by Ed Greenwood
As she spoke, they heard the sounds of running feet. A guardsman reached the head of the stairs, yelling, "Lord Mourngrym! Lady Shaerl!"
Shaerl turned. "Say on."
"My lady, the prisoner is gone! We had him in the cell, and his hands were bound-yet he vanished before our eyes!"
"The man Culthar?" Shaerl asked. "How could this happen?" She turned to Jhessail, and then back to the guard at Jhessail's calm-faced nod. "My thanks. I hold you blameless. Return to your post, with our thanks."
The guard nodded, bowed, and hurried off.
Jhessail shrugged. "A teleport ring, perhaps, or even a rogue stone. There may be other ways of art Elminster and I don't yet know. All would require outside aid. The Zhentarim, perhaps, or the priests of Bane. He was the eyes for someone, here in the tower." She spread her hands with a ghost of a smile. "All the ravens are gathering."
Shaerl sighed. "Yes, I'm growing tired of it."
Rathan looked up. "Ye're growing tired of it! What of we who heal?"
"Ah, but you have divine aid," said Mourngrym weakly from below him. "Mind you see to Florin, too," the Lord of Shadowdale added. "I need him healthy and alert."
The man who had declined the lordship of Shadowdale, and led the knights from their early days, was leaning against a wall in pain-wracked silence. "Florin?" Jhessail hailed him tentatively, as she drew near. "Are you badly hurt?"
"As usual." Florin's voice was rueful, and he lowered it so that only she could hear his next words, so faintly that she almost missed them. "I fear I am growing too old for this constant battle, Jhess. It's not the thrill it used to be."
"Oh, no, you don't," Jhessail said briskly, putting a slim arm about his great shoulders. "Not now. We need you." Awkwardly she drew him down until he was sitting against the wall. "You'll feel much better once you've been healed." Merith joined them. Florin nodded gratefully to them both, and then quietly fainted.
Jhessail let his head rest heavily on her shoulder and said to her husband, "My lord, please run to the strongbox for one of our potions. He's hurt worse than I thought."
Shandril, watching this, turned her face to the wall and leaned her forehead upon her arm. "I–I-we must leave you. You are always hurt for our sake, one attack upon another. You are my friends! I must not do this to you, day after day, mages attacking and all…" She burst into tears.
"Must we have all this weeping?" Rathan complained. "It's as bad as all the fighting! Nay, worse-ye can stop the fighting by slaying your foe!"
Narm rose to defend his lady, but Rathan pushed him down again with two strong fingers. "Don't start! Ye're not fully healed yet, not nearly. I'm not having ye rushing around getting hurt and dispensing worldly sage-speech and crying all about the place, yet. D'ye hear? Just lie back down and wait. We'll see if there's time for me to spare to listen to such foolishness later."
Merith went to Shandril then, and tickled her gently under the ribs on one side, until in irritation the young lady turned from the wall. Then he swept her up in his arms and kissed away her tears. "Nay, nay, little one, you need not be ashamed or upset on our account. It is a hard road you walk, an adventurer's road. Would you not walk it together, with us? It is not so lonely or hard, with friends."
"Ohh, Merith," Shandril said, and sobbed upon his shoulder. Merith carried her over to where Florin and Jhessail sat, and sat her down upon his own lap before them. Jhessail and Florin both looked at her with smiles.
"You must not cry so," Jhessail chided her. "Does the hawk weep because it has wings? Does the wolf howl because it has teeth? We do what we can with our art or our skill-at-arms. Is your spellfire so different? Use it as you see fit, and don't hold yourself responsible for the attacks others make on you, or this place. We do not blame you for them."
She reached over and patted Florin's knee. "Let's all go down to the great hall as soon as Eressea has done her healing," she said, "and see if there's aught to eat or drink. Violence always makes me hungry."
In a turret that curved out from the inner face of the walls of Zhentil Keep, in a small, circular chamber, Ilthond lay on a familiar floor. He lay upon the painted circle that he had practiced teleporting to over and over again, and groaned in pain. None were there to see or hear; he was alone behind three locked and hidden doors. The pain wracked him in waves of red agony, like a man struggling through the breakers upon a beach. Ilthond crawled forward between waves, seeking the cabinet where he kept his potions. He wondered dully if he'd make it in time.
