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El frowned again. Slowly, she turned away.
That sharp voice came again. "Sit down and eat first, fool-head. Bitterness lends the weak-witted wings .
.. always try to make a stop to eat into a time to think, and you'll think more in a season than most think in
all their days."
Elmara smiled slightly, threw her cloak back, and sat, reach-ing for the shoulder sack Braer had given her.
The old woman shook her head again and snapped her fin-gers. Out of nowhere, a wooden platter of
steaming greens ap-peared in front of El. Then a silver fork blinked into being above it and hung motionless in
the air.
Reluctantly El reached out for it.
The old woman snorted. "Frightened of a little magic? A fine advocate of Mystra you'll be."
"I
 have seen magic used to slay and destroy and rule through fear," Elmara said slowly. "Wherefore I'm wary of
it." She took firm hold of the fork. "I did not choose to look upon Mystra she came to me."
"Then be more grateful; some wizards dream of seeing her all their lives and die disappointed." The
white-haired head bent to regard the dirt again. "If you hate or fear magic so much, why have you come
here?"
Silence stretched. "To do a thing I am sworn to do," Elmara said finally, "I'll need strong magic ... and to
understand what it is I wield."
"Well, then ... eat, and get you going. Mind you try some of that thinking I suggest."
"Thinking of
 what?"
"That, I leave to you. Remember, Mystra forbids nothing."
"Think ... of everything?"
" 'Twould be a welcome change."
*****
The old woman watched until the young maid in the cloak was gone through the trees. Then she went on
watching; a few trees were nothing to her.
Finally she turned and walked to the temple, growing as she went, her shape shifting and rising until a tall
and shapely lady in shimmering, iridescent robes strolled to the temple door. She turned once more to look
where Elmara had gone. Her eyes were dark and yet golden, and little flames danced in them.
"Seen enough?" The voice from the darkness within the door was a deep rumble.
Mystra tossed her head; long, glossy hair slithered and danced. "This could be the one. His mind has the
width, and his heart the depth."
The temple rippled, flowed, and shifted, even as she had done, and split, revealing itself as a bronze
dragon rising away from around a much smaller, stone house.
The dragon stretched out gigantic wings with a creak and a sigh and inclined its head until one wise old
eye regarded the goddess. Its voice was a purr so deep that the front of the stone house shivered. "As did all
the others . . . those many, many others. Having the skill doesn't mean one must or will use it rightly, and
take the true path."
"True," Mystra answered, a certain soft bitterness in her tone, and then she smiled and laid a hand on its
scales. "My thanks, faithful friend. Until next we fly together."
As gently as if it were brushing her with a feather, the dragon stroked her cheek with one massive claw.
Then it drew in its wings and melted, dwindling down into the form of a bent, wrin-kled white-haired woman
with bright green eyes. Without a backward glance, the priestess went into the temple, moving with the slow
gait and bent back of age. Mystra sighed, turned away herself, and became a dazzling web of lights that
whirled and spun, faster and faster
 until she was gone.
*****
The sack Braer had given her proved to hold over twenty sil-ver coins at the bottom, wrapped in a scrap of
hide. That was not so many that she could afford to hurl them away for a warm bed every night, at least
before the deep snows came down on the world. Hedges and thickets were her bedchambers, but El-mara
usually warmed herself of evenings at an inn with a hot meal and a seat as close to the hearth as she could
manage. Lone young women walking the roads were few, but conjuring a little mage-fire and looking
mysterious always kept any over-amorous local men at a distance.
This night found her in the latest house of raised flagons, somewhere in the Mlembryn lands. To all who
would listen, she spun tales of the glory of magic, tales drawn from what Braer and Helm and the streets of
Hastarl had told her. Sometimes these tales won her a few drinks, and on nights when the gods smiled,
someone else would tell stories of sorcery to top her own, and thereby tell her more of what most folk thought
of magic ... and win her new marvels to tell on evenings to come.
She had hopes of that happening this night; two men, at least, were edging forward in their chairs, itching
to unburden themselves of something, as she warmed to the height of her most splendid tale. ".. . And the
last the king and all his court saw of the nine Royal Wizards, they were standing on thin air, facing each
other in a circle, already higher than the tallest tur-ret of the castle, and rising!" Elmara drew breath
dramatically, looked around at her rapt audience, and went on.
"Lightnings danced ever faster between their hands, weaving a web so bright that it hurt the eyes to look
upon it
 but the last thing the king saw, ere they rose out of sight, was a dragon ap-pearing in the midst of those
lightnings, fading in, he said...."
And then a curtain across a booth in the back of the room parted, and Elmara knew she was in trouble.
The eager men turned hurriedly away, and the room filled with a sudden ten-sion centered on a splendidly
dressed, curl-bearded man who was striding across the room toward her. Rings gleamed on his fingers, and
anger shone in his eyes.
"You! Outlander!"
Elmara raised a mild eyebrow. "Goodman?"
" 'Lord,' to you. I am Lord Mage Dunsteen, and I bid you take heed, wench!" The man drew himself up
importantly, and El-mara knew that though he looked only at her, he was aware of everyone in the room. "The
matters you so idly speak of are not fancies, but sorcery." The lord mage strutted grandly forward and said
sharply, "Magic interests everyone with its power
 but it is, and rightly, an art of secrets secrets to be learned
only by those fit to know them. If you are wise, you will cease your talk of sorcery at once."
At the end of his words, the room was very still, and into that silence, Elmara said quietly, "I was told to
speak of magic, wher-ever I go."
"Oh? By whom?"
"A priestess of Mystra."
"And why," Lord Mage Dunsteen asked with silken derision, "would a priestess of Mystra waste three
words on you?"
Color rose in Elmara's cheeks, but she answered as quietly as before, "She was expecting me."
"Oh? Who sent you out into Faerun to seek priestesses of the Holy Lady of Mysteries?"
"Mystra," Elmara said quietly.
"Oh, Mystra. Of course." The wizard scoffed openly. "I suppose she talked to you."
"She did."
"Oh? Then what did she look like?"
"Like eyes floating in flame, and then as a tall woman; dark robed and dark eyed."
Lord Mage Dunsteen addressed the ceiling. "Faerun is home to many mad folk, some so lost in their wits,
I've heard, that they can delude even themselves."
Elmara set down her tankard. "Ye've used many proud, pro-voking words, Lord Mage, and they tell me ye
think thyself a wizard of some ... local importance."
The wizard stiffened, eyes flashing.
Elmara held up a staying hand. "I've heard many times in my life that wizards are seekers after truth. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]