Elminster in Myth Drannor Read online

  PRAISE FOR ED GREENWOOD

  “An old wizard with the power to delight youngsters and horrify adults reveals his early beginnings in this strong fantasy, which traces the evolution of a mage’s powers. This joins others in the Forgotten Realms series: readers with a prior familiarity will be the best bets for this strong winner.”

  —Midwest Book Review

  (on Elminster: The Making of a Mage)

  “With memorable characters and unforgettable settings, Ed Greenwood will take you on an adventure you will not soon forget.”

  —BC Books Review

  (on The Annotated Elminster)

  “A nonstop adventure story filled with life lessons.”

  —Fantasy Book Critic

  (on Elminster: The Making of a Mage)

  “… this is sword and sorcery at the next level.”

  —John Ottinger III, Grasping for the Wind

  (on Swords of Dragonfire)

  SAGE OF SHADOWDALE

  Elminster, the Old Mage, the Chosen of Mystra. Across the face of Faerûn and throughout her history, the Sage of Shadowdale, by whatever name, has always stood firm against the tide of darkness.

  Elminster: The Making of a Mage

  Elminster in Myth Drannor

  The Temptation of Elminster

  Elminster in Hell

  Elminster’s Daughter

  The Annotated Eliminster

  Elminster Ascending

  Elminster Must Die

  Bury Elminster Deep

  [August 2011]

  THE KNIGHTS OF MYTH DRANNOR

  From the pastoral village of Espar to a road fraught with danger, magic, and the dubious attentions of villains and royalty alike, the rise of the Knights of Myth Drannor is a remarkable adventure.

  Book I

  Swords of Eveningstar

  Book II

  Swords of Dragonfire

  Book III

  The Sword Never Sleeps

  ALSO BY ED GREEVWOOD

  The City of Splendors: A Waterdeep Novel

  (with Elaine Cunningham)

  The Best of the Realms, Book II

  The Stories of Ed Greenwood

  Edited by Susan J. Morris

  Elminster in Myth Drannor

  ©2010 Wizards of the Coast LLC

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC

  FORGOTTEN REALMS, D&D, DUNGEONS & DRAGONS, WIZARDS OF THE COAST, and their respective logos are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries. Other trademarks are property of their respective owners.

  Cover art by Ciruelo Cabral

  Map by Todd Gamble

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-5967-9

  U.S., CANADA, EUROPEAN HEADQUARTERS

  ASIA, PACIFIC, & LATIN AMERICA Hasbro UK Ltd

  Wizards of the Coast LLC Caswell Way

  P.O. Box 707 Newport, Gwent NP9 0YH

  Renton, WA 98057-0707 GREAT BRITAIN

  +1-800-324-6496 Save this address for your records.

  Visit our web site at www.wizards.com

  DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1_r1

  For Cheryl Freedman

  And

  Merle von Thorn,

  Two ladies Elminster wanted at his side

  (blades, good humor, and all)

  When he was in Myth Drannor

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books by This Author

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Prologue

  Part I - Human

  Chapter One - Savage Trails and Scepters

  Chapter Two - Death and Gems

  Chapter Three - Fell Magic and A Fair City

  Chapter Four - Home Again the Hunter

  Chapter Five - To Call on the Coronal

  Chapter Six - The Vault of Ages

  Part II - Armathor

  Chapter Seven - Every Pool Its Party

  Chapter Eight - The Uses of A Human

  Chapter Nine - Duel By Day, Revel By Night

  Chapter Ten - Love Oft Astray

  Chapter Eleven - To Hunt A Human

  Chapter Twelve - The Stag at Bay

  Chapter Thirteen - Adrift in Cormanthor

  Chapter Fourteen - Anger at Court

  Chapter Fifteen - A Mythal, Maybe

  Chapter Sixteen - Masked Mages

  Part III - Mythal

  Chapter Seventeen - Apprenticed Again

  Chapter Eighteen - In the Web

  Chapter Nineteen - More Anger at Court

  Chapter Twenty - Spellstorm at Court

  Epilogue

  Welcome to Faerûn, a land of magic and intrigue, brutal violence and divine compassion, where gods have ascended and died, and mighty heroes have risen to fight terrifying monsters. Here, millennia of warfare and conquest have shaped dozens of unique cultures, raised and leveled shining kingdoms and tyrannical empires alike, and left long forgotten, horror-infested ruins in their wake.

