Ganrahast sighed again. “You’re right. It’s time we dealt with them both. Send in Kelgantor and his wolves. And may the gods be with them.”

“Done, just as fast as I can muster them in the Hall of Spurs! They’re more than ready for battle-and, mark you, Elminster and the Witch-Queen may once have been formidable, but they’re a lot less than that now.”

Ganrahast spread his hands, noting, “So others have said, down the centuries. Yet those two are still with us, and the claimants are all gone to dust.”

Vainrence waved a dismissive hand. “Aye, but she’s now a gibbering madwoman, and he’s little more than an old dodderer, not the realm-shaking spell-lion of legend!”

Ganrahast wagged a reproving finger. “Aye, I know legend has a way of making us all greater lions than we are … yet its glory must cling to something. Be sure Kelgantor’s ready for the worst spellbrawl of his life.”

“He is, and I’m sending a dozen highknights with him, if blades and quarrels are needed where spells fail. This time the old lion and his mad bitch are going down. While we still have an enchanted treasure or two left in the palace.”

A little deeper into the wild heart of Hullack Forest than they remembered it being, the gaunt, bearded old man in dark rags and the tall, striking, silver-haired woman in leather armor came at last to a certain high rock in the forest.

“This is it,” Elminster murmured grimly, looking at the upthrust slab of stone. Once it had been the base of the tallest tower of Tethgard, but all other traces of the ruins were overgrown or swept away. Yet despite its innocuous appearance, he’d seen it more times than he cared to remember, in recent seasons, and knew it was the place. “Cast the spell.”

Storm Silverhand nodded and stepped past him to find stable footing, as birds called and whirred around them, and the light of late day lanced low through the leaves.