by Ed Greenwood
"Strong words, eh? I feel strongly. If you come to do so, too, you will truly be Harpers. If one falls out of such belief, they should leave the struggle and our ranks. They will do themselves, us, and our cause ill.
"I hope only that whether you walk with us or no, or join and then leave us thereafter, that you walk always together, and take joy in each other's company. It is through such love-or longing, when in lack of it-that much learning and celebration comes about. It adds to the culture that we strive to save and nurture. More than that, whether you be Harpers or not, I would be your friend."
Shandril and Narm looked at each other, and then at the bard, and spoke together. "We would be Harpers."
"If you will have us," Shandril added awkwardly. Storm looked at them both with a smile and then stepped forward and gathered them into her arms.
"'If you will have us,'" she repeated softly. "We would be proud and pleased to have you. You, Shandril and Narm, not your art and your spellfire. You need not stay here-indeed, I agree with Elminster, for we have spoken of this. You should not stay here. You should walk far and see much, and grow in your own counsel and powers. As you go, if you work against evil, you will be Harpers, whether you bear our badge or no. Fight not always with blade or spell. The slower ways are the surer-aid freely given, and friendships and trust built. These evil cannot abide. It shrinks away from what it cannot destroy with fire and blade."
"Where then should we go?" Narm asked, as they stood together there in the wood in each other's arms. They leaned together, and all three took comfort from the embrace. Storm spoke softly, words almost hidden among the sounds of the water.
"Go you by way of Thunder Gap. Watch for Dragon cult agents. They are thick in Sembia, and there is one in Highmoon. His name is Korvan-" Shandril stiffened. "Go to Silverymoon itself. Seek out Alustriel, High Lady of that city, and say that you come from her sister Storm and would be Harpers.
"With Alustriel, too, is a good place to be if you intend to have a child by then." The bard looked meaningfully at Shandril, who blushed. "Well, you're not quite the first couple to make that mistake." She looked at Narm. "If your lady feels too sick to eat," she said, "feed her lots of stew. In the evenings, she'll feel more like dining."
Narm looked at her. "Pray, lady, let me get used to discovering I'm going to be a father, first," he said plaintively. Storm chuckled again.
"Think well, both of you, on the names your offspring must carry through life. I was born in a storm, and was named because I came out of it. It is an ear-catching name, I'm told, but I fought many larger and stronger lads and lasses when I was small because of it." She freed herself from them and undid her robe.
After a startled look, Narm politely turned his back. Unconcerned, the bard drew on her clothes. Shandril saw that her arms, back, and flanks were covered with faint white, twisting sword-scars. She looked up at Shandril's wondering eyes and winked. "I've walked many roads. Some roads leave little maps." She traced one scar with a long finger and tied her halter,
"You can turn about, Narm," Storm said dryly. "I'll soon grow tired of talking to your shoulders." Narm obediently turned about, grinning. "Now," Storm continued, "I'll tell you a few things about the journey ahead of you. First: trail marks. You'll see a few runes scratched or burned on rocks, trees, or in the dirt as you go." Storm picked up a stick and then shrugged. "Nay… I'll draw them for you in the house. It is Elminster's way to expect one to remember half a hundred things in a morning; I'll not do that. I will tell you the names of Harper agents along your way. Look to them for aid if you need it.
"These, too, I'll write for you, on a bandage. I'll need you to prick your finger and bleed on it afterwards. It must look well-stained and disgusting if you don't want it to be looked at too closely, if someone searches or robs you. But these I'll tell you about, in case you get separated, or lose your list. If you lose the list of runes, stay clear of all such that you see. "First, in Cormyr…"
After a long time, Storm rose, belted her horn at her waist, and led them back up the path to her back door.
"What if someone-by art, I mean-heard all this?" Narm asked, looking at the trees all around. Storm shook her head.
"I have art of my own to cloak this little, hidden place. Manshoon himself could not hear us unless he sat with us." She went in and set the men-at-arms to cutting cheese and apples for all, while she prepared the bandages.