  A LAND OF MAGIC

  When the goddess of magic was murdered, a magical plague of blue fire—the Spellplague—swept across the face of Faerûn, killing some, mutilating many, and imbuing a rare few with amazing supernatural abilities. The Spellplague forever changed the nature of magic itself, and seeded the land with hidden wonders and bloodcurdling monstrosities.

  A LAND OF DARKNESS

  The threats Faerûn faces are legion. Armies of undead mass in Thay under the brilliant but mad lich king Szass Tam. Treacherous dark elves plot in the Underdark in the service of their cruel and fickle goddess, Lolth. The Abolethic Sovereignty, a terrifying hive of inhuman slave masters, floats above the Sea of Fallen Stars, spreading chaos and destruction. And the Empire of Netheril, armed with magic of unimaginable power, prowls Faerûn in flying fortresses, sowing discord to their own incalculable ends.

  A LAND OF HEROES

  But Faerûn is not without hope. Heroes have emerged to fight the growing tide of darkness. Battle-scarred rangers bring their notched blades to bear against marauding hordes of orcs. Lowly street rats match wits with demons for the fate of cities. Inscrutable tiefling warlocks unite with fierce elf warriors to rain fire and steel upon monstrous enemies. And valiant servants of merciful gods forever struggle against the darkness.

  A LAND OF

  UNTOLD ADVENTURE

  PROLOGUE

  It was a time of mounting strife in the fair realm of Cormanthor, when the lords and ladies of the oldest, proudest houses felt a threat to their glittering pride. A threat thrust forward by the very throne above them; a threat from their most darkling youthful nightmares.

  The Stinking Beast That Comes In The Night, the Hairy Lurker who waits his best chance to slay, despoil, violate, and pillage. The monster whose grasp clutches at more realms with each passing day: the terror known as Man.

  SHALHEIRA TALANDREN, HIGH ELVEN BARD OF SUMMER-STAR

  FROM SILVER BLADES AND SUMMER NIGHTS:

  AN INFORMAL BUT TRUE HISTORY OF CORMANTHOR

  PUBLISHED IN THE YEAR OF THE HARP

  I did indeed promise the prince something in return for the crown,” said the king, drawing himself up to his full height and inhaling until his chest trembled. He adjusted the glittering circlet of gems and golden spires that adorned his brows a trifle self-consciously, smiled at his own cleverness in providing himse
lf with this dramatic pause, and added, voice dropping to underline the nobility of his words, “I promised I’d grant his greatest desire.”

  Those gathered to watch drew in awed breaths in a chorus that was mockingly loud.

  The fat monarch paid them no heed, but turned away in a gaudy swirl of cloth of gold and struck a grandly conquering pose, one foot planted on an obviously false dragonskull. The light of the purple-white driftglobes that accompanied him gleamed back from plainly visible wire, where it coiled up through the patchwork skull to hold the royal sword that had supposedly transfixed bone in a mighty, fatal blow.

  Every inch the wise old ruler, the king looked out over vast distances for a moment, eyes flashing gravely at things only he could see. Then, almost coyly, he looked back over his shoulder at the kneeling servant.

  “And what, pray tell,” he purred, “does he most want? Hmmm?”

  The steward flung himself full length onto the carpet, striking his head on the stone pave in the process. He rolled his eyes and writhed briefly in pain—as the watchers tittered—ere he dared to lift his gaze for the first time. “Sire,” he said at last, in tones of wondering doom, “he wishes to die rich.”

  The king whirled about again and strode forward. The servant scrambled up on one knee and cowered back from the purposeful monarch—only to freeze, dumbfounded, at the sight of a merry smile upon the regal face.

