She laughed. "You'd be sick of plots and betrayals inside a tenday. . . One doesn't have to be king to eat and dance and love a night away, you know."

Elminster sighed and looked around the throne room at the shields and banners of his ancestors. His gaze came very slowly back to her from looking on distant memories, and he stirred.

"Let's to horse, then," he said briskly, "and be out of here before Helm's awake."

Myrjala nodded and stepped forward to link her arm with his. They went out of the throne room together.

The stables were huge and dimly lit, but quiet; it was well before the first feeding. Myrjala calmly chose the two best horses, and ordered a drowsy-eyed groom to saddle them.

"Here, now-" he protested, frowning. "Thos-" He broke off hastily, staring into her stern eyes. His eyes fell to her hands, beginning to shape a spell, and he gulped and said, "A moment, Lady-they'll be ready'n' but a breath or two!"

Myrjala smiled dryly, then turned to Elminster and snapped her fingers. Bulging saddlebags melted slowly out of thin air beside his feet. Elminster gave her a questioning look.

"I took the liberty," she said with a serene and innocent smile, "of a.s.sembling these early this morn. Folk who conquer kingdoms and then give them away deserve to eat well, at least."

Elminster hefted one of them and found it was G.o.ds-cursed heavy . . . and that it clinked. Coins, or he'd never been a thief. He deftly undid the knots and opened the throat of the bag wide. It was full of gold coins.

Myrjala smiled at him innocently and spread her hands. "How much gold can one king spend? We'll need something to see us along the trail to our next adventure ..."

"And just where is that, if I may ask?" Elminster cupped his hands, and she put a toe of one soft, pointed boot into them, springing lightly up into the saddle.

"This adventure's not quite done yet, I fear," Myrjala replied in a warning tone. Elminster looked at her thoughtfully, but she said no more as she urged her mount on toward the stable gate.

They went out into the mists of the morning and found Mithtyn leaning on his stick waiting for them. He looked up at them, swallowed, and managed a smile. "Someone of Athalantar should thank ye both properly. I fear I have not the words . . . but I would not want thee to ride away without even a salute!"

Myrjala gave him a little bow from her saddle, and said, "Our thanks, Mithtyn. Yet I see something troubles you ... and I would know what it is, if you will."

Mithtyn stared up at her for a moment, and then his words come in a rush. "Alaundo's prophecy, Lady! He's ne'er been wrong yet, and he said 'the Aumar line shall outlive the Stag Throne'! That can only mean Athalantar won't survive without an Aumar as king ... and yet ye ride away!"

Elminster gave the anxious old man a crooked smile. "While I live, the Aumar line lasts. Let this land grow in strength and happiness, as I hope to, in the days ahead."

Mithtyn said nothing, face troubled, but bowed low. They raised their hands to him in farewell, and rode away up the street in silence. As they went, the risen sun touched the rooftops with rose-red light. The old herald stared after them, still and silent.

They paused at the top of the lane. The hawk-nosed young man looked toward the old burial ground and said something to the tall lady who rode with him, pointing. The herald peered, trying to see what the prince who was giving up his kingdom had indicated . . . and could just make out a lump of cloth.

'Twas ... a cloak, drawn over a sleeping man and woman. Mithtyn cleared his throat in embarra.s.sment, but by then he'd recognized them: the smiling man called Farl and his lady, the beautiful little one. Aye, Ta.s.sabra, that was her name. And behind them, someone was sitting, staring right back at him! An elf! A tall, silent male elf, with a staff of wood across his knees ... Mithtyn gulped, raised his hand in an awkward salute, and saw it returned.

Then the elf turned his head. Mithtyn looked in the same direction in time to see the prince and the-sorceress, if she wanted to be known so-vanishing around a corner behind the old stone of a proud house. When they were gone, Mithtyn shivered once. Then he turned back into the castle, his eyes wet with tears. He knew he'd not see anything of like importance for the rest of his days. Such knowledge is a heavy thing to bear early in the morning.

Perhaps after a good dawnfry, a few hot mugs, and his wife to tell it all to. Mithtyn hoped-not for the first time-he'd live long enough for his daughter to be old enough to heed, and hear, and appreciate what he told her. He'd tell her about this morning perhaps a hundred times.

