Cloak of Shadows - Ed Greenwood [16]
Kostil smiled slightly and indicated the archway with a grand, leisurely gesture. Taernil gave him a wordless snarl of defiance, spun around, and charged through the archway.
Neleyd glanced quickly about the Great Hall and saw many older Malaugrym wearing smiles like the one on Kostil's face and shaking their heads. He turned away among the shifting shadowsmokes thoughtfully, seeking his own chambers and a scrying spell of his own. He must see this Elminster fight, if he or any of the blood of Malaug were ever to prevail against the wizard. As he left the open hall through an old tunnel that seldom changed its winding way, he passed two of the elders, standing in the shapes of griffon-headed giants, quietly wagering on the outcome of Taernil's foray. The bets were on how much magic he'd manage to loose at Elminster before being destroyed. Neither granted any chance that he'd survive.
* * * * *
Milhvar nodded. "The payment is accepted." He waved a hand behind him and the mists parted, swirling open in a softly widening whirlpool until Issaran could see the spell-stones that were going to cost him so much, winking and sparkling with their stored power. As he'd expected, they hung in a field of guardian magic. It would have been the sheerest folly to try any treachery upon the older Malaugrym who had hired him.
"I am ready," Issaran said, striving for calm, level tones. "Let it be now."
Milhvar nodded and waved his hand again. Another hole opened in the mists, revealing an empty, flickering upright oval of light. In size and radiance it seemed very like the scrying portal in the Great Hall.
Issaran strode toward the hole without hesitation.
"You recall the word for return?" Milhvar asked from behind him.
"Arthithrae," Issaran replied, not turning or slowing.
"Good. May you have Malaug's own luck," Milhvar said as the younger Malaugrym stepped through the magical gate – and vanished.
White sparks chased briefly up and down the portal's radiance. They were joined by others dancing in the emptiness within the oval, lights that grew swiftly into a glowing window on a scene of four familiar humans riding along a forest trail. The lights flickered once and then settled into silent immobility, identical to the scrying portal that many of the kin were now watching in the Great Hall.
Milhvar watched the scene within the portal shift as Issaran – no doubt walking on air for stealth – moved through the trees, following the four riders. Even if the bold youngling's Art-which Milhvar granted was stronger than most older kin expected or would readily believe-discovered Milhvar's conjured eye, Issaran could not destroy it without shattering the gate and stranding himself in Faerun. Stranding him away from his spells, his kin, the protection of the castle-and the Shadow Throne he so obviously sought. One side of Milhvar's mouth crooked into a mirthless, twisted smile.
He would have been less confident had he been able to see Issaran's face. At that moment, in the woods of Daggerdale on a chilly morning, it wore the same ruthlessly assured expression.
* * * * *
Daggerdale, Kythorn 15
The sun was descending in the west when Elminster turned in his saddle. His pipe floated obediently out of his mouth. "We'll spend the night up ahead, in what's left of Irythkeep."
His companions nodded in silent acceptance and they rode on, as they had all day, through the ravaged wilder-lands that had once been a proud and prosperous dale.
Rent by war for ten summers and more, Daggerdale was fast vanishing as the woodlands spread swiftly across untilled fields and deserted steads alike, reclaiming the land from the rule and hand of men who no longer lived to hold it at bay. In swampy places the trail they followed, once an important trade road, was almost gone.
Elminster, however, rode with the easy manner of a bored tour guide, never slowing to choose his way or change direction but proceeding as if strolling around his own garden, pointing out once-prominent