Spellfire ss-1

by Ed Greenwood

  "Of course! Why, at The Rising Moon-" She stopped, eyes alight, and smiled. "May I cook with you?" she asked, delighted. Lhaeo bowed.

  "Please," he said. "It is seldom I get to talk to others who spend much time in a kitchen. Few want to talk to someone who speaks thus," and his last words were spoken in a mincing lisp.

  Shandril looked at him. "Why do you pretend to be-Elminster's companion?" she asked. Lhaeo looked at her soberly.

  "My lady," he said, "I am in hiding. I will tell you who I am only if you never tell anyone-except Narm," he replied.

  "I promise," Shandril said solemnly. "By whatever oaths you wish." Lhaeo shook his head.

  "Your promise is enough," he said. "Come into the kitchen." The room, warmed by a small fire in the hearth, smelled deliciously of herbs and simmering stew and onion soup.

  "Are you a lost prince?" Shandril prompted him as he waved her to a stool and went to inspect the huge pot of stew upon the fire.

  "I suppose," Lhaeo said slowly, stirring the stew with a long-handled ladle, "you could say that. I am the last of the royal house of Tethyr. In happier times, I was so far from the throne that I never thought of myself as a prince or even as one of the court. But there have been so many deaths that I am, so far as Elminster and I can tell, the last left alive of royal blood.

  "Why do you hide? You have no army to take back your kingdom. Why would anyone want to kill you?"

  Lhaeo shrugged. "Because all who have seized power expect others to do as they would. Anyone of royal blood must want to wear the crown, they think. I live because they don't know that I still live. I fear that's all there is to tell. Not so impressive, is it? But it is a secret that must be kept, for my life hangs upon it."

  "I shall not tell it," Shandril said. "What can I help you with, here?"

  Lhaeo looked at her. "Cook what you like, and teach me as you go," he said. "Please?" They smiled at each other across a bag of onions. "And my thanks," he added.

  "For keeping your secret?"

  "Aye. It may not seem much, but each secret you carry has a weight all its own. They add up, secrets, to a burden you must carry all your days."

  Shandril looked up from selecting onions, knife in hand. "You carry many?"

  "Aye. But my load is nothing to Elminster's."

  Shandril nodded, then looked down. "Whose gown is it that I wear?" she asked quietly. Lhaeo smiled.

  "That is one of the secrets," he said. "I would tell you, but it is his to tell, not mine."

  "Well enough. Do you have an old apron I might wear to cover it?"

  "Aye, behind you, on the peg. Tell me of The Rising Moon."

  She did. They serve others most who ask the right question, and then listen. The day passed, and they marked not the time.

  The day passed, and Narm grew weary. He had grown used to the clear and careful teaching of Jhessail, and the practical tutelage of Illistyl. Elminster's methods were a rude shock, indeed.

  The old mage badgered and derided and made testily impatient comments. The simplest query of him on this or that small detail of casting brought a scholarly flood of information in reply-a voluminous barrage that never seemed to include a direct answer. Elminster had worked on Narm's new spell, the flaming sphere, until Narm could have screamed.

  Weary hours of study to impress the difficult runes upon Narm's mind, and then a sharp lecture on precisely how to cast the spell in view of the obvious shortcomings he had displayed last time were the grinding irritants. They were followed by a few moments of spellcasting, a ball of scorching flame rushing away-a thrill the first few times, but now Narm saw each one as a failure even before Elminster spoke-and then Elminster's scathing critique. The clumsiness or slowness of the casting, the lazy and inattentive formation of the sphere, and worst of all, the lack of precision in its direction, once formed, were all regular topics.

  "Have ye not seen your lady hurl spellfire?" Elminster demanded, in acid tones. "Have ye not noticed how she can shape the flames-a broad fan or a thin, dextrous tongue-bend it around corners, pulse short spurts of flame to avoid setting her surroundings ablaze? I suppose ye couldn't tell me now the hue of her eyes, either!"

  "Ahh, they're…" Narm hastened to reply, and found to his horror that an image of Shandril wouldn't come to his mind at the moment. Confused and badgered, he hurled fire angrily before Elminster bid him, tossing the ball of flames twenty feet before it landed and rolled.