"That's quite enough of this foolishness," Elminster said peevishly. "I leave ye and within half a dozen breaths ye're fighting yet another mage trying to steal spellfire for himself! Well, then, I'll not leave ye again… ye'll stay in my tower, ye two, with my scribe Lhaeo and myself.
"To draw off all who are snooping about hoping to seize spellfire for themselves, Illistyl and Torm will impersonate ye, and will stay in a tent with Rathan upon Harpers' Hill. Merith, ye and Lanseril will keep a watch upon them. Now pass that wine ye're curled so lovingly about, Rathan, and let's have no argument or endless clacking of tongues; the matter's settled."
"I'm glad of that," Florin said dryly. "Have you no task for Jhessail or myself?"
"Eh? Gods' watch, man! Someone has to watch over the dale, and fight the armies of Zhentil Keep if they come calling! You two ought to be able to manage that!"
There were dry chuckles, and then a yawn. Shandril's eyes were nearly closed. "Love," Narm said gently, shaking her. "Are you sleepy?"
"Of course I am," she replied faintly. "We were going to bed when this uproar started, remember?"
"To bed, then!" Elminster said gruffly. "All of us will go over to my tower together-and then mind the lot of ye all return here, except ye two. I don't want to be falling over a lot of snoring knights in the morning!"
"At this rate," Lanseril replied, "you're safe on that score. You'll be falling over a lot of snoring knights at highsun, instead." Amid chuckles they went out into the night.
"Keeping you awake, Rold?" one of his fellows grunted jovially at dawnfry that morning. The guardroom was strewn with gloves, helms, and scabbarded blades, as their owners lingered over the last of fried bread, tomatoes, and bacon. The old veteran yawned again.
"Glad I am, indeed," he said, "that the young lord and lady are out of the tower. No offense to them, mind you. It's just that I'll be more likely to sleep when I'm off duty."
"Less of sinister mages and assassins skulking in every hall and chamber and peeking in at all the windows, you mean," another, sharp-voiced guard agreed, buckling on his sword.
"Aye, Kelan. Less art we cannot hope to fight… and less treachery from within." A little silence fell at the veteran's words. Then Kelan spoke softly to them all.
"Who d'you think got to Culthar? What did they offer him to chance such a reckless grab at one who could cook him to the bones in an instant?"
"Who can know another man's price?" Rold replied, as quietly. Several of the guards nodded. The veteran added, "I doubt that he needed much persuading. I think he was already loyal to someone or some group outside of the dale, and they merely told him to do this thing for them."
"What group?" came the blunt question, as swords were readied in sheaths, and belts settled about hips. Rold shrugged.
"That, I know not-or I'd be at Lord Mourngrym to let me go after them. Nay, do not laugh. It is always easier on one's temper, if not one's hide, to be moving and attacking, instead of growing weary and cold at a guardpost, never knowing where and when strikes a blade-or worse, art you cannot avoid or counter."
"Where did they go, then?" one of the younger guards asked; a late riser, still heavy about the eyes, dawnfry on a plate in his hand. Rold chuckled.
"Mind you aren't late for your own funeral, some morn, Raeth," he said. "The young lord and lady will be camping out by Harpers' Hill with Rathan Thentraver. Practicing hurling this spellfire where Lord Mourngrym's fine rugs won't be scorched. Most of the knights will be going of
f about the dale and elsewhere about the Dalelands at Elminster's bidding."
"Ah, things'll get a mite quieter for a few days, then," Raeth said with some satisfaction. Many of the older guards chuckled.
"Think you so?" Kelan asked him. "It's a long run through the forest, in full armor, to Harpers' Hill!" Rold was still chuckling as the bell rang and they hastened out to their posts. Raeth, mouth full of bacon, wasn't.
"This is a fool's plan," Rathan grunted. "One only Elminster could have come up with." The chosen of Tymora surveyed the tents sourly. "Lady, aid me," he prayed. "I am surely going to need all thy help."
"Cheerful, aren't you?" Torm answered him. "I'm enjoying this."
"Ye have weird enthusiasms," Rathan grunted. "Ye can't even enjoy thy lady when she must wear the form of Shandril every instant."
Torm grinned. "Oh? That's going to hamper me? How so?" He raised dark eyebrows. "Besides, I look like Narm for the the present."
