Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [116]
Thirteen
SPELLS ENOUGH TO DIE
Think on this, arrogant mageling: even the mightiest archmage has no spells strong enough to let him cheat death. Some take the road of lichdom … a living death. The rest of us find graves, and our dust is no grander than that of the next man. So when next you lord it over some farmer with your fireballs, remember: we all master spells enough to die.
Ithil Sprandorn, Lord Mage of Saskar
said to the prisoner wizard Thorstel
Year of the Watching Wood
Flamerule had been warm and wet in this Year of Bloodflowers, and if the gods sent rain sparingly in the fall, a plentiful harvest could be expected all down the River Shining.
Phaernos Bauldyn, keeper of the Ambletrees Arms, leaned against his doorpost and watched the last light of the setting sun fade over the hills to the west. A beautiful land, this… though he'd be happier if it weren't ruled by wizards who swaggered wherever they went, treating folk as slaves or cattle… or worse.
He sighed. So long as they didn't get foolish or arrogant enough to face the elves of the High Forest spell to spell or offended some god sorely enough to all be struck down on the spot, there was no way he could see that Athalantar would ever be free of the magelords. Phaernos frowned, sighed again, and turned back for his candle. It was fast growing dark now. He reached up, with the ease of long habit standing clear of the dripping wax, and lit the over-door lamp. As he drew the candle down and blew it out, he saw her coming wearily up the road to his door: a lone girl, tall, dark haired, slim, and drenched, with her clothes clinging to her and her sodden cloak trailing river water behind.
"Fall in, lass?" he asked, coming forward to offer his arm.
"I had to swim the river," she replied shortly, and then raised her head and smiled at him. She was thin and hollow-eyed, but her blue-gray eyes were keen and bright above a sharp nose.
Phaernos nodded as he turned to lead the way in. "A bed for the night?"
"If I can get dry by a fire," she answered, "but my coins are few. Are ye master of this house?"
"I am," Phaernos said, pulling open the wide front door. His guest peered at the old shields nailed to it and seemed almost amused.
"Why d'you ask?" he asked her as they came into the low-beamed taproom. A few farmers and village folk were sitting by the fire, cradling tankards of ale and mugs of broth. They looked up with mild interest.
"I can pay ye with spells," the wet girl said calmly.
Phaernos drew away from her in the sudden silence and said shortly, "We haven't much use for mages hereabouts. Most wizards in this land don't use their magic to help anyone but themselves."
"Then their magic should be stripped from them," she replied.
"And just how d'ye think anyone could do that, lass?" one of the drunker farmers demanded from his seat by the fire.
"Take their lives swift enough, and they've seldom any will left to work spells, I've found," the woman said calmly. "I'm no friend of magelords." The silence that followed her words was broken only by the faint, steady drip of river water from her clothes.
No one bothered her-or even spoke to her-after that. Phaernos led her wordlessly into the kitchen, pointed her to a bench by the hearth-fire, and brought her a cloak. The kitchen-women bustled over with rags for her to scrub dry with and food to eat, but then went on about their business. Elmara welcomed the peace; she was exhausted. Two hills away from Narthil, she'd made the mistake of using a spell that took her in a single step from where she'd stood to the most distant hilltop she could see. The magic had drawn on her own energy to do its work, leaving her exhausted. After that, the swim across the river hadn't helped-and it'd left her too chilled to just roll herself in her cloak and go to sleep in the open.
Elmara dried off as best she could, wrapped herself in the cloak, and dozed off, dreaming of shivering in a dripping hedge while magelords