Spellfire ss-1

by Ed Greenwood

  He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what to say, but Shandril said coldly and clearly, as she turned about to face him, "I was happy at The Rising Moon, and I do not think Gorstag did me any ill. Nor should you judge him. But I would not quarrel with you."

  Narm looked at her. "I would not quarrel with you, my lady. Ever." He looked away, then, and Shandril saw how white he was, and that his hands were trembling. She felt suddenly ashamed and abruptly turned aside as she felt her face grow hot. She got up hastily and walked toward the door. (Beneath the bed, two silent cats, who had watched all this, looked at each other and almost smiled.)

  When she turned, Narm was watching her, and the look in his eyes made the last of Shandrils anger melt away into regret. She hurried back to him. "Oh, Narm," she said despairingly, and his arms tightened about her.

  "I am sorry, lady," he whispered, head against hers. "I did not mean to upset you, or darken Gorstag's good name. I–I lost my temper…"

  "No, forgive me," Shandril replied. "I should have let you yell, and not rebuked you, and there would be no quarrel."

  "Nay, the fault is mine. Forgiv-"

  "Disgusting," Torm's cheerful voice said loudly behind them. "All this sobbing and forgiving each other all over the chamber-and not even wed yet!"

  The knight gave them no time to reply as he strode forward to pluck the food tray up from the table, saying, "Terrible stuff, isnt it? And such small portions, too! So, have you heard each other's life stories yet? Picked out any juicy bits to pass on to old, bored Torm? Pledged undying love? Changed your minds? Decided what you want to do next? Yes?"

  "Ah, fair morning, Torm," Narm replied cautiously, rightly ignoring all the questions. "Are you well?"

  "Never better! And you two?"

  "Don't leer, it makes you look ill," said Shandril crisply. "I hear you prevented my capture, or worse, last night. My thanks."

  "Ah, it was nothing," Torm said, waving tray, bowls, and all perilously in the air with one hand. "I-"

  "Nothing, was it?" Jhessail challenged him severely from the doorway. "Three healing spells you took, and much moaning and complaining all the while, and it was nothing. Next time we'd do best to save the magic, and you'd appreciate your folly the more." She took him briskly by the arm. "Now come away… how'd you like someone to burst into your bedroom, when you are alone with your love?"

  "Well, that would depend very much on who they were," Torm began, but Jhessail was propelling him firmly out the door.

  "My apologies, you two," she said, over Torm's protests. "He's just come from his bride-to-be, Naera, and is in somewhat high spirits."

  Torm looked at her, as if dazed. "Bride-to-be?" he gasped. "B-b-but…" His voice faded as he was marched out the door.

  "Well met, Torm," Narm said dryly as the door closed again. He and Shandril looked at each other and burst into laughter. (Beneath the bed, both cats looked pained at Shandril's giggles.) When they subsided, the two embraced again, and sat in comfortable silence for a time.

  "What do you think this test will be, love?" Shandril asked. Narm shook his head.

  "I know not. Your spellfire, surely, will be put to the test, but how I cannot guess." Narm frowned. "But another thing occurs to me… this Gorstag must know who your parents are… and by the way he put it to you, Elminster may well know, too."

  Shandril nodded, "Yes. I want to know, but I have lived all these winters so far without knowing. I would rather know you better, Narm… I do not even know your last name let alone your parents."

  "Oh, have't not told-Tamaraith, it is, my lady. Sorry. I didn't realize I had told you so little as that."

  Shandril laughed. "We haven't exactly had overmuch time for talk, have we? You may have told me, and I've forgotten in all this tumult. All has been so confusing… if this is adventure, it's a wonder any soul survives it long!"

  (Two cats exchanged amused glances. The one that was Illistyl pointed at the other with a paw, then spread its paws questioningly, and put its head to one side suspiciously. The other nodded and traced a sigil in the dust with one paw, saw that Illistyl had seen and recognized it-her feline head nodded, satisfied-and hurriedly brushed it out of existence again. The two cats settled down at their ease together.)

  "Well said," Narm agreed. "I have not the love of constant whirl and danger that Torm does, that's one thing certain! Will we ever be able to relax and do just as we please, do you think?"

