Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [130]
“Tell me more,” she said, sipping. Happy dancing hobgoblins, but this wine was good!
CHAPTER
TWENTY-NINE
TO FILL THY BRAIN WITH WEAPONS
So ye see, lass, that’s the dream I’m still living for. Imparting hope, making this little thing better and then that one, for all, not just the rulers and the rich … and doing it all in the name of Mystra.”
“To keep her memory alive.”
“Exactly. To keep her name and what she stood for firm and deep in the memories of folk, so there’s a chance—a ghost of a chance, mind, but better than none—that she’ll return.”
“So the deeds, the fireside and tavern tales … ghost stories, indeed.”
“Ah, now, forget not the faithful!”
“Oh, yes, the hidden cult of Mystra-worshipers I’d have to lead. Well, that would certainly make me feel special, if I went in for such things.”
Elminster gave her a sour look across the table. “Is that all ye’ve been hearing, in my blathering? ’Tis not about Mystra, nor thy power or benefits—’tis all about the dream of setting things right in the Realms, which I and Storm Silverhand and the Simbul and all the other Chosen devoted so much of our lives to, through the Harpers and by other means. Even if Mystra never returns to us, we will have bettered the Realms—worth doing in itself, lass! Achievements far greater than most kings or priests ever even intend to accomplish, let alone the paltry results they manage!”
Amarune poured herself the last of the wine and sat back with a sigh, eyeing the man who claimed to be her ancestor.
“You want me to carry on with this self-appointed, never-finished work of saving the entire Realms,” she said grimly. “Cast aside work I do well and take pride in, the life I’ve built for myself—a life I like, mind, no matter how low and coin-poor it may be—and do dangerous and, no doubt, often illegal things and be thought crazed by everyone, for … a dream. Your dream. The dream of a century ago, of dead gods and struggles lost and done when my mother was yet young.”
Elminster smiled. “Aye. I knew ye’d see to the heart of it in an instant. That’s my lass; blood runs true.”
“I have not agreed to anything, old man,” Amarune told him angrily.
“True, true. Yet, having seen the world more clearly, ye will. Not now, not perhaps for years yet, but … ye will. Ye will find ye cannot stand back and look away when there are wrongs that need righting and suffering that need not be and things that could be better for all and less cruel for many. We’re meddlers, we cursed few. ’Tis in the blood.”
“Not my blood,” Amarune snapped. “I’ve more sense.”
“Ah. That would be why ye go out brawling of evenings with Lord Arclath Delcastle,” Elminster told his nigh empty tallglass dryly. “ ’Tis the sensible thing for a mask dancer to do.”
Amarune flushed crimson. “I like Arclath. And if the king’s writ means anything, it should mean lasses and jacks of Cormyr can choose their friends freely, noble or common, rich or poor, and not answer to anyone for it. Given years enough, it should make the realm stronger, as all citizens know each other better, and no one will sneer at a freeman or goodwife because of the name they were born with or the—”
“Ye preach to the converted, lass,” Elminster murmured. “Who d’ye think fixed the wording of the writ, one night while Foril lay snoring not a spear-length away? Took me much of the night to fake his fist, so he’d look at the changes in the morning and think he had roused himself in the night to make them, not that someone else came stealing in to set things to rights.”
Amarune stared at him then said sarcastically, “And I suppose you arranged half the noble marriages of the last decade, and you secretly tempt and test every last war wizard, too?”
“Nay. Just two marriages, and I’ve only managed to test the loyalty of about a third of the current wizards of war—Vainrence keeps a very close eye on them all, and getting caught vetting his fellowship of law wands would be worse than not probing them at all.”
Amarune stared across the