Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [117]
The wrong ones, thus far, and all of them too late, but even idiot magelings can’t help but notice a beautiful, elegant, and very dead woman striding around their palace in black armor of archaic style, defying all orders … and even idiot magelings can aim and trigger wands.
Yes, it was more than time to send Targrael back to her slumber to await the day when he’d need her again.
He’d need others, too, at least one war wizard among them, so it was time to also withdraw from the minds of Talane, Rorskryn Mreldrake, and various Stormserpent servants as if he’d never been there at all.
Which was something he—perhaps he alone—could do.
A certain Emperor Manshoon would need all his useful tools after Elminster was dead and he’d dealt with the pitiful remnants of Cormyr’s past; what was left of the wizards of war, of Vangerdahast, and of Alusair the Ghost Princess.
Then it would be time to rule, and truly loyal agents would be most useful.
Until then, no one would ever know they’d ever been his creatures at all.
“Not for me the clumsy mind-reamings of Cormyr that so often drive wizards of war and those they violate into madness,” Manshoon told the dark emptiness around him, as his beckoning finger brought a decanter and a great crystal goblet floating out of the darkness to his hands. “Vampire I may be, but I am before all else a real archwizard; I ride minds and depart them leaving no traces that lesser fools can find.”
Simple truth, not vainglorious boasting; he had worked hard on crafting spells while others played tyrant or meddler. He could do things no mage of Cormyr could even hope to achieve through magic. Hah, he could do things most would think impossible.
Manshoon unstoppered the decanter and poured, savoring the delicate scent of the rare and ancient elven vintage wafting up from the goblet.
Very soon, Targrael would step through yonder door and put into his hand the enchanted dagger that he could compel into magical flight to swoop and fell Elminster from behind, if a fight with the Old Mage should erupt before the old fool’s carefully plotted doom befell him.
Once the dagger was his, he could send the death knight back to well-earned rest. He no longer needed her to guard this cavern, as he had it ringed with undead beholders under his command, and he’d fully mastered a living beholder body of his own—and blasting that mind had been a feat to celebrate—to occupy whenever he pleased.
Or if someone destroyed the human body he was using.
Manshoon scowled at that thought, remembering who had slain more of his bodies than anyone else, down the centuries … and had played with him, as an unwitting tool, even more often.
“Elminster,” he whispered gleefully, “you will die. Very soon now.”
Soon indeed, for as he’d intended and so patiently arranged, the Sage of Shadowdale was alone.
Elminster’s lover had gone howling mad again, and his lone remaining loyal ally and healer, Storm, was off to Shadowdale to see to her. Where both silver-haired bitches would die or be kept too busy fighting to cling to their lives to return to Suzail in time to help the kindly old Sage of Shadowdale. What he’d made his dupe Mreldrake tell the Highknight Starbridge should ensure as much.
That diligent hammer of Cormyr’s foes should even now be scouring the dale for signs of Elminster and his two silver-haired wenches, believing those three were preparing to magically attack King Foril just after his council.
Manshoon sipped and nodded appreciatively. Yes, his plans were unfolding nicely.
He would use Talane to kill Gaskur, the mind he’d most often inhabited and of necessity altered, in Stormserpent Towers—after enspelling Gaskur to look like Ruthgul. Scrying to make sure Amarune Whitewave saw Ruthgul dead, he’d then dissolve his spell so she’d witness her dead client “melting back” into Gaskur, a man she should not know.
That little ruse should frighten her into repudiating Elminster rather