Elminster's Daughter

Caladnei caught them at about the time a dozen War Wizards burst into the room—and came to a confused halt as the Mage Royal of Cormyr flung up her hand in a 'stop' gesture. "Out, all of you," she said firmly. "My apologies for the upset of being summoned at such an hour for nothing. Go back to your posts."

"Mage Royal, forgive me," one of the older men said gravely, "but—"

"My mind is my own, thanks, Velvorn. I'm neither enchanted nor coerced by my guest, here. He has merely reminded me of my duty to Cormyr. Please go."

Leather breeches landed in Caladnei's lap, and a tunic struck her face a moment later. Velvorn lingered for a breath or two longer, perhaps to enjoy either the scenery or the sight of a Royal Magician catching clothes with her face, then wheeled around and started to shoo away all the War Wizards who'd crowded into the doorway to stare.

When he was done, he turned on the threshold with a clear question in his eyes—but closed the door at an imperious gesture from the Mage Royal.

Caladnei sighed. "Well, my loyal mages will certainly be able to recognize me now from any angle, with or without clothes."

Elminster turned from the wardrobe with a vest in his hands and grunted, "My apologies, lass. Sometimes haste is needful, and I didn't want to harm or humiliate dozens of War Wizards trying to get to you, a few hours hence." He shook out the vest, laid it on the bed, and turned his back. "I see ye're wise enough to keep thy hair gathered, so as to get up and about the swifter."

"I was too tired to remember to take it off," Caladnei admitted, reaching up to touch the ribbon at the back of her neck. She rose from the bed, long-limbed and slender. "No underclout?"

Elminster shrugged. "Ladies never wore them in my day."

Caladnei arched an eyebrow. "That tells me more about the company you kept, Lord Elminster, than it does about fashion—all those centuries ago, when you still looked at ladies."

The Old Mage chuckled, back still turned, but several un-derthings gently floated off a wardrobe shelf and past him. Caladnei selected one with the dry observation, "Ah, I see you know what they look like."

"I observe women still. Ladies, not so many."

The Mage Royal made a rude sound, dressed in whispering haste—a belt floated into her hand just as she found herself lacking it—and asked, "Should I take wands, expecting battle?"

"Nay. If ye should need them where we're going next, 'tis more than mere treason the realm need worry about."

Caladnei laid a tentative hand on Elminster's shoulder—then snatched it back. The Old Mage turned. "Fear ye'll catch something?"

The Mage Royal's eyes were doe-brown once more. "No," she replied. "I ... I just wanted to touch you and live to tell the tale. Some say you're . . ."

"Afire with Mystra's power? A rotting lien whose joints crackle with sorcery? A shapeshifting, counterfeit creature who devoured the real Elminster long ago? Those're usually the most popular rumors."

Caladnei blushed, and then lifted her chin. "I've heard all of those, yes. Where are you taking me?"

"Stag Steads."

The Mage Royal arched the same eyebrow that had lifted before then turned to one of her bedposts, did something that swung aside a little curved door to reveal a cavity, drew forth two wands in a scabbard that she strapped to her forearm, and turned back to fix Elminster with a defiant look.

The Old Mage merely shrugged. "Ye must do what ye think wisest." He reached out his hand to her.

Caladnei eyed him. "The wisest thing to do now," she said calmly, "would be to flee you, not take your hand."

Elminster nodded. "True." He took a step closer and offered his hand again. With a sigh, she took it—and was instantly elsewhere.

An elsewhere that sported many leaves, dappled in the bright light of dawn. Caladnei blinked and stared all around, knowing by the view that she stood on a back porch of the hunting lodge in the heart of the King's Forest.

"How did you do that? No word nor gesture—" A round door set deep into the moss-covered bank behind them burst open, and a blade thrust out through it—straight through Elminster. Twice it thrust then slashed sideways, cutting freely through the Old Mage as if he were but empty air.

"Caladnei!" The dark-haired woman behind the blade was angry. "You've got to stop scaring me like this! I thought this was some archwizard holding you captive, not your own clever illusion!"

"Mreen," the Mage Royal said quickly, holding up a quelling hand. "This is—"

"Oh, gods" the Lady Lord of Arabel gasped, her sword sinking forgotten in her hand.

Elminster had turned around to face her. "Forgotten me so soon, Mreen? And something so basic as an ironguard spell, or—ahem—mine own modifications to it?"

Flecks of gold flashed in Myrmeen Lhal's deep blue eyes as she stared back at him with more than a hint of defiant challenge in her gaze. The white lines of fresh scars crossed on her hands, and one scar adorned a cheek that had been unmarked when last the Old Mage had seen her—but her figure in her leather armor was as trim as ever. Her glossy, almost blue-black hair held no gray—but there were two lines of white at her temples, where there'd been only youthful darkness before.

"El," she said slowly, grounding her blade, "you chase trouble across Faerun like a stormbird. I give you good greeting but with wariness: Why come you here?"

"To see the Crown Princess ye're trying to keep hidden behind thy shapely shoulders," the archmage replied, one corner of his mouth quirking into a smile that was almost hidden by his beard. "Ye should all hear this, mind, for it concerns the realm entire."

"Elminster of Shadowdale," the Steel Regent said calmly from the darkness inside the hill, "be welcome in Cormyr. Come in and unfold the bad news. Wine? Morning broth?"

"Thank ye, but—no. Ye still know how to tempt a man, lass."

Alusair Nacacia gri

The princess was tangle-haired and barefoot, evidently just risen from slumber. She wore only a large, fluffy robe, but her sword gleamed ready in her hand. Its scabbard lay upon a round stone table beside her flagon of steaming broth. Elminster sniffed appreciatively then shook his head and sat down. His stomach promptly rumbled.

Alusair gri

"So talk, wizard," Alusair commanded. Caladnei and Myrmeen both stiffened in apprehension, but Elminster merely chuckled.

"By the first Mystra and the second, but ye sound like thy father, lass!" He stretched, leaned back, and added gruffly, "Ye truly don't want to know what Vangey's been up to, but as Regent ye'd best know anyway, so long as ye've the sense not to tell anyone."

Alusair rolled her eyes and growled in mock anger.

Elminster gave her a grin to match her earlier ones. "Well then, to put it plainly: My onetime pupil and thy former Mage Royal is trying to complete a magical task that's very important to him, ere he dies. Ye might say he's putting the last of his life into it and is fiercely set upon it."

"And this task would be—?" the Steel Regent growled.

"None of ye three need me to remind ye that the Lords Who Sleep bide in armed slumber to guard Cormyr no longer. Well, Vangey seeks to replace them."

Alusair's eyes blazed. "With whom?"

"Dragons. Thy retired Royal Magician seeks to bind some great wyrms in stasis to defend the kingdom of Cormyr against any other attacking dragon, or the whelming of a rebel host, or an invading army from, say, Sembia or from the Zhentarim or some other grasping power."

Shock shone white on three female faces.

"Without telling us?" Alusair barked.

At the same time Myrmeen burst out, "This could imperil the realm as gravely as did the Devil Dragon!"