  "I'd like to try," Shandril said softly, her eyes very steady upon his, Narm nodded and took her in his arms again, face set and serious. "I would like that, too, yes," was all he said. (Under the bed, the strange cat shook its head, rolled its eyes, and yawned soundlessly.)

  When their lips parted again, after a time, Shandril pushed Narm away a little, and said, "So tell me the tale of your life. Who is this man I am to marry? A would-be spell-caster, yes, but why? And why do you love me?" (Four eyes rolled, beneath the bed.)

  Narm looked at his lady, opened his mouth, and shut it again. "Ah… I-gods, I know not why I love you! I can tell you things about you that I love, and how I feel, but as to why-the gods will it, perhaps. Will you accept that answer? Poor it may be, but it is honest, and no base flattery, I swear? He paced, agitated. "I promise you this," he said finally, turning by the window, "that I will love you, and as I learn the whys, I will tell them to you. How's that?"

  "My lord," Shandril answered him, eyes shining, "I am honored that you are so honest with me. Pray that we both remain so with each other, always. I approve, yes-now get on with your tale! I would know!" (Under the bed, two cats burst into soundless laughter.) Narm chuckled and nodded.

  "Yes, I tarry. Know, then: I was born some twenty-two winters ago, in the far city of Silverymoon in the North. I don't recall it; I was still not a winter old when my parents journeyed to Triboar, and thence to Waterdeep, and-"

  "You have seen great Waterdeep?" asked Shandril, awed. "Is it as they say, all bustle, and gold, and beautiful things from all Faerun in the streets?"

  Narm shrugged. "It may well be so, but I cannot say. I was there but a week, and still not a year in measure, when my parents moved on. We moved about the Sword Coast North often, with the trade. My father was Hargun Tamaraith, called 'the Tail,' a trader. I think he had been a ranger, before he fell ill. He had the shaking-fever; he dealt in weapons and smith-work. My mother was Fythuera-Fyth, to myself and my sire-and her last name I never knew. They had been wed long before I was born. She played the harp and traded as my father's equal. I know not if ever she had been an adventurer. They were good people."

  He stared into nothingness for a moment, and Shandril laid her hand upon his. His face was sad, but it was wistful, more than upset. "They are both dead, of course," he added calmly. "Slain in a sorcerous duel in Baldur's Gate when I was eleven-burned up in flames when the ferryboat they were on was struck by a fireball flung at the mage Algarzel Halfcloak by a Calishite archmage, Kluennh Tzarr. Algarzel flew out of the way; the ferry could not. All aboard who had no part in the dispute perished. Algarzel was slain later, or escaped into another plane, some in the city said. Whatever, he has not been seen since.

  "Kluennh Tzarr left for his citadel in triumph. It is said that dragons serve him, and that he has many slaves. One day, if another does not get there first, I will be his death." His soft, cold tone chilled Shandril as he walked slowly around the chamber, arms swinging easily, eyes remote. Under the bed, the cats nodded approvingly.

  "To defeat an archmage I needed magic-or at least, needed to know its ways. I knew not, then, that one cannot hope to separate them. So I tried to become an apprentice." He laughed, a little bitterly, at the memory.

  "Imagine it, love-a ragged, barely lettered boy, alone and with no wealth to buy a mage's time or trouble, in Baldur's Gate where there are a dozen homeless boys on every street in the docks, pestering every mage that passes! I only escaped being turned into a toad-or just burned to ashes-by Mystra's will… nothing else can explain it.
/>
  "One day, two years after I started, a mage said yes. A pompous, sour mage-Marimmar, my master. His pride weakened him. He never worked to strengthen his art where he lacked spells or technique, in those places where he couldn't-or wouldn't-see that he was weak. But I learned much from him, perhaps more than from a smooth and masterful worker of the art. He had a temper, yes, and little patience-and he was perhaps the laziest man I have ever met, so he needed an apprentice to do all the drudge-work. You know the drudge-work," Narm added with a sudden smile. Shandril matched it ruefully.

  "Marimmar disliked conflict, so he never fought mages to gain their spells-and he was obviously shining-proud that no mage ever challenged him. Those of real power saw him as a posturing know-nothing, with no spells worth seizing. Those of lesser power feared always that he must have something up his sleeve, he seemed so confident and fearless. His confidence killed him, in the end. He nearly took me with him.

