Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [13]
Elminster took the bread and the flask. Their eyes met, and he nodded his thanks.
"Remember," Helm said, "tell no one thy true name-an' don't ask fool questions about princes or magelords, either. Be someone else 'til 'tis time."
Elminster nodded. "Have my trust, Sir Knight, and my thanks." He turned with all the gravity of his twelve winters and strode away to the mouth of the cavern.
The knight came after, grinning. Then he said, "Wait, lad- take my sword; ye'll need it. Best ye keep that hilt of thine out of sight."
The boy stopped and turned, trying not to show his excitement. A blade of his own! "What will ye use?" Elminster asked, taking the heavy, plain sword that the knight's dirty hands put into his. Buckles clinked and leather flapped, and a scabbard followed it.
Helm shrugged. "I'll loot me another. I'm supposed to serve any prince of the realm with my sword, so…"
Elminster smiled suddenly and swung the sword through the air, holding it with both hands. It felt reassuringly deadly; with it in his hands, he was powerful. He thrust at an imaginary foe, and the point of the blade lifted a little.
Helm gave him a fierce grin. "Aye-take it, and go!"
Elminster took a few steps out into the meadow… and then spun around and grinned back at the knight. Then he turned again to the sunlit meadow, the scabbarded blade cradled carefully in his hands, and ran.
Helm took a dagger from his belt and a stone from the floor, shook his head, and went out to kill sheep, wondering when he'd hear of the lad's death. Still, the first duty of a knight is to make the realm shine in the dreams of small boys-or where else will the knights of tomorrow arise, and what will become of the realm?
At that thought, his smile faded. What will become of Athalantar, indeed?
Two
WOLVES IN WINTER
Know that the purpose of families, in the eyes of the Morninglord at least, is to make each generation a little better than the one before: stronger, perhaps, or wiser; richer, or more capable. Some folk manage one of these aims; the best and the most fortunate manage more than one. That is the task of parents. The task of a ruler is to make, or keep, a realm that allows most of its subjects to see better in their striving, down the generations, than a single improvement.
Thorndar Erlin, High Priest of Lathander
Teachings of the Morning's Glory
Year of the Fallen Fury
He was huddled in the icy white heart of a swirling snowstorm, in the Hammer of Winter, that cruel month when men and sheep alike were found frozen hard and the winds howled and shrieked through the Horn Hills night and day, blowing snows in blinding clouds across the barren highlands. It was the Year of the Loremasters, though Elminster cared not a whit. All he cared about was that it was another cold season, his fourth since Heldon burned-and he was growing very weary of them.
A hand clapped him on one thick-clad shoulder. He patted it in reply. Sargeth had the keenest eyes of them all; his touch meant he'd spotted the patrol through the curtain of driving snow. El watched him reach the other way to pass on another warning. The six outlaws, bundled up in layers upon layers of stolen and corpse-stripped cloth until they looked like the fat and shuffling rag golems of fireside fear-tales, kicked their way out of the warmth of their snowbank, fumbled to draw blades with hands clad in thick-bound rags, and waddled down into the cleft.
Wind struck hard as they came down into the narrow space between the rocks, howling billowing snow around and past them. Engarl struggled to keep his feet as the wind tugged at the long lance he bore. He'd taken it from an armsman who'd needed it no more-Engarl had brought him down with a carefully slung