Elminster's Daughter - Ed Greenwood [141]
Storm set aside her harp and swung herself through the window, floating gently down to join her unexpected guest. She made an intricate one-handed gesture as she descended, awakening an unseen magic that seemed to satisfy her. Her next gesture made the flames sink away to nothingness.
"Be welcome, Lord Sage," she said politely. "Will you stay, take shelter, and dine? I've pheasant roasting over one hearth and a cauldron of rabbit stew a-building in the other."
"Thank you, Lady Silverhand. I cannot say what my reply to your kind offer will be until I have your decision as to my… burden."
"The king you're hiding under your cloak? He's right welcome, too," Storm said dryly. "I'll endeavour to keep you both safe-and unseen. No doubt some in Cormyr would be quite upset to learn you're here, and others… would become all too eager."
Alaphondar's smile was rueful. "Lady, you state matters very well. I'll stay if you'll have me. How strong are your wards?"
Storm's smile was broader than his. "I am a Chosen of Mystra," she reminded him gently. "Take off your boots, soak your feet in yonder oil, and let me have a good look at the next scourge of womanhood in the Heartlands."
Alaphondar winced. "Lady…" he started to protest then fell silent.
"I have my own reputation," Storm replied, "remember? Which reminds me: How is Fee?"
Alaphondar winced again. "Harpers see all, indeed. My royal lady was well and happy when we parted some hours ago. I hope-oh, gods, I hope-that I shall see her so again, soon."
"You," Storm said, sliding an arm around his shoulders, "need a drink. Sit you down, and I'll get a scrying-crystal-and you can watch over Filfaeril whenever you desire. Now, off with those boots, and haul forth young Azoun before he suffocates under that dirty old cloak of yours!"
* * * * *
Narnra shook her head at the dusty stacks of parchment and books crowding all around her and seemed eager to escape to the spartan, less-cluttered kitchen, where a pass of Elminster's hand made the hearthfire rise under a kettle. The Old Mage pointed at a shelf. "Teas. Choose."
Narnra dubiously examined the jars thereon. "Dragonskull?"
"Just a little," Elminster replied. "Powdered fine, of course."
Narnra gave him an incredulous look. "So what," she asked chal-lengingly, "dare I assume is in tea labelled 'Finest Thayan She-Slave Skin'-as this jar is?"
"One of Lhaeo's little jests. I'm sure it's far from the 'finest' skin."
Narnra sighed, shook her head and defiantly held out the Thayan jar to Elminster. He took it without a word.
Silence stretched between them-enlivened by the climbing cry of the kettle-until Narnra became restless.
"So impart," she said, peering around the little kitchen, "some of that dusty old advice you spoke of."
"We all have to die and can take nothing of mortal riches or power with us," Elminster replied promptly. "I've died several times already-and on at least two occasions started over with nothing, not even my name. So unless the cold decay of undeath beckons ye, remember, it ends for us all. What matters is what we do with the brief time we have."
"Yourtime hasn't been so brief," Narnra flared.
Elminster bowed his head. "That is my curse."
Narnra stared at him then folded her arms and asked, "Why did you leave my mother?"
Elminster stepped forward to take hold of her shoulders. They stared into each other's eyes, noses only inches apart.
"Lass," he said gently, "just being near me gets folk killed. I speak now not of foes I smite or fools who make reckless attempts to exploit my power or presence to further their own dangerous causes, but folk who simply get in the way or come to the notice of those who love me not. I know of-and knew well-over two hundred 'hes' and 'shes' of all the lands and races ye could think of who died in torment because some more powerful foe thought I might have given something or told something of importance