Elminster's Daughter

"That is correct, yes."

"And you'll not be swayed from this scheme? Into using, say, willing War Wizards or Purple Dragons or other humans of Cormyr?"

"Human participation is likely, but I firmly intend to use dragons for most of the realm's defenders. Are you interested?"

The woman suddenly vanished from the countertop—and reappeared with her legs scissored around Vangerdahast's head. She twisted them sideways in an attempt to break his neck as her body arched over backwards down his front, and slapped both her arms out behind her to strike down his own and ruin any castings he might try.

"In your death, wizard!" she gasped as they crashed together, her back slamming into his ankles.

Vangerdahast still stood upright, his neck unmoved, so she threw herself from side to side, whipping her legs back and forth—but she seemed to be pivoting on something rigid, immobile, and as hard as stone. Something shrouded in more brightly pulsing green radiance.

"Interesting view," the wizard managed to say, in the moments before Myrmeen Lhal crashed into Joysil, tore her free from Vangerdahast, and bore her to the kitchen floor.

They skidded along together as Vangerdahast frowned down at them both. "Lass, I can fight my own battles, thank you. See this field around me, this green glow? It both protects my neck and keeps this song dragon from regaining its real shape and crushing the both of us against the walls and floor. It should also prevent her from teleporting again, now that she's this close. Get clear, now. I want to talk to her."

Myrmeen gave him an 'are you sure?' look, and he nodded. She rose off Joysil, springing clear to keep from being tripped or having any of her daggers stripped from her, and Vangerdahast laid a hand on her arm and said gruffly, "Oh, and lass, thank you."

Myrmeen gave him another strange look and backed away to the sink.

"You might as well kill me," Joysil panted, from where she lay bruised and winded on the floor. "Unless you renounce this plan of yours—and I can somehow believe you—I'll just keep trying to slay you. No dragon in all Faerun is safe once those spells of yours work and are written down."

Vangerdahast nodded, and green radiance flowed from his fingers. In a room far away across the sanctum, two wands flickered and flashed. "I fear you'll now discover that you can't move, Lady Cyndusk—or Ambrur, if you prefer. I'd rather not be slain, thank you very much . . . and yet there's truth in what you say. These spells shall be my legacy to Cormyr. Others must be able to cast them after I am gone to augment the ranks of defenders or replace those fallen in battle. Some wizards may well use them less . . . judiciously than I shall. So, yes, I am a danger to dragonkind."

He sighed. "I've spent my life wrestling down my own desires—and dreams, and sympathies—to cleave always to one guiding and supreme pursuit: the betterment and defense of Cormyr. I will do anything to keep this realm strong—and its character much as it is now and has always been. I believe it to be among the best achievements of my kind, dragon, and want to keep it so ... whatever the cost to anyone."

He went to a drawer, pulled forth a clean tablecloth, and laid it carefully over Joysil's frozen form. "I've no robes your size, but if you don't mind some of my winter weathercloaks . . . the moths always get at them, but . . ."

"Wizard" the helpless song dragon on the floor hissed, "you promote the worst sort of slavery for dragons. Even if you find some willing slaves to be your guards, these spells will get out, and there'll come a day when the only wyrms not under the command of someone will be those who die fighting after your other spells find them, lure them, and hook them!"

Vangerdahast nodded a little sadly. "I had foreseen this consequence, yes. Have you any bright solutions for me that I've thus far missed?"

"You—you monster!" Joysil stormed, trembling against the paralyzing magics that held her. "Youuu—"

She tried to turn her head away as he bent near, and when she found she could not, she shut her eyes and screamed—a cry that soon faded, warbled, and died away.

"Sleep," the old wizard told her gently. "If Mystra smiles on me for once, I'll have thought of something before I have to wake you."

He turned away with a sigh and added bitterly, "Or more likely not."

Myrmeen Lhal regarded him gravely. Her sword was sheathed, and there was a strange look in her eyes, a different strange look than before. "You could have slain her—easily—and did not. Why so?"

Vangerdahast regarded her a little sourly. "I've seen too many problems in life to enjoy disposing of them by working murder any longer, lass. I need some time to decide what best to do to calm and heal her."

The Lady Lord of Arabel nodded, folded her arms across her chest, and said, "Yet the ruthless defender of the realm might say the best thing for Cormyr would be to eliminate this dragon now—mercifully, while she sleeps, helpless. One less foe, one danger gone, the realm thus that small measure stronger."

"This is not the Devil Dragon," the former Royal Magician sighed, "and truth to tell, lass, I've seen and done more than enough killing."

He shook out another tablecloth, spread it on the floor, and did something that made the green radiance brighten all around them and raise Joysil's rigid body into the air. Unseen forces lifted the tablecloth up to her from beneath. Thus sandwiched in cloth, the body floated toward the kitchen door.

"I believe," Vangerdahast added as he started after it, "I've finally grown up enough to hold the view that folk whose views differ from mine are not necessarily foes I should slay."

There was clear respect in Myrmeen's eyes as she looked at him, smiled, and suddenly reached out to take his arm.

He patted her hand with his own, suddenly conscious of her hip brushing against his, and looked back at her. As their eyes met, Vangerdahast felt—with no small surprise—long-suppressed feelings stirring within him once more.

* * * * *

Narnra rolled her eyes as she dropped down from yet another window. Gods, what a lot of petty little bickering, arrogance, and rivalries! These War Wizards were almost as bad as Waterdhavian nobles!

Almost. Bane come striding, if this was what the lawkeepers were like, what might the nobles of Cormyr have to offer?

"Who was that idiot who said, 'Always more treasure beyond the next hill'?" she muttered aloud—then froze again on all fours on a potted-fern-crowded balcony as two War Wizards strolled out to stand at the rail not four paces away, laughing cynically.

"Well, I always knew Old Thundersides wouldn't let go his grip on the throne all that easily!"

"Dragons! After all the blood elves shed to snatch this land away from being the private hunting-ground of various wyrms! I can't believe it!"

"I can. Who else sleeps for centuries, anyway? Who else can last so long and still be alive instead of undead and hating the living? Who else in Cormyr could he trust? Our nobles'?"

The two shared a bitter, derisive crow of laughter. The second robed mage shook his head and replied, "Who can truly trust a dragon? What must they think of us humans who butcher, steal from them, take their eggs, and . . . sweep them aside, where once they ruled all Faerun?"

The taller, older wizard shrugged. " 'Twas the elves did that to them—oh, and that cult among the hobgoblins that thought eating dragonflesh would make them into a larger, stronger breed .. . they used to take more eggs than humans ever have."

"D'you think old Vangey will snatch some eggs and try to hatch wyrmlings he's bound and brainwashed with spells?"

"Mayhap," the older War Wizard replied, turning away from the rail to walk back inside, "but he needs grown ones, too. Wyrmlings are like ignorant but recklessly overconfident youths—and can do about as much unintended damage to themselves, as well as to whatever they're supposed to be protecting."