Elminster's reply was subdued. I know not if Mystra's power will leak from me. Mayhap it will be unleashed in some sort of magical blast. In either case, it may destroy any mages near, or render them feeble witted or dead to Art as I am now.

Moreover, I am sure to attract the overly ambitious, if ever my fate becomes known. I would not want ye to face hourly visits from the likes of Ghalaster of Thay; that Calishite, Murdrimm the Hierarchmage; or Manshoon, backed by all his Zhentarim. One or a number of them, working against thee or me, might taste too much of Tymora's good fortune. Those who would seize Mystra's power will do anything, and more than anything, to get it.

What must we do, then? The Simbul's voice seemed close to tears.

If ye would help me, Elminster replied carefully, feeling his way as he spoke to her, watch over Mourngrym-and Randal Morn in Daggerdale-as I have done, and help the Harpers as best ye can. Storm will tell thee how. I need thee to take on my tasks while I am unable to do them-if ye deem the doing necessary and good, for I will not tell thee how to judge, or that I have been right in what I've done.

There was a little silence, and then the reply came, soft as a falling feather. I will, Old Mage. Remember that I love thee. That was all, and she was gone.

Elminster sat alone again in the night, waiting for moonrise.

He could not see the silent tears the lady in the tattered black gown shed then. Far away, in the highest room in a night-cloaked tower in Aglarond, the Simbul wept for her doomed lord. She hated to break their link together-now, when he needed her most-but she couldn't hide her pity any longer. That last pride she would not take from him, whatever befell. It was nearly all he had left.

Sitting alone in the soft darkness, Elminster watched the stars slowly wheel overhead.