Weak and dazed, reeling, with Amarune cowering in mute terror in a corner of their shared mind, Elminster shivered in the night.

Bare and chilled, feeling sick and empty-kiss of Mystra, half of Rune’s energy must be gone-he staggered up rises and down slopes, through countless trees. The way was not long, but he would have been lost had a tiny silver star not guided him until the dark bulk of the little lodge loomed out of the night.

He leaned against its front wall beside the door, shuddering, until he could master his breathing enough to stand upright and square his-her-shoulders.

Amarune was still drawn into herself, but El could put the pain and horror of the lightning firmly behind him and take satisfaction in the healing that had been done to him.

By his goddess.

His Mystra.

Aye, Mystra was alive and in the realms still.

A part of him wanted to shout that to the stars above, to bellow it until folk came awake in their beds in Suzail to sit up listening.

And a part of him wanted to keep it so secret that not even the young nobleman inside the hut would begin to suspect it.

Let alone Manshoon or any other wizard of power.

Elminster threw back his head, drew in a deep breath-and smiled at the tiny silver flash of farewell that winked out in the darkness above his nose. Then he eased open the door with a fingertip and stepped inside as quietly as he could.

The hearth was dim, almost out, but someone had lit the brazier tray fixed in its spark-shield frame behind the door. Its dancing glow fell upon blankets frozen in the usual twisted chaos left behind when sleepers arise And it fell upon Storm Silverhand, her shirt-clad body bent back in a graceful bow on the floor. Someone had hogtied her to a leg of the table and her hair was over her face. She lay unmoving. Dead or senseless.

She’d been bound with Arclath’s belt.