Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [116]
Those bindings collapsed into swirling dust, and the deed was done. Chair back where it should be, and strolling away, with the young, yawning guard in the passage outside the door none the wiser.
The dagger was a beautiful, slender thing—elven; all flowing lines, deceptively delicate shape, and razor-sharpness, even after all this time—and rode in Targrael’s hand well.
She hefted it, smiling to herself, and murmured, “Elminster must die.”
The black-armored death knight was still triumphantly uttering that last word when the secret door she was reaching for swung wide—and she and the armored Purple Dragon who’d opened it from the other side found themselves staring at each other.
“Hold!” he snapped, striding through the doorway and bringing the spear in his hand up to point at her breast. Its tip glowed with a hue that told Targrael its magic could destroy her. His shield came up, too. “Drop that steel and hands to the ceiling, you! Your name?”
A lionar, by his badge. Whatever next? What was a lionar doing stalking about the palace with a spear and shield?
“Having the temerity to challenge me, that’s what,” she murmured aloud as she ignored his order … and their locked stares both grew colder.
“Your name!” he snapped loudly and insistently.
Targrael sighed. This was becoming tiresome, and he was getting a very good look at her.
“Lady Highknight, to you,” she told him coldly, “and I’ll give the orders here, Lionar. Point that spear elsewhere or pay the price.”
The spear was suddenly almost up her nose. “You’re no highkni—”
“Enough,” Targrael snarled disgustedly, calling forth what sages liked to call “unholy flames,” right into his face—and sidestepping as she did so, to avoid any desperate spearcast. She held Gantharla’s dagger behind herself and didn’t bother to draw her sword. Not when his despairing howl would be over in another moment, and by then she’d be through the secret door and have it closed behind her.
Leaving the luckless lionar down for days, or worse. If he awakened at all, he’d be raving about his unfortunate encounter with one of the palace ghosts.
Pesky things, ghosts.
A lone chuckle bubbled forth in the great cavern deep in the heart of the palace undercellars. Ah, Targrael …
Once, the cave had been Baerauble’s most secret spellhurling chamber, where the founding archwizard of the human realm of Cormyr had conducted his boldest magical experiments.
Some of those castings had gone very awry, and it had become a place of crawling wild magic. Best abandoned, behind heavy wards to keep the unwary from blundering into deadly peril or venturing spells of their own that might bring most of the palace down on their heads in shattered ruin.
Wild magic had lurked there for centuries until the Spellplague had boiled it away and had left the great cave yawning empty, awaiting anyone’s arrival.
That arrival had befallen, and the anyone who stood there chuckling was a man who intended to soon rule Cormyr and more.
A man whose archwizardry would have given Baerauble himself pause, who stood alone yet rode the minds of many others.
Both in the cavern and in the depths of Targrael’s mind, Manshoon chuckled again.
Ah, but his Lady Dark Armor was a treat. He’d almost been seduced by his enjoyment of her coldly malicious mind into keeping her active too long. At an ever-increasing risk of losing her to the spells of frightened wizards of war as they finally awakened to the growing perils all around, as nobles poured into Suzail, the day of the council rushed nearer, conspirators plotted busily on all sides, blueflame ghosts stalked the streets slaying at will, and Elminster strolled the passages of their own palace uncaptured.
They were still an utter chaos of incompetent, overly officious fools, but they