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“How I do I know I can trust you?” she whispered.

“Ye can’t, lass. All ye can do is decide: Will ye have me—or will ye have the pryings of war wizards and madness?”

“If I choose you, what life will be left to me?”

“Just as much as I can aid thee in having,” Elminster replied. “I’ve had centuries, but ye may not want that long. I promise thee, by the grave of thy mother, that I will not hasten thy time of dying.”

“And how do you know where my mother’s grave is?”

“I came too late to save her,” Elminster replied, “but not too late to cast a spell on it that keeps grave robbers from despoiling her bones.”

“Do it,” Amarune said suddenly. “I want—I want not to have to fear war wizards or those who want Arclath dead or—or anyone else. Do it!”

“Thank ye, Amarune Aumar. Thank ye,” Elminster replied and surged at Storm.

Who reluctantly cast a swift and simple spell, murmuring an incantation, kissing her own fingers, then putting them to Amarune’s lips, breast, and loins.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered as she did so. “Oh, Amarune, I’m so sorry.”

The spell washed over Amarune with a faint singing sound and the briefest of flickering white glows, and was gone.

“Finally,” Elminster growled, moving forward.

Storm grabbed at his arm, but her fingers passed through his ashes, stopping him not at all.

“El, no!” she hissed fiercely. “How much more can you stoop to embrace evil? This is nothing less, and daring what we must not! Yes, we’re in desperate straits, but—”

“I’ll ride her only briefly, to do what is needful, and then come out of her,” Elminster hissed back. “Ye have my body as hostage to compel my obedience.”

“Two handfuls of ashes? How can I hold that hostage?”

“Lass, lass, trust me. How often, down the centuries, have I failed ye?”

“I have lost count of the times,” Storm replied bitterly, but the eerie shape of ashes slumped—and Amarune stirred, limbs flopping, jerked to her feet, and began a shambling, dragging walk around the room, arms flailing clumsily when they weren’t dangling … a walk that smoothed out into more natural movements as Elminster slowly gained control.

The next circuit of the room looked like Amarune the dancer moving normally; she turned her head and carried herself as she usually did, and moved her hands as Amarune, not as an old archwizard trying to decide how a graceful young woman used her hands.

Storm Silverhand said fiercely, “You must ride her only when needful, and tell no one—and repay her for the use you make of her body … no matter how much she comes to hate us.”

“Agreed,” El replied solemnly in Amarune’s voice but with Elminster’s manner. “Now gather up my ashes in something, and we’ll be out of here. So much magic has been hurled around that even wizards of war can’t help but notice.”

Ruthgul often thought he might not be the only grizzled old swindler in Suzail, but by the gods, he was one of the most successful.

Recently, he had even had some legitimate business errands. Which is what he was out and about seeing to at the moment, scuttling along various alleys.

He was growing increasingly astonished at what he was seeing in the streets of Suzail. Purple Dragon patrols were everywhere, and he was challenged repeatedly. Thankfully, his wagon held nothing but wine casks for various taverns, and he was searched and allowed to continue. Many times.

Returning to his wagon when it finally held nothing but empties, Ruthgul found himself astonished anew.

Amarune Whitewave was waiting for him, with a young and slightly bedraggled noble he knew by sight: Lord Arclath Delcastle. With them was a tall and strikingly beautiful silver-haired woman, who held a small coffer in her hands.

“We want to hire your wagon—and your discretion—to hide us and our friend, here, among your casks, until you’ve rumbled well out of the city,” Amarune said crisply.

Ruthgul grimaced. “I—I’d like nothing better than to accommodate you, lass, but truth be told, I’m not going out of the city!”

Lord Delcastle stepped forward with a broad smile. “Ruthgul, perhaps the lady didn’t make your choices clear