As he crossed the courtyard, one of Helm's knights approached and hesitantly told the old herald what the Lady Myrjala had said about herself while dancing the night before. Mithtyn looked into the man's eyes and discovered he did have someone to tell about it, after all. He led Anauviir toward the kitchens, feeling much better.

"Whither now?" Elminster asked, as Myrjala reined in where the trail crossed the shoulder of a little knoll west of the city. He looked around curiously; from Hastarl, one couldn't see this was a grave-knoll. A stone plinth stood within a low wall, overgrown with shrubs and low-branched trees that cloaked the stone from all but the closest eyes.

"In all your struggle, you've gained none of the spells wielded by the magelords," Myrjala replied. "As it befalls, I know where the mage royal kept a cache of magic-spellbooks, healing potions, and items held ready in case he was hounded from Hastarl, or ever found the city held against him. Here in this old shrine of Mystra, where no thieves come for fear of the guardian ghosts of dead mages, is his cache."

"Is it guarded?" Elminster asked warily, as they dismounted amid the trees.

"Of course it is, fool mageling!" someone snarled from behind him.

Elminster whirled around-in time to see the rearing body of his horse flow and twist... into the familiar shape of Undarl, mage royal of Athalantar. Myrjala's mount screamed in terror, and they heard the frantic drumming of hooves as it fled.

Elminster gulped and plucked at his belt for the things he'd need to cast what paltry battle-spells he had left. Undarl's gloating grin told him he was not going to be in time. The master of the magelords raised his hand and began to murmur something, but Myrjala sprang between them, skirts swirling. The lightning that cracked forth from Undarl split before her upraised hands and splashed harmlessly off to either side.

The mage royal screamed in anger. When he could find words through his fury, he snarled at her, "You! Always, it is you! Die, then!" His next words were a hissed incantation, and streams of fire burst from his fingertips in a crimson web that crackled and clawed the air, but was turned back by Myrjala's conjured shield. Elminster had no spells left to match such magics; he could only stand anxiously in the lee of Myrjala's barrier.

The web of fire Undarl had spun began to glow a dull, angry red. The mage royal lashed at the shield with his fading flames, and called out a name that echoed among the stones of the shrine.

His call was answered by a vast b.e.s.t.i.a.l roar. Something huge and dark rose up from behind the trees behind the mage royal... a red dragon! It unfurled batlike wings and hissed, eyes glinting with cruelty. Then its shoulders surged and it leapt through the air toward the prince and the dark-eyed sorceress. It breathed fire as it came, a roaring torrent of flame that poured over Myrjala's shield ... but could not consume it.

The sorceress said something long and awkward, and the dragon's flame doubled back on itself, coiling and turning from red to an eerie bright blue before it became white-hot. To El-minster's mage-sight it seemed even brighter; Myrjala had transformed it into something awesome. It rushed back at the dragon like a hungry wind. El glimpsed dark wings beating frantically amid the roiling flames for a moment, and then, in an explosion that rocked the knoll and hurled him from his feet, the dragon burst part.

Scales and blackened sc.r.a.ps of flesh flew past the last prince of Athalantar as he struggled to his feet and saw Undarl snarling and lashing at the sorceress with his whip of flames, seeking to pierce the shield. Fire roared and rumbled.

Myrjala stood unmoving against the fury of the flames, and spoke a single calm word. The edges of her shield began to grow, lengthening into long, lancelike tips that reached toward Undarl, pulsing with power.

The wizard laughed contemptuously. His arms were growing longer, too, stretching into tentacles. The tips of his snakelike limbs hardened into sharp, red, long-taloned claws. The lance-tips of the shield reached him and pa.s.sed harmlessly through. Undarl's laughter grew more shrill, and his face had begun to stretch forward horribly into a snout. The talons of his hands ended in small bulbous things, now, each with its own snapping mouth.

"My spell can't touch him!" Myrjala exclaimed, amazed.

The mage threw back his head, and his ever-wilder laughter echoed back from the stone plinth behind him. "Of course not! I am no puny mortal of Faerun, to be mastered by your magic-I walk the shadows where I will on many worlds. Many think themselves mightier than me, only to learn the depths of their folly in the moments before they perish!"

