Free Spellstorm by Ed Greenwood

my name!”
    “I always remember those who are kind to me,” Alastra replied, nodding as the maid
     bustled out to fetch the soup. “And otherwise,” she murmured to the closing door.
    She liked this inn. The Falcon’s Fair Roost. Good name for a roadside inn in the wilderlands
     halfway to anywhere. Old but clean and well kept. A rather plump brindle cat had crept
     into the room and was purring at her from her pillow.
    “So,” she asked it gently, “who are you, really?”
    The cat blurred just long enough to show her shining eyes she knew; Delgorn, a local
     Harper agent she’d met with a time or six.
    “Stay the night?” Alastra asked, patting the bed.
    The cat purred louder, then abruptly went silent and vanished down under the bed.
     Alastra turned in time to accept the soup from the maid and receive the rather breathless
     news that the venison would be “up in a trice.”
    “Bring me twice the usual,” she said swiftly. “I find myself
very
hungry.”
    The moment the door had swung closed again, a voice from under the bed informed her,
     “So am I.”
    Alastra chuckled. “What you see in a lady well over a century old is beyond me, lad.”
    “I see a veteran Harper mage I am proud to work with, a mentor I am proud to serve,
     and someone of whom I remain in admiring awe. Not to mention a splendid woman who
     looks barely past thirty, and impishly good-natured. Former apprentice of both Elminster
     of Shadowdale and Khelben the Blackstaff, lover of Malchor Harpell—”
    “Delgorn,” Alastra interrupted, all levity gone from her voice, “just where did you
     hear
that
?”
    “You talk in your sleep,” came the reply. “I’m sorry, Lady Alastra, I had no idea
     Malchor was a secret.”
    “Secret no longer, obviously. So you know where I’m heading.”
    “Oldspires, where all the other mad wizards have gone, to see that no harm comes to
     Malchor Harpell.”
    “That is
not
for passing on,” Alastra said severely, “to anyone.”
    “Lady, I obey.”
    Alastra sighed. “
Try
to keep the mockery out of your voice when you say that, lad.”
    It was true. She had long secretly loved Malchor Harpell—the
kindest
adventuring wizard she’d ever met—and by the sounds of who was gathering at Oldspires,
     even he might need help.
    Moreover, the Harpers should know all about who got the Lost Spell and what they tried
     to use it for—and who better at the Art among the Harpers was handy?
    None but Alastra. “It’s all up to you,” she murmured to herself.
    “Pardon? Ah, you don’t have to leave until morning, do you?” Delgorn asked in a plaintive
     whisper, his fingertips tracing a velvet-soft path up past her right knee.
    Her fault, for changing into a gown.
    “The venison’s coming,” she warned.
    Her warning went unheeded, until she clamped her knees together with viselike firmness.
    Young Harpers, these days.

CHAPTER 5
Very Bad, Very Soon
    T HE ROOM AROUND THEM WAS HIGH-CEILINGED, GRANDLY ORNATE , and dark. Cobwebs in the lofty corners told them that Lord Halaunt didn’t employ
     maids or jacks with long-pole mops, or didn’t look up much … or just didn’t care.
    Well, he was past caring about
anything
now, but …
    The four of them stood facing each other in a conspiratorial little group in the unwelcoming
     entry hall of Oldspires, listening to the one of them who wasn’t really a lord pretend
     to be one.
    “You haven’t got the voice quite right,” Mirt commented. “Sharper, more waspish—and
     more phlegmy, too. Rough, as if he needed to clear his throat but didn’t bother.”
    “Is this waspish enough?” Lord Halaunt snapped. “I’m a princess, not an actress!”
    “All princesses are actresses,” Elminster told her. “Some of them are poorer than
     others, I’ll grant, but—”
    “El, don’t make this any harder for me,” Alusair told him. “This old man’s body is
     heavy, and all the joints are stiff, and hurt. He hasn’t taken very good care