  The king bent to take his hand and raised him up from the carpet, slapping something that jingled into the steward’s palm as he did so.

  The servant stared down. It was a purse bulging with coins. He looked at the king again, in disbelief, and swallowed.

  The royal smile broadened. “Die rich? And so he shall—put that into his hands and then slide your sword through him. Several times is the current fashion, I believe.”

  The titters of the audience broke into hoots and roars of mirth, laughter that quickly turned to applause as the costume spells cloaking the actors expired in the traditional puffs of red smoke, signaling the end of the scene.

  The watchers exploded into motion, swooping and darting away. Some of the older revelers drifted off more sedately, but the young went racing through the night like furious fish chasing each other to eat—or be eaten. They exploded through groups of languid gossipers and danced in the air, flashing along the edge of the perfumed spell field. Only a few remained behind to watch the next coarse scene of The Fitting End of the Human King Halthor; such parodies of the low and grasping ways of the Hairy Ones were amusing at first, but very ‘one note,’ and above all elves of Cormanthor hated to be bored—or at least, to admit their boredom.

  Not that this wasn’t a grand revel. The Ereladden had spared no expense in the weaving of the field-spells. A constant array of conjured sounds, smells, and images swirled and wafted over the revelers, and the power of the conjured field allowed everyone to fly, moving through the air to wherever they gazed, and desired to be. Most of the revelers were floating aloft now, drifting down occasionally to take in refreshments.

  This night the usually bare garden walls bristled with carved unicorns, pegasi, dancing elven maidens, and rearing stags this night. Every statuette touched by a reveler split apart and drifted open, to reveal teardrop decanters of sparkling moonwine or any one of a dozen ruby-hued Erladden vintages. Amid the spires of the decanters were the shorter spikes of crystal galauntra whose domes covered figurines sculpted of choice cheese, roasted nuts, or sugarstars.

  Amid the rainbow-hued lights drifting among the merry elves were vapors that would make any true-blood light-hearted, restless, and full of life. Some abandoned, giggling Cormyth were dodging through the air from cloud to cloud, their eyes gleaming too brightly to see the world around them. Half a hundred giggles rolled amid the branches of the towering trees that rose over all, twinkling magestars winking and slithering here and there among their leaves. As the moon rose to overwhelm such tiny radiances, it shone down on a scene of wild and joyful celebration. Half of Cormanthor was dancing tonight.

  “Surprisingly, I still remembered the words that would bring me here.”

  The voice came out of the night without warning. Its welcoming tone dared him to recall earlier days.

  He’d been expecting it, and was even unsurprised to hear its low, melodious tones issuing from the shadows in the deepest part of the bower, where the bed stood.

  A bed he still found most restful, even with age beginning to creep into his bones. The Coronal of all Cormanthor turned his head in the moonlight, looking away from the mirror-smooth waters that surrounded this garden isle, and said with a smile that managed to be happier than his heart felt, “Be welcome, Great Lady of the Starym.”

  There was silence for a moment in the shadows before the voice came again. “I was once more than that,” it said, almost wistful.

  Eltargrim rose and held out his hand to where his truesight told him she stood. “Come to me, my friend.” He stretched out his other hand, almost beseechingly. “My Lyntra.”

  Shadows shifted, and Ildilyntra Starym came out into the moonlight, her eyes still the dark pools of promise that he recalled so vividly in his dreams. Dreams that had visited him down all the long years to this very night. Dreams built on memories that could still unsettle him.…

  The Coronal’s mouth was suddenly dry, and his tongue felt thick and clumsy. “Will you—?” he mumbled, gesturing toward the Living Seat.

  The Starym held themselves to be the eldest and most pure of the families of the One True Realm—and were certainly the proudest. Their matriarch glided toward him, those dark eyes never leaving his.

