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"Dozens. Scores." The Old Mage shrugged. "We dwelt together in Waterdeep, one spring, when I had some business among the nobility of thy city: the house was mine, and a dozen lady adventurers took rooms there."

"A dozen, with one man—a wizard? Didn't folk talk?"

Elminster cocked one eyebrow. "Talk? Waterdeep must have changed more than I'd thought."

The white-bearded man below her seemed to shimmer, and suddenly Narnra was staring at a tall, willowy, high-bosomed woman with a steely gaze and an imperious grace that transcended the ill-fitting, none-too-clean old wizard's robes that hung upon her body. "Besides, we were a house of women," a softer, huskier version of Elminster's voice replied. The mists whirled about the woman, sparks flared, Narnra blinked—and the old wizard was standing below her once more.

Narnra drew in a deep breath. "And were you a woman all the time? Did you live with your renters, or did everyone keep to their own rooms and trust in locks?"

Elminster chuckled. "Ye sound like a disapproving priest, lass. Beyond the outside doors, there were no locks; the rooms were shared. Men—and women—were in and out, as is the normal way of things, and there were fights, and loving . . . and though I spent much of my time in other, grander houses, wearing other—and grander, if it comes to that—shapes, I lived with those ladies, yes."

"Slept with them?" Narnra asked sharply. "One Maerjanthra Shalace in particular?"

The Old Mage smiled. "Aye, and aye. This would have been forty-and-some summers back."

"You never saw her after that?"

"Nay, our paths crossed every few years, when I came to Water-deep for some purpose or other."

"My mother was your mistress?"

"No, I'd not put it that way—nor would she have done. She had her lovers, and I mine. We liked to talk and catch up on things for an evening, when the gods granted us time and chance."

Narnra glared at him. "When did you last . . . spend the night together?"

Elminster regarded her thoughtfully. " Twas either twenty or twenty-two years ago." A smile crossed his face. "Ye seem to be drifting into thinking I fathered ye. That ca

"Oh? How so?"

"Wizards are targets all their lives, lass . . . and all too vulnerable, most of the time. Bearing a child is no light thing to one who works magic, and becoming with child unintended can be deadly—not just to the babe and its mother. Magic can twist the unborn into monsters."

"Wherefore?"

"Wherefore most mages use magic to prevent what isn't wanted or know when 'tis safe to not take such trouble."

"Were you both 'most mages'?"

"Maerjanthra was. Stronger bonds are laid on me."

"'Stronger bonds'? What 'stronger bonds'?"

"Mystra, the goddess I serve, decides when her Chosen shall—"

Narnra's head swam.





Chosen? Then this could only be the Elminster.

Worse than that: at the sound of Elminster saying the divine name Mystra a blue-white fury of fire seemed to burst silently in Narnra's head—a conflagration that flew apart into seven whirling stars before she could even gasp.

They spun themselves into a circle, she had the impression of a gigantic but unseen feminine smile, and in the heart of the circle of stars a dark and long-hidden door seemed to fall open in her mind. Through it she heard Goraun chuckling to Jonczer, "Ah, Maerj tricked the Old Bearded One this time! I'm going to love seeing the look on his face when he finds out! Lord High-And-Mighty Blackstaff looked sick enough for the both of them when he came to the door. Aye, that was him—for once the tavern-lasses told you true! Seems Maerj went to him for a spell to let her have the Old Meddler's child under his nose, so to speak, and Khelben threw her out of his tower . . . only to come to the door like a beggar half a day later, with a face as long as last winter and a scroll in his hand. He said Divine Mystra herself granted—and commanded—it!"

Seven stars flashed, and that warm, impish smile came again, a thrill that left Narnra shivering, somehow. She found herself still floating in the mists, staring grimly down at the bright blue eyes and wry, smug smile of the white-bearded wizard.

So this, after all these years of wondering, was her father.

This old. smiling worm.

Elminster the Meddler. As powerful as a winter storm and as corrupt and willful as a Lord of Waterdeep. A man she could so easily despise or hate. The man whose magic was holding her captive and testing her words even now.

The man—her gaze went reluctantly to the inverted body of the Thayan, arms dangling, eyes dark and empty—whose magic could slice into her mind like a barber's razor, whenever he desired. Whenever he suspected she was hiding something of value from him.

The Silken Shadow clenched her hands so tightly that her fingernails pierced her palms. Blood welled out—and she clenched them all the tighter.

She must say nothing of Goraun's words and hope that Khelben and the goddess Mystra went right on keeping the secret they'd so obviously kept from Elminster of Shadowdale for longer than she'd been alive.

If they did not, he might destroy her or try to keep her captive to train and command her . . . and whatever he tried to do, half Faerun would come riding hard to take either her life or her freedom.

Narnra Shalace's days as a target would no doubt be all too short.

She'd always feared magic. All thieves do. Hated, feared, and mistrusted magic—how could any folk who lacked it not feel that way? Oh, the young gasped at its wonders when Watchful Order magists blasted things or cast illusions at festivals, but ... all that power. If it was ever turned against you . . .

And another thing: were she to be transformed with a wave of Mystra's hand into a mighty mistress of magic to overmatch Elminster himself, she'd still hate such a life. Being a thief was hard, chancy work—but it was hers, battles fought at her choosing, skills she'd won on her own, fresh challenges she set herself, excitement and independence and . . . and what she was used to.

"You old, lying bastard!" she spat, the words bursting out before she thought to stop them. "You toad! You smug, lecherous spell-tyrant!"

Elminster blinked up at her. "I've heard such words before, aye, and deserved many of them—though not from someone who knows me as little as ye do, lass. I'd thought we'd stopped all this hissing and snarling for the sheer dramatic effect of thy outrage. Why so hostile now, little one?"

"If you knew," Narnra hissed, voice trembling as she fought to master it. "If you only knew!"

Bright blue eyes narrowed. "Is there something I should be learning amongst your thoughts, daughter of Maerjanthra?"

The Old Mage raised one hand, and Narnra bit her lip and cursed herself for a fool. Doom and icy despair were upon her—and she'd called them down on herself with her own rage and over-loose tongue! Mask and Tymora and Mystra, all, hear me! Aid, if I can win one small shard of mercy! Hel—

As if the gods had heard her and made immediate answer, the cellar shook, tiny sizzling bolts of lightning washed across the ceiling, clawing and spitting, and the mists fell away—just like a bedsheet on a wash-line the Silken Shadow had once sliced with her knife. The Red Wizard fell with them, crashing limp and face-first to the stone floor.

Narnra was also descending, though it felt like drifting down through something soft and thick rather than falling. She was still well off the floor when Elminster spun around to face the cellar arch—and something obligingly appeared there.

Four somethings, actually: four pillars of whirling sparks that occurred quite suddenly, out of thin air, the writhing form of Caladnei of Cormyr in their midst. Dark figures stepped out of those sparks, gesturing in unison—and the Mage Royal's fiery bonds became four tethers that held her helpless between the four newcomers. Four bald, dusky-ski