the first is love; the second, a long way behind it,
Life has no meaning but what we give it.
I wish a few more of ye would give it a little.
Elminster of Shadowdale
verba volant, scripta manent
“Of course, Lord Mourngrym,” Lhaeo replied, gesturing up the stairs with a ladle that was still dripping jalanth sauce. “He’s in his study. You know the way.”
Mourngrym nodded his thanks to Elminster’s scribe and took the dusty stairs two at a time, charging urgently up into the gloom. The Old Mage’s instructions had been quite—
He came to a halt, dust swirling around him mockingly. The cozy little room held the usual crammed shelves, worn carpet, and comfortable chair . . . and Elminster’s pipe was floating, ready, above the side table. But of the Old Mage himself, there was no sign.
Mourngrym shrugged and dashed on up the next set of stairs, to the spell chamber. A glowing circle pulsed alone on the floor there, cold and white. The small circular room was otherwise empty.
The Lord of Shadowdale hesitated a moment, and then mounted the last flight of stairs. He’d never dared disturb the Old Mage in his bedchamber before, but…
