"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 running footsteps. Someone frantic, coming fast and crashing into things along the way in his haste.
"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 thinning hair, wiped his sweating brows with a knuckle, stood still, and cleared his mind.
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—manner. A little frightening.
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.
Loneliness.
She'd been friendless and alone for far too long, Narnra against all the world ... a world that was to her an endless collection of dupes, unseen passing folk, the rich and powerful best avoided, a few sharks cruising as she was, and—authority. The Watch, the Guard, the Watchful Order, the Lords of Waterdeep: the folk who could slay and flog and imprison and maim with impunity.
Narnra hated, feared, and despised all authority. These three people all held it, Caladnei the most. How much of her fear and defiance was rooted in her own hatred of authority? How—
Never mind. My choices are rough, and I've taken the best one. Mystra even smiled at me. I hope. Let's get this over with.
"Well," she announced quietly, lifting her chin, "I'm waiting."
None of the Cormyreans laughed. The two women both took a step toward her—and the Mage Royal stopped, obviously surprised by Laspeera's advance.
Laspeera kept on coming.
"Narnra," she said gently, "this will go best if you lie down. Right here, on the floor."
Narnra blinked at Laspeera then doubled up and sat. The War Wizard sank down with her as if she was some sort of delicate invalid. When she was lying on her back on the floor—staring up at that splendid ceiling again—Laspeera turned and called Caladnei over. Then she stood up and calmly undid her robe, hauled it off—revealing a gown-like underrobe of red satin—and rolled it.
Silently, she pointed Caladnei to the floor beside Narnra then slid her rolled-up robe under the backs of their heads.
"A pillow?" Narnra asked incredulously.
"Something to keep you both from splitting heads open on the hard floor," Laspeera replied rather severely, "if emotions surge. Now, hold hands and begin."
"Yes, Mother," Caladnei replied in a gently mocking voice. Narnra found herself smiling. The Mage Royal murmured a long, complicated rising and falling incantation, and . . . the dragons overhead went away.
Warm and dark, descending, the darkness around flashing with a bewildering whirl of half-glimpsed bright scenes, bursts of sound, surges of anger, amusement, even weariness . . .
[Narnra.]
[Narnra, hide not.]