Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [23]
The lady who betimes called herself Talane set down her empty wineglass, said formally, “My lord,” bowed her head, and withdrew.
The darkly handsome man regarded the door she’d closed behind her for some time before he murmured, “And if you dare turn traitor on me, Lady, I’ve someone who will enjoy dealing with you appropriately. Someone too dead to disobey me.”
He took another glass from the sideboard, filled it with Arrhenish, sipped, then made a face at himself in the mirror.
“I must do something about these Cormyreans and their execrable tastes in wine,” he told his reflection. “When I sit on the Dragon Throne, those who make and sell overly sweet swill like this will be swiftly drowned in it. My subjects will share in my delight in the finer things. I won’t even style myself ‘king.’ ”
Giving the mirror a smile, he tossed the wineglass casually into the fireplace. As the musical peal of its shattering died away, he sketched a herald’s flourish with one languid arm and added mockingly, “All hail Emperor Manshoon.”
CHAPTER
FIVE
OVERHEARD AND SPIED UPON
Wild terror had seized Elminster the moment he summoned his wits to begin casting the guise of Elgorn Rhauligan on himself—the madness. Come hard and early.
So he’d given up trying the spell and stood shaking and sweating in the dank deep darkness, disgusted and alone.
Storm was gone on her slow, careful, skulking way back to Shadowdale, overland by back lanes, winding creekbeds, and game trails to the familiar trees where, of late, Yelada and the elves kept busy preventing her farm from vanishing entirely back into the forest. Back to the farmhouse hearth where Alassra, too, always ended up sooner or later, seeking warmth and solace no matter how sunk in madness she was.
A kitchen Elminster wouldn’t mind relaxing in, himself, to sip warm soup with his boots off and battered old feet up on the table, with Storm winking at him as she menaced his toes in mock fierceness with her carving knife. With onions sizzling in a pan and the promise of a really good meal rising to tantalize his nose, setting his mouth to watering …
El smiled tightly as he firmly shook his head to banish the daydream and bring himself back to the tunnel he stood in, a short stroll away from being under the grand, sprawling royal palace of Suzail. It was a narrow, low-ceilinged way, ancient and crumbling … but not unguarded.
Quite possibly not just by the guardians he knew, but by new perils. The soaring seat of rulership it led to was, after all, under the protection of a society of young and ambitious wizards. Mages who must all be under orders to watch for the infamous Sage of Shadowdale and to destroy or entrap him if at all possible.
And if there was one thing a long, long life in Faerûn taught even a slow-witted man, it was that all things are possible.
He took a step closer to the royal palace—and abruptly stopped, peering into the darkness ahead.
Something had moved, something brown and … bony.
Ah. An old friend, of sorts, if he wasn’t mistaken.
El felt in a belt pouch, brought forth a pinch of powder, used his other hand to do the same to another pouch as far away from the first as his girth would permit, then brought his hands together and rubbed.
A faint glow kindled where the two powders met and mingled. He lifted his glowing palm like a pale, feeble lamp and stayed where he was.
As the first, familiar guardian shuffled into view.
He’d guessed right. It was a human skeleton, trudging with slow, unsteady menace. As it came, it raised a sword dark with rust.
Elminster gave it a calm stare. “Do ye really want to strike at me? Will thy shrewd strike bring crowning triumph to thy day?”
Empty eyesockets stared at him, expressionless but somehow uncertain. Then brownish bones shifted—only spell-bleached skeletons were truly white, all bards’ ballads notwithstanding—and the sword wavered down again.