  "Temper, boy," Elminster admonished, watching it. "Too easily it can be thy death. Mages cannot afford it-not if it affects the precision of their casting. Here ye are, furious with me, and we've spent merely a morning together. Not good! Oh, that's all good enough for the lesser talents who swagger about throwing a few fireballs and bullying honest farm folk. I had hoped you would look for something more, in the service of Mystra.

  "Ye can be a great mage, Narm, if ye develop just two things: precision in control of spell effects and imagination in applying your art. The latter ye will need more later on, when ye reach past most mages with whom ye would wish to associate in both experience and knowledge. The precision ye must master now, else thine every spell will have some waste about it. Thy art will lack that edge of shrewd phrasing and maximum effect that may mean the difference between defeat and victory, some day.

  "As ye advance, ye will become a target for those who gain spells by preying upon other mages. If ye lack precision in a duel of art, ye will be utterly destroyed-then it will be too late for my lessons."

  "But I cannot hope to win a duel now. How will spending all day throwing balls of flame about make any difference to that? If I win a duel, one day, surely it will be because I have stronger spells and more of them."

  "Perhaps. Yet, know ye, a mage can do more with a few simple spells he knows back-to-front, and can use shrewdly, than with an arsenal hastily memorized and poorly understood from any spellbook he may look at. Do ye follow me?"

  Narm nodded, slowly. "Good, then," the sage said. "I shall leave ye to thyself, if ye promise me to study and cast your flaming sphere at least four times more, here in this field, before ye rest for the day. Think on moving the sphere just where ye want it, and making it form in just the place ye choose. Think too on how ye can use such a weapon against, say, a running group of goblins who will scamper in all directions when they see it coming, but always try to get past it toward ye.

  "Don't forget that only foolish and arrogant mages stand still after they have cast to admire the view. Move, or a simple arrow will soon make ye a dead mage, no matter how impressive ye were in life. Oh, and worry not about the stubble; ye're doing the farmer who owns this a favor by burning it off. Try not to take the fencing with it. It is harder to term that 'friendly help.' Do I have thy promise?"

  Narm nodded. "Yes, and my thanks."

  "Thanks? It is impatient ye are again, Narm! The task's not done yet. Save thy thanks until ye be master of this spell, at the least. Then thank yourself first. I can talk all day and only waste breath if ye do not heed, and work, and master the art."

  Narm grinned. "You do," he replied. Elminster grinned back, only for an instant. The twinkle in his eye remained, though, as he became a falcon and flew away.

  Narm stood in the field and watched him go, sighed, and reached for his spellbook. The sun was bright on the Old Skull. He sighed again and bent his head to the book.

  When he stood up, much later, to cast his first flaming sphere, Narm drew a deep breath of satisfaction. At least he was alone and could work art without wisely watching eyes and a lot of sharp comments. He turned to look around at the stubble, enjoying the choosing of what he could burn at whim. It was then that he noticed a small boy had appeared from somewhere and was hanging upon the fence-rails watching him.

  "Go away!" Narm said crossly.

  "This your field?" the boy replied laconically.

  "You could get hurt!" Narm said. "I'll be casting spells here!"

  "Aye. I've been watching. But I won't be hurt unless y
ou cast spells at me. You won't do that; there are no evil magic-workers in Shadowdale. Ma says Elminster won't permit it."

  "I see," said Narm, and set his jaw. "Excuse me." He turned away to hurl fire again.

  The boy watched fire roll away once and stayed glued to the fence. All day long he stayed, as Narm hurled fire, sat down to study, got up and threw fire carefully again, and then went back to his books.

  Narm was weary when he finally went to the gate at evening, and very thirsty. The boy climbed down from the fence then, and fell into step beside Narm. "I wish I could be a great mage, like you," he said, almost shyly.

  Narm looked at him and laughed. "I wish I could be a great mage," he said ruefully. "I know so little. I feel so useless."

  The boy stared. "You?" He shook his head. "I saw you cast big balls of fire. You point them where to go, and they move at your bidding! You must be powerful!"

