Ah, Storm was awake, throwing off the effects of the darfly. Through her glossy fall of silver hair, El saw the gleam of one eye opening a trifle, for just a moment.

Which made his role clear. He had to keep Arclath talking and all the lordling’s attention on him.

“Arclath,” he said in his best imitation of Amarune’s gravely earnest manner, going to his knees and spreading his arms wide, “what can I do to convince you? I am your Rune, and… and you’re frightening me. I don’t know how to prove anything to you!”

He had to keep his eyes from straying to Storm and drawing Arclath’s attention to her-but at the back of the mind they were sharing, Amarune had seen that eye open, too, and had instantly become interested in watching her.

Unthinkingly she reached for control of her eyes. They tussled mentally for a silent moment, until El brutally won that battle by shaking the dancer’s head violently and making her look away and down at the blanket-littered floor.

“Arclath?” he sobbed, not daring to let Amarune look up.

“Rune,” Arclath snarled, “if you are Rune and not the wizard, please believe me when I tell you I’m just as scared. And baffled about how to be sure you are… well, you.”

El managed not to smirk. Would he have been any more eloquent, at Delcastle’s age? Likely not…

Behind the young lord, Storm had set about freeing herself. Arclath knew his work. His belt was stretched tight, cutting deep grooves in her arms. Storm stretched like a great cat, arched herself even further, then relaxed, having tested the limits of her bonds. Which weren’t much.

Yet it seemed she’d learned enough to decide what to do next, without any hesitation at all. As El fought not to watch, with Amarune providing no help at all, Storm made her move.

“And I don’t know how to prove to you that I am Amarune. Elminster can’t control me for long, but… well, he’s not the monster you make him out to be.”