Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [104]
But when the fires of the crystal spun into focus, the visage looking calmly back at him was not the one Ilhundyl sought. He gaped in astonishment.
The wrinkled, bearded face dropped its habitual expression of mild curiosity to smile gently at him, nodded in greeting, and said, "Fair day, Ilhundyl; gained a new spellbook, I see."
Ilhundyl spat at the Magister. The spittle hissed and smoked as it struck the crystal. "The pages are blank-and you know it!"
The Magister smiled again, a trifle tightly. "Yes… but the young mage who offered it to Mystra did not. You told her not to look inside, and she obeyed you. Such honesty and trust is sadly lacking in this world today-isn't it, Ilhundyl?"
The Mad Mage of the Calishar snarled and hurled a spell into his crystal. The world inside the sphere flashed and rocked, throwing back bright reflections from Ilhundyl's cheeks, but the Magister only smiled a little more tightly-and then the Mad Mage's spell came howling back at him, bursting out of the bobbing, chattering crystal to crash into Ilhundyl and then rage about the chamber. Garadic flapped hastily aloft to avoid the full force of the flaming points of force, only to be tumbled helplessly around the walls, scraping and squawking, by the force of their flights.
"Temper, Ilhundyl, is the downfall of many a foolish young mageling," the Magister said calmly.
Ilhundyl's scream of frustrated fury echoed around the chamber-and then he turned, murder in his eyes, and hurled rending fire. Garadic hadn't even time enough to finish his squawk.
*****
A minstrel was singing in the dimly lit taproom of the Unicorn's Horn as the young hawk-nosed woman stepped wearily inside. The roadside inn stood amid a cluster of sheep farms well west of Athalantar; to reach it, she'd walked all that day with nothing but brook water to drink and nothing at all to eat.
The innkeeper heard the traveler's stomach growl as she stalked past, and greeted her affably. "A table and some stew right off, goodwoman? With a roast and wine to follow, of course…"
The young woman nodded, a smile almost rising to her grim lips. "A-quiet corner table, if ye would. Dark and private."
The innkeeper nodded. "I've many such… this way, along behind, here…"
The traveler did smile this time and allowed herself to be led to a table. Her dark clothes were worn and nondescript, but by her manner, she'd known both book learning and gentle society, so the innkeeper didn't ask her for coins before service, but was astonished when the slim woman kicked off her boots with a contented sigh and spun a gold regal across the table.
"Let me know when that one needs company," she murmured, and the innkeeper happily assured her that all would be done as she directed.
*****
The wine-a ruby-red dwarven vintage that burned all the way down-was good, the roast excellent, and the singing pleasant. The flagstone floor was cold, so Elmara put her boots back on, pulled her cloak around herself, and settled back against the wall, blowing out the single cup-candle on the table.
Cloaked in darkness, she relaxed, listening to the minstrel singing of she-dragons and brave lady knights rescuing young men who'd been chained out as sacrifices to them. It was good to be warm and full of food again, even if the morrow was sure to bring death and danger (hopefully someone else's, and not her own) as she reached Athalantar's borders.
Yet she would press on. Mystra expected it of her.
The mellow voice of the minstrel rose into words that made Elmara break off thinking about Mystra's disappointment in her, and lean forward to listen with her full attention. The ballad was one Elmara hadn't heard before; a hopeful song of praise to brave King Uthgrael of Athalantar. Listening to the warm words of respect for the grandsire she'd never known, El found her eyes wet