Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [13]
Lady, why me?
An instant later, Elminster raised his head defiantly and looked about. Why? he thought, then answered his own question. Because, look ye, I was the best she could turn to. The best. No less.
So I carry her power within me. It has unmanned me, aye, but my wits are still my own, my strength-forgive me, Jhessail!-has not failed me… yet. I may be old, but I carry wisdom and experience more than most. I've seen what one can and cannot do with a blade, and can show most young swagger-swords a thing or two!
Perhaps I should seek out Storm and practice some blade work. But no. She also carries Mystra's burden. What if one or both of us were hurt by some mischance, or by the attack of a Manshoon or Ghalaster? What then? We'd perish, aye, but what of Mystra's spilled power? Lost to the Realms forever, perhaps blasting Shadowdale to dust on the way? Or stolen by a tyrant-mage to use as a whip to bring the Realms to their knees before his rule? No, that's out. Even meeting with others who bear the burden would be ill judgment, with all the foes I've made.
Storm abides in Shadowdale. I am too close to her already. Besides, the longer I tarry here, the more likely someone calling on me for aid will discover what has befallen me. When the word gets out, Shadowdale first, and then what I hold dear in the Realms, will be doomed as I am doomed. Absent, I remain a threat-someone who might return in fury to smite down any invader.
I must go. Slip away, and lose myself-forever, if my magic does not return. Whither, then?
* * * * *
There was a sudden burst of laughter around his very feet. Bewildered, Elminster looked down. He'd walked one of the narrow trodden paths that twist and cross in Shadowdale's backwoods like the web of some giant forest spider. The children he'd seen before, joined by several other dale urchins, had dashed about by other ways. At length and by chance, they'd met with him. Surprise and delight lit their voices as they crowded around his robes, patting and tugging.
Elminster managed a smile and found his gaze caught -and pulled in, as a fisherman drags close his catch-by a pair of very brown, very beautiful eyes. They belonged to a little girl, the one who'd earlier pretended to be the Simbul. Her hands and frock were dirty-she'd evidently fallen down or been pushed-and she was barefoot, but she drew herself up under his gaze with unconscious dignity. Her eyes alight with wonder, she crossed her arms on her breast and bowed from the waist as they did at court in Suzail and on the Sword Coast when meeting royalty.
Elminster stared down at her, oddly touched, his mouth curling in a smile. The bow had been done out of respect, not in the obsequious or emptily formal way he'd seen so often in real courts. He gave her the low, hand-sweeping bow of gallant knights in return, solemnly and with none of the archness with which he bowed to, say, Torm of the Knights in jest.
The girl was silent for a moment and then, very slowly, she blushed. Wonder sparkled in her eyes. She turned suddenly and made as if to dash away but halted, like a bird snagged upon a thorn, as another young voice rang out in protest.
"Jhaleen, you promised! You said you'd ask him! Well, here he is, so…"
The girl, her eyes very large, looked back at the boy who'd spoken and then at Elminster, like a trapped hare. Elminster smiled invitingly.
Jhaleen blurted out, "Lord Elminster! Old Mage! Make magic for us, please! Please!" A chorus of young voices joined her bold one, and she added excitedly, "A dragon flying. Only a little one, just for us!"
Elminster smiled, felt tears near again, and knelt down to embrace her. "Not this morn, little one," he said softly, his eyes very blue. "Magic must be saved up, like coins, and used only when other ways fail."
She blinked up at him, disappointed,