Spellstorm (47 page)
El watched the old moneylender wheeze his way down the path and disappear through the creaking gate—that Storm left in a creaking state these days, by way of being a doorbell—chuckled, shook his head, and started stowing dishes away.
“Is there any more wine?” a soft voice asked from behind him.
The Sage of Shadowdale stiffened—and then visibly relaxed, and turned around with a happy smile.
The goddess Mystra was sitting at the cleared kitchen table in the seat Mirt had warmed, smiling back at him.
“As ever, you deserve my thanks,” she said. “So thank you, El. You are … one of the treasures of being Mystra.”
“Even when things don’t go as ye’d hoped?” he asked, pouring her a brimful glass.
She took it, sipped deeply, sighed in pleasure—and smiling, waved away his proffered pan, with the last of dinner.
“
Especially
then. And stop tempting me with the food, you old rogue; it smells
so
good.”
“Ye don’t eat?”
“I feed more, these days, on the pleasure of others, as they taste and grow satiated,” she replied. “It feels odd, yet increasingly … right. Fitting.” She raised her glass again, swirled it, and said, “You did good work once more, despite my foolishness in trying to meddle yet stand back. How could I have avoided weakening you, my most useful servant—not to mention the closest friend I have—if in the throes of it, you didn’t think I was leaving it all up to you?”
“So did ye tell Storm and Amarune it was all up to them?”
“Yes, and they’ve gotten themselves into a fine mess, so I’ll be having Alusair guide the others home while you go and rescue your partner and your heir.”
El grinned wryly. “So it’s all up to me again, is that it?”
“Of course,” the goddess replied, and then, in perfect mimicry of Elminster’s own sardonic voice, added, “Isn’t it always?”
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