Elminster_ The Making of a Mage - Ed Greenwood [66]
The bridal garter was exquisite, a little thing of lace and silken ribbon. Impishly, Elminster reached down and stroked it.
Take it, as a trophy? But no-he was a thief no more.
Shandathe stirred as she felt the light touch high on her thigh. Yet deep in dreams, she stretched out a hand to the familiar warm and hairy bulk of Hannibur, snoring as deep as any drunken tavern-singer could. As Elminster smoothed her new bridal garter back into place where Hannibur had tied it on her hip, she smiled but didn't awaken.
Elminster noted other gifts, too: a stout cudgel and a new apron lying on the carpet on Hannibur's side of the bed… and the hilt of a dagger protruding, like a winking eye, from beneath Shandathe's pillow.
He laid his bridal gift carefully between them. It was a tight fit between the smooth flank and the hairy one, and it took all his thiefly skills to avoid a clink and rattle as he slid the coins into a smooth sweep of gleaming gold from end to end of the bed. When he'd crammed in all the regals he dared, there were still over a dozen left. He laid the last of his belated bridal gift gently on Shandathe's belly, and left hastily as the touch of cold metal made her stir in earnest.
*****
Selune was riding high in the deep blue sky over Hastarl as Elminster stood on a rooftop, looking across the empty, silent street at the crumbling front of the disused temple of Mystra.
The place was dark and decaying, and from where he stood Elminster could see the massive lock on the door. The mage-lords, it seemed, didn't want anyone in Hastarl worshiping the Mistress of All Magic but themselves-and they could do that in the safety and privacy of their own tower inside Athalgard. Yet they hadn't dared desecrate Mystra's temple.
Perhaps their power was rooted in it, and striking here could shake their mastery of sorcery and their grip on the realm. Perhaps he could force Mystra's hand, just as she had forced his when she let his parents be slain. Or perhaps, Elminster admitted to himself as he stared at the temple, he was just weary of doing nothing that mattered, wasting days on rooftops, looking for a chance to steal this bauble or that. Wizards might not dare desecrate Mystra's temple, but Elminster would. Tonight. The world-or at least Athalantar-would be a much better place without any magic at all.
Destroying one temple, though, could hardly hope to do that. But perhaps it might bring down Mystra's curse on the city, so no wizards could work magic within its walls. Or perhaps the temple held some item of magic he could use against the wizards. Or perhaps it just held his death. Any result would be welcome.
Elminster eyed the shabby, peeling paint and the motionless stone bat-things adorning both front corners of the roof. They clutched the tops of the temple's front pillars with many claws, and their beaks hung open hungrily. They did not glow under his mage-sight-but perhaps the magical gargoyles minstrels sang of didn't glow… The only magic he could see was lower down, and visible to all. Faintly glowing letters over the doors spelled out the words "I Am the One True Spell."
Elminster shook his head, sighed, and began the climb down from the rooftop. Revenge, it seemed, was a demanding business.
He could see no spells on the lock, and it surrendered easily to his metal probes; Farl had taught him well. Elminster looked up and down the silent street one last time, and then eased the door open, stood for a few breaths in its shadow to let his eyes adjust to the darkness, and slipped inside, dagger ready.
Dust and empty darkness. Elminster peered in all directions, but there didn't seem to be any furnishings in the temple of Mystra, only stone pillars. Cautiously he stepped sideways until he was well away from the door-traps were usually right in front of doors-and stepped forward.
Something was not right about this place. Oh, aye, he'd expected to feel watched, his skin creeping