Elminster's Daughter

Caladnei swore, "Mother Mystra!"

Elminster smiled gravely around the table and thrust out his hand to catch hold of Alusair's blade before she could smash it down on the stone table in rage. She struggled against his strength in vain for a trembling, throat-straining moment then sat back dumbfounded.

"Magic," he explained with a wry smile, handing her blade to her. The princess snarled and snatched it up, whirling it back to bring it shattering down on the stone—then stopped in midair, matched his smile bitterly, slid it into its sheath instead, and laid that on the table with deft and delicate care.

"So," she said, letting her breath out in a long sigh, "suppose, old meddling wizard, you tell us a little more about this idiocy—just so I know what to say when I go storming into Vangey's little hidden haven to tie his ears together under his chin and charge him with treason!"

Elminster's smile grew wider and more crooked. "Ah, the spirit that has carried Cormyr into the mess 'tis in today. Temper, lass, temper."

"Old Mage," Myrmeen put in calmly, "the Steel Regent is not the only one to be shocked, dismayed, upset, and furious. I believe I speak for both myself and Caladnei when I say that we, too, are on the verge of boiling over at this news. Pray grant the request of the Crown Princess: Tell us more."

Elminster nodded. "Excellent broth," he told Alusair brightly, earning another glowering growl.

He winked and said quietly, " 'Tis probably no news to inform thee that acting alone and in secrecy is the way of mages. Let me impart a reminder and a tutor's judgment. The former: Vang-erdahast serves the realm first and its rulers second. The latter: Thy retired Royal Magician learned long ago, to his cost, to trust no-one."

"To his cost? What cost?" Caladnei asked sharply.

"His broken heart, the lives of more than a dozen nobles, both loyal and rebel, and three abiding perils to the realm," Elminster replied. "Ask him if ye'd know more—for I've more important •words for ye three."

"Oh?" the Crown Princess asked icily. "There's more?"

"Advice, lass, advice. A warning, if ye will. To reveal Vangey's plan to others—to anyone, even Filfaeril—will be to risk rumor of it getting out and endangering the realm by luring wizards hither."

Myrmeen wrinkled her brow. "Dragon collectors?"

"Those who seek the spells Vangerdahast is crafting—spells they can't help but see that he must craft, to find success—to bind and command dragons. Some will see deeper and know that Vangey draws on the last of his life to power such spells. They will see him weak, and dying soon—perhaps sooner, if they can catch him at work and unprepared for battle. Then the realm will be theirs to plunder of magic—his caches, at least—or try to rule, through alliances with the more traitorous nobles . . . and suchlike mischief all of ye should be more than familiar with."

The three women looked back at Elminster, shock and anger gone. Their faces now held frowns of thoughtfulness. After a moment, they all started to speak at once. Before any of them could form a single whole word, they fell abruptly silent again, gesturing at each other to speak first.

It was Caladnei who did so. "As Mage Royal," she said, lips thin with determination, "I must deal with this. Mine is the duty and the skill—however slight, when set against Lord Vangerdahast's— at magecraft. This doom is mine."

"I ... you're right, Gala," Princess Alusair said reluctantly. "Though it feels like I'm sending you to your death."

"As it happens," Elminster said brightly, setting down his nearly empty flagon, "Mystra commanded me to deal with this. Knowing both thy duties and how ye'd feel about being left out, I came to collect and bring ye along—the Mother of All Magic being of like mind."

"Well, if you're collecting women to come watch you swat Vangerdahast," the High Lady of Arabel spoke up, "I insist on coming along too. I don't want to miss seeing Old Haughty get his—and someone besides magic-crazed wizards should be present, to witness fairly and to report back to the Crown."

Alusair nodded. "Well said, Mreen. Old Mage?"

Elminster smiled. "If Myrmeen Lhal desires to come along, then so she shall, in all the safety I can provide."

Abruptly, his seat was empty. He, Caladnei, and Myrmeen were simply gone from the room.

Crown Princess Alusair Nacacia Obarskyr gaped at their empty seats then sprang to her feet, snatching up her scabbarded sword, and snarled, "Elminster? Caladnei?"

There was no answer but faint birdsong from outside. The Steel Regent threw back her head and let her fury pour out in a wordless roar. No chance to privately confer with Cala or Mreen, no chance for them to prepare gear or make arrangements! The scheming old bastard!

She smashed the nearest door open and strode out into the forest, striding hard. Her scabbard whirled back in her wake, almost slapping handsome young Lord Malask Huntinghorn across the face. He blinked, came out of his doorguard's stance, and started after the Crown Princess.

Ducking around wildly waving branches and swaying saplings, he reached a dense thicket in time to see Alusair hiss out a stream of curses he was glad he couldn't quite catch and reduce a defenseless sapling to kindling with a few furious slashes of her sword.

Throwing back her head to shake the hair out of her eyes, she strode purposefully to the next sapling. Malask Huntinghorn swallowed, drew in a deep breath, and performed the bravest act of his young life, thus far ... perhaps his last brave act ever.

"Princess," he said firmly, striding forward to catch at her swor-darm, "that tree deserves to live, just as you or I do. The living green heart of the realm, as Lord Alaphondar often reminds us, is its trees. I don't think you should—"

Princess Alusair spun around far more swiftly than she'd ever done when making love to him—faster than any battle-knight of the realm he'd ever seen—and pounced on the scion of House Huntinghorn, flinging her blade away to punch, kick, and claw.

Malask found himself on his back, winded and with a fierce pain in his shoulder where he'd fetched up against a tree-root—and even sharper pains erupting in his gut and ribs as the Regent of Cormyr slammed her fists home, snarling and shouting in fury.

He was suddenly very glad indeed that he'd do

"M-my Queen, I—"

"I'm not your damn queen or anyone's queen, Lord Lummox! I'm a warrior who feels great need of a sparring partner, right now! Hit me, you great lump of cowering man-flesh!"

Malask swallowed, closed his eyes against a punch that almost closed one of them for him, and reluctantly thrust one arm up and out. She swatted it aside, bruisingly, and belted him across the nose.

"Aaargh!" he roared, eyes streaming as the pain stung him into trying to twist and roll out from under her. "Gods, you've probably broken it, Luse! I'll look like some sort of country straw-butt lout for the rest of my life!" He shielded his dripping nose with one hand, wincing and blinded by tears.

"Well, why not? You are a country straw-butt lout!"

With a roar, Malask Huntinghorn forgot all about duty, princesses, treason, royal persons, and how soft and ardent this particular royal person had felt on occasion—and lashed out with a roundhouse swing that had all of his pain and anger behind it.

There was a grunt, a sudden loss of weight atop his hip, and silence.

He blinked, swallowed, and knuckled his eyes feverishly to clear them. "Luse? Luse?"