Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [135]
Sharantyr felt fresh tears welling up in her eyes. The image of Noumea's shocked, wounded face would be with her forever.
Nothing should ever happen, to make folk look like that.
A burning rage began to build in her, bringing a lump to her throat. "Manshoon," she snarled through her teeth, "one day you'll pay for Saharel and all the other pain you've caused, if I have to cut my way through an army of your lackeys to get to you. This I swear."
Elminster turned to look at her. His face wore surprise and anxiousness, and just a hint of pity.
Sharantyr lay there in rising pain and gasped, "Don't look at me like that, El. I can… protect myself. I-I can stay on my feet long enough to cut down Manshoon, when my chance comes."
Elminster just shook his head and knelt to put the ring of regeneration back on her finger. "Oh, Sharantyr," he said softly. "There are such better things to do with thy life than to waste it in ending his." He stroked her hair, as Noumea came hesitantly closer. "I've lost Saharel- and others, before her-to him. Don't add thyself to his take. I need ye, lass."
He knelt then to kiss her cheek, and Sharantyr felt a wetness on her forehead as he straightened up again. A tear had fallen on her.
The Magister came to stand over them both. A blue-white glow was growing around her slim hands, and her eyes were very dark.
"Elminster," she said quietly, "I would heal thee, if I you would allow."
The Sage of Shadowdale peered up at her, beard bristling. He looked very old just then. "Do ye dare, Noumea?" he asked. 'The power I hold can be deadly to those who touch me with magic. One Zhent wizard died when he tried a stealspell on me."
He waved his charred hand at her. "Ye hold much of Our Lady's power. What if ye touch me with it and release what I hold? We could both be slain, and the Realms laid waste around us."
The Magister wavered, seeming a very frail and unsure young girl for a long breath.
Then she said, as quietly as before, "If that is the price, then let it be so. I would not want to live on as a mage if Mystra's power will let me topple towers, deal death, and blast apart peaks but not let me heal one I am honored to count as a friend, who has rendered this world such service as few understand and none I know can equal."
She faced him while Sharantyr clenched her hand around the familiar tingling of the ring and held her breath. Silence stretched.
Then Elminster thrust his charred hand toward her and said simply, "Thank you. Do it."
Noumea stepped forward, extending her own hand. The blue-white glow around it grew stronger. She reached out slowly.
They touched, and the radiance was suddenly blinding. Sharantyr closed her eyes, shaking her head against the searing white light in her head. She heard Noumea gasp raggedly, then hiss in pain. "Easy," Elminster rumbled, and Sharantyr heard the Magister moan in reply. She opened her eyes again but could see nothing.
She heard Noumea stagger backward, and heard the panting breaths that followed.
"By Our Lady," the Magister said unsteadily, "but that was close, as close to disaster as I ever want to be. I never knew… Art could… hurt so much."
"I did," Elminster said, and Sharantyr heard pride in his voice as he added, "I am pleased, indeed, Lady, that ye stood so much pain and stuck to thy task."
He chuckled. "I also find it hard to be displeased that thy task was to make me whole."
The Magister laughed then, a little unsteadily, and said, "I don't know if I'm strong enough, after this, to go chasing Manshoon."
Elminster shook his head. "Don't waste thy Art. Ye are so much better at healing and aiding, Noumea. Healers and helpers of power are so much rarer, in this and other worlds, than those who can rage and slay and lay waste with little effort. Manshoon will spend time now fending off rivals in his own Brotherhood who'll see his weakness as a chance to destroy or supplant him. Yet if ye go