Undarl's ever-larger tentacle-heads suddenly swooped around the shield and were upon her, darting and biting like writhing snakes. Myrjala shrieked as one bit off her raised hand-but her scream was abruptly cut off an instant later when the wizard's head, dragonlike now, breathed out fire that burst through the shield without pause. The sorceress vanished from the waist up, collapsing in a smoking welter of ashes and blackened bones.

"No!" Elminster cried, leaping on the dragon-thing the magelord had become. He clawed at its eyes, kicking and weeping.

Undarl shook him off. El fell heavily, saw the fanged snout turn just above him to breathe down devouring fire, and rolled in under it with desperate speed, rising beneath those snarling jaws.

Undarl's flame roared skyward, useless, as the prince s.n.a.t.c.hed out the stub of the Lion Sword and stabbed at its throat repeatedly, forcing the dragon-thing to recoil. Even as its head arched back away from his blade, hissing, Undarl's biting claws clutched and tore El's back and face. Elminster crooked an arm around the dragon-thing's throat and swung around behind it, scrabbling for balance. Those clattering claws swarmed in on him, but he drove his blade deep into one of the dragon's golden eyes.

Undarl convulsed and shuddered, tearing free. Its newly grown tail smashed El away. He rolled in the dirt as the dragon-thing squalled and thrashed in agony. Elminster scrambled to his feet and carefully cast a lash of lightning, a feeble spell that might not do more to a dragon than singe its scales-but he cast it not at Undarl, but at the hilt of the Lion Sword, where it stood quivering in the dragon's eye.

Lightning leapt and flashed. The dragon-thing stiffened, jerked its tail, and sank limply back across the low stone wall, its brain cooked. Smoke rose in lazy curls from its eyes and nose.

Weeping in fury, Elminster hurled every battle-spell he had left. Before his streaming eyes the scaly body of his foe was chopped apart and then frozen. He stood over the riven carca.s.s until he could force his trembling lips to shape the words of his very last battle-spell. Small, stinging bolts of magic lanced out at the pieces of Undarl, hurling them aloft. El did not stop until only tangled lumps of flesh remained amid blood . . . blood everywhere.

Still weeping, Elminster turned to where Myrjala had fallen. Fallen defending him-again. He tried to embrace her ashen bones, but they crumbled and he was holding only drifting dust ... and then, nothing.

"No!" he sobbed brokenly, on his knees before Mystra's shrine in the brightening morning. "No!"

He stood up, mouth working, and shouted at the uncaring sun, "Magic brings only death! I'll wield magic no more!"

The ground rumbled and rocked at his words, and something slithered around his feet. Elminster looked down . . . and froze, watching in stunned silence. The ashes around him began to glow and drift together over the overgrown stone, rising and reshaping themselves into . .. Myrjala!

Honey-brown hair swirled as the glow became her bone-white body, lying on the stones. The hair wavered as if disturbed by an ebbing wave, and fell aside to reveal his teacher's familiar, pert face, and those large, dark eyes. They opened and looked up at him.

Elminster stood gaping in shock as Myrjala said gently, "Please, Elminster . . . never utter such words again-please? For me?"

Dumbly, Elminster fell to his knees again, reaching out wondering hands to touch her shoulders. They were solid, and smooth, and so were the hands that lifted to him and pulled his mouth down to hers. The sharp smell of burnt hair was strong around them as Elminster pulled back in alarm, wary of another magelord trick, and stared down into the eyes of the sorceress.

Their eyes met for a long time, and El knew he was facing Myrjala. He swallowed, tears falling from his cheeks onto her own, and said, "I-I promise. I thought ye dead ... ye were dead, burned to ashes! How can this be?"

Fire rose and raged, deep in those dark eyes staring up into his. The ghost of what might have been a smile pa.s.sed over her lips as she said softly, "For Mystra, anything is possible."

Elminster stared down at her, and then at last, he realized who-what-his teacher truly was.

In real fear, he tried to pull away. A hint of sadness crept into those dark eyes, but then their gaze sharpened and, as much as the firm arms around his neck, held him motionless. The G.o.ddess Mystra held him captive with her eyes of dark mystery, and said softly, "Long ago, you said you could learn to love me." Suddenly her eyes held a challenge.

Face white, wordless, Elminster nodded.

"Show me, then, what you've learned," the Lady beneath him said softly, and cool white fire rose up around them both.