  "He saw the elves' abandonment of the Elven Court and Myth Drannor within it as his chance to become a great mage by seizing all the magic that he thought-as most mages seem to think-is just lying around in the ruins. I doubt there's much to be easily found. Anything that was has been seized already by the priests of Bane, or whoever it really was that summoned all the devils there.

  "The devils slew Marimmar, and almost killed me, too. Lanseril and Illistyl of the knights rescued me-they are so kind, Shandril, I can scarce believe it, after all the swaggering heroes I've seen prancing down city streets-and here I am. I went back to Myth Drannor because… because I knew not where to go, really, and because I–I felt I owed it to the crusty old windbag, and because I could not sleep for fear of devils until I had faced them again. But by some miracle of Mystra, or the whim of Tymora or another, I was not slain, and I saw you. The rest you know." Narm turned thoughtful eyes upon her. "Forgive me if I have talked too long, my lady, or spoken bluntly or harshly of those now dead. It was not my intent to be rude or to upset you. I said what you asked, and now am done."

  Shandril shook her head. "I am not upset, but much relieved, I had to know, you see." She rose and turned back the bed. "And now, my lord, if you will be so good as to drag that chest over in front of the door, we'll to bed." She smiled slyly. "The testing is to be late; I must have sleep first. Will you see me to sleep?"

  Narm nodded. "Aye, willingly." One cat rolled its eyes again, and became a rat, and flashed over to the wall before Illistyl could even stretch. It dwindled and twisted and was a centipede again, and gained the sill while Narm was still heaving the chest toward the door, with many a grunt, and Shandril was hanging her robe upon a hook on one post of the canopy. An interested Illistyl saw a raven suddenly appear outside the window and fly soundlessly away. She nodded and curled up for a nap. Eavesdropping was one thing, but there were limits…

  Narm finished with the chest, straightened up slowly, and caught sight of Shandril in the mirror. Two bounds and he was on the bed. Few delights come, it is said, to he who tarries.

  11

  Spells to Dust

  High magic is strange and savage and splendid for its own sake, whether one's spells change the Realms about or no. A craefter who by dint of luck, work, skill, and the mercy of the Great Lady Mystra comes to some strength in art is like a thirsty drunk in a wine cellar-he or she can never leave it alone. And who can blame such a one? It is not given to all to feel the kiss of such power.

  Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon, A Harper's Song, Year of the Dying Stars

  Jhessail slipped softly into the bedchamber. Illistyl straightened up from where she had dragged the chest aside, and they shared a smile. "Worth hearing?" Jhessail asked softly, and Illistyl nodded.

  "I'll tell you later," the young theurgist replied quietly as together they went to the bed. Narm and Shandril lay asleep in each other's arms among the twisted covers. The two spellcasters gently laid one of the bed furs over the sleeping couple before Jhessail leaned close to Shandril and said, "It is time. Rise, hurler of spellfire. Elminster awaits."

  Shandril shivered in her sleep and clutched Narm more tightly. "Oh, Narm," she murmured. "How it burns…"

  The two spellcasters exchanged glances, and Jhessail carefully laid a hand on Shandril's shoulder. There came a swift tingling into her fingertips.

  "She holds yet more power," Jhessail whispered, "and this cannot be of the balhiir, not after so long a time and so much hurled forth. It's as Elminster suspected." She bent again to Shandril's ear. "Awaken, Shandril! We await you." The eyelashes below her flickered.

  "Narm," Shandril said in a sleepy murmur, gaining strength. "Narm, we are called… ah… ohh. Where-?" Shandril raised her head and looked around. In the soft, leaping glow of the lamp Illistyl had just lit she saw the two ladies of art standing over her. She tensed involuntarily to hurl forth the spellfire within, then relaxed. "My pardon, Lady Jhessail, Lady Illistyl. I did not know you."

  She shook her head as if to clear it and turned to Narm. "Up, love; arise."

  "Eh? Oh. Gods, is it time already?"

  "It is," Jhessail said gently. "Elminster awaits you."

  "Oh, gods belch!" Narm said, rubbing his eyes and flinging back the fur. Hastily he pulled it up again. "Ah-my clothes?"

  Shandril burst into weak, helpless laughter, and handed him his robe.

  Illistyl smiled. "Jhessail and I will wait in the hall. Come when you are ready."