  Narm shook his head, as they went on down the road. "Being a mage is a lot more than just hurling balls of fire about." The boy nodded at him, slowly, and then waved a sudden good-bye, ducked through a gap in a hedge off to one side of the road, and was gone. Narm shrugged and walked on. Ahead he could see a patrol of guardsmen on horseback, trotting toward him with lances raised. It must be nice to call a place like this home.

  Elminster was sitting out on a boulder near his front step, smoking, when Narm came up the path. He put aside his pipe and regarded Narm thoughtfully. "Well?" he asked. "Can ye put a sphere where ye want to?" Narm nodded. "So are ye a mage, then?"

  Narm shrugged. "I have a long road to go," he said, "before I am strong in art. But I can stand in most company, now, and know my art will serve me." He added proudly, "There will always be others more powerful, but I've truly mastered what I do know."

  "Oh?" Elminster asked softly. "Think ye so?" His features suddenly blurred and shifted beneath the battered old hat, flowing and changing in a fascinating, rather frightening manner. Narm stared at the shrinking sage, and suddenly found himself facing the young boy who had watched his spell practice from the fence. The little face grinned; the little mouth moved, and in a perfect imitation of Narm's own voice said solemnly, "Being a mage is a lot more than just hurling balls of fire about."

  Narm stared at him in anger, then resignation, and then sheepish amusement. "Elminster won't permit it, indeed," he said. "I can see that I'll have to rise early in the day indeed to get ahead of you."

  Elminster smiled. "Ah, but I have five hundred years' start on ye. Come. Dinner is ready. Thy lady is a cook of rare skill. Ye have chosen correctly. See that ye serve her as well, boy, as she serves ye." With this last sage advice he knocked his pipe out on the doorstep and went in. Narm looked once at the stars, beginning to sparkle as the sky darkened, and followed him inside.

  13

  To Walk Unseen

  The bards soon forget a warrior falling without a great feat of arms. Would you be forgotten? Face each battle, each foe, as though it is your last. One day it will be.

  Dathlance of Selgaunt, An Old Warrior's Way, Year of the Blade

  The morning sun laid bright fingers upon the table where they sat in the audience chamber of the Twisted Tower. Shandril watched stray dust motes sparkle above the table as she and Narm waited for Elminster to come in from dawnfry in the great hall. Narm's hand found hers, and they sat together in contented silence, alone with the fading tapestries of Shadowdale's past and the empty throne. "I was brought here by Illistyl before we met in Rauglothgor's lair," Narm said quietly, "and spoke with Mourngrym. It seems an age ago, now."

  Shandril nodded. "It seems long ago that I left Deepingdale, yet it is a matter of tendays, not months." She looked at the great painted map of the Dragonreach upon the wall. "I wonder where we shall be in a year?" she asked.

  Narm never replied, for upon her words the doors opened and Elminster came in. Shandril had thought Mourngrym would be with him, but the sage was alone. He came toward them, slowly, and for the first time, Shandril thought, he really looked old. He sat down in a chair beside them, not on the throne, and fixed them with bright eyes.

  "So quiet?" he asked. "Have ye both stopped thinking, then?"

  "No," Narm replied boldly. "Why say you so?"

  The old mage shrugged. "The young are supposed to be always talking or laughing or fighting, they say. Ye two… surprised me." He took out his pipe, looked at it for a long breath in silence, and then put it away again, unlit. "I asked ye here to tell thee that I have watched, these past few days, and ye two are as well trained with art and spellfire as we here can presently make thee. It is up to thee, now, if ye would grow more powerful. More than that, it is time for the both of ye to decide what to do with thine lives."

  "Do?" Narm asked, but not as one surprised. Elminster nodded approvingly.

  "It is not good for ye to drift along under the influence of the knights and myself. Ye would be swept up into our councils and our struggles. Ye'd slowly grow embittered and empty, as ye lost the will and way to walk thine own roads and think for thyselves."

  "But we have found friends here, and happy times," Shandril protested, "and-"

  "And danger," Elminster interrupted smoothly. "I want to keep ye with me. One cannot have too many friends, and I grow weary of losing them all, one after another, with the years. But if I let ye stay, I would draw doom to ye, just as settling down together in the dale, or in a nice cottage somewhere by thyselves will."

  "What? Living together will bring danger upon us?" Narm asked, bewildered.

