by Ed Greenwood
"He drinks because he is sensitive and prudent-and must, he knows, favor luck more and live in danger. To do so, he steels himself with drink. Because he does not want to become falling-down drunk, he eats like a starving wolf. This makes him fat, as you can plainly see, and in turn makes him able to take in more drink without staggering about and slurring his jests. Do not think him a drunkard, Shandril; he is not. Nor is he a lecher or a fraud, but a true servant of Tymora. I am proud to ride with him."
"You have given me different eyes to see him by, lady," Shandril said slowly, looking at Rathan, who was roaring with laughter at a jest of Storm's.
"Jhess, remember?" Jhessail said softly. "If you will listen to some advice, know that the most valuable thing I have learned from Elminster, in all these years, is to look at all things, and folk, however strange they seem, from all sides.
"Neglect not to act as you must, but try to think as you act. You will see things as others do, as well as the way you are used to thinking. If you walk with the Harpers," she added, nodding across the noisy room toward Storm, "they will tell you the same thing, dressed up in much grander words."
The room was filling up around them, as the good folk of Shadowdale and the staff and guardsmen of the tower all crowded in to the large, high-ceilinged hall. There was much laughter and chatter. Narm joined Shandril in the tumult, kissing her.
"They seem to party with a right good will here, I'll say that," Shandril greeted him.
"Aye," Narm agreed. "I swear some of the guards had wine-headaches this morning."
"No doubt," Jhessail said to them. "They drink, and love, and laugh, and eat, as if they may be dead tomorrow, for death hangs over them."
"What?" asked Narm, taken aback.
"Zhentil Keep threatens us daily-their armies could sweep down upon us any morn. Hillsfar has a new ruler, his intentions unknown, and devils walk in Myth Drannor to one side and in Daggerdale on the other. Now you are here, and they know powerful foes may attack at any time, seeking to slay or capture you. Some know a duty to defend you; some merely fear they will be caught in the way when great might is unleashed. They fear you, too, Shandril, no little bit. Your spellfire upon the hilltop is a scene told often, and vividly, in the taproom of the Old Skull."
The two stared at her, stricken. "We should leave," Shandril whispered. Jhessail caught at her sleeve and smiled.
"No! Stay here. The folk of the dale accept you, and will fight for you as for any guest before their hearth, kin or stranger.
"Who can follow adventure, or even stand up strong in these Realms, without finding foes on all sides, often more than it seems one can handle? You are welcome, truly. Besides, you will upset Elminster terribly if you run off now. He's not finished with you. But I flap my tongue and jaws worse than the old mage himself! Come, let us dance, you two and Merith and I!"
"But-I-"
"We've never learned-"
"No matter-Merith shall teach us all a dance of the Elven Court. We shall all be new to it. Try it and you can do courtesy to any elf you meet! Come!" And the long-haired magic-user pulled them out into an open space and let out a birdlike trilling call. At once Merith looked up, smilingly excused himself from two fat farmwives, and joined them.
"Storm!" he called out. "Will you harp for us?"
The bard nodded and smiled, and took up the harp of the hall. It was made of blackwood inlaid with silver, and hung on the wall among the shattered and rusting shields of past, long-dead lords of Shadowdale.
As Jhessail told the couple that the harp had been a gift from the elves of Myth Drannor, Merith reached them.
"You will be wanting to dance, my love?" he asked fondly.
"Of course… one of the gentler tunes, my lord, one that human feet can follow. Narm and Shandril, and you and I… may we?"
Merith bowed. "Of course," he said, as Storm joined them. "What say you to the frolic that of old we danced on the banks of the Ashaba? Storm, you know the tune…"
It was late, or rather very early. Revelers saw stars glittering coldly in the clear dark sky from each window as they went up the stairs together, footsore and happily sleepy. "Elves must be stronger than I'd thought," Narm grunted as they mounted the last flight to the level where their bedchamber was. The Twisted Tower was quiet around them. Far below, the revelry continued unabated, but no sound carried this far. The guards stood silent at their posts.
