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presently, good wife, I shall grow hungry. I know I will, and
 "
"By all the gods, Bethgarl! Shut thy mouth and run!"
Ammuthe made as if to jerk free of him. Bethgarl sighed and let her go, and she was off like a rabbit,
bounding down the hill again, hair streaming behind her. Bethgarl watched her go, fought down a sudden wild
desire to laugh, and turned back to his cart. One of the cheeses had fallen off into the grass. He dusted it
thoughtfully, put it back, picked up the handles, and pushed the cart on toward Hastarl, ignoring the sudden
cries of his name from far behind.
As he passed the shrine, he looked up at the ball of fire, and winked at it. Then he swallowed. Cold sweat
trickled down his back, and he struggled against rising fear. Carefully he pushed the cart on down the hill, not
hurrying. He could have sworn that as he stared at the flames, a pair of dark, knowing eyes had met his
 and
winked back at him!
Bethgarl reached the bottom of the hill and looked back. Fire still pulsed and glowed. Whistling, he
pushed his cart on to Hastarl, and frowned curiously at the hubbub by the gates. There seemed to be a lot of
folk out in the streets today, all of them excited....
Epilogue
There are no endings save death, only pauses for breath, and new beginnings. Always, new beginnings... it's
why the world grows ever more crowded, ye see. So remember, now
 there are no end-ings, only beginnings.
There; simple enough, isn't it? Elegant, too.
Tharghin "Threeboots" Ammatar
Speeches of a Most Worthy Sage
Year of the Lost Helm
Elminster floated back from somewhere far away indeed, and found himself lying naked on a slab of cold
stone, smoke rising from his limbs. As the last gray wisps curled up and drifted away, he raised his head and
looked down. His body was un-changed, unmarked. A shadow fell across him, and he turned his head.
Mystra knelt over him, nude and magnificent. Elminster took one of her hands and kissed it.
"My thanks," he said roughly. "I hope I serve thee well."
"Many have said that," Mystra replied a little sadly, "and some have even believed it."
Then she smiled and stroked his arm. "Know, Elminster, that I believe in you far more than most. I felt the
Lion Sword's en-chantment stripped away by dragonfire that day when Undarl destroyed Heldon, and looked
to see what befell, and saw a young lad swear vengeance against all cruel wizards and the magic they
wielded. A man of great wits and inner kindness and strength, who might grow to be mighty. So I watched
over him as he grew, and liked the choices he made, and what he grew to be-come ... until he came to
confront me in my temple, as I knew he would in the end. And there he had the courage and the wisdom to
debate the ethics of wielding magic with me
 and I knew that Elminster could become the greatest mage this world
has ever known, if I only led him and let him grow. I have done that and El, lovely man, you have delighted me and
surprised me and pleased me beyond all my hopes and expectations."
They stared into each other's eyes, and Elminster knew he'd never forget that calm, deep gaze of infinite
wildness and love and wisdom, however many years might lie ahead.
Then Mystra smiled a little and bent to kiss his nose, her hair brushing his face and chest. El breathed in
her strange, spicy scent anew for a moment and trembled with renewed desire, but Mystra lifted her head and
looked southeast, into the quickening breeze. "I need you to go to Cormanthor and learn the rudiments of
magic," she said softly.
Elminster raised an eyebrow. " 'The rudiments of magic'? What have I been hurling about so far?"
Mystra looked down at him with a quick smile. "Even know-ing what I am, you dare to speak so
 I love
thee for that, El."
"Not what you are, Lady," Elminster dared to whisper, "but who you are."
Mystra's face lit up with a smile as she went on, "Power, yes, but without discipline or true feeling for the
forces you're craft-ing. Ride south and east from here to the elven city of Corman-thor . . . you'll be needed
there in time to come. Apprentice yourself to any archmage of the city who'll have you."
"Aye, Lady," said Elminster, sitting up eagerly. "Will the city be hard to find?"
"Not with my guidance," Mystra said with a smile, "yet be in no haste to rush off. Sit with me this night
and talk. I have much to tell you ... and even gods grow lonely."
Elminster nodded. "I'll stay awake as long as I can!"
Mystra smiled again. "You'll never need to sleep again," she said tenderly, almost sadly, and made a
complicated gesture.
A moment later, a dusty bottle stood between them. She wiped its neck clean with one hand, teased out
the cork with her teeth like any serving-wench, took a sip, and passed it to him.
"Blue lethe," she said, as Elminster felt cool nectar slide down his throat. "From certain tombs in
Netheril."
Elminster raised his eyebrows. "Start telling," he said dryly, and then glowed in the midst of her tinkling
laughter.
It was a sound he treasured often in the long years that fol-lowed. .. .
Thus it was that Elminster was guided to Cormanthor, the Tow-ers of Song, where Eltargrim was Coronal.
There he dwelt for twelve summers and more, studying with many mighty mages, learning to feel magic, and
know how it could be bent and di-rected to his will. His true powers he revealed to few
 but it is recorded that
when the Mythal was laid, and Cormanthor be-came Myth Drannor, Elminster was one of those who devised and
spun that mighty magic. So the long tale of the doings of Elmin-ster 'Farwalker' began.
Antarn the Sage
from The High History of Faerunian Archmages Mighty
published circa Year of the Staff [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]