Elminster felt clothes and all burn away as they rose into the air amid searing flames, up into the morning sky above the weathered stone plinth. Then her lips met his, and the burning began, as power such as he'd never known before surged into him....

The cart squeaked loud enough to rouse the sleeping dead, as usual. Bethgarl yawned as he pushed it up the b.u.mpy slope before the long descent into Hastarl... but then, he was all too used to it.

"Awaken, Hastarl!" he muttered, spreading his arms grandly and yawning again. "For Bethgarl Nreams, famed cheese merchant, cometh, cart loaded high with wheels of sharpcrumble, whitesides, and re-" something moved and caught his eye off to the left, by the old grave-shrine. Bethgarl looked in that direction, then up-and a third yawn died forever as his jaw dropped open in wonder.

He was looking-nay, staring-at a rising ball of blue-white flame, flaring so bright he could scarce bear it... but he had looked, eyes burning, and seen two folk floating half-hidden in its heart! A man and a maid, and they were. . . . Bethgarl stared, rubbed his watering eyes, stared again, then let fall his cart and ran back the way he'd come, for all he was worth, howling in fear.

G.o.ds, he'd have to stop eating those snails! Ammuthe had been right, as usual. .. oh, G.o.ds, why had he ever doubted her?

Sated, they floated in each other's arms, hiding from the brightness of highsun in the shade of an old and mighty tree.

The white flames were gone, and Mystra seemed only a languid, beautiful human woman. She rested her head on his shoulder and said softly, "Now your road must be alone, Elminster, for the more I walk Toril in human form, the more power pa.s.ses from me, and the less I become. Thrice I died as Myrjala, watching over you-here, in Ilhundyl's castle, and in the throne room in Athalgard ... and with each death I am diminished."

Elminster stared down into her dark eyes. As he opened his mouth to speak, she put fingers over his lips to still him, and went on. "Yet you need not be alone-for I have need of champions in the Realms: men and women who serve me loyally and hold a part of the power over Art that is mine. I would very much like you to be one of my Chosen."

"Anything, Lady," Elminster managed to say. "Command me!"

"No." Mystra's eyes were grave. "This you must freely agree to-and before you speak so quickly, know that I am asking of you service that may last a thousand thousand years. A hard road ... a long, long doom. You will see Athalantar, with all its folk and proud towers, pa.s.s away, crumble into dust, and be forgotten."

Those dark eyes held his, and Elminster floated, looked into them, and was afraid. Staring into his eyes, the G.o.ddess went on. "The world will change around you, and I shall command you to do things that are hard, and that will seem cruel or senseless. You will not be welcome in most places . . . and your welcome in others will be born of fawning fear."

She drifted a little apart from him and turned them both, until they hung upright in the air, facing each other. "Moreover, I will not think ill of you if you refuse. You have done far more already than most mortals ever do." Her eyes glowed. "More than that, you fought at my side, trusting me always, and never betraying me or seeking to use me for your own ends. It is a memory I shall always treasure."

Elminster began to weep again. Through the tears, he managed to say huskily, "Lady, I beg of ye-command me! Ye offer me two things that are precious indeed, thy love and a purpose for my life! What more can any man ask than those? I would be honored to serve ye ... make me, please, one of thy Chosen!"

Mystra smiled, and the world around seemed brighter. "I thank you," she said formally. "Would you like to begin now, or have some time to ride your own way and be yourself first?"

"Now," Elminster said firmly. "I want no waiting for doubt to creep in ... let it be now."

Mystra bowed her head, exultation in her eyes. "This will hurt," she said gravely as her body drifted in to meet his again.

As their lips touched and clung, lightning leapt from her eyes into his, and the white fire was suddenly back, roaring up around them deafeningly, searing him to the bone. Elminster tried to shriek with pain, but found he could not breathe, and then he felt himself torn, tugged, and swept away into the rising flame, and it did not matter anymore....

"Such tales you tell!" Ammuthe was working herself up into a fine temper as she walked. She tossed her head, and that magnificent hair swirled in the sunlight. "Always such fancies-so, well enough, my husband dreams when awake as well as when he snores! I give the G.o.ds thanks for that, and in silent despair put up with it! But this time-a whole cart of our cheeses let fallen to be s.n.a.t.c.hed up by who knows who? Too much, indeed, my lazy sluggard man! You shall feel more than the edge of my tongue, if every single one of those chee-"

Ammuthe broke off in midtirade, staring up at the grave-shrine on the hill. Trembling with renewed fear, Bethgarl nonetheless allowed himself a small, leaping moment of satisfaction as Ammuthe shrieked, spun about, and ran headlong into his chest.

