Shadows of Doom - Ed Greenwood [6]
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Sitting alone in the soft darkness, Elminster watched the stars slowly wheel overhead.
"I wonder," he said at last, aloud, "if every mage who strives with Art to change the world were swept away tomorrow, if it would make one breath of difference to the Realms."
"I know not," came a quiet reply from out of the night, "but it's never stopped any of us from trying."
Elminster nearly jumped right into the air. Heart racing, beard bristling, he contented himself with jerking around toward the voice as he flung away pipe and wineglass.
Delicate eyebrows arched. "I know I haven't done anything to my hair since this morning," Jhessail Silvertree asked calmly, "but do I really look that bad?"
"Mystra's mercies, lass! Must ye creep up on an old, enfeebled man like that?" Elminster sputtered, peering at his onetime pupil. Instead of her customary man's tunic and breeches, the Knight of Myth Drannor wore a dark, splendid gown. Her long hair, unbound, curled about her shoulders. Her eyes were very dark.
The lady Knight leaned close enough in the dimness for him to see her smile. "It certainly seemed effective," she agreed. "How are you tonight, Old Mage?"
Elminster sat very still. Then he said simply, "Not good."
"I know," Jhessail said softly, sitting down and wrapping smooth, strong arms around him. "It's why I've come."
"Ye know?" Elminster asked dully. Realizing how very much he needed the friendly warmth of arms about him just now, he slowly relaxed in her embrace.
Jhessail nodded, her hair brushing his cheek. "Storm sent me. Worry not; no others in this dale know." She snuggled closer. "Storm has two guests-Harpers-this night and thought you needed someone to hold you."
"Well," Elminster said dryly, "there's always Lhaeo."
"He's busy," Jhessail said, "getting out all your old clothes and wands and traveling boots, and cooking up a storm just in case."
"In case, good lady, of what?" Elminster asked rather testily.
"He knows how restless you are," Jhessail said gently. "Even if you're so shaken right now that I could walk right past you to the tower and back again without your noticing."
"Shaken?" Elminster suddenly found himself shouting, trembling in a red fury. He drew back a hand and hit out hard. "Have a care, wench!" he snarled. "I've-"
When he realized what he'd done, ice clutched at his spine, and the anger was suddenly gone. He was alone in black despair, sinking, and without magic. "Oh, gods, lass," he whispered roughly. "I'm sorry."
There was silence. She did not move.
"J-Jhessail?" the Old Mage asked almost frantically, "Have I hurt thee? I-Smite me with Art, I deserve it! I am most sorry, but I cannot undo what I've done. I deserve to make amends."
There was a soft chuckle in the darkness, a chuckle with a catch in it. Then Jhessail's arms went around him again. Elminster couldn't help noticing what a shockingly firm and heaving bosom pressed against him as warm lips kissed his cheek.
"Just had to catch my breath. You've a mean right arm, for all your years, Old Mage," Jhessail said happily into his chest. "I'm glad, not angry. It seems you'll be all right, after all."
"No," Elminster said miserably, "that's just what I won't be, lass. Without magic, I won't be all right ever again."
Jhessail kissed him full on the mouth, stopping his bitter words. "Ever notice," she said, a long breath later, "how some wizards think the sun rises and sets on their shoulders, and their feet hold the Realms together as they walk on it?"
Elminster, still reeling from the kiss, asked roughly, "What d'ye-? Are ye implying-?"
"No," Jhessail replied sweetly, "I'm saying it straight out. And more. I'm telling you to get up, help me find the glass and pipe you threw my way a little while ago, and go in and have dinner. Lhaeo's worried about you. I'm worried about you. And when I get home and Merith sees this magnificent