Spellstorm by Ed Greenwood Page B

betrays insecurity—or imprudence.”
    “Of course it does,” Maraunth Torr agreed tenderly.
    Behind them, the last few wizards edged through the door, and Elminster closed it and shot the bolts home.
    “Are we prisoners, Sage of Shadowdale?” Alastra Hathwinter asked him, her voice somewhere between curious and challenging.
    “Nay, of course not,” Elminster replied, giving her the briefest of stone-faced winks. “This door doesn’t even have a lock. Now if ye’ll accompany the Lord Halaunt into the parlor, I’ll see about drinks. Traveling in the countryside is always, I find, a thirsty business.”
    At the other end of the wary group of wizards, Lord Halaunt waved one beckoning arm and set off through the gloom through one of the high, arch-topped doorways.
    Slowly and with seeming reluctance, the nine remaining wizards followed him into a low-ceilinged room filled with couches, chairs, sidetables, a long sideboard along one wall, and a large fireplace across from it. The stuffed,severed heads of an astonishing variety of rather moth-eaten monsters thrust out from the wall above the sideboard.
    “An impressive multitude of death ,” the disfigured woman with the lurch commented with some distaste, making her slow and less than graceful way down the chamber.
    “What,” another of the female mages wondered aloud, peering at one of the wilder stuffed heads, “is that ?”
    “A shapechanger caught in midshift,” Elminster offered brightly. “Takes a magic weapon to manage that sort of slaying. The work of Lord Halaunt’s grandfather, I believe. Now, how about a little winter wine? Jhuild? Or perhaps a nice firedrake?”
    A panel grated open in the dark carved wood above the nearest sideboard, causing wizards to whirl around and hands to rise instinctively to work magic. Yet it revealed nothing more sinister than a pair of gloved hands—Myrmeen’s, El recognized—placing a tray of decanters on the sideboard. And then another.
    As a gleaming forest of drinkables grew along the sideboard, Elminster—who was keeping a sharp watch over them all—saw the guests start to really study each other, eyes darting here and there as they helped themselves and then sought seats.
    There was Manshoon, of course, settling himself well away from both Maraunth Torr and Shaaan.
    But who was that, carefully positioning himself at Lord Halaunt’s elbow? A beardless man with a receding hairline, and two gray-going-white daggerboard sideburns? Carrying himself with the confidence of a mage, he wore classic wizard’s robes, but of plain beige homespun rather than sporting the usual rich fabric and fancy adornments.
    Alusair had noticed his attentions, and wanted to know more about him. “So,” Lord Halaunt asked, “And who are you?”
    “Skouloun is my name,” the man replied, and added grandly, “I am an Elder of Nimbral.”
    “Nimbral, eh? I suppose rumors of its ruination were greatly exaggerated?”
    Skouloun shrugged. “I know not—I was on another plane of existence when the Spellplague hit, and learned of it from a dying mage who barely escaped with his life, so I stayed away from Toril for some eighty years.”
    “Huh. If you could stay away in a place hospitable enough to host you for a lifetime, why’d you come back?”
    “For my lifetime,” Skouloun replied. “I spent much of those eight decades perfecting a longevity magic, but was forced to return to Toril when that ritual started to fail, aging me. I hadn’t realized some of the materials I’d used must come from Toril; their equivalents from other planes won’t work.”
    “And having prolonged your life, are you now willing to share?” a buxom lady in homespun robes very similar to Skouloun’s asked teasingly. Her eyes were a merry honey brown, the same hue as her hair.
    “This should not be discussed here and now,” Skouloun replied sharply.
    “I can see you two know each other,” Lord Halaunt observed. “Care to share?”
    He looked to