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Elminster: The Making of a Mage
By Ed Greenwood

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Release date: September, 10 th, 2002
Version 1.0
Format: Rich Text Format
There are only two precious things on earth:
the first is love; the second, a long way behind it,
is intelligence.
Gaston Berger

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
 Prelude*
"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 quiteтАФ
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...
The door was ajar. Mourngrym peered in cautiously, hand going to his sword hilt out of long habit. Stars twinkled
silently and endlessly in the dark domed ceiling over the circular bed that filled the roomтАФbut that resting place hadn't
been slept in since the dust had settled. The room was as empty of life as the others. Unless he was invisible or had
taken on the shape of a book or something of the sort, Elminster was nowhere in his tower.
Mourngrym looked warily all around, hairs prickling on the backs of his hands. The Old Mage could be anywhere,
on worlds and planes only he and the gods knew of. Mourngrym frownedтАФ and then shrugged. After all, what did
anyone in the RealmsтАФ besides the Seven Sisters, perhapsтАФreally know about Elminster's plans or his past?
"I wonder," the Lord of Shadowdale mused aloud as he started the long walk back down to Lhaeo, "where
Elminster came from, anyway? Was he ever a young lad? Where . . . ? And what was the world like then?"
It must have been great fun, growing up as a powerful wizard....
 Prologue
It was the hour of the Casting of the Cloak, when the goddess Shar hurled her vast garment of purple darkness and
glittering stars across the sky. The day had been cool, and the night promised to be clear and cold. The last rosy
embers of day glim-mered on the long hair of a lone rider from the west, and length-ening shadows crept ahead of her.
The woman looked around at the gathering night as she rode. Her liquid black eyes were large and framed by
arched browsтАФ stern power and keen wits at odds with demure beauty. Whether for the power or the beauty there,
most men did not look past the honey-brown tresses curling around her pert white face, and even queens lusted after
her beautyтАФone at least did, of a cer-tainty. Yet as she rode along, her large eyes held no pride, only sadness. In the
spring, wildfires had raged across all these lands, leaving behind legions of charred and leafless spars in-stead of the
lush green beauty she recalled. Such fond memories were all that was left of Halangorn Forest now.
As dusk came down on the dusty road, a wolf howled some-where away to the north. The call was answered from