Elminster's Daughter

Across a forest of rooftops, Glarasteer Rhauligan stared at the rising dust in horror, his last glimpse of the frantically leaping Narnra as the stones came down etched into his mind.

"Narnra!" he shouted, knowing that his cry was in vain. Nothing could have survived that smashing blow from above, even if...

A movement caught his eye on another rooftop, and he found himself gazing at a robed man who was just gaining a companion—as Narnra's image appeared out of thin air before him. The man studied it, frowning and ducking about to peer intently, and started to work a spell. His shape rippled and started to change— even as the conjured Narnra rippled and started to fade.

Rhauligan burst into a run, leaping and racing across rooftops, jerking out daggers to hurl and spitting furious curses non-stop, trying to get close enough to ...

Harnrim Starangh struck a pose and looked down at the hand-mirror he'd propped against the husk of a long-dead pigeon earlier. Yes, he now looked like that pouty, hawk-nosed lass.

He retrieved his mirror, stowed it in an unfamiliar pocket, and gave Suzail a farewell smile. It was time to see Shadowdale again, cozy up to the oh-so-great Elminster, and learn a few of his secrets at last.

The figure atop the roof vanished abruptly, and Rhauligan's first dagger flashed through empty air to clink and rattle to a tumbling stop at the far end of an empty roof. The Harper's roar of rage followed it.

* * * * *

The street full of rubble and ru

Elminster raised one bristling brow and peered around, humming thoughtfully as War Wizards and Purple Dragons came pelting up from all directions.

Barring spell barriers, his tracing spell should deliver him to a spot mere feet away from Narnra, and that could only mean she was . . .

Oh, Mystra. Oh, bleeding merciful Mystra.

Heedless of shouts calling on him to surrender or identify himself and to lay aside all weapons, the Old Mage knelt by the great pile of shattered and tumbled stone that reached to the very toes of his worn old boots and muttered a very old spell. Some of the rocks right in front of him glowed, and he spat out a curse that made the Purple Dragon ru

The old man planted his feet, shook back his sleeves, and raised both hands to begin a casting—so the onrushing warrior did what he was trained to do: bellowed to try and disrupt the wizard's concentration and reached out with his blade to try to strike aside one of those hands and so ruin any spellcasting.

The old man promptly surprised the Purple Dragon again—by dropping into a crouch and whirling to face his attacker. The blade passed harmlessly over one robed shoulder. The old man turned, taking hold of the warrior's swordarm by wrist and elbow, and flung him at the rockpile with a sudden shout of his own: "Start digging, you motherless dog!"

"There's the one who caused it!" a War Wizard howled, aiming his wand. Elminster flung himself aside without bothering to turn and see who his accuser was, and the wand-blast seared stones and sent the staggering Purple Dragon into a shouting scramble for cover.

Elminster rolled behind a heap of tumbled rubble and snarled out a spell that lofted most of the stones around him—plus the lone and by now thoroughly astonished Purple Dragon—down the street in a bone-shattering hail that left the advancing Cor-myreans strewn on their backs, cursing and groaning.

Ignoring them, the Old Mage scrambled to his feet and peered at the front edge of the rockpile, now much reduced by the scouring of his spell. There! A bloody, leather-clad arm protruded from under two large, wedged rocks. Elminster dug his hands in under one of them, heaved with all his might—and succeeded only in making it wobble a few inches to one side.

Gasping in defeat, he grimly cast another spell, this time plucking stones straight up so as to not to allow the slightest possibility of harming Narnra further.

She lay sprawled and senseless beneath a thick coating of dust, one leg obviously broken, one arm a flopping and many-times-shattered thing, and . . .

He winced, dragged that broken body as gently as he could out from under the stones hanging menacingly aloft, and called up Mystra's silver fire.

Wielding it slowly and gently was always hard, healing doubly so, and he persisted only long enough to discover that she was still alive and not faltering. To do this properly, he'd have to devote all of his concentration to the task, leaving himself defenseless and pressed against his daughter—not a wise thing when more angry defenders of Cormyr could arrive at any moment.

So instead, he shifted his outward appearance to exactly match Narnra's—farewell, bearded old lawbreaking wizard—and got down beside her to let out the silver fire slowly and carefully.

When a company of Purple Dragons arrived in a thundering of boots, it was the work of but a moment to let the hanging stones fall with a crash among them, while he lay still alongside the obviously injured Narnra.

Knitting and mending, drawing back blood here and teasing aside shattered ends of bone there . . . Slowly he worked his way through her broken body until he was satisfied she'd live. He could do the rest better at his tower, where he could nurse and coddle properly instead of fighting off War Wizards every few breaths.

Someone who was whooping for breath and whose footfalls crashed down in hasty weariness burst onto the scene. Elminster turned his head and saw Glarasteer Rhauligan lurching toward him over the rubble -strewn street in as much haste as possible.

With a sigh, the mage got to his feet, picked up Narnra—ignoring Rhauligan's sudden shout—and whisked himself and his daughter away to Shadowdale.

Rhauligan staggered to a halt, staring in dumbfounded rage at the spot where two Narnra Shalaces had just vanished, right under his nose.

"Bloody brazen hinges!" he gasped wearily, staring around in wild frustration. "Blistering bloody . . . brazen . . . hinges!"

Florin Falconhand was whistling softly as he traversed the well-worn flagstones that led to Elminster's tower. In his dripping left hand he held no less than nine large greenfins, fresh from the river. The Old Mage had a weakness for pan-fried greenfin.

It was time and past time for one of the Knights to invite Elminster to dine, and—

The ranger came to a sudden halt, hand flashing to the hilt of his blade.

On the path ahead—right at the halfway bend, on a gentle slope that had been utterly empty a moment earlier—stood two figures.

Two identical figures, one of them carrying a limp, senseless third duplicate who was shrouded in dust and blood and whose clothes were much torn.

Florin stared. Aye, all three were the same slender, muscled woman in tattered leathers and boots, with tousled, hacked-off-short black hair, dark eyes, and a strong nose like a gentler version of Elminster's hawk-beak.

Both of the upright women were staring at each other in obvious surprise—unwelcome surprise.

Then the one carrying the third knelt quickly, snapped, "Stay back, Florin!" and set down her burden. She started casting a spell while still on her knees.

The other one was casting a spell too, obviously intending to blast her double.

Florin's sword sang out as he broke into a trot, asking himself, What NOW?

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