Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [106]
When she was done, she murmured a word, and suddenly, seven stones sat where the sprawled bodies had lain. Elmara made a gesture, and the rocks were gone, leaving only a small, dark pool of blood behind to mark that they'd ever been there.
The nearest merchant turned to Elmara. "You turned them to stones?"
"Aye," she said, and a sudden smile crossed her face. "Ye see- ye can get blood from stones." Amid a few uncertain chuckles, she turned to the minstrel. "Have ye breath enough to sing?"
The man nodded uncertainly. "Why?"
"If ye will, I'd like to hear the rest of the tale about King Uthgrael."
The minstrel bowed. "My pleasure, Lady-?"
"Elmara," Elmara told him. "Elmara Aumar-er, descendant of Elthryn of Heldon."
The minstrel looked at her as if Elmara had three heads and crowns on each one. "Heldon is ashes these nine winters past." El did not reply, and after a moment, the man asked curiously, "But tell me: where did you send the stones?"
Elmara shrugged. "A good way offshore near Mystra's Dance, where the water is deep. When my spell wears off and they regain their true forms, they'll have to swim to the surface to survive. I hope they have large and strong lungs."
Silence fell on the room at these words. The minstrel tried to break the mood by beginning the Ballad of the Stag again, but his voice was raw. After it broke the second time, he spread his hands and asked, "Can you wait, Lady Elmara, until the morrow?"
"Of course," El replied, taking a seat at the just-righted table where the wizards had been. "How are ye?"
"Alive, thanks to you," the minstrel said quietly. "May I pay for your dinner?"
"If ye allow me to buy all we drink," Elmara replied. After a moment, they both chuckled.
*****
Elmara set down their third bottle, empty. She eyed it gravely, and asked, "Are any princes left alive?"
The minstrel shrugged. "Belaur, of course, though I've heard he styles himself 'king' now. I know of no others, but there could be, I suppose. It hardly matters now that the magelords rule openly, issuing decrees as if they were all kings. The only entertainment we have is watching them try to outwit each other. I don't go back often."
"How so?" Elmara stared at the last few swallows in her glass. Treacherous stuff.
"It's not a safe land for any who speak openly against the magelords-and that includes minstrels whose clever ballads may not be to the liking of any passing wizards or armsman."
The minstrel thoughtfully drained his own glass. "Athalantar doesn't see any visiting wizards, now, either… unless one has the power to defeat all the magelords, why go there? If any mage of power comes to Athalantar, the magelords'd doubtless see it as a threat to their rule and all rise up together against him!"
Elmara laughed quietly. "A prudent mage would go elsewhere, eh?"
The minstrel nodded. "And speedily." His eyes narrowed. "You wear a strange look, Lady… Where will you go on the morrow?"
Elmara looked at him. Fire smoldered deep in eyes gone very dark, and the smile the mage gave the minstrel then had no mirth in it at all. "Athalantar, of course."
Twelve
HARD CHOICES, EASY DOOMS
Choosing what road to walk in life is a luxury given to few in Faerun. Perhaps lack of practice is why so many who do have that choice make such a gods-cursed mess of it.
Galgarr Thormspur, Marshal of Maligh
A Warrior's Views
Year of the Blue Shield
The first sign of trouble was the empty road.
At this hour of a bright morning, the way to Narthil should have been crowded with groaning carts, snorting oxen pulling wagons along, any number of peddlers leading mules, laborers and pilgrims trudging along under the weight of their packs, and perhaps even a mounted messenger or two. Instead, Elmara had the road to herself as she topped the last rise and saw that her way was barred by a log swing-gate across the road. In all her days in Hastarl, there'd been no gates on the roads into Athalantar-or she'd surely have heard of it from the tired merchants who complained about every little thing on their