Storm vanished up a stair half-hidden in the shadows of the old stone kitchen, taking Shandril's hand and drawing her up, too. When they reappeared there was no sign of the promised bandage. Shandril's eyes told Narm readily enough that it was hidden upon her somewhere. The bard now wore black fighting leathers and a sword.
"To the temple, then," Storm said briskly, "for we have much to talk about with Rathan and Eressea."
West of the tower, over the bridge that spanned the river Ashaba, rose the solid stone temple of Tymora without ditch or palisade. Its open gates stood in tall green grass without any wall, so that anyone could easily walk around. Storm led them between the gate-pillars and along a wide flagstone path to the temple. The path led to circular, arched double doors of gleaming metal, fashioned to resemble the disc symbol of Tymora. An acolyte stood guard before them, manning a polished circular alarm-gong. He was young and pimply and very earnest. "Why come you to this house of honor to the Lady?" he inquired, in the words of the ritual.
"To take our chances," Storm replied formally, "and to speak with the Lady's servant, Eressea Ambergyles, and with the faithful Rathan Thentraver if he is within."
"Yes, lady," said the acolyte with respect. "He is, and you are welcome. Enter, if you will." He opened the doors and stepped within to signal another to take his post as he escorted the visitors into the temple.
In a moment, he reappeared and beckoned wordlessly, leading them into a large circular chamber whose pillars held up a domed ceiling high overhead. He led them up a broad stair without haste, past a watchful priest who sat at the head of the stairs with plain brass rings gleaming upon his fingers and a bare mace laid across his knees. The mace glowed faintly.
Beyond the priest a gallery opened out to the right and left, running around the inside of the dome, past many closed doors. Their escort knocked upon a door straight ahead, and it swung open. Rathan and Eressea, both clad in plainspun robes, were seated at a small round table in a room with large windows. On the table between Rathan and the tiny, stern-faced Preceptress were six dice.
Storm nodded to them. "Well met, both of you. Games of chance?"
"What else in the service of Tymora?" Eressea replied. "It is sacrilege, mind you, to work upon odds, or cheat, or otherwise affect pure chance."
Storm nodded. "You know why we've come, Rathan?"
"Aye," he said, and rose. "Ye may go down to the doors, for we must now discuss holy things," he said simply to the men-at-arms. After a moment, they turned away with nods and murmurs and salutes. Rathan gestured to the acolyte to follow them, but left the door open. He turned to Narm and Shandril. "Ye wish to be wed before the bright face of Tymora," he said simply. "When?"
"As soon as possible, by your leave," Shandril said hesitantly.
"The day after tomorrow," Storm insisted. "I shall sponsor."
"Nay, lady," Rathan said with a grin. "The Lord Mourngrym hath already claimed that honor. All has been made ready, but for the asking of Her Grace, Eressea."
He turned to Eressea, who had risen. Her stern face was alight. She smiled happily, and said, "I will give Tymora's blessing with pleasure. Is it to be here, or in the tower, or-?"
"Outdoors, Preceptress," Storm said softly, surprising them all. "Upon the site of my sister Sylune's hut, which is burned and gone now." There was a little silence. Shandril realized that Eressea was looking to her for her approval.
"Agreed," she said simply, unaware of what she should say. But Narm quietly echoed her, and made it somehow formal by doing so. Then Rathan spoke.
"Agreed," was a
ll he said, and Eressea bowed.
"After dawnfry, then, the day after tomorrow," the Perceptress said. "Let the word go out." Rathan bowed, and went out and down the stairs before them.
"The young lord and lady to be wed? Gods' good wishes to them! I tell you, Baerth, I saw flames come from her very hand! 'Spellfire' they're calling it-but it was no spell like I ever saw cast! No dancing about or chanting, she just frowned a little, like Delmath does before he lifts a full barrel, and there it was! Aye, you wouldn't want to be marryin' that, now would you?"
Malark, in the shape of an owl on a branch overhead, grinned sourly to himself amid the coarse laughter, and thought on how to slay Shandril