by Ed Greenwood
The door opened and Illistyl peered in. "Quite a performance," she remarked mildly. "Now, if you could only imitate Elminster's voice…" She closed the door again hastily as Jhessail hurled a quill stand in her direction.
After the crash, the door popped open again, and Illistyl looked in again, rather anxiously. "You don't have any more of those at hand, do you?" she inquired, looking down at the unharmed brass at her feet. Jhessail grinned at her.
"Unfortunately not," she said. "He's using it."
"Using it? Whatever for? He hasn't written a line all this time. He seems to have been otherwise occupied," Illistyl declared, with exaggerated innocence. Her eyes found Narm, staring up at them both in astonishment, and she grew a head taller upon the instant. Her hair rose about her head, and her eyes grew the size of thumbs. "What's this? A few words we exchange, and this student breaks off his studying? Is he weak-minded? Is he a prankster? Or is he just wasting his teacher's time?"
All this time, as she shouted, Illistyl was rushing toward a frightened and dumbfounded Narm, until she was only inches away. Whereupon she smiled sweetly, and added in a normal voice, "Narm, how are you ever going to advance your art if you can't concentrate as well as any three-year-old playing in the mud?"
Narm looked as if he was about to cry, and then burst into helpless laughter. "I've never learned art like this before!" he said, when he managed to speak again.
"You must be used to a lot of ponderous dignity and mystical mumbling," Illistyl said. "Now look down at your book again… you can't read runes while you're looking at me."
Narm sighed loudly and feelingly, and bent to his books once more. "Mystra aid me," he muttered.
"She'll have to. But give her a little help in the task, eh?" Illistyl responded. She turned to Jhessail. "Well, it's nice to know I wasn't the only one to climb stone walls in my frustration at this stage of your teaching."
Jhessail raised an eyebrow. "You think I didn't, in my turn? Elminster continuously threatened to spank me with an unseen servant spell while I studied. Then he threatened to force me to battle him with the spells I'd managed to memorize through all of that."
Illistyl chuckled. "You never told me that! Did he make it any more than a threat?"
"No. I learned to study through nearly anything, with astonishing speed."
"Think he'll do as well?" Illistyl asked quietly, nodding at Narm's bent head. Jhessail shrugged.
"For himself, aye. But as protector and mate to one who will be attacked day after day because she can wield spellfire-that's less certain. Are you listening again, Narm?"
Narm looked up. "Sorry, did you ask me something?"
"Much better," Jhessail replied. "See that you apply yourself in this, Narm. Your life-and your lady's life-will certainly depend upon it."
Shandril looked around the cavern in awe. It was vast, and dark, and littered with rubble. Elminster saw her eyes moving about, and said, "An accident, long ago. Be ye ready, little one?"
"Aye," Shandril answered dryly. "What now?"
Elminster looked grave. "A few more tests. Things better learned before thy life depends upon it." He walked a few paces away from her. "My art shields this chamber against prying magic," he added. "First-hold thy hand up, like so… now the other."
Shandril looked at him, a little afraid. "Do you want me to turn my spellfire upon myself?"
Elminster nodded slowly. "We must know," he said, "but mind ye do it very gently. Stop at once if it affects thee."
Shandril nodded in her turn, and bent her will to the task. The thought of burning herself made her feel sick. She set her teeth, looked up at the mage, and then stared at the hand which would receive the flames. Spellfire blossomed from her other hand, and writhed out in a small, delicate tongue to lick at her unprotected hand.
No pain, but a tingling in her limbs that built in intensity as she continued to envelop her hand in flames. She withdrew it from the raging, blistering heat, found it unmarked, and plunged it in once more. The flames roared; her uncontrollable shuddering grew.
Abruptly she felt something grasp her hand and draw it from the flames. Another hand took its place, and almost immediately she heard Elminster grunt, "Urrrgh," and draw away. He touched her shoulder, and then, slowly and deliberately, her bare cheek. No flame erupted from that contact. He patted her on the shoulder. "Enough."
The flames died. Elminster stood facing her, working the fingers of one blackened hand with a frown of mingled interest and pain. "Well, then. It does not burn thee, but the force may harm thine innards, circling back in. It does burn another, regardless of defences of art. When ye are not so full of energy that it burns in thine eyes, it harms only where ye intend it, and not at any touch. Narm will last longer than I had feared."
Shandril giggled at his tone. "You will want to watch the two of us, then, to further your investigations?"
Elminster looked up past his brows at her disapprovingly, as he waggled his fingers. "It may not surprise ye to learn," he said gravely, "that in over five hundred-odd winters, I have seen such things a time or two before." He grinned. "I'd have seen far more, too, if I'd had the courage to keep my eyes open at a younger age than I did."
He turned, in a swirl of robes. "But enough of such unsuitable topics for an old man to be discussing with a young lady when they are alone in the dark. Turn thy spellfire here, upon this wall-nowhere else, mind; this cavern may not be entirely stable! Let us see what befalls."
Again Shandril set her will, and spellfire flamed out from her hand. It struck the wall with a hollow roaring and burst in all directions, sparks and tendrils of flame leaping among the rocks. The cavern wall held, despite Shandril's fierce efforts to hurl all the heat and flame she could at it. When Elminster patted her on the shoulder again to desist, the cavern wall was red-hot and sooty black.
"How does it feel to hold such power in thine hands?" Elminster asked softly.
"Eerie, indeed" Shandril answered truthfully. "Exciting and fearsome. I–I never seem to be able to relax anymore."
"Could ye at the inn?"
"Well, yes. Short moments by myself, now and then. But it's not just the adventure… nor the spellfire…"
"It's Narm," Elminster said dryly. "Would ye try something else for me?"
"Yes… what is your will?"
"See if ye can hurl spellfire from thy knee, or forehead, or foot, or behind… or your eyes, again. See if ye can hurl it in a spray, or curve the flames around sharp bends, or hurl small balls or streamers of flame. Knowing the accuracy of thy aim would also be useful."
"How long do you-never mind. How shall we proceed?" Shandril mopped her sweating forehead with one hand; her fire had made it hot in the cave. Elminster held out his pipe wordlessly. She pointed one finger and pushed, just a little, with her will, and a tiny spurt of flame shot out. The mage sucked on the pipe and turned its bowl adroitly all at once to catch the flame, puffed contentedly, then nodded to her.
"Aye… we'll start so…"
It was quiet in the hall that night, despite the gathered band of knights. They sat at the trestle table that stretched at least thirty paces down the center of the room. It was warm and smoky, and the remains of a good feast were still upon the table. The guards who usually lined the walls and the servants always scurrying between table and kitchen were absent, barred from the chamber by Mourngrym.
Mourngrym and Shaerl sat at the head of the table. At the foot sat Elminster. Down one side of the long board, from the head, sat Storm Silverhand, Shandril, and Narm. The knights lined the other side. All other places were empty.
Jhessail was on her feet, addressing the assembled company. "My lords and ladies," she concluded, "Narm Tamaraith has advanced his art considerably since first he came among us. He lacked not aptitude or dedication, but merely suffered from poor and insufficient prior training." She smiled, and to Narm's intense surprise continued, "He was a joy to train. Illistyl and I have no hesitation in presenting Narm before this comp
any as an accomplished conjurer. It is my understanding that Elminster wishes to examine and train Narm yet, to further him for the special task of art required in supporting the unique power of his betrothed. I yield to my master."
Elminster rose, even as she sat smoothly, and said, "Aye. I will talk to Narm of that before long. But I am here tonight in answer to Mourngrym's request"-His subtle emphasis on the last word brought a smile to the edges of the Lord of Shadowdale's mouth. "I will report to ye on what I have learned of the powers of Shandril Shessair, specifically that unique ability we call 'spellfire.' The power to wield spellfire has been known in the Realms in the past-"
"It is my duty this time, I fear," Florin interrupted, standing with a polite bow to Mourngrym and to the old sage. "Elminster-the short version, please. No disrespect intended, but we have not your interest nor patience."
Elminster eyed him sourly. "Patience seems in short supply these days. It is a lamentable state of affairs when things happen at such a pace that folk can scarce talk things over and grumble before the face of the land is changed again. Woeful days, indeed-" Here he forestalled several knights who had opened their mouths to speak. "But I digress. To the matter directly at hand: the Lady Shandril, betrothed to Lord Narm Tamaraith, both of whom sit among us.
"Shandril can now, without the presence of the balhiir that apparently began her use of spellfire, draw in spell energy without much personal harm-although some harm appears to be involved with some magic-and store it, for an unknown length of time and without apparent ill effects. She can subsequently send it forth, upon command and with some precise control, as a fire that burns despite most magical defenses, and affects all things and beings I have been able to observe it against thus far.
"Shandril has a finite capacity for such absorbed spell energy, but we are presently not entirely certain what it is. We know neither the precise effects of the spellfire upon Shandril, nor the limitations of the spellfire she wields.
"I can tell you what spellfire is: the raw energy that all workings of art are really composed of, broken down by Shandril's body in some unknown manner from a given magical effect-of spell or item-into the force necessary to create and enact such an effect.
"As The Simbul, distinguished ruler of Aglarond, pointed out at the testing, such a power is dangerous-dangerous to Shandril personally, and to those nearby. When Shandril's body holds so much energy that her eyes flash spellfire, her very touch can harm those around her with an unintentional discharge. She is also a threat to those who work magic everywhere in this world. Those who see this last threat will act to destroy Shandril, or to possess her to use her power against others.
"Certain fell powers undoubtedly already know of her abilities, and will act soon, if they have not begun already. There is much more to be said, but-hem-ye asked for the short version." The old archmage sat down again and reached for his pipe.
"So you are saying, then, that war will come to the dale again, because the source of spellfire is here?" the Lady Shaerl asked.
"Aye," Elminster replied, "and we must be ready. To arms and alert! We must defend Shandril's person with our swords, and raise the art at our command to defend against the many mages who will come for Shandril's spellfire. She cannot be everywhere to battle all of them, were she the most willing slayer in the world. Our spells we must also cast to Shandril, to feed her spellfire-it is this her man Narm does best. Days of blood, I fear, are upon us."
Mourngrym spoke then in challenge, rising to look at all there assembled, and said, "It is hardly fair, you powerful and experienced adventurers, to drag these young folks into a battle that will almost certainly mean their deaths, just to use them as weapons against those who come here."
"They are in such a battle as we breathe now," Elminster said sharply. "We delivered them out of it once, as a knight drags a weary fellow out of the fray for a time to catch his breath, quell his pain, and set to again. It is the price of adventuring, such conflict. And don't tell me that they are not adventurers. One ran off with a chartered company of adventurers, while the other willingly returned to Myth Drannor, alone and unarmed, to 'seek his fortune' after the death of his master at the hands of the devils. We do not, lord, intend to 'use them as weapons,' but to see they know their powers fully."
The old sage glanced around at the knights, and added, "Why invite such peril? Why see a young maid become a threat to one's own powers? Why build her strength, and that of her consort, to make them an even greater menace? Because… because, after all these years, it still feels good to have helped someone, and accomplished something. This first fight, it is part of that, and we cannot avoid it. When it is done, it is our duty to let them go where they will, and not compel them or make their choices for them."
A large green glass bottle that stood upon the table, full of wine and as yet unopened, like many of its fellows, began to change shape. As all watched in astonishment, it grew and became The Simbul, kneeling atop the table with proud and lonely eyes. The witch-queen nodded to Narm and Shandril, and then looked to Elminster.
"You will let these two walk freely?" she asked. "Truly?"
The archmage nodded. "Aye. I will. We all here will."
"Then you have my blessing," she added softly. She turned into a bird and, with a whir of wings, she darted up the chimney and was gone.
The knights relaxed, visibly. "One day I suppose I'll be used to that," Torm remarked. "Old mage, can't you tell by art when she's near?"
Elminster shook his head. "Unless she actively uses art of her own, nay. Her cloak-of-art is as good as any greater archmage's-which is to say, well nigh perfect."
"Such as yours, perhaps?" Torm pressed him. Elminster smiled broadly, and suddenly he wasn't there. His chair was empty, without flash or sound. Only the faint smell of his pipe smoke hung in the air to say he had been present at all. Jhessail sighed and cast a spell to detect magic. She looked all about, keenly, and then shook her head.
"Faint magic, all about," she said, "and those things I know to be enchanted that we carry. But no sage."
"You see?" Elminster said, appearing at her elbow and kissing her swiftly on the cheek. "It is not as easy as it might seem, but it works."
"Now that's a trick I'd give much to learn," Torm said delightedly.
"Much it will cost ye," Elminster replied. "But enough of such tricks. Be thankful, all of ye, that The Simbul favors our desires in this matter. If she did not, all of my time would be spent thwarting her and my art would be lost to you. Who knows what foes we may yet face in this matter? Ye may have need of me."
"We always need you, old mage," Mourngrym answered, a twinkle in his eye. "Is there anyone else who would now speak on this? Narm and Shandril, you need not make speeches if you do not desire to do so, nor are you expected to answer any queries put to you." There was a brief silence.
"I would speak, Lord of the Dale," said Storm Silverhand softly. She rose, silver hair swirling gently about the dark leather that clad her shoulders. She looked directly at Narm and Shandril. "We who harp are interested in you," she said. "Think on whether you might want to walk our way."
Eyebrows lifted in silence all around the table. Rathan looked all about, then asked noisily, "Is all the formal tongue-work done, then? Can we enjoy ourselves now, and let all the others back in? Lord?"
Mourngrym grinned. "I think you have cut to the heart of the boar, chosen of Tymora. Open the doors! Let us feast! Elminster, do not go, I pray you!"
The old sage had already risen. "I am old for all the babbling and flirting that goes on at your feasts. I keep looking down at all the comely lasses, and see only the faces of those I met at feasts long ago, in cities now dust-truly, Mourngrym, I enjoy it not. Besides, I have work to do. My art stands not still, and more things unfold under the eyes of Selune than just this matter of spellfire, ye know. Fare ye well, all." He strode forward and crouched before the fire. Suddenly Elminster became a great, gray-feathered eagle, and was gone up the chimney, a
s The Simbul had gone.
"Show-off," Jhessail said affectionately, watching him go.
Shandril looked at Rathan, who held a bottle in either hand, as she leaned across the board to speak to Jhessail. Her tutor bent her head obligingly, hair falling almost into a dish of cheese-filled mushroom caps.
"Lady," Shandril said in a low voice. "Wh-"
"Call me Jhess!" Jhessail responded fiercely. "This 'lady' business keeps me thinking there's some noble matron behind me, disapproving of my every move!"
"Jhess, then; forgive me. Why does Rathan drink so much? He never seems to get drunk, at least that I have seen, but…"
"But he drinks a goodly lot?" Jhessail agreed. "Yes… you should know. It was what our companion Doust Sulwood gave up his lordship of this dale for."
"Rathan's drinking?"
"No, no-I meant, they both faced the same problem. A good priest of Tymora must continually take risks-reckless ones, in the eyes of most others. Worshipping Tymora truly and trusting in the Lady's luck causes a problem if you are also sensitive to what your recklessness does to others, or are by nature cautious or considerate. The life of trusting to luck does not sit well with the life of contemplating the consequences of one's actions, or wishing for the security and comfort of routine and prudence. You see that?"
"Yes." Shandril nodded. "But how-?"
"Ah. Well, Doust as lord of this dale had to make decisions that affected the lives of the dalefolk. Concern for their safety was his duty, if you will. He could not do well by them and serve the Lady of Luck well. In the end, his calling proved the stronger, and he gave up the dale rather than rule poorly. I wish that more who fought such a battle within themselves between office and belief recognized their dilemma, and reached the right choice."
Jhessail looked fondly across the room at Merith. "As my lord, too, has done-but that is another story." She looked at Rathan. "As for that buffoon, his jesting is but an act. He is very sensitive and romantic, easily moved to tears. He hides it, and overcomes the barbs of his closest friend, Torm, with his 'drunken sot' act.