Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood [19]
Mystra, aid me! What is this?
His despairing cry seemed to bring back the memory of his name; he was Elminster of Athalantar, Chosen of the goddess, and he was riding through a whirling storm of images. Memories, they were, of the House of Alastrarra. Thinking of that name snatched him back down into the maelstrom of a thousand thousand years, of decrees, family sayings, and beloved places. The faces of a hundred beautiful elven maids-mothers, sisters, daughters, Alastrarrans all-smiled or shouted at him, their deep blue eyes swimming up to his like so many waiting pools… Elminster was swept into them and down, down, names and dates and drawn swords flashing like striking whips into his mind.
Why? he cried, and his voice seemed to echo through the chaos until it broke like a wave crashing over rocks on something familiar: the face of vanished Iymbryl, regarding him calmly, a hauntingly beautiful elven maiden at his shoulder.
"Duty," Iymbryl replied. "The gem is the kiira of House Alastrarra, the lore and wisdom held by its heirs down the years. As I was, so Ornthalas of my blood is now. He waits in Cormanthor. Take the gem to him."
"Take the gem-?" Elminster cried, and both the elven heads smiled at him and chanted in unison, "Take the gem to him."
Then Iymbryl said, "Elminster of Athalantar, may I make known to you the Lady Ayaeqlarune of-"
Whatever else he said was swept away, along with his face and hers, under a fresh flood of loud and bright memories-scenes of love, war, and pleasant tree-girt lands. Elminster struggled to remember who he was, and to picture himself on his knees under the shadowtops, here and now-the ground his knees could feel.
He slapped at the ground, and tried to see what his hands felt, but his mind was full of shouting voices, unicorns dancing, and war-horns glinting in the moonlight of other times and distant places. He rose, and staggered blindly with arms outstretched until he ran into a tree trunk.
Clinging to its solid bulk, he tried to see it, but it and the other trunks, so tall and dark around it, felt sickeningly wrong. He stared at them, trying to speak, and found himself looking at Iymbryl, who was shrieking as the black tines of the longfork burst through him again-and then he was Iymbryl, riding a red tide of pain, as ruukha laughed harshly all around and raised cruel blades he could not stop…
They swept down, and he tried to twist away, and- struck something very hard, that drove the breath out of him. Elminster rolled on it, and realized dimly that he was on the ground, amid the treeroots, though he couldn't see the dirt his face was pressed against.
His mind was showing him Iymbryl again, and a young, handsome, haughty-looking elfin rich robes rising from a floating, teardrop-shaped chair that hung in a room where blue webs chimed with music. The young elf was rising with a smile to greet Iymbryl, and into El's mind came the name Ornthalas. Of course. He was to make haste to Ornthalas and surrender the gem. Along with his life?
Or would it tear his mind out of his skull, flesh and all, when he pulled on the gem?
Writhing in the dirt, Elminster tried to pry the gem from his forehead, but it seemed part of him, warm, solid, and attached.
He must get up. Hobgoblins could still find him here. He must go on, before a tree spider or owlbear or stirge found him, a helpless and easy meal, and… he must… Elminster clawed feebly at the forest floor, trying to remember the name