Elminster in hell - Ed Greenwood [20]
As ye wish.
Mock me not, wizard! [mental slap]
I never mock, devil, [mental slap returned]
[pain; astonishment] you dare?
No, Lord Nergal. But Mystra does.
[confusion… fear] she's aware, with you… Within you?
Not now. But she can be, if ye disturb the right-excuse me, the wrong-memory. Then she will come, and all thy work will be undone.
[fear, anger] no. She can have no power over me here. Devils rule in hell.
Of course. Nice throne, by the way.
[red fires of anger] so you never mock, little man?
Never. Try to remember that.
[dark glare] unfold the memory, elminster aumar.
"The gods alone know where they are, by now," Storm said quietly. "I think Elminster wandered westward-but he could have passed through any of a dozen secret gates. With a single step he could have reached the other side of Faerun… or even another plane."
"A cheery thought," Shaerl observed sardonically. "Shall I tell Mourngrym to revise dale defenses to include a dozen unknown, invisible, but all-too-exposed gates that invading armies can rush through?"
"Easy, wench," Jhessail told her, patting her hand. "Have some more firequench." She pushed the decanter of ruby-red liqueur across the table. Illistyl made a silent grab for it as it moved away from her and was rewarded with a raised eyebrow from Jhessail. She returned it, with interest.
"Ladies, ladies," Storm sighed, shifting her feet down from atop the table. "Must we spit and snarl like rival kittens?"
Illistyl shrugged. "It's what we've always done before," she observed with impish serenity.
Shaerl giggled. A breath later, others joined her. The Lady of Shadowdale had brought the two sorceresses to Storm's farmhouse late, after most of the men in the Twisted Tower-including her man, Lord Mourngrym- were abed. Afternoon was a more usual time for these tongue-wag sessions, but they'd all been too restless to sleep and had met by chance, padding barefoot around the tower in their nightcloaks.
Storm Silverhand had also been awake when they'd come calling. As they approached, the three had heard her talking softly to someone, but when they'd gone through her open door, she'd been alone, a lute idle across her lap.
They'd sung a song or two, tossed around gossip of the dale's doings, and come at last to Elminster's sudden absence.
Illistyl had been surprised to see unshed tears standing in Storm's eyes. The lady bard had said little and continued to do so-but her sadness lay like a shadow in the room, enfolding them all. Illistyl felt it as keenly as any other but could think of no kind way to shake it away. Her gaze flicked down the table to find Storm's knowing eyes upon her.
Illistyl burst out, "Storm, what's wrong? I'd like to help, but I don't even know just-"
She broke off, startled, as a bat as large and black as a cloak flapped heavily in through the open doorway, circled low over the table, and writhed in the air in front of the fireplace. An instant later, it had become a tall, gaunt woman in a black, tattered gown. Her hair and eyes both danced wildly, and a fierce pride leaped in her face as she glided toward them.
"Sister!" Storm greeted her with a welcoming smile. "Will you take some firequench with us?"
The Simbul shivered like a cat after a fright. "Later," she said, taking a seat at the table. "After I try to learn what we both want to know."
"All of us, here," Storm replied quietly. "I've sent two wood men out after them, too. Two who harp." Across the room, the strings of her harp seemed to sing faintly.
The Simbul looked around at them all, not smiling, nodded to each, and without pause bent her head and began whispering words of Art.
A heavy tension grew in the room. The candle flames shrank to steady, watching pinpoints. The Simbul sat at the center of the gathered power, black and unmoving. Her shoulders shook. She gasped, and the candle flames leaped and flickered again. The room was somehow brighter-and yet, Illistyl thought, looking at the Simbul's forlorn and ravaged face-it seemed no safer or