and headed there to learn some things that will lure them more strongly. Rumors of items in Lord Halaunt’s possession they personally covet, and the gates Oldspires houses and hides. Some of the attending mages know that dragons they are in league with, who dwell in the worlds beyond the gates, can be brought to Toril if the correct rituals are performed. More than this, I shall not do .
“No?” Elminster asked aloud, meaning it sarcastically. A young skulker who’d started warily down the alley toward him, dagger drawn, hesitated, and then ducked low and froze.
“Other than showing you how to shield the mind of Lord Halaunt to prevent any of the guests speaking through him, I won’t be protecting anyone, or causing anything to happen aside from controlling the barrier,” Mystra told Elminster, both in his mind and in a voice that thrilled the skulker into slack-jawed, trembling rapture, on his knees and staring around in wonder. “It’s all up to you, old friend.”
“Of course,” Elminster told the dark air with a shrug and a wry smile. “Isn’t it always?”
I T WAS A small room, even for this inn, but it was private, and its door fitted better than most, so no one standing just outside should see any betraying flashes of light.
Creeeek .
Oh, yes, and it had that creaking floorboard outside the door, so you could tell when someone was standing right outside.
“Lady Nightcloak, are you decent?”
“Never,” Alastra Hathwinter called back through the door, amused, as she passed her hand through the air to banish the scene from afar she’d conjured up and had been watching. Obligingly it fell into nothingness in a flashing instant. “But you can come in.”
It had been almost a century since she’d left the Night Cloak festhall in Longsaddle, but the nickname clung to her like a tail to a cat. Proud, sleek felines lazed and prowled everywhere in this inn. The maid bustled in.
“It’s potato and leek soup capped by roast venison tonight, and then sugared tarts, Lady—unless you prefer the fish?”
“The venison will be fine, thanks. A little mulled wine?”
“Here in my hand, Lady,” the maid said happily. “Thought I’d remembered rightly.”
“Thank you, Shaloale,” Alastra replied, accepting the jug and the jack. The maid’s surprised smile was dazzling.
“Fancy you remembering my name!”
“I always remember those who are kind to me,” Alastra replied, nodding as the maid bustled out to fetch the soup. “And otherwise,” she murmured to the closing door.
She liked this inn. The Falcon’s Fair Roost. Good name for a roadside inn in the wilderlands halfway to anywhere. Old but clean and well kept. A rather plump brindle cat had crept into the room and was purring at her from her pillow.
“So,” she asked it gently, “who are you, really?”
The cat blurred just long enough to show her shining eyes she knew; Delgorn, a local Harper agent she’d met with a time or six.
“Stay the night?” Alastra asked, patting the bed.
The cat purred louder, then abruptly went silent and vanished down under the bed. Alastra turned in time to accept the soup from the maid and receive the rather breathless news that the venison would be “up in a trice.”
“Bring me twice the usual,” she said swiftly. “I find myself very hungry.”
The moment the door had swung closed again, a voice from under the bed informed her, “So am I.”
Alastra chuckled. “What you see in a lady well over a century old is beyond me, lad.”
“I see a veteran Harper mage I am proud to work with, a mentor I am proud to serve, and someone of whom I remain in admiring awe. Not to mention a splendid woman who looks barely past thirty, and impishly good-natured. Former apprentice of both Elminster of Shadowdale and Khelben the Blackstaff, lover of Malchor Harpell—”
“Delgorn,” Alastra interrupted, all levity gone from her voice, “just where did you hear that ?”
“You talk in your
“No?” Elminster asked aloud, meaning it sarcastically. A young skulker who’d started warily down the alley toward him, dagger drawn, hesitated, and then ducked low and froze.
“Other than showing you how to shield the mind of Lord Halaunt to prevent any of the guests speaking through him, I won’t be protecting anyone, or causing anything to happen aside from controlling the barrier,” Mystra told Elminster, both in his mind and in a voice that thrilled the skulker into slack-jawed, trembling rapture, on his knees and staring around in wonder. “It’s all up to you, old friend.”
“Of course,” Elminster told the dark air with a shrug and a wry smile. “Isn’t it always?”
I T WAS A small room, even for this inn, but it was private, and its door fitted better than most, so no one standing just outside should see any betraying flashes of light.
Creeeek .
Oh, yes, and it had that creaking floorboard outside the door, so you could tell when someone was standing right outside.
“Lady Nightcloak, are you decent?”
“Never,” Alastra Hathwinter called back through the door, amused, as she passed her hand through the air to banish the scene from afar she’d conjured up and had been watching. Obligingly it fell into nothingness in a flashing instant. “But you can come in.”
It had been almost a century since she’d left the Night Cloak festhall in Longsaddle, but the nickname clung to her like a tail to a cat. Proud, sleek felines lazed and prowled everywhere in this inn. The maid bustled in.
“It’s potato and leek soup capped by roast venison tonight, and then sugared tarts, Lady—unless you prefer the fish?”
“The venison will be fine, thanks. A little mulled wine?”
“Here in my hand, Lady,” the maid said happily. “Thought I’d remembered rightly.”
“Thank you, Shaloale,” Alastra replied, accepting the jug and the jack. The maid’s surprised smile was dazzling.
“Fancy you remembering my name!”
“I always remember those who are kind to me,” Alastra replied, nodding as the maid bustled out to fetch the soup. “And otherwise,” she murmured to the closing door.
She liked this inn. The Falcon’s Fair Roost. Good name for a roadside inn in the wilderlands halfway to anywhere. Old but clean and well kept. A rather plump brindle cat had crept into the room and was purring at her from her pillow.
“So,” she asked it gently, “who are you, really?”
The cat blurred just long enough to show her shining eyes she knew; Delgorn, a local Harper agent she’d met with a time or six.
“Stay the night?” Alastra asked, patting the bed.
The cat purred louder, then abruptly went silent and vanished down under the bed. Alastra turned in time to accept the soup from the maid and receive the rather breathless news that the venison would be “up in a trice.”
“Bring me twice the usual,” she said swiftly. “I find myself very hungry.”
The moment the door had swung closed again, a voice from under the bed informed her, “So am I.”
Alastra chuckled. “What you see in a lady well over a century old is beyond me, lad.”
“I see a veteran Harper mage I am proud to work with, a mentor I am proud to serve, and someone of whom I remain in admiring awe. Not to mention a splendid woman who looks barely past thirty, and impishly good-natured. Former apprentice of both Elminster of Shadowdale and Khelben the Blackstaff, lover of Malchor Harpell—”
“Delgorn,” Alastra interrupted, all levity gone from her voice, “just where did you hear that ?”
“You talk in your
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