Elminster: The Making of a Mage (Forgotten Realms: The Elminster Series, Book 1)
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In ancient days, sorcerers sought to learn the One True Spell that would give them power over all the world and understanding of all magic. . . .
The One True Spell was a woman, and her name was Mystra -- and her kisses were wonderful.
Priest Havilon Tharnstar
Tales Told to a Blind Wizard
It is the time before Myth Drannor, when the Heartlands are home to barbarians, and wicked dragons rule the skies. In these ancient days, Elminster is but a shepherd boy, dreaming of adventure and heroics. When a dragon-riding magelord sweeps down upon him, though, the boy is thrust into a world of harsh realities, corrupt rulers, and evil sorcerers.
With patience and grit, Elminster sets about to change all that. The result of his labors is a world reborn and a mage made.
greatest test of all,” Myrjala replied, “and if you succeed, you’ll have done something more useful to Faerûn than most mages ever accomplish. Be warned: this task will take at least a season, and drain some of your life-force.” “What is the task?” Myrjala waved an arm at the ravine below them—a place of bare stones, weeds, and the ashen stumps of trees consumed in a long-ago fire. “Bring this place back to life, from where this spring rises to where it joins the Darthtil half a day’s walk
looked helplessly down again at the castle. He did not know any spells to put it back up again. It was a warm night in early Flamerule, in the Year of the Chosen. Elminster awoke drenched with sweat, flinging himself upright to stare with wild eyes at the moon. Myrjala sat up in bed beside him, hair flowing around her shoulders, eyes dark with worry. “You were shouting,” she said. Elminster reached for her, and she folded him into her arms as a mother cradles a frightened child. “I saw
grasping, unpleasant, or openly dishonest. Oh, and wizards of course.” “You really hate them, don’t you?” Elminster shrugged. “I—I’ve contempt for those who hide behind magic and lord it over the rest of us because someone taught them to read, or the gods gave them the power to wield magic, or something. They should be using the Art to help us all, not keep folk down and lord it over them.” “If you were Belaur right now,” Farl said softly, “what in the name of the gods could you do but obey
tumbled and bleated their terror around him. He landed hard, rolling painfully on one shoulder. He should run, should— “Swords!” He spat the strongest oath he knew as he felt his frantic run being dragged to a halt by something unseen. A trembling, quivering boiling arose in his veins—magic! He felt himself turning, being pulled slowly around to face the dragon. Elminster had always hoped to see magic at work up close, but instead of the wild excitement he’d expected, El found he didn’t like the
burst of noise and radiance. Through a swimming golden haze she could see clouds in the bright blue sky of morning—and darker and nearer, a ring of gawking faces, staring openmouthed at her. El recognized the anxious face of Asmartha the innkeeper, and smiled up at her. “A-Aye,” she said, finding her voice thick with blood, “I live.” There was more than one shriek, and gaps appeared abruptly in the circle of heads. El smiled thinly … but her heart swelled when the innkeeper matched her smile,