"Shameless philanderer," Rathan growled. He looked at the trees all about them. "I wonder when the first attack will come?"
"While you're standing there," Torm replied, "if you keep yapping sourly about Elminster's wisdom and the danger you have so foolishly plunged headlong into. Go in, then, and pray to the Lady for healing art. No doubt we'll need it soon enough."
"Aye, there ye speak truth, I doubt not," Rathan replied darkly. "Is there no wine about?" He peered into the tents. Illistyl grinned back out of the depths of one, looking as if she were Shandril. She moved with the smooth innocence of Shandril, abandoning her own defiant strut.
"No," Torm answered the cleric brightly. "We seem to have left it behind at the tower. A tragedy, I agree."
"Indeed… well, one of the guards will just have to go back for it," Rathan concluded. "I can feel my thirst growing already," he added, squinting at the sun.
"Here, then." Torm passed him a flask. Rathan unstoppered it and sniffed suspiciously.
"What is it? I smell nothing."
"Water of the Gods," Torm replied. "Pale ale. Tymora's Tipple."
"Eh?" the cleric frowned at him suspiciously. "Ye blaspheme?"
"No," said Torm. "I offer you a drink, sot. Your thirst, remember?"
"Aye," Rathan agreed, mollified, and took a swig. "Aaagh!" he said, spitting most of it out. "It is water!"
"Yes, as I told you," Torm replied smoothly, and then leaped nimbly out of reach as the cleric reached for him.
The chosen of Tymora pursued his sly tormentor across the rocky hilltop, while Illistyl looked out of the tent and shook her head.
"Playing already, I see," she remarked, just loudly enough for Torm to hear. He turned and waved at her, grinning-and promptly fell over a stone, with Rathan on top of him. Illistyl burst into laughter before she realized that she couldn't recall what Shandril's laugh sounded like.
The little stone tower rose, leaning slightly, out of a grassy meadow beside a small pond. It was made of old, massive stones, and had no gate or fence or outbuildings. Flagstones led right up to a plain wooden door. It looked small and drab in comparison with the Twisted Tower, which rose large against the sky across the meadow. But it seemed somehow a place of power, too-and more welcoming.
Inside, it was very dark. Dust lay thick upon books and papers that were stacked untidily everywhere. The smell of aging parchment was strong in the air. Out of the forest of paper pillars rose a rickety curving stair, on up to unseen heights. A bag of onions hung over the doorway. Beyond an arch, faint footsteps could be heard.
"Lhaeo," Elminster called. "Guests!"
An expressionless face appeared in the doorway. "You need not do your simpering act," the old mage added. At that the face smiled and nodded. It was that of a pleasant, green-eyed man with pale brown hair and delicate features. He was about as tall as the elf Merith, very slim, and wore an old, patched leather apron over plain tunic and hose.
"Welcome," Lhaeo said then, in a soft, clear voice. "If you're hungry, there's stew warm over the fire now. Highsunfeast will be herbed hare cooked in red wine… that Sembian red Mourngrym gave us. I deem it good for little else. I fear I have no dawnfry ready."
Elminster chuckled. "Ye would have been wasted on a throne, Lhaeo. I've eaten no better fare since Myth Drannor fell than what ye cook. But I forget my manners, such as they are… Lhaeo, these be Narm Tamaraith, a conjurer who flourishes these past days under the tutelage of Jhessail and Illistyl; and his betrothed, Shandril Shessair, who can wield the spellfire." Lhaeo's eyes opened wide at that.
"After all these years?" he asked. "You were right to bring them here. Many will rise against such a one."
"Many already have," the sage replied dryly. "Narm, Shandril-I make known to thee Lhaeo, my scribe and cartographer. Outside these walls he is counted a lisping man-lover from Baldur's Gate. He is not, but that is his tale to tell. Come up, now, and I'll show ye thy bed-I hope ye don't mind, there is only one-and some old clothes to keep you warm in this place. We two don't feel the cold, but I know others find it chill."
"Keep him to one speech," Lhaeo added as they started up the stairs, which creaked alarmingly, "and I'll have tea ready when you come down again."
