Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [173]
Myrjala smiled at him innocently and spread her hands. "How much gold can one king spend? We'll need something to see us along the trail to our next adventure…"
"And just where is that, if I may ask?" Elminster cupped his hands, and she put a toe of one soft, pointed boot into them, springing lightly up into the saddle.
"This adventure's not quite done yet, I fear," Myrjala replied in a warning tone. Elminster looked at her thoughtfully, but she said no more as she urged her mount on toward the stable gate.
They went out into the mists of the morning and found Mithtyn leaning on his stick waiting for them. He looked up at them, swallowed, and managed a smile. "Someone of Athalantar should thank ye both properly. I fear I have not the words… but I would not want thee to ride away without even a salute!"
Myrjala gave him a little bow from her saddle, and said, "Our thanks, Mithtyn. Yet I see something troubles you… and I would know what it is, if you will."
Mithtyn stared up at her for a moment, and then his words come in a rush. "Alaundo's prophecy, Lady! He's ne'er been wrong yet, and he said 'the Aumar line shall outlive the Stag Throne'! That can only mean Athalantar won't survive without an Aumar as king… and yet ye ride away!"
Elminster gave the anxious old man a crooked smile. "While I live, the Aumar line lasts. Let this land grow in strength and happiness, as I hope to, in the days ahead."
Mithtyn said nothing, face troubled, but bowed low. They raised their hands to him in farewell, and rode away up the street in silence. As they went, the risen sun touched the rooftops with rose-red light. The old herald stared after them, still and silent.
They paused at the top of the lane. The hawk-nosed young man looked toward the old burial ground and said something to the tall lady who rode with him, pointing. The herald peered, trying to see what the prince who was giving up his kingdom had indicated… and could just make out a lump of cloth.
'Twas… a cloak, drawn over a sleeping man and woman. Mithtyn cleared his throat in embarrassment, but by then he'd recognized them: the smiling man called Farl and his lady, the beautiful little one. Aye, Tassabra, that was her name. And behind them, someone was sitting, staring right back at him! An elf! A tall, silent male elf, with a staff of wood across his knees… Mithtyn gulped, raised his hand in an awkward salute, and saw it returned.
Then the elf turned his head. Mithtyn looked in the same direction in time to see the prince and the-sorceress, if she wanted to be known so-vanishing around a corner behind the old stone of a proud house. When they were gone, Mithtyn shivered once. Then he turned back into the castle, his eyes wet with tears. He knew he'd not see anything of like importance for the rest of his days. Such knowledge is a heavy thing to bear early in the morning.
Perhaps after a good dawnfry, a few hot mugs, and his wife to tell it all to. Mithtyn hoped-not for the first time-he'd live long enough for his daughter to be old enough to heed, and hear, and appreciate what he told her. He'd tell her about this morning perhaps a hundred times.
As he crossed the courtyard, one of Helm's knights approached and hesitantly told the old herald what the Lady Myrjala had said about herself while dancing the night before. Mithtyn looked into the man's eyes and discovered he did have someone to tell about it, after all. He led Anauviir toward the kitchens, feeling much better.
*****
"Whither now?" Elminster asked, as Myrjala reined in where the trail crossed the shoulder of a little knoll west of the city. He looked around curiously; from Hastarl, one couldn't see this was a grave-knoll. A stone plinth stood within a low wall, overgrown with shrubs and low-branched trees that cloaked the stone from all but the closest eyes.
"In all your struggle, you've gained none of the spells wielded by the magelords," Myrjala replied. "As it befalls,