the desert, "in return for the pleasure we shared then."
She flapped her wings once, circled so low over the Old Mage that Myrmeen cried out in alarm, and whispered, "Farewell, El. I do love you." She soared away, silver-blue in the lowering sun.
Elminster went to his knees as his spell flung his thought after her: I love thee, Joysil, and I love our Narnra. Trust in me.
He got back of flare of amusement. Trust. Of course.
Elminster stayed on his knees, watching the sky where Joysil had gone for some time.
"Well, now," he said finally, getting up with a wince and a hand on a stiffening hip. He didn't look at the Lady Lord of Arabel, and she watched him in silence.
"Well, now," Elminster muttered again, several times, as he peered into larders, drew forth tureens, and gathered kindling for the hearthfire.
"He hasn't taken very good care of the place," a familiar voice floated out of the distance.
Myrmeen's head jerked up. "Laspeera!"
"Well, you know Vangey," another voice agreed wryly, and Caladnei led three rather battered-looking women down a rubble-strewn passage into the kitchen. "Aha," she said as Elminster straightened up from the growing fire. "He had help destroying things. I might have known."
The Crown Princess asked sharply, "So what happened, Mreen? Is the realm now at war with Elminster of Shadowdale?"
The Dowager Queen Filfaeril stood with her, both of them stained with blood and looking as if they'd been in a battle.
Myrmeen shook her head, fresh tears glimmering in her eyes. "No," she quavered, "but I'm not sure what to tell you first. I ..."