Bethgarl staggered back, but held her firmly. "None o' that, now," he said, not too loudly, casting a wary eye up at the streaming, roiling sphere of white fire above the shrine of Mystra. "We'd gather up all the cheeses, you said ... I'd not eat at our table again until you'd seen the money for them, you said ... well, presently, good wife, I shall grow hungry. I know I will, and-"

"By all the G.o.ds, Bethgarl! Shut thy mouth and run!"

Ammuthe made as if to jerk free of him. Bethgarl sighed and let her go, and she was off like a rabbit, bounding down the hill again, hair streaming behind her. Bethgarl watched her go, fought down a sudden wild desire to laugh, and turned back to his cart. One of the cheeses had fallen off into the gra.s.s. He dusted it thoughtfully, put it back, picked up the handles, and pushed the cart on toward Hastarl, ignoring the sudden cries of his name from far behind.

As he pa.s.sed the shrine, he looked up at the ball of fire, and winked at it. Then he swallowed. Cold sweat trickled down his back, and he struggled against rising fear. Carefully he pushed the cart on down the hill, not hurrying. He could have sworn that as he stared at the flames, a pair of dark, knowing eyes had met his-and winked back at him!

Bethgarl reached the bottom of the hill and looked back. Fire still pulsed and glowed. Whistling, he pushed his cart on to Hastarl, and frowned curiously at the hubbub by the gates. There seemed to be a lot of folk out in the streets today, all of them excited....

Epilogue.

There are no endings save death, only pauses for breath, and new beginnings. Always, new beginnings... it's why the world grows ever more crowded, ye see. So remember, now-there are no endings, only beginnings. There; simple enough, isn't it? Elegant, too.

Tharghin "Threeboots" Ammatar Speeches of a Most Worthy Sage Year of the Lost Helm Elminster floated back from somewhere far away indeed, and found himself lying naked on a slab of cold stone, smoke rising from his limbs. As the last gray wisps curled up and drifted away, he raised his head and looked down. His body was unchanged, unmarked. A shadow fell across him, and he turned his head. Mystra knelt over him, nude and magnificent. Elminster took one of her hands and kissed it.

"My thanks," he said roughly. "I hope I serve thee well."

"Many have said that," Mystra replied a little sadly, "and some have even believed it."

Then she smiled and stroked his arm. "Know, Elminster, that I believe in you far more than most. I felt the Lion Sword's enchantment stripped away by dragonfire that day when Undarl destroyed Heldon, and looked to see what befell, and saw a young lad swear vengeance against all cruel wizards and the magic they wielded. A man of great wits and inner kindness and strength, who might grow to be mighty. So I watched over him as he grew, and liked the choices he made, and what he grew to become ... until he came to confront me in my temple, as I knew he would in the end. And there he had the courage and the wisdom to debate the ethics of wielding magic with me-and I knew that Elminster could become the greatest mage this world has ever known, if I only led him and let him grow. I have done that-and El, lovely man, you have delighted me and surprised me and pleased me beyond all my hopes and expectations."

They stared into each other's eyes, and Elminster knew he'd never forget that calm, deep gaze of infinite wildness and love and wisdom, however many years might lie ahead.

Then Mystra smiled a little and bent to kiss his nose, her hair brushing his face and chest. El breathed in her strange, spicy scent anew for a moment and trembled with renewed desire, but Mystra lifted her head and looked southeast, into the quickening breeze. "I need you to go to Cormanthor and learn the rudiments of magic," she said softly.

Elminster raised an eyebrow. " 'The rudiments of magic'? What have I been hurling about so far?"

Mystra looked down at him with a quick smile. "Even knowing what I am, you dare to speak so-I love thee for that, El."

"Not what you are, Lady," Elminster dared to whisper, "but who you are."

Mystra's face lit up with a smile as she went on, "Power, yes, but without discipline or true feeling for the forces you're crafting. Ride south and east from here to the elven city of Cormanthor . . . you'll be needed there in time to come. Apprentice yourself to any archmage of the city who'll have you."