Cloak of Shadows - Ed Greenwood [61]
The Old Mage fixed Galdus with calm eyes. "My job now-with the other Chosen, and the Harpers I helped found, and all the rulers I can dupe or threaten or bargain with-is to keep wars small and the real villains in check so that little folk, like thy family, can grow just a little better off year by year."
Galdus finished his own beer and held out his hand for El's tankard.
"From anyone else," he said heavily, refilling them both, "I'd call this deluded raving. A thousand years…" He shook his head. "Yet I believe you." He said it almost wonderingly and shook his head again as he set a full tankard down in front of the Old Mage. "Say on, please."
Elminster raised his beer in a silent toast. As the two tankards clinked, he asked the bartender, "Have ye never wondered why, year after year, the cruel mages in Thay, Zhentil Keep, Calimshan, and half a hundred other places don't destroy half the Realms in spell duels? Or just lead armies to roll over all of ye and meet to hack each other up in the smoking ruins that're left? Or why those orc hordes out of the northernmost mountains, that cover the land for mile upon mile of grunting goblinkin, don't just sweep over everyone?"
He drained his beer at single gulp. "Slaying," he answered himself, "that's why. Slaying when needful, and only when needful. Some realms have armies to do such dirty deeds. Shadowdale has Elminster."
Galdus swallowed. "When I was young and thought I could rule the world in just a few years, with just a few more spells, I used to talk about the way of the world and how I'd change it. I think all young wizards do, if they've someone to talk to. Later on, I never thought it'd all be for real, or that any halfway sane wizard spoke so, when he grew older." He shook his head and looked up at Elminster. "I thought they all just got twisted with power and greedy for more, and spent their days selling scrolls for gold or stealing spells from tombs or their enemies, or locked themselves away to go slowly mad making spells to open doors silently, or get wet laundry dry, or open stuck corks in old bottles… or blew themselves and their towers to the skies trying to perfect army-reaving magics."
"Most of them do just that," Elminster said softly. "Yet their very self-interest helps the rest of us. They're turned inward to small things, not trying to change the world, but they're in the way of conquerors and monsters. Intelligent folk rightly fear that they'll awaken and do battle if threatened, and beasts find that out the hard way."
Galdus grunted. "It makes one want to have more to drink, thinking about it."
Elminster grinned. "A lot of wizards do that, too."
He straightened in his seat and said, "My thanks for the bitter, Galdus, and the converse. 'Tis seldom I get to talk so freely to someone who'll understand, and more seldom yet that I find someone I dare say such things to. All too-"
And then the very air around him danced with blue sparks, and Elminster saw the bartender freeze in mid-step, mouth hanging open to speak, eyes fixed on nothingness. The front door groaned.
Elminster found that he could still move in that surging web of magic-more than he'd ever felt unleashed before-so he turned toward the door to see who'd wrought it. He might as well see whatever god his words had angered, before they destroyed him.
A thin woman in a black gown was just closing the door behind her. She was alone, and her raven-dark hair, red-and-black eyes, and ivory skin made her look like a vampire. Her gait and movements, too, echoed the sultry, almost pouting manner of many she-vampires Elminster had met, but her eyes were somber as she walked toward the Old Mage.
"Your words have saved you," she said quietly, "and found me the teacher I need-and need to trust. Well met, Elminster."
"Well met, lady," Elminster said, bowing to her. "Who are you?"
"Midnight is the name I am known to most by, but you may call me… Mystra. We must talk."