vicinity
while they’re at it? I thought she wanted magic preserved and nurtured and spread
out among us all!”
“She does. This gathering of the powerful is an attempt to instill in them some sort
of inner personal creed or code, so they’ll instinctively work against the reckless
excesses of others who wield magic.”
“And if they somehow, incredibly,
do
decide to work together—and come charging out of the place welded into a tiny army
of spell-hurling mages bent on destroying all of Cormyr that they can’t conquer? What
then?”
“Outside the spellstorm, once all of the mages are safely inside the mansion, a force
of Cormyr’s war wizards will assemble and cast a wall of force around it all. A great
ring to keep warriors with knives and grudges against wizards out, and the mages—who
can’t successfully hurl disintegrating spells through the spellstorm at this ring—in.
Mystra will make sure the ring works, even if someone miscasts, or the coordination
of the Crown mages involved is less than perfect.”
“Penning—
imprisoning
—a bunch of egotistical, ruthless, used to getting their own way in
everything
wizards together, in hopes that rather than tear each other’s eyeballs out, they’ll
fall into firm friendships and everlasting trust.”
“Aye,” El said dryly, “that’s more or less it. ’Tis my private belief that Mystra
is not a foolish misjudger of mortals so much as she’s heartily sick of the way some
powerful and long-lived mages have been behaving, and wants them to cooperate—or,
yes, kill each other. Their choice.”
Mirt shook his head. “The goddess of magic giving foolheaded wizards a
choice
?”
“ ’Tis what she’s always done,” El said softly. “The way forward for mortals to flourish
is to choose freely, for good or ill, not be slaves to any deity.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard priests say as much many times down the years,” Mirt sighed,
then squinted hard at Elminster and growled, “She
really
thinks they’ll behave reasonably, and even reach some accord, or even trust?”
“She really
hopes
,” El replied.
Mirt rolled his eyes. “Madness.” And then he grinned and leaned forward across the
table and declared, “But I’m in. Despite the fool-headed danger.” He studied Elminster’s
face and added, “As you knew I would be. That stone face of yours is anything but.”
“Thy boredom,” Elminster replied gently, “is apparent to all. Yet it’s good to find
thee willing.”
Mirt shrugged, drank deeply again, and set down the tankard with the thunk of mostly
emptied metal. “I want to be
alive
again, part of ‘important doings’ once more. But I’ll need a little more in the way
of payment.”
El arched an eyebrow. “No knighthoods, now. Or country mansions. Unless Halaunt’s
somewhat decayed manor survives our little get-together; if so, I’d not be surprised
if I could convince the Crown of Cormyr to gift it to ye.”
Mirt waved a dismissive hand. “Nay, nay, nothing like that. Just some truths from
you, to satisfy my curiosity. How Alusair came to be a ghost, how Vangerdahast went
from being a dragon to a spider-thing and then a man again, and how Myrmeen Lhal went
from being a dragon, back to human form—and not a wrinkled old totterer, either.”
Elminster nodded. “That I can do, in brief. The deeper details—the decisions each
made, to result in their transformations—are for them to divulge, not me.”
“Fair enough. Say on.”
“So … Alusair died, as all mortals must. Died while in disagreement with her nephew
the king—the fifth Azoun. Not over his policies, but over his mishandling of their
implementation, which she saw as having deepened divisions between the realm and its
nobles and hastened the death of her mother, Filfaeril. There were other, deeper reasons
for their quarrel, but those remain matters of state.”
Mirt nodded acceptance, but
while they’re at it? I thought she wanted magic preserved and nurtured and spread
out among us all!”
“She does. This gathering of the powerful is an attempt to instill in them some sort
of inner personal creed or code, so they’ll instinctively work against the reckless
excesses of others who wield magic.”
“And if they somehow, incredibly,
do
decide to work together—and come charging out of the place welded into a tiny army
of spell-hurling mages bent on destroying all of Cormyr that they can’t conquer? What
then?”
“Outside the spellstorm, once all of the mages are safely inside the mansion, a force
of Cormyr’s war wizards will assemble and cast a wall of force around it all. A great
ring to keep warriors with knives and grudges against wizards out, and the mages—who
can’t successfully hurl disintegrating spells through the spellstorm at this ring—in.
Mystra will make sure the ring works, even if someone miscasts, or the coordination
of the Crown mages involved is less than perfect.”
“Penning—
imprisoning
—a bunch of egotistical, ruthless, used to getting their own way in
everything
wizards together, in hopes that rather than tear each other’s eyeballs out, they’ll
fall into firm friendships and everlasting trust.”
“Aye,” El said dryly, “that’s more or less it. ’Tis my private belief that Mystra
is not a foolish misjudger of mortals so much as she’s heartily sick of the way some
powerful and long-lived mages have been behaving, and wants them to cooperate—or,
yes, kill each other. Their choice.”
Mirt shook his head. “The goddess of magic giving foolheaded wizards a
choice
?”
“ ’Tis what she’s always done,” El said softly. “The way forward for mortals to flourish
is to choose freely, for good or ill, not be slaves to any deity.”
“Yes, yes, I’ve heard priests say as much many times down the years,” Mirt sighed,
then squinted hard at Elminster and growled, “She
really
thinks they’ll behave reasonably, and even reach some accord, or even trust?”
“She really
hopes
,” El replied.
Mirt rolled his eyes. “Madness.” And then he grinned and leaned forward across the
table and declared, “But I’m in. Despite the fool-headed danger.” He studied Elminster’s
face and added, “As you knew I would be. That stone face of yours is anything but.”
“Thy boredom,” Elminster replied gently, “is apparent to all. Yet it’s good to find
thee willing.”
Mirt shrugged, drank deeply again, and set down the tankard with the thunk of mostly
emptied metal. “I want to be
alive
again, part of ‘important doings’ once more. But I’ll need a little more in the way
of payment.”
El arched an eyebrow. “No knighthoods, now. Or country mansions. Unless Halaunt’s
somewhat decayed manor survives our little get-together; if so, I’d not be surprised
if I could convince the Crown of Cormyr to gift it to ye.”
Mirt waved a dismissive hand. “Nay, nay, nothing like that. Just some truths from
you, to satisfy my curiosity. How Alusair came to be a ghost, how Vangerdahast went
from being a dragon to a spider-thing and then a man again, and how Myrmeen Lhal went
from being a dragon, back to human form—and not a wrinkled old totterer, either.”
Elminster nodded. “That I can do, in brief. The deeper details—the decisions each
made, to result in their transformations—are for them to divulge, not me.”
“Fair enough. Say on.”
“So … Alusair died, as all mortals must. Died while in disagreement with her nephew
the king—the fifth Azoun. Not over his policies, but over his mishandling of their
implementation, which she saw as having deepened divisions between the realm and its
nobles and hastened the death of her mother, Filfaeril. There were other, deeper reasons
for their quarrel, but those remain matters of state.”
Mirt nodded acceptance, but
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