  In the hallway, the theurgist said to Jhessail, "Tell no one yet, Jhess, but The Simbul came in by the window and listened, even as I did."

  Eyebrows lifted, and then lowered again. "What did you both hear, aside from lovemaking?" Jhessail asked, lips twisted in amusement.

  "The life-tale of Narm Tamaraith, full and open and unadorned. His mother, at least, may well have been a Harper," Illistyl replied, refering to the mysterious group of bards and warriors that served the cause of good in the Realms.

  Jhessail nodded. "He thinks so?" Illistyl shook her head.

  "The thought has not crossed his mind," she said. "It was the description."

  Jhessail nodded again as the door opened, and the two hastily dressed guests of the dale stepped out. Narm looked at the two ladies curiously. "I mean no disrespect," he said slowly, "but is there a secret way into that room? I mean… that chest…"

  "We workers of art have our dark secrets," said Illistyl crisply. "I dragged it."

  "Oh," Narm said, surprised. "I see. Uh, sorry." They went down the stairs, nodded to the guards and went out into the night. It was very warm and still. Selune shone brightly overhead. Merith and Lanseril waited with mules. "Well met," the elf said softly.

  "Where are we bound?" Shandril asked quietly, as he knelt to help her into the saddle.

  "Harpers' Hill," Merith replied, and they set off. Shadowdale lay dark around them. Looking about, Narm could see the watchful guardposts atop the tower and the Old Skull Tor behind them and upon the bridge and at the crossroads ahead. Silently the guards watched as the small party rode at ease through the dale and into the trees.

  It was very dark, and the mules slowed to a walk on the narrow forest trail. Someone saluted Merith quietly. As they passed, Shandril saw a grim man in dark leather, with a drawn sword. "A Harper," Jhessail said simply. "There will be others."

  The forest changed as they traveled on. The trees became larger and older, growing closer together. The darkness of their foliage, which now blocked the moonlight, became deeper and somehow quieter. Thrice more they passed guards, and at last came up a steep slope into a clear space. Torm and Rathan waited there, with others standing beyond. The thief and the cleric greeted them with quiet smiles and encouraging pats, and took their mules.

  Merith drew Narm to one side, proffering a cloak. "Remove your clothes and leave them here," he said. "Cover yourself with this." Away along the bare hilltop, Jhessail was doing the same with Shandril. "Boots, too-the ground is soft."

  "Will this be… dangerous?" Narm asked Merith.

  The elf s
hrugged. "Aye, but no more so than spending your night any other way, if it's death you fear. Come, now."

  Elminster stood in the moonlight at the center of the hilltop with Florin and Storm. As Shandril and Narm were brought to them, Elminster scratched his nose and said, "Sorry to get ye from bed for all this mystery and ceremony, but 'tis necessary. I need to know thy powers for certain. Shall we begin, the earlier to be done?"

  The knights embraced Narm and Shandril, and then left them alone on the hilltop with the old sage. He drew from his robes a small, battered book and handed it to Shandril.

  "First," he said, "can you read this?"

  The book was old, but upon its brown and crinkled pages were runes sparkling as clear and bright as if they'd only just been set down. Shandril stared at them, but she recognized nothing. Even as she looked, the runes began to writhe and crawl, moving on the page before her as if they were alive. She shook her head and handed the book back. "No," she said, rubbing her eyes. Elminster nodded, opened the book to a certain page, and extended it to Narm.

  "And you? Only this page, mind-at the top; tell me the words aloud as ye can make them out." Narm nodded and peered in his turn.

  '"Being A Means Both Efficient And Correct For The Creation Of-'" he began. Elminster waved him to silence, took the book back, and selected another page. Narm looked longer this time, forehead furrowed in concentration.

  "I–I… 'A Means To Confound; I think it says here," Narm said at last, "but I cannot be sure even of that; nor is a word more clear to me, anywhere upon this page"

  Elminster nodded and said, "Enough, and well enough." He turned to Shandril. "How do ye feel now?"

  Shandril looked at him with a little frown. "Well in head and body, or at least I feel nothing amiss, but there is in me a… stirring, a feeling… a tingling."

  Elminster nodded slowly, as if unsurprised, and looked to Narm. "Have ye any spells or cantrips in thy head?"