At the head of the stairs, Shandril stripped off her shoes and set her aching feet upon the cold stone. The chill on her bare flesh roused her somewhat from drowsiness. She slipped out of Narm's grasp and, laughing, ran lightly ahead. Wearily, he grinned, shook his head, and made haste to follow. They were both running when the blow fell.
Shandril heard a dull thud behind her, as if something heavy and made of leather had been dropped. It was followed by a thumping and scrabbling sound, as if someone had fallen. "Narm?" she called, turning as she reached their door. "Narm? Did-"
She saw a grim-faced guard almost upon her and running hard, the mace that had felled Narm raised before him in one mailed fist. Shandril saw the blood upon it and realized she had no time to dodge or fight. She let go the ring of the door and ran.
She fled on bare feet down the long, dimly lit hall, and saw the guard Rold, stationed far ahead under a flickering torch, turn and look at her. A wild rage grew in Shandril out of the shrieking fear for Narm's life. She looked back through her streaming hair and saw a mailed hand only inches away, reaching. Without thought, she dove sharply to the rugs of the hall and rolled.
There were sharp, numbing blows on her back and flank as armored boots struck her. A startled curse rang out above her as her assailant tripped, landing in a crash of metal as he fell heavily upon his arms. Shandril rolled free and up to her knees even as the guard, who was fast and well-trained, spun about with his legs kicking in the air and drew back his mace to hurl at her.
Their eyes met across too little space, and fire exploded from Shandril's raging glare. The guard yelled in fear and drove his large and dark mace at her. It smashed aside her hastily raised fingers and struck her hard on one side of the face. Shandril slid into a yellow haze of confusion and down into darkness.
Rold struck Culthar from behind without mercy, war-hammer crashing down upon his helm even as he demanded, "Are you mad? You are sworn to protect her!"
Culthar, slumping limply aside with blood running from nose and mouth, said nothing. He crumpled against the wall and was forgotten as Rold scrambled over him to reach Shandril. He recalled that her touch was said to be death when she hurled spellfire, but his hands did not hesitate as he drew off a gauntlet and gently felt her temple.
He wiped away the blood there, then got up with a curse to fling his gauntlet at the nearest alarm. Wrapping her shoulders in his half-cloak, he held her close and drew a silver disc on a fine chain from his belt.
"Lady Tymora," he prayed hoarsely as the hollow singing of the gong died away, "if you favor those cursed to be different from most folk, aid this poor lass now. She has done no wrong within these walls, and needs your blessing now most dearly. Hear me, Lady, I beseech you! Turn your bright face upon Shandril. Tymora, Bright Lady, please hear!" And the old soldier held Shandril in his arms and waited for the sound of running feet, and prayed on.
In a turret that curved out from the inner wall of Zhentil Keep, there was a small, circular room without a window, and in that room, Ilthond waited with scant patience. The time was come; Manshoon still did not come back to the city of the Zhentilar. If Ilthond held spellfire in his hands and knew how to wield it, such a return would not have to be feared overmuch.
The young magic-user paced before his crystal. The eagle that had to be Elminster was even now coming to earth by the door of the little tower wherein the old mage dwelt. In another instant, the eagle became Elminster, pipe, battered old hat, and all, and went into the old, slightly leaning tower of crumbling stone. Ilthond waited an instant more, and then drew forth a scroll fro
m a tube fashioned from the hollow wing-bone of a great dragon. A teleport spell, set down by the mage Haklisstyr of Selgaunt. Since his bony back had met with a dagger, thoughtfully poisoned by the ambitious Ilthond, he wouldn't be needing it anymore.
The mage rolled out the scroll on the table beside the crystal and set coins, a dagger, a candlestick, and a skull at the corners to hold it open. He fixed in his mind a clear picture of a certain blanket room on the third floor of the tower of Ashaba in Shadowdale, and began to cast the spell.
From below him, from another room of the turret, came the faint piping of a glaurist blowing the mournful melody of an old ballad:
Good fortune comes, fleeting, and then it is gone
But the heart heavy with weeping must carry on
Ill luck comes and stays like winter's cold snow
Always you must weather more than one blow…
Ilthond spread his hands in a grand flourish to finish the spellcasting and vanished. The floating, disembodied eyeball of a wizard eye spell that had been watching him from beneath the table winked out and was also gone.