  The Coronal did not have to look to know that the years had not yet touched her flawless white skin, the figure so perfect that it still took his breath away. Her blue tresses were almost black, as always, and Ildilyntra still wore them unbound, falling at her heels to the ground. She was barefoot, the spells of her girdle keeping both hair and feet inches above the dirt of the ground. She wore the full, formal gown of her house, the twin falling dragons of the Starym arms bold in glittering gems upon her stomach, their sculpted wings cupping her breasts in a toothed surround of gold.

  Her thighs, revealed through the waist-high slits in the gown as she came, were girt in the black-and-gold spirals of a mantle of honor. The ends of the mantle drew together to support the intricately carved dragontooth scabbard of her honor blade, bobbing like a small lamp, wrapped in the deep, solemn red glow of its awakened power. The Ring of the Watchful Wyvern gleamed upon her hand. This was not an informal visit.

  The moon was right for a chat between old friends, but no matriarch comes aglow in all her power for such things. Sadness grew in the Coronal. He knew what must lie ahead.

  And so, of course, she surprised him. Ildilyntra came to a halt before him, as he’d known she must. She drew apart her gown, hands on hips, to let him see the light of the full, gathered power of her honor blade. This also he expected, and likewise the deep, shuddering intake of breath that followed.

  Now the storm would come, the snarled words of sarcastic fire or cold, biting venom for which she was famous throughout Cormanthor. The twisted words of harmful spells would lurk among them, to be sure, and he’d hav—

  In smooth silence, the matriarch of the Starym knelt before him. Her eyes never left his.

  Eltargrim swallowed again, looking down at her knees, white tinged with the slightest shade of blue, where they were sunk into the circle of moss at his feet. “Ildilyntra,” he said softly. “Lady, I—”

  Flecks of gold had always surfaced in her dark eyes when she was moved to strong emotion. Gold glinted in them now.

  “I am not one used to begging,” that melodious voice came again, bringing back a flood of memories in the Coronal, of other, more tender moonlit nights in this bower, “and yet I’ve come here to beg you, exalted lord. Reconsider this Opening you speak of. Let no being who is not a trueblood of the People walk in Cormanthor save by our leave. Let that leave be near-never give
n, that our People endure!”

  “Ildilyntra, rise. Please,” Eltargrim said firmly, stepping back. “And give me some reasons why I should embrace your plea.” His mouth curved into the ghost of a smile. “You can’t be unaware that I’ve heard such words before.”

  The High Lady of the Starym remained on her knees, cloaked in her hair, and looked into his eyes.

  The Coronal smiled openly this time. “Yes, Lyntra, that still works on me. But give me reasons to weigh and work with … or speak of lighter things.”

  Anger snapped in those dark eyes for the first time. “Lighter things? Empty-headed revelry, like those fools indulging themselves over at Erladden Towers?” She rose then, as swift as a coiling serpent, and pulled open her gown. The blue-white sleekness of her bared body was as much a challenge as her level gaze. Ildilyntra added coldly, “Or did you think I’d come for dalliance, lord? Unable to keep myself one night longer from the charms of the ruler of us all, risen to such aged wisdom from the strong and ardent youth I knew?”

  Eltargrim let her words fall into silence, as hurled daggers that miss their target spin into empty air. He ended it calmly. “This spitting fury is the High Lady of the Starym I have grown familiar with these past centuries. I admire your taste in undergarments, but I had hoped that you’d set aside some of what your junior kin call your ‘cutting bluster’ here; there are only the two of us on this isle. Let us speak candidly, as befits two elder Cormyth. It saves so much … empty courtesy.”

  Ildilyntra’s mouth tightened. “Very well,” she said, planting her hands on her hips in a manner he well remembered. “Hear me then, Lord Eltargrim: I, my senior kin, and many other families and folk of Cormanthor besides—I can name the principals if you wish, Lord, but be assured they are neither few nor easily discredited as youths or touch-headed—think that this notion of Opening the realm will doom us all, if it is ever made reality.”

  She paused, eyes blazing into his, but the Coronal silently beckoned at her to give him more words. She continued, “If you follow your mad dreams of amending the law of Cormanthor to all non-elves into the realm, our long friendship must end.”