Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [19]
“I’m done with dragging her back to herself for a few days or a few hours,” Elminster said quietly. “It’s time to cure her for good.”
“That will take some really powerful stored Art,” Storm murmured.
“I care not if I have to strip Cormyr bare of its every last item, crowns and regalia included,” the Old Mage replied calmly. “If they treat me as a thief and murderer, then a thief and a murderer I shall be. I’ll take what I need to make her sane again, once and for all—and send anyone who stands in my way to greet the gods. I’m done with being kind and gentle to cruel fools.”
Storm frowned at him for a moment, hearing more bitter steel in his voice than she’d heard in a long time. “Be careful whom you slay, El. Cormyr may soon run out of cruel fools, if we fight many more Tethgards,” she told him.
Elminster shook his head. “New ones will arise to fill the boots of those we blast down,” he replied. “Every realm seems to have an endless supply of them.”
CHAPTER
FOUR
TRAITORS BEHIND EVERY DOOR
The room was small and round. It was also dark, stale, and very dusty. Hardly surprising, being as it hadn’t been used for years. Until now.
Marlin Stormserpent edged into it with shuffling care, trying hard not to bump his hot shuttered lantern into the untidy mounds of broken furniture crowding the chamber.
It had taken him some trouble to slip away from the family servants unseen, curse their diligence—but that was nothing to what trouble he’d find if just one of them followed him and overheard any of what was about to be said.
The stout old door still had a bolt, massive and old-fashioned, and he shot it firmly across before daring to open the lantern enough to see his way through the maze of yesteryear’s marred elegance.
Dust lay like a thick fur cloak over much of this uppermost room in the most disused turret of Stormserpent Towers. Marlin’s lip curled. Of course.
His home was one of the older and grander noble family mansions in Suzail. Once there had been far more Stormserpents clattering and prancing and sneering around the place, but, well … a lot of things had been grander once.
And perhaps—just perhaps—might be again.
From atop what looked like a cloak stand, Marlin took up an ordinary-looking glass orb, a milky sphere a little smaller than his head, the sort of idle ornament that had been fashionable fifty or sixty Mirtuls earlier. He went to a small round table and sat in a lopsided chair drawn up to it, setting the orb atop an empty and garishly heavy metal goblet that stood on the table.
Marlin squared his shoulders then touched the smooth, curved glass, murmured a certain word, and … a glowing cloud slowly appeared in the air above the orb and thickened into silvery smoke.
Smoke that twisted, swirled, and became the glowing image of a person.
Lothrae.
He had no idea who Lothrae really was, behind the mask the man always wore.
As always, Lothrae sat in front of his own orb in a chair with an upswept back like falcons’ wings, in a room somewhere with walls of once-grand but now cracked and mold-stained gilt stucco adorned with a pattern of little blue griffons.
“You are late.” Lothrae said those three words like cold stones leisurely dropped into an abyss.
“I—had some trouble getting free of my mother and the servants, Master,” Marlin stammered, rattled in an instant and hating it. “You warned me to avoid suspicion above all else, so …”
“Understood. It is time.”
Marlin swallowed. “Time? To begin at last?”
“To begin at last. Indubitably. I know where six of the Nine are, beyond doubt, and have strong suspicions as to the whereabouts of the seventh. Any two of them should be able to win past the paltry wards left to the Crown of Cormyr these days—and destroy any war wizard they can catch alone.”
“The Nine?”
“Marlin,” Lothrae said softly, “don’t pretend you know nothing of this. You are certain the Flying Blade holds one