Spellstorm by Ed Greenwood Read Free Book Online

each other and
     then starting spell duels like the one that destroyed the Dragon Rampant?” Vangerdahast
     asked. “For that’s what’ll erupt, if magic is unreliable within Oldspires, rather
     than nonexistent.”
    “Mystra
hopes
,” Elminster replied slowly, his tone making it clear he wasn’t convinced that what
     Our Lady of Magic envisaged would come to pass, “they will come to some common agreements
     on certain things. So Toril isn’t ravaged by a war among archmages. And if they do
     make war on each other, let it be face-to-face, inside one building, and not slaughtering
     many innocents and ravaging realms in the process.”
    “Send four hungry panthers in a room, and wait to see which wounded one will stagger
     out,” Vangey murmured. “Not a strategy unfamiliar to me.”
    “Mystra
hopes
,” Elminster repeated, “that their time together will at least lead to frank discussion,
     and increased understanding.”
    Alusair frowned. “If that’s the goal, why doesn’t Mystra just show up in their minds
     and
threaten
them into playing nice?”
    “Ah. Well, 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,”