Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [50]
Its cruel claws passed right through the old man, and then faded away as the last links of the Chain of Binding burst. Blood spattered on the stone floor far below.
Leaving the corpses hanging in grisly array, the Magister turned to regard the youth crouched watching in the surviving corner of the balcony. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes as they met Elminster's awed gaze. "Are you a magelord, boy, or a servant of this house?"
"Neither." Tearing his gaze free with an effort, Elminster leapt from the balcony, landing hard on the blood-spattered stones below. The old man's eyes narrowed, and he lifted a finger. A wall of flames sprang up in a ring around the thief, who spun around, the sharpened stub of an old war-sword suddenly in his hand.
Fear lent Elminster anger; his voice trembled with both as he faced the old man standing on air above him. "Can ye not see I'm no wild-spells wizard? Are ye no better than these cruel mages who rule Athalantar?" He waved his blade at the roaring flames around him. "Or are all who wield magic so twisted by its power that they become tyrants who delight in maiming, destroying, and spreading fear among honest folk?"
"Are you not-with these?" the Magister asked, spreading his hand to indicate the bodies hanging silently around him.
"With them?" Elminster spat. "I fight them whenever I dare-and hope one day to destroy them all so men can walk Athalantar free and happy again!" His face twisted at a sudden thought. "I sound a bit like a high minstrel, don't I?" he added, more quietly.
The Magister regarded him thoughtfully. "That's not a bad way to think," he said quietly, "if you survive the dangers of talking the same way." A sudden smile lit his face, and Elminster found himself smiling back.
Unseen by them both, down the hall, a pair of eyes appeared amid swirling points of light, in the flames flickering around the canted wreckage of the collapsed feast-table. They watched the boy and the floating mage, and looked thoughtful.
"Can ye really see all that men are, and think?" Elminster asked, awkwardly blurting out the question.
"No," the Magister replied simply. His old brown eyes looked down into unflinching blue-gray ones as he made the crackling wall of flames die away to nothing.
Elminster looked once to see what had befallen, but made no move to flee. Standing on the rubble-strewn, blood-spattered floor, he looked back up at the old wizard. "Are ye going to blast me or let me go?"
"I have no interest in destroying honest folk-and very little at all in the affairs of those who have no magic. I see you have mage-sight, lad… why don't you try your hand at sorcery?"
Elminster gave him a dark look. His voice was scornful as he said, "I've no interest in such things, or in becoming the sort of man who wields magic. Whenever I look upon mages, I see snakes who use their spells to make folk fear them-like a whip to drive others to obey. Hard, arrogant men who can take a life, or-" he raised hard eyes to look at the destruction all around; the eyes watching from the flames shrank down to avoid notice-"destroy a hall in a few breaths, and not care what they've done, so long as their whims are satisfied. Leave me out of the ranks of wizards, lord."
Then, staring up at the old man's calm face, Elminster knew sudden fear. His words had been harsh, and the Magister was a mage like any other. The mild old eyes, though, seemed to hold… approval?
"Those who don't love hurling power make the best mages," the Magister replied. His eyes seemed suddenly to bore deep into Elminster's soul like seeking, darting things, and sadness was in his voice again as he added, "And those who live by stealing almost always rob themselves of their own lives, in the end."
"The taking gives me no pleasure," Elminster retorted. "I do it to have enough to eat-and to strike against the magelords where and when I can."
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