Elminster's Daughter

Pheldemar Daunthrae stood in the guardroom, slightly out of breath and sporting the begi

Huldyl eyed it then looked up at its bearer. "Some sort of fight?"

"We've lost about eight of the sentinel horrors, as far as I can tell," the older War Wizard reported tersely. "Intruders—at least two, though I saw only one of them. Didn't look like warriors or mages or—or anything except Marsemban merchants, actually. They were carrying some sort of enchanted blast-bombs."

"Bombs?"

"Throw one, hit helmed horror, horror blows apart. Little circular silver disc-things, with runes on them in Thayan or some other Eastern script. No fuse, no trigger words, just throw, hit, and—boom!"

"They got away, these intruders, without leaving any of these, ah, bombs behind?"

"I found one, tried it out, cost us a horror. One of them got stu

"Eight sentinels? Gods forfend."

Pheldemar nodded grimly. "Possibly just a foray to damage as many sentinels as possible, but if they'd been carrying sacks of these bomb-things and I hadn't come to see, they might have blasted their way right to Lord Vangerdahast's front door."

Rauthur nodded. "Certainly seems a determined attempt to reach the sanctum. The Highknights must be told."

"Aye. Shall I—?"

"If you would, yes—and have Thaerma take a look at you before you seek rest, just in case they did you some harm you haven't noticed yet. Those bruises look nasty."

"Thaerma? Go back to the Court?"

"Oh, yes, I think so," Rauthur replied, in tones that made it clear he was issuing an order. "Tamadanther took over your duty-guard as usual?"

"Aye," Pheldemar growled, departing with a none-too-pleased look on his face.

"Come, come!" Huldyl said jokingly. "In a short time the gentle hands of Thaerma will be . . ."

"We go way back, lad, she'n'me. 'Tis not the joy for me you imagine it to be." Pheldemar turned the corner and was gone.

Huldyl shrugged, half-smiled, and turned back to his game of plundercastle. The cards that showed the attacking Witch-Lord wyvern-riders had struck him with damnable luck, and most of his turret-warriors were dead already. Gloomily he moved one of the survivors along the ring of turrets.

I'm just choosing which one he'll die in.

He stared at the board with more foreboding than he'd felt since just before the last battle with the Devil Dragon.

Very much like the choice I've just made for myself.

Which is when he heard the ru

"Huldyl? Huldyl?"

Darthym was one of the few half-elf War Wizards, and he prided himself on being pleasant, soft-spoken, unassuming, and a mage of no gossip and few idle words. Now, however, he was wild-eyed and panting.

"Huldyl, Jandur and Throckyl are dead! Dead, blasted down with spells!"

Rauthur erupted from his seat, spilling pieces and cards in all directions. This must be Starangh's work—but he had to make his reaction look right, and he'd been losing the damned game anyway. "What?" he roared, trying to match Darthym's fire-eyed look.

"I-in the armory! Blown apart! Throckyl's head is just sitting there, all by itself, looking out the door at me! I—"

"Thank you, Darthym. No sign of who did it, I suppose? Look you: Go and wake Sarmeir and tell him in my name that he's to stand duty-guard with you here. Tell him all you want about what you found, but direct the sanctum defenses if any of the outside guards report troubles to you. You're in charge. I must report this to Laspeera without delay!"

"Y-yes, Rauthur!" The half-elf leaped away down the passage, glad of something to do and direct orders letting him do it. Huldyl shook his head and smiled grimly. Ah, such troubled times. . . .

He ran a hand through his thi

It was still in place, as strong as ever. The mindcloak spell Sta-rangh had given him was whispering ever so faintly at the back of his mind, a ready wall to block all probing magics.

Even those of a suspicious second-in-command of all the War Wizards of Cormyr. He was ready to go and make his report.

MINDPLUNGE

The most punishing spell I can think of is one that hurls you into your enemy's mind, and he into yours. Minds rubbing raw on each other—now there's true agony.

Skandanther of Saerloon Spells Are The Wings That Carry Me High

Year of the Lion

Narnra looked up at the magnificent ceiling of the Dragonwing Chamber. Huge sinuous scaled bodies, swirling and rolling over, frozen forever on the verge of bursting forth in full and terrible glory . . .

Someone—probably several someones—with skill enough to sculpt something much, much larger than they could see all at once had carved those awesomely beautiful, real dragons. Someone who must have felt very safe and secure here in Cormyr to spend the months, nay, years it must have taken up on ladders in this room, sculpting such a masterwork. Safe, secure, and paid well enough to eat. By a king or queen of Cormyr who loved beauty enough to pay for the making and leave this chamber unused for the sculptors to work. It would take a strong realm, a stable realm, and a flourishing realm to permit that.

Narnra clung to that thought and let her eyes fall from the magnificence to the emptiness of the vast room. That took confidence and wealth, too, to leave such a large and therefore useful room empty of distraction and so leave the carved ceiling that much more striking to the eye—and the three people standing patiently facing her.

Rhauligan, the 'watchful hands- on-weapons agent of the Crown of Cormyr . . . what she might become. Might.

Laspeera, the kindly yet powerful wizard. Regal and yet motherly, the sort of person who's "always there," a solid part of the furniture trusted by many, who'd be shocked when death finally took her because they'd come to think of her as a pillar of Faerun. Like folk here had thought of this Vangerdahast. . . like someone, somewhere, had presumably once thought of Elminster—probably in a land now dust, in a time long ago.

Caladnei. Her tormentor and the one in command here. The Mage Royal of Cormyr, outranking the older two Cormyreans— and at a glance an outlander, her skin dusky. Probably resented by many at Court, who wanted no stranger seizing power that should rightfully have drifted into their hands.

Narnra's eyes narrowed. Laspeera should be one of those, yet she seemed not to be. Wherefore this Caladnei was a witch who ruled minds by magic or ... someone worthy of respect, loyalty, even love.

She stared into the dark eyes of the Mage Royal, who gazed gravely back. Dark brows, stern—but not quite imperious—ma

The woman who wanted to invade her mind.

Narnra found herself breathing faster, almost panting. Part of her wanted to shout in revulsion, part wanted to hit out and run . .. and part was sneakily eager and excited, wanting to see what would happen. That was the spark in her that had taken her to greater and greater boldnesses on the rooftops, and she loved it—though it was a lure into trouble. There was something else rising in her, too . . . slow and hesitant, deeply submerged for too long. She could taste it, catching at the back of her throat.