Cloak of Shadows - Ed Greenwood [70]
"Yes," Shar said sweetly. Belkram rolled his eyes and groaned loudly, waking the horses.
"Look… we're a mite leery of swords that appear in the night-even with you holding them-and strange tales that go with them, so tell us plainly what you intend."
Itharr grunted. "And then we'll tell you plainly 'no.' Or at least, not until morning."
Sharantyr and Sylune laughed together, making the horses snort and stamp. "Well said," Belkram told Itharr,
"Thank you," the other Harper said, sketching a courtly bow.
Shar drew in a deep breath and then let it out slowly, "My apologies, friends," she said softly, "for rousing you. Mystra did tell me to wait until morning. There's a gate to the Castle of Shadows down by the bridge, where you felt so uneasy, Itharr. When it's drawn, this sword shows me any magical gates nearby, and works them if I reach them and will it to. Mystra told me, 'Take your companions and go and slay Malaugrym for me.' So here I am."
"Now that I can believe," Belkram said with a shake of his head and a smile, "because it sounds so unbelievable that it must be what Mystra did."
Itharr nodded, a rueful smile on his face, and said, "I'm forced to agree." He sighed. "They didn't tell me there'd be nights like this, back in Twilight Hall."
They didn't tell me there'd be nights like this," Sylune told him, "back in Elminster's kitchen."
"Elminster's kitchen? Didn't the man have enough class even to show you his bedchamber?" Belkram demanded.
"Harper boy," Sylune told him severely, "I was referring to when I was a babe, and a different kitchen than the one you've seen. And spare me your jokes about Elminster and young babes, too."
"I'm beginning to realize," Sharantyr said carefully, "just why so few Harpers live long. They get angry swords right through their clever tongues."
Belkram and Itharr both looked hurt. "Critics," Itharr said, "everywhere we go in Faerun, we find ourselves surrounded by critics…"
"Get some sleep," Sylune told him kindly. "We've a castle to conquer in the morning."
* * * * *
Another forgotten ruin in the Savage Frontier, with a side trip to the Flame Void, then the sky somewhere over Thay, Kythorn 18
"Nothing is worse than promises that are not meant and deeds that are not accomplished," Midnight said quietly. "I need folk who stand behind what they say and do. Such as Azuth-if he survives-and you."
They clasped hands then, the man and the goddess. Both were white, drenched with sweat, and shaking. Long they had lain side by side, hands clasped, while Elminster's memories-his long road with Mystra, and what of her secrets and power he held-poured into Midnight, and she grew old and wise in a day and most of a night.
They walked out of the tomb together, an old, long-plundered tomb of Netheril whose stone biers had served the living as couches. If anyone saw them emerge, they did not tarry to offer a challenge.
Midnight wiped her mouth as if she'd eaten something foul. "I… I've swallowed overmuch," she murmured. "I must go apart and think."
"Seek Evereska, here," Elminster suggested, "or Ever-meet, over the water. The elves will let ye alone. When ye've thought, return and tell me your will. Until then, I'll spend my days as I've always done, darting here and there about Faerun, saying this and meddling with that, slaying here and building there… less grand than some godly servants, perhaps, but the tasks get done." He faced her, eye to eye, and said gently, "It may be, when ye return, that yell want me to lay down life and service together, and make room for your own style, and your own messengers."
"No," Midnight said softly, and then again, more firmly, "No. I shall need your counsel in the ways of Faerun- and in plain common sense-to guide me for ages to come, or I shall be a worse wildheart than Talos, Lolth, Loviatar, and Malar have ever been, ruling by whim and wrecking all I touch, ending twisted and bitter, no doubt,