Spellstorm by Ed Greenwood Read Free Book Online

now. Listen, heed, and remember this, for ’tis what one might call one of the secrets of our world.”
    “And whenever a wizard says that , he’s trying to deceive you about something,” Alusair murmured.
    “Not so!” Elminster told her sternly. “Or at least, not this wizard, and not this time. Mystra has told me that she can force and compel, or destroy, like any other wrathful god—and so win obedience, but no change of attitude. Leaving wizards full of resentment of imposed authority, not cleaving to a way or idea or accord they have willingly been a part of—wherefore some, perhaps most of them, will be secretly seeking to betray or subvert, in future.”
    Three sets of eyes, two living and one ghostly, narrowed.
    “So even an apparently solid agreement or new spirit of cooperation would be short-lived at best, and likely an utter cynical fiction from the outset. So instead, what ye might call ‘manipulating from behind a tapestry’ is best. Wherefore, Mystra needs to stay in the shadows and let me, and others I can persuade, do the work she deems needful.”
    Alusair’s face now held something like pity. “And your own heir?”
    Elminster’s face was suddenly a mask of stone. “I want to keep Amarune out of this as much as possible,” he said slowly, as if reluctant to let the words escape his lips. “She won’t stand a chance in a house full of powerful evil archmages. Still less, her impetuous young consort, Lord Arclath Delcastle.” He turned away and started to pace, his steps stirring ripples across the dark water. “Storm will take them somewhere to do something-or-other Realms-shakingly important. ’Tis how we’ve hoodwinked kings and dungsweepers alike, all these centuries.”
    Myrmeen Lhal swallowed more mirth with a snort, and turned her head to give Vangey a level look, eyeball-to-eyeball. He coughed and shifted a little.
    “And how will we get into Oldspires?” Alusair inquired. “Through this mind-shattering spellstorm?”
    “I know how to open one of the gates,” El replied smugly.
    “Oh? And how is it that you know that?”
    “It’s a Weave gate, and below Mystra herself, I am now the Weavemaster. Be awed by no competing pretenders.”
    Myrmeen snorted again.
    “As for the spellstorm,” El added, “Mystra will let all of these grasping archmages through it when we’re ready—and let them believe whatever clever spells they worked created their own short-lived tunnel through the chaos.”
    “ I ,” Vangerdahast commented, “just want to know how by all the gods—every last prancing one of them—you’re going to get all of these crazed, me-first, power-hungry and supremely independent and professionally difficult archmages to agree on anything, change their minds about anything, and tell you even a smidgin or two of truth!”
    “Ah,” Elminster said with a wry smile, “as to that, I have a plan.”
    Vangey wasn’t the only one in the room to roll his eyes then.
    “You’re going to make things up as you go along,” the ghost of Alusair murmured. “As you always do. Charge in and ruffle feathers and ride out the hazards. You sly old rogue.”
    Elminster’s gaze held a twinkle. “Eh, lass. Careful with the compliments, there; ye’ll turn my head.”
    “Make you preen, more like. Old bastard.”
    “Shadow of a woman,” El replied, just as affectionately.
    “Still want me to go prancing off into a mansion of twisted magic with this, ah, personage?” Myrmeen asked Vangerdahast.
    He shrugged and looked sheepish. “You’ve always loved adventure, and chafed when it wasn’t on offer.”
    “You,” Myrmeen returned, “know me too well.” Then she looked across at Elminster. “Let’s get going.”

    T HIS DEEPEST ROOM beneath his tower was persistently damp, which was why its owner, who stood looking down at four robed men spread-eagled on a stout iron frame before him, used it only for butchery. Usually there were dead boar or cattle on the frame, but