Elminster's Daughter - Ed Greenwood [151]
It was the first time in years that Narnra Shalace could remember being truly happy.
"Forgive me," Myrmeen asked her politely across the table, "but I hear the swifter, harsher speech of Waterdeep on your tongue. What brought you to Cormyr?"
Narnra smiled. "I was thieving and followed a man I failed to rob, who intrigued me." She nodded across the room, to where a white-bearded wizard was gently spell-rocking a conjured cradle for Azoun Obarskyr and humming a nameless tune, while rubbing the feet of a bootless Storm Silverhand as she groaned in contentment. "Elminster of Shadowdale," Narnra explained, "who turned out to be my father."
"Elminster?" Myrmeen asked. "Your father?"
"Yes. Wherefore I happen," Narnra added, "to be one of the two or maybe three women in all Waterdeep who aren't breathtakingly beautiful."
"Well, luckily the gods didn't give you the worst of his hawk-nose-or his beard," Myrmeen chuckled. "I remember from my younger days that being stunningly gorgeous was more bother than it was fun-being as I wasn't an empty-headed, spiteful little bitch of a noble, looking to spend my days marrying one nobleman and bedding all the others after revels."
Narnra nodded, drew in a deep breath, and turned to Caladnei. "So now that you know all about me, will you still have me in your service? Or slay me?"
"Of course I'll still have you," Caladnei replied warmly, and turned her head to look at the Lady Laspeera. "As for why, you're the best one to make answer, Speera."
Laspeera nodded. "Narnra," she said gently, "I, too, am a daughter of Elminster. Welcome, sister. Truly, I am… and there are a lot of us."
"Myself, for instance," Queen Filfaeril said calmly, causing Cor-myrean jaws to drop all over the room. "Though neither of us knew it for some years."
"Gods," Myrmeen said, turning to gaze at the bearded man by the cradle. "You have been busy, haven't you?"
EPILOGUE
Humans like to mark endings-but such events are seldom the real end of any tale.
Amaelree Windhover
One Elfin Minstrels' Robes
Year of the Splendid Stag
Brine. This leaking cog was loaded with sides of pickled beef- bound for Sembia. Witch of the Dragon Waves, indeed. Harnrim Starangh sighed and hastened down the companionway. His spell would wear off in moments-if some vengeful War Wizard didn't trace him by it before then-and none of the other ships in Marsember were showing any signs of leaving soon.
He had to get out of Cormyr. With but three spells left to him-and certain superiors among the Red Wizards certain to be looking for him with even more fury than these law-mages of the Forest Kingdom-the mighty Darkspells was going to have to vanish for a while. Perhaps for a long while.
He had been close. So close…
Harnrim Starangh permitted himself a single soft but heartfelt curse before he worked the magic that would turn him into a ballast-stone… and toppled into the filthy water of the bilges.
* * * * *
Glarasteer Rhauligan was in no mood for delay. His burden had fainted as he'd carried her along dark and secret tunnels from the portal. The palace room they were in now was off limits to all but War Wizards, who were lazyrobes all, which meant that instead of a lantern that had to be lit, there'd be a hooded glowstone right about- here.
In the revealed radiance the Highknight selected a row of steel vials from one of the crammed shelves and started biting off their corks. Why they couldn't make these so they were easy to open one-handed, he'd never know.
He forced three of them down Noumea's lovely throat before her eyes fluttered open and her flank ceased to feel like… well, like some butcher of a nobleman with a sharp sword had slit it open.
"T-Thank you, sir," she murmured, staring at