Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [136]
Noumea bowed her head. "You're right, I suppose. I have little love for war, and less skill at it." Sharantyr saw the movement; sight was coming slowly back to her. "So I've noticed, a time or two," Elminster said dryly. Noumea looked up at him quickly through wildly disarranged hair, anguish in her eyes. "Have I made many mistakes, Old Mage? Should I know better how to deal with this wild magic? Am I worthy to serve Our Lady at all?"
"Ye have done well-better than almost all of thy predecessors I have known. The Art needs thy caring, not brilliance of invention at spellcraft, or a lot of cold-hearted scheming and vain, spectacular spellcasting," Elminster replied gravely. "Ye continue to surprise and please us, Lady Magister. Ye cannot help who ye are, and ye have dealt well with what ye now are. Don't try to change thyself. It never works, and will make thee as unhappy as those ye mistreat in the trying."
Noumea beamed at him, damp-eyed but radiant. Then she sighed and said, "I must go, Elminster. There is so much to do. Art everywhere is awry. Without Mystra, all is in chaos. Hurry and give her power back to her, Old Mage."
"There is still a Mystra? Ye have spoken with her, then? Why has she not taken it, if she wants it?" Elminster asked sharply.
The Magister looked at him, her gentle face suddenly terrible in its fear. "I fear she cannot. She dare not speak to thee, for fear something will reach through her to snatch at the power you hold." She walked across the chamber, searching for something, and seemed to find it.
Stopping, she looked up at him through her long hair and said urgently, "Be very careful, Old Mage. Our Lady depends on you, and I cannot stay to guard you."
Elminster chuckled. "So ladies always seem to say to me, just when I'm hoping they'll stay for a time. Go with my good wishes, Lady Magister."
Noumea gave him an unsteady smile, stepped onto a stone that held a deep-graven rune, and vanished.
Elminster stared at where she'd been for a long time. Then he turned, looking old again, and walked across the floor to where Saharel had stood. He bent down in the darkness, and when he straightened again there was a pitiful, crumbling, charred skull in his hand.
The Old Mage looked at it, shook his head slightly, kissed it, and tucked it into his robe. Then he came back to Sharantyr. As he extended a hand to help her up, he managed a smile, but it faded quickly, leaving a face haunted by old memories and weariness.
"Old Mage?" she asked. "What now?"
"I know not," Elminster told her. "Where to run that other mages cannot follow? And who knows where the fallen gods may lurk in the Realms? If I meet with one, I cannot hope to survive any disagreement that may befall, and risk losing Mystra's power to the grasp of another. That, in turn, must not occur if the Realms as we know them are to weather this great storm."
He spread weary, empty hands, then suddenly brightened and hurried over to the rune Noumea had found.
"Hah!" he said happily, and Sharantyr's heart leapt. He was confident again, and she felt safe once more.
"We can use this," Elminster said in satisfaction. "Rouse the two snoring beauties, will ye?"
Sharantyr chuckled, shook her head, and went over to the still forms of the Harpers.
* * * * *
Storm drew in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and smiled.
"Well?" Jhessail and Lhaeo asked together, across the table. "What happened?"
The bard closed her eyes, still smiling, and said, "Manshoon died. Elminster lives."
"Manshoon destroyed? Elminster's work?" Storm shook her head. "He died, but he has worked at dark Art hidden since Netheril fell, and has other bodies to flee to. The Old Mage was there, but the magic that slew Manshoon was not his."
The bard trembled with weariness, and Jhessail laid a warning