She conjured gentle handfire. Enough dust had swirled away that they could see each other’s faces.
“Myth Drannor’s mythal now must be destroyed,” Elminster said grimly, “to keep Larloch or Telamont from gaining its energies. No matter what the cost to the Weave-or the world-from the flood of released magic.”
“The things gods and villains must do to make this man see sense!” Alustriel joked, and the three of them laughed together in sheer relief at being able to be full friends and make common cause again.
Laeral stopped laughing first. “How do we stop him, El? Without the Lady, we are poor champions-and the Shadow King was powerful an age ago, and has built his power while we’ve been spending ours.”
“He didn’t help raise the mythal, nor repair it,” El reminded them. “I did.”
And he scrambled to his feet, slipping on loose rubble, and hastened along a passage he could barely see, through the drifting dust. The silver-haired sisters hastened to follow.
El looked back at them and growled, “Nor can he drain a mythal so swiftly and easily, alone, as he could the wards with my help. In the midst of a siege and in the presence of elves who’ll fight fiercely to defend it, even if doing so dooms them. Come!”
“Certainly,” Alustriel replied as they hastened along the passage, conjuring her own handfire to use like a lantern, “but come where? We can’t teleport through the mythal!”
“No, but we can use a portal to get inside it.”
“But the mythal now prevents …,” Laerel began, and then she started to chuckle. “Trust you. Didn’t even tell the elves, did you?”
“Myth Drannor has fallen before. I knew they’d need a way out sometime,” El replied. “If the coronal has looked in the right places, she’ll have found my warning notes about it. So be prepared to face down guards, or some such.”
Alustriel rolled her eyes. “The story of my life …”
“The other Moonstars-” Laeral said urgently, plucking at his arm.
“No time,” El snarled. “I’ll not be too late this time!”
He rushed down a stair, and they pelted after him. Through a door and-
Into a jakes.
Alustriel rolled her eyes. “Your sense of humor, El, needs work. Serious work.”
The Old Mage snorted, by way of reply. As he clambered up to stand on the garderobe seat.
Where he bent his knees, and jumped high into the air.
He waved one arm wildly as he leaped-and a sudden blue-white glow enshrouded them all.
When he landed, El’s boots were on quite different stones, with Alustriel and Laeral right behind him.
They seemed to be in quite a different privy. As deep and disused as the one they’d just left, but smelling more of forest earth, and less of the salty sea.
This one had many stalls, and great tree roots running overhead and plunging like pillars down between the stalls, into the tiled floor. Sea-blue tiles, as beautiful as-
“We’re in Myth Drannor,” Laeral observed.
“Aye, indeed, and come this way!” Elminster replied over his shoulder, hastening.
He led the two sisters to the entrance of the room, an archway that opened into a fork of two tunnel-like passages, both smelling even more strongly of damp forest earth and green growing things than the garderobe, and both veiled behind rich tapestries of royal blue inset with sparkling silver stars.
Stars that moved seemingly by themselves, and gave off the faintest of musical chimings.
“Well, that’s different,” Alustriel murmured. “I wouldn’t mind having the likes of those in my-”
Stars boiled up from the tapestries and into a racing tangle of winking silver lights, hanging in midair and framed in that empty archway.
Then they coalesced into someone they’d not seen for some time, and the archway was empty no longer.
A diminutive, shapely female elf floated, facing them, surrounded by a nimbus of purple-white light.
“The Srinshee!” Laeral murmured in surprise.
The Srinshee smiled and nodded, but her face held more menace than mirth.
“Going somewhere?” she asked, her words a clear and sharp challenge.
The bored prince of Thultanthar at the head of the file of Shadovar walking along the stone-lined elven underways drew his sword and trailed it idly along one stone wall, making a grating, scraping sound. His brother sighed.
“We can have haste and stealth, Brother,” Prince Vattick reminded his twin a little testily. “The quieter we are, the farther we can get before we’re battling elves at every step.”
Prince Mattick sighed. “Yes, yes, but after all this time spent planning and posturing, I want to smash something.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt we’ll have opportunities enough for that. More than we’ll want, I’m thinking, and sooner than I’d prefer too.”
“You’re probably right, but it’s been nigh deserted down here. Our hired armies are probably keeping the longears so desperately busy fighting for their lives that they can’t spare the time nor swords to-”
From around a corner ahead, an elf in eerie blue armor floated, to bar the way in menacing silence, drawn swords raised in either hand.
Vattick gave Mattick a disgusted look. “You had to say it, didn’t you? Couldn’t just keep your jaws shut for once, could you?”
“Brother,” Mattick replied, “this is what I’ve been waiting for.” And he showed his teeth to the waiting baelnorn and drew his sword with a flourish, letting it sing and watching the runes crawl like black flames up and down its blade.
“Arcanists,” he ordered, “have fun. Let fly!”
“Please do nothing of the kind,” the baelnorn said sadly, its voice low and gentle yet carrying to every ear with clarity. “I’m charged to guard House Velanralyn, and I’ll do just that. You proceed at your own peril.”
“Well, of course we do.” Mattick sneered. “Arcanists!” He pointed at the baelnorn with his sword. “Blast her down!”
Obediently the Shadovar spread out in the passage, took up stances, and hurled spells.
Only to shout in pain and reel back, staggering, as their own magic rebounded from the baelnorn’s blades to strike at them. One arcanist blazed up like a torch, shrieking, and another was flung headlong back down the passage they’d traversed, to slam into an unyielding wall with a bone-shattering thud.
The baelnorn shook its head, sighed, and backed away around the corner.
Vattick looked disgusted. “Just a little care on our part would have avoided that.” He watched the arcanist who’d slammed into the wall slide down, broken and senseless, then beheld the burnt arcanist toppling to the floor trailing wisps of smoke, little more than ashes around blackened bones. “Years of training gone to waste.”
“Just when did you become such a wistful philosopher, Brother?” Prince Mattick demanded. “When you go to war, you know there’ll be losses. The trick is making certain you’re not one of them.”
The baelnorn leaned back around the corner, pointing a sword as if it was some sort of wand. Blue-green fire spat from its tip, and Mattick sprang hastily back from its snarling beam with a curse, clutching the seared knuckles of his sword hand. The fire raced past him and slammed into the chest of an arcanist, who was driven back on his heels, and then fell, his despairing shout ending in a horrible wet wail as the fire roared into and through his face-and on into the arcanist behind.
More Shadovar spells were hurled, but the baelnorn was gone from view back around its corner again, and only a few of the magics swooped around it after the undead guardian.