Elminster Must Die_ The Sage of Shadowdale - Ed Greenwood [50]
The two former Chosen walked patiently, trusting in the young noble’s men needing some time to plunder once they found what they were seeking. That did not suit the ghost’s patience—or lack of it—at all.
The passage they were traversing ran on into unseen gloomy distances, but Elminster suddenly stopped at a stretch that looked the same as the rest of it and flung out one hand to halt Storm. Then he touched a certain stone in the wall beside him with the other.
With the briefest of stony grating sounds, a section of wall slid inward, revealing the edges of a door-sized opening. El shoved on that moving door of stones—and they pivoted aside in unison, to reveal a dark passage beyond.
Storm rolled her eyes. “Are you still finding them? The early Obarskyrs must have been suspicious of everyone in all the Realms!”
“Now, now, lass; they probably told Baerauble to see to the making of some secret passages, and he did his usual thoroughly overefficient job of it: thrice as many passages as needed, plus a more secret passage for exclusively royal use, not to mention an utterly secret passage for his own use—to spy on both the royal passage and the secret way that had been ordered for mere palace courtiers to trot along.”
Storm regarded him with some amusement. “So he was as devious as you? I can scarce believe it! Fancy a wizard being sly!”
“Behave, stormy one,” he told her fondly.
Startled, Storm fell silent. He hadn’t addressed her by that term for centuries.
They padded along the new passage in companionable silence for some time ere once more starting to murmur to each other—low-voiced and often, as was their wont. They rarely mentioned Alassra. Instead, El spoke of items that held blueflame ghosts, items of real power, and the possibilities of seizing them to restore shattered minds. Which of course meant just one person who mattered to them both.
When he was done recounting snatches of blueflame ghost lore, El looked to Storm, seeking her willing agreement for such hunts.
She shrugged. “Why not? We’re losing her.”
“Hardly words of ringing eagerness,” he murmured.
Storm sighed. “We’ve run out of easily snatched magic items, and those who guard what’s left are watching and waiting for us. Our luck can’t hold forever, and our skills are failing us.”
“Well, there’s always the possibility of recruiting someone suitable to do the snatching for us.”
Storm regarded him soberly, knowing what was coming. “A blood descendant,” she said flatly. “And you have at least one young, vigorous, nearby, and quite likely suitable candidate in mind: Amarune Whitewave.”
At his nod, she frowned. “Just how much does she know of her heritage?”
Elminster spread his hands. “She’s heard that her father’s father’s mother, Narnra, was said to be the daughter of the notorious Elminster, but she considers such talk mere wild legend. One claim among so many others, in the small army of women reputed to have been fathered by everyone’s favorite Old Mage.”
Storm smiled thinly. “You were busy, weren’t you?”
El sighed. “So rumor has it. Now, if rumor could just turn its mighty power to making me again a worlds-striding, peerless-in-Art Chosen of Mystra, once more young, hearty-strong, and a dallier with, say, a slim hundredth of the women I’m supposed to have, ah, entertained …”
“You’d have that army and several more besides.”
El gave her a wry grin, sighed heavily … and said no more.
In companionable silence, they walked on along lightless passages for what seemed a very long time.
Until it was Storm’s turn to sigh. “This Amarune is going to be a temptation for you.”
“Aye,” Elminster muttered. “Try not to remind me.”
“For one who knows how and has the spell, taking over bodies is so stlarning easy,” Storm added.
El nodded. “And finding more magic around these halls that Alassra can subsume is getting harder. Pretending to inspect every crumbling inch of this palace only yields so many forgotten, free-for-the-taking baubles. The Crown of Cormyr quite reasonably wants to keep its crowns and