Elminster's Daughter

Two humans were standing there now: figures that had simply appeared there out of what minstrels were wont to call "empty nowhere" moments before, without any fuss of flowering magic or deadly struggles of climbing.

The wind moaned in a deadly rising, whipping the tattered black robe one of them wore up into a most immodest flapping, but she stood unconcernedly—showing no signs of struggling for balance or feeling the icy wind-chill—side by side with a figure who spat out the end of his beard for the third time and muttered a small, sharply worded magic to keep it down.

The Simbul gri

"Presume to alter the fashion statement of a woman who's also a queen? I'm widely considered a meddling fool, Lady Fire, but I'm not that much of a meddling fool."

Though the sorceress no more than smiled fondly, merry laughter rolled around the summit, shaking Tharbost and setting some of its rocks to singing out echoes.

THIS IS WHAT I MISS MOST ABOUT LAYING ASIDE MORTALITY, Mystra told them a trifle sadly, when she'd mastered her mirth. NO ONE TEASES ME.

Elminster lifted his head, grin widening—and his beard promptly flew up into his face to forestall whatever he'd been going to say.

NO, OLD MAGE, THAT WAS NOT A REQUEST FOR YOU TO START DOING SO. HEAR AND BELIEVE. As a coda to that emphatic statement, Elminster's beard slapped down to its tamed position once more.

The Simbul promptly burst into laughter at his revealed expression, so it was left to the long-suffering onetime Prince of Athalantar to observe, "Ye ca

OF COURSE. WHENEVER POSSIBLE—ALASSRA SILVERHAND, HEED ME TRUE!—YOU ARE TO SUBVERT RED WIZARDS RATHER THAN SLAUGHTER THEM.

The Simbul lifted an eyebrow. "'Subvert'?"

LAY DEEP-MIND SUGGESTION SPELLS TO GENTLY NUDGE THE THAYANS INTO ACTING AS I DESIRE THEM TO. SOME WILL YET HAVE TO BE SLAIN, BUT TOO MANY HAVE A CAPACITY TO CRAFT NEW MAGICS AND EXPAND MORTAL USE OF THE WEAVE, TO LOSE THEM ALL.

"I hear and obey," the Simbul said formally, bowing her head. "In truth, my ... bloodlust when it comes to Red Wizards increasingly frightens me. I'll stay my hand and do as you command. Guide me as to the actions you want them steered into."

"I hear and obey," Elminster echoed, "and will do the same. Command and guide us."

I SHALL. THANK YOU.

The rising wind whistled around them, heard but unfelt. It whipped away their breath in long, fleeting plumes as the Chosen waited, finding themselves after some dozen plumes had raced away east still standing on the desolate mountaintop, beneath a sky of uncaring stars.

"There's more, Divine One," Elminster observed calmly, not leaving it as a question.

The rocks around them seemed to sigh. YES.

YES, THERE IS. The wind moaned higher. MOMENTS LIKE THAT MOOT IN THE CELLARS MAKE ME FEEL VERY . . . MORTAL AGAIN. UNCERTAIN. UNSETTLED.

The wind slackened, and after a moment Mystra spoke again. HOW WELL ... IN YOUR HONEST, BLUNT JUDGMENT, BOTH OF YOU, SPEAKING FREELY WITHOUT FEAR OF ... REPRISAL . . . HOW AM I DOING?

Elminster and the Simbul turned their heads and traded sober glances, there in the whistling wind, and it was Elminster who spoke, his voice gentle.

"In this we are both agreed, Most Mighty," he told the empty, echoing air around him. "Considering how we two, who have wielded some measure of the power ye hold for hundreds of years longer than ye have existed, so often mess up: fine. Just fine."

* * * * *

A bobbing barge saved her. She leaped, landed hard, and skidded across its damp roof just slowly enough to kick up ... and out . . . gaining the height she needed to cross a widening stretch of inky water and crash heels-first onto the already-battered rail of a barge littered with heaps of rusty chain, garbage, crab sink-cages, and a tangle of rotting nets—startling into cursing wakefulness the three filthy beggars sleeping thereon—and vault over its massive dragger-arm, onto the next island.

Where the Silken Shadow ducked into an alley and raced along, crouching low and coming to a cautious, creeping halt at its far end, which—as she'd correctly guessed—was also the other side of the isle. The bridge onward, to a much larger island that would give her a choice of routes toward the true shore, was only a few ru

She crouched tensely, knowing she hadn't much time before the pursuit caught up with her. Mantle of Mystra, but she couldn't even count how many teleporting War Wizards and as-good-as-she-was-probably-better Harpers were down there—what if that Mage Royal sent them all after her?

Ironically, it was Glarasteer Rhauligan himself who saved her. He came bounding up to the top of the steps, puffing a little, and called an alarm to the guard, asking if he'd seen a lone lass in dark leathers and a mask ru

The startled guard stepped out to make reply. Narnra darted from behind him like an eager arrow and was halfway across the bridge before Rhauligan saw her and roared a warning in earnest.

A lantern glimmered as it was raised at the far end of the bridge—a simple, mist-slick stone arch—in the gloved hand of an armored guard who seemed to have brought several dozen of his fellows along with him. Narna cursed and sprang over the side of the bridge without slowing.

The water was as icy as it was filthy, and she came up clawing her way free of floating debris better not seen, and hauled herself around the bow of a barge that had been moored so long that weeds had grown themselves a curtain on its chains. Something nosed against and nibbled at her boot underwater. She kicked out in fear and revulsion, felt something solid flinch away, and clambered up out onto another dock as if all the gods themselves were clutching at her.

A guard called out to his fellows, somewhere nearby in the mist-curling darkness. Narnra cursed savagely and silently—and swarmed up the nearest crumbling wall, moments before a spear-point came jabbing after her.

Loose, rotting shingles slipped and slid under her feet, pulling something in her thigh with a sickening jolt of pain, then she was away through an exhausting and seemingly endless labyrinth of slick rooftops, mist, more rooftops, more crumbling walls, and desperate leaps across narrow, stinking canals.

When a particularly long leap drove her breath from her and left her curled and gasping around an ornamental stone spire someone had thoughtfully carved jutting up from a roof-edge, Narnra Shalace took the time to catch her breath, rub at her leg, wince, and turn to notice two things.

At some point in her frantic flight, she'd well and truly reached the mainland, crossing several streets of what must be the city of Marsember. More importantly, the Harper who'd dared to bandy words with that fearsome Queen of Aglarond—Glar-something Rhauligan, that was his name—had followed her in her mad leaps and sprints all this way across the rooftops and was in sight of her now, jumping easily across an alley not three rooftops back!

"Mask and Tymora, aid me!" Narnra hurled that snarled prayer up at the few stars she could see glimmering through the chill, thickening mists, and ran on, kicking her leg to loosen the muscles, within, that were giving her pain. Yes, it was hurting less, but . . .

She scaled a roofpeak and slid down the far side, noting grimly just how far she'd have to leap to avoid a bone-shattering fall into the street below.

In mid-leap she had a momentary glimpse of a sleepy apprentice reaching out to fasten the shutters of his high window, seeing her, and freezing the moment he got his mouth open to gape at her—then she was past, slamming into the roof above the dumbstruck apprentice with her knees and elbows. Tiles broke and skittered away down the roof under her as she slid a little way, got her boot onto the dormer root just above the apprentice, stopped her fall, and doggedly climbed back up and over this roofpeak. As she went over, she risked a glance back over her shoulder.