They went up through a thick stone floor into a circular, open room. Shandril cast an eye over the maps and scrolls littering a large table in the center of the chamber. She looked away quickly as the runes began to crawl upon the parchment. Over the table, a globe hung in midair, a pale ball of radiance that shone like a small, soft moon. By its light, they could see a narrow stair curving up into the darkness overhead. Books and scrolls littered the tops of chests and were piled high upon a tall black wardrobe.
The old, dark wooden bed, with a curved rail at head and foot, looked very solid and cozy. Shandril suddenly felt very tired after the battles and conferences and their long talk in the night outside. She swayed on her feet.
Narm and Elminster both put out a hand to her at once. Shandril waved them away with a sigh. "Thank you both. I really have been a burden since I left Deepingdale."
"Second thoughts?" the sage asked quietly, no censure in his tone. Shandril shook her head.
"No. No, not when I can think clearly. I just could not have lived through it alone." Then she noticed something, and turned to the sage. "There is only one bed. Where will you sleep?"
"In the kitchen. Lhaeo and I are rarely asleep at the same time; someone has to watch the stew."
Narm laughed. "The greatest archmage in all Faerun," he said, "or so I would deem you, and you spend nights watching a pot of stew!"
"Is there a higher calling, really?" Elminster replied. "Oh, speaking of pots, the chamber pot's by the foot of the bed. Aye, I know it looks odd-it is an upturned wyvern skull, sealed with a paste. I stole it from a Tharchioness's bedchamber in Thay long ago, in my wilder days.
"Come, have thy tea, and then ye can sleep. Ye will be safe here, if anywhere in the Realms. Do as ye always do together, so long as it does not involve a lot of screaming and yelling. A little noise will not bother us. If ye pry about, be warned that the art here can kill in an instant if ye put an eye or tongue wrong… on your heads be the consequences."
"Elminster," Narm said as the old mage started down the stairs again, "our thanks for this. You've gone to much trouble over us."
"If I did not, what sort of greatest archmage in all Faerun would I be then?" was the gruff reply they got over the old mage's shoulder. "I'm stepping out for a pipe. Mind ye come in haste-Gond alone can guess what Lhaeo'll put in thy tea if you're not there to stop him. He thinks every cup should be a new experience." Below, they heard the door bang.
"By the gods, I'm tired," Narm said.
"Aye, too tired," Shandril agreed. "I hope we can sleep." Her hands, as she held them out to clasp his, were shaking. They went down to tea wearily.
When Elminster finished his pipe, he knocked the ashes from it out on the doorstep and came back in. "All well?" he asked.
Lhaeo came to the door with Narm leaning lim
ply on his shoulder. The scribe's arms were clasped about the conjurer with casual strength.
"All well. They'll both sleep till tomorrow morning, with no ill effects, by the dose they had. I mixed it carefully, and they drank it all down."
"Good. I'll take his feet. A sound sleep will do them both great good, and I'll be able to have a look at the lad's spellcasting when he's rested and not worried sick about his lady love."
"How about her?"
"No training needed. She's already learned much precision. When we fought Manshoon, she was still at the stage of hurling it as a child does a snowball. Now, she can do more with it-uumph, mind this bit; the lad's heavy! — than many mages ever do with fire magics."
They laid Narm on the bed and went back for Shandril. "Hmmm… we have much that will fit the lad, but what of this little lady?" Lhaeo asked, as they went carefully up the stairs again.
Elminster looked wise. "I've already thought on that," he said. "Some of the gowns that Shoulree of the Elven Court wore, in the days of Myth Drannor. They're in the chest closest to the stairs. She, too, could wield spellfire, if the talk in the city then was correct. She won't mind."
"Walks she yet?" Lhaeo asked, as they laid Shandril gently on the bed beside Narm, and drew off her boots.
Elminster looked thoughtful. "I doubt she does… but perhaps some of the Elven Court who joined the long sleep years ago stir now. That would explain why the devils in Myth Drannor have not troubled us here more." He nodded. "Something to look into, indeed." Then his face split into a wide grin. "In my copious free time," he added.
"I know it is wisest and safest," Shandril said, "but I grow so bored, Lhaeo. Is there nothing I can do? I know I shouldn't pry about in the spellbooks; I'll only get hurt or changed into some ugly creature or other. I cannot tidy for the same reason!"
Lhaeo looked at her with his usual expressionless face. "Do you cook?" he asked. Shandril turned.