Sylune nodded grimly. "I thought so. Has Shadowdale fallen?"

Elminster gave her a twisted grin. "Not yet." He got up and trudged west, into the trees. "Come to the meadow."

Sylune drifted along beside him, suddenly reluctant to be alone. The old wizard had taken only a few paces before they emerged into a field of trodden grass where Belkram, Itharr, and Sharantyr sat, looking up with welcoming smiles.

"Thankee, and all that," Itharr said, his broad shoulders shifting as he smiled.

"All part of my orders," Sylune told him briskly, giving Elminster a meaningful look, "as enunciated by the tyrant mage here."

"Ah, yes," Belkram said. "I believe I know just how you feel."

"Yes," Sharantyr agreed crisply. "I think it's about time, Old Mage, that you told us what befell Faerun while we were all caught in this magic."

"You might have revived us sooner," Itharr added darkly.

Elminster looked at the burly ranger. "It took me days to repair and rebuild thy bodies, all three of ye. I had to use necromantic spells I haven't looked at in ages… and I do mean ages." He lifted an eyebrow. "Perhaps I didn't get thy head screwed on quite right."

"I-" Itharr began, but Belkram interrupted him.

"If that's so, sir-why do I feel weary, and in pain?"

"Aye!" Itharr agreed.

"The only way I could save ye at all," Elminster muttered, "was to restore ye to exactly as ye were before the trap took us. As it was, I nearly lost ye more than once-ye in particular, Belkram, five times! The gods know I've grown used to never receiving the slightest thanks when I help folk, but betimes I think certain beneficiaries of my arts close enough to me-and perceptive enough, to-ah, ne'er mind…" He glared at the handsome Harper.

Belkram returned his look of anger.

"All right," Sharantyr said, looking from one to the other. "Enough. Tell us about the Realms, El."