  "Nay-staying in one place will. With thy talent," Elminster said, pointing a long finger at Shandril, "one mage after another will seek to slay thee. Mulmaster, Thay, and the Zhentarim all must needs destroy anything that threatens magery. So walk ye out into the wide Realms and disappear. I can alter thine outward selves with magic, although to each other ye will look the same. Pass from sight, and thy menace will be forgotten in the struggles these tyrants of art have with one another.

  "My advice to thee," Elminster continued, "is to wander, and hide. Ye will need friends who will raise sword or art to aid thee if needed. So walk ye with Storm Silverhand and her fellow Harpers, then find thine own way and thine own adventures again. Mistake me not-I would not be rid of ye. I think ye will soon be slain or stunted in art and spirit if ye stay here. Come back and visit, though." The old mage put his pipe in his mouth and puffed it furiously into life with fire that sprouted from his forefinger, and his eyes grew suspiciously misty.

  Shandril and Narm looked at each other. "I-we both think you are right," Shandril said, reading Narm's eyes. "We would speak with the knights first however." Elminster looked to Narm, who nodded silently. "We do not want to leave this place, and our friends," Shandril added. "If we must, we would know where in the Realms it is best to go."

  Elminster nodded. "Well said. If ye like, I'll tell Mourngrym."

  Shandril nodded. "Please." She did not burst into tears until after he'd gone.

  "He's right, you know," Narm said gently, arms about her. Shandril sniffled as she nodded.

  "Oh, I know. That's not what makes it so sad. It's leaving friends. First Gorstag and Lureene at the inn, then Delg, Burlane, Rymel, and the others, and now the knights. I'll even miss Elminster, the crusty old bastard."

  "Well, that's as polite and yet as honest a calling as I've had in a long time" the sage's unmistakable voice said dryly behind them.

  Narm and Shandril broke apart, whirling. "You must have been waiting outside the door!" Shandril said hotly to Mourngrym. The Lord of Shadowdale raised calming hands.

  "Everyone must stand somewhere," he said. "I lost five gold pieces at dice with the guards, if it's any consolation to you. The others'll be here in a moment."

  He crossed to a tall cabinet. "In the meantime, shall we have a glass of wineapple? I strained it myself. It's not fermented; you cannot get drunk on it, Narm."

  "Well, seeing as you have the cabinet open," Rathan hailed him from the door. Mourngrym sig
hed. "Is Torm with you? I thought as much… leave something drinkable in there that I can give to visiting gentles, will you?" He went and sat on his throne, flagon in hand.

  "Well met, Jhess, Illistyl… where's Merith?" he called.

  "Along in a minute, my lord," Jhessail said. "He was in the bath when Shaerl called."

  "Ah, that's why she isn't back yet!" Torm said innocently to the glass he was raising to his lips. Mourngrym's empty flagon bounced off his head an instant later.

  "My lord, if I may borrow your boot for a moment?" another voice said from the door, sweet and low.

  "Of course, lady," Merith said politely, drawing it off and proffering it politely. Shaerl took it from him and threw it hard and accurately. Torm groaned and dropped Mourngrym's flagon with a clatter, amid general mirth.

  "All here?" Mourngrym asked. At the door, Lanseril nodded as he set an ornate bar across the handles and snapped it down into place. "Good, then… Narm and Shandril have something to ask of you." Silence fell.

  Shandril looked around at them all, suddenly shy, and nudged Narm. He looked at her uncomfortably, cleared his throat, and then lapsed into silence.

  "Ye need no speech, lad," Elminster's calm voice came from his left. "Just say thy piece straight out, before someone else attacks the tower to seize thee." There were chuckles of agreement at this. Narm swallowed and got to his feet.

  "Well, then," he said quickly. "Shandril and I think we should leave you, to have our own lives and adventures. We do not want to insult or upset anyone. You have been good friends and protectors to us, and my lady and I will be ever grateful. But as long as we stay, it seems Shadowdale will be an armed camp, as one evil group after another comes seeking us. We must go-but where, how, we do not know.

  "We would talk it over with you, if you will, and then decide alone together after. We alone must live with what we decide, and with each other." He sat down suddenly, feeling foolish.

  "Good speech," Illistyl said. "Well then, what would you know?"