"Of course she'll live, if ye get out of my way for a breath or two!" Rathan roared, "Lanseril, stay here to work healing magic! Rold, ye saved her; ye stay by her, too. Florin, bring Narm over here… be he awake yet? All others, get ye hence! Below stairs, the lot of ye! Mourngrym, ye and Shaerl may stay, of course. The rest-clear out! Get ye gone!"
"Narm stirs," Jhessail reported tersely. "We shall take this guardsman, if Rold has not quite slain him, and learn the whys of this." She gestured with her head to the gathered guards to move Culthar's body, and then added, "All others-back to your posts, please. Our thanks for your haste in coming." The guards saluted her and left.
A group of gawking servants and pages drifted back a pace or two at Rathan's words, but remained to watch. Florin laid Narm down gently upon a hastily found sleeping-fur, letting his bruised head down with care, and looked up at the onlookers. After a few moments of his silent, steady gaze, the gawkers began to shuffle away.
"How is she?" he asked, looking at Shandril's still face.
"Well enough," Rathan replied, "considering the blow to the wits she got. I only hope that it has not somehow harmed her ability to wield spellfire, now that half of Faerun seems to be attacking her to gain it." He and Florin exchanged a sober glance.
"Why would just one guard attack her?" Mourngrym muttered, frowning.
"One seemed to do well enough," Shaerl replied, gesturing at the two still forms at their feet.
"No, love; I meant I would expect to find other attackers near at hand."
The Lord of Shadowdale turned. "Rold, I want this tower searched, forthwith, this floor first. Jhessail, will you rouse Illistyl and stand guard over our two guests, here? I shall remain also." He drew his slim, jeweled sword, set it point down before him, and leaned upon it. Shaerl nodded and knelt by Narm, who had begun to moan faintly.
Florin knelt on one knee beside him, and was ready with gravely strong arms when the young conjurer suddenly surged up, arms flailing. "Where's-? Shandril! Danger! Beware! Danger!"
"Aye… aye," Florin agreed gently, holding him. "Danger it was, indeed. Stay still now, and we can see to your lady."
"Shandril? How-"
"Quiet and still, please. If you will heed, you will learn. She lies behind you; Rathan and Lanseril tend her."
"I-yes, I shall." Narm sank back, wincing as his head came to rest again upon the furs. "What happened?"
"Narm lay quiet and still as he was bid, that's what happened," the Lady Shaerl said severely.
Narm grimaced, and then he heard Shandril say softly, "I thank you. Narm was hurt; have you seen to him?" His heart knew peace and he was asleep within a breath, not even hearing Rathan's reply.
It was dark in the blanket room and close, smelling of pomander and moth-mix. Ilthond stifled a sneeze, nodded in satisfaction at his accurate teleporting, and listened. He could hear nothing. Well enough. To work, then.
The mage worked invisibility upon himself, then cautiously eased the door open a crack. The corridor beyond seemed empty. He stole forth and looked about.
Better and better, he thought. Ilthond muttered a spell of flight and rose high to drift unseen along the corridor and search. No guards… why? Was Shadowdale truly so lax and careless a place as all that? No, there must be some strife or alarm…
Around the corner came a dozen guards with drawn swords and forbidding, intent glares. Ilthond moved over and past them in careful silence. Where might the young maid be? The tower's mortar was mixed with substances to prevent scrying, but he was sure he'd find her anyway.
Perhaps she was up in the plainer but more secure rooms of the levels above, or down below, as befitted a guest of importance. The greater risk probably lay downward-but so, too, did almost all chances of learning who was where, and doing what. Ah well, a short, risky road leads fastest to the top, they say…
Ilthond reached the stairs and headed down, keeping near the sloping stone ceiling. Carefully and quietly he went, like a silent shadow. He searched, nosing through rooms and along halls, flitting back and forth with patient care not to be brushed against or seen by those who might be able to detect him.
He had come down a long hall where the torches burned every twenty paces, and there at one end humans in rich garb stood or knelt near two who lay side by side on the ground. Ilthond came closer slowly, silently, straining to hear from afar.
"How d'ye feel?" Rathan growled. "Better, I trust?"
Shandril nodded, slowly. "My head still aches. But my thanks, indeed, good Rathan. Again I am in your debt for healing me when I lay stricken."
"Not in my debt," Rathan corrected. "The Lady it is whom ye owe." He traced a circle about the disc upon his breast with the middle finger of his right hand.
"Yes, I shall not forget the Lady's favor," Shandril replied. "How is Narm?"
Rathan looked over at Narm. "He sleeps. Best to let him sleep on. But you must try your spellfire," he said gently.
Shandril had come up to her elbows. She now drew her legs under her and extended her hand. From her spread fingers spellfire spat, crackling down the hall in a long tongue of flame. She ended it almost immediately, and it died away, curling into air. "As before," she said briefly. "I can still-"
A pain-wracked groan came out of empty air down the hall. Florin and Mourngrym drew blades instantly and stepped in front of Shandril to shield her. Shaerl drew her dagger and reached out with its pommel to pound a gong close at hand.
Its echoes had barely died away before the form of a robed man with hawkish features and glossy black hair came into view in midair. His face was twisted with pain, his robe still smoldered, his shoulder and breast were burned bare. He hissed the word that unleashed the power of the wand in his hand.
Lightning sprang into being and a forked bolt struck both Florin and Mourngrym. The Lord of Shadowdale staggered aside and fell heavily, blade clattering. Shaerl cried out and ran to him. Florin, too, fell, driven to his knees by the energy hurled against him, but he was struggling up into a weak charge, face black with pain and effort. Shandril stood up and lashed out in heartsick anger with spellfire.
"Wherever I go!" she said bitterly, on the verge of tears. "Always, beset! Always friends and companions hurt! You come seeking spellfire? Well, then-have it!" Spellfire roared out of her in a tumbling inferno that lasted for but a breath but raged down the hallway in a blistering wall that swept over the flying mage like a wave crashing over rocks in a storm.
Narm had awoken, looking dazed. He struggled to his knees to work art, to protect his lady from this new menace. His hands halted in midair as he gazed at the blackened, crippled thing that the spellfire left behind on the scorched rugs of the hall.
Shandril raised a hand again as the man moved weakly and twisted cooked lips in hissing words of art, but she did not unleash her flames. The head sank down between smoking shoulders that shook with pain. The mage vanis
hed, gone as though he had never been. Only the smoldering of rugs showed where he had lain.
"Wherever we go," Shandril said wearily, turning to Rathan, "your healing services are needed. I hope you will not grow tired of it all before this comes to an end."
"Lady," Rathan said as he hastened to where Mourngrym lay. "This never ends, I fear. Worry not about my patience-it is what I walk these Realms for." He knelt by the Lord of Shadowdale, and looked back at her over one shoulder. "You do a most impressive job, I must say," he added with the barest trace of a grin.
Jhessail arrived then, robes held high as she sprinted along in the forefront of a large group of guards. "Shandril?" she cried. "Florin? Mourngrym?" Merith was at her side, blade out.
"Healing, we need," Rathan said. "The time for blasting and all that is past." He looked up. "Send ye four guardsmen for Eressea at the temple… I have no more power to heal now, and Mourngrym yet needs it." Jhessail spun about to relay his orders and then back to face them all.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Another mage. Flying about, this one was, and invisible. Shandril touched him with spellfire purely by chance when I asked her to test her powers. He struck Florin and Mourngrym with lightning from a wand. Shandril burned him but did not slay him. He teleported away," Rathan explained. Jhessail looked at Shandril and then sighed.
"You slew him not?" she asked.
Shandril nodded, eyes on hers. "I could not," she said. "It was… horrible. Who knows? He may have meant me no harm at all."
Jhessail nodded. "I cannot fault you," she said slowly. "Yet I bid you remember this: when you fight, art to art, seek to slay-and mind you finish the job. An enemy who escapes will return for revenge."
"Aye," said Shaerl, eyes hot. "A man who dared to strike down my lord lives yet! I blame you not, Shandril. It must be terrible to hold such death within you, always knowing you can slay. Yet, if that man were within my grasp right now, I would not hesitate to strike and slay. One who would harm my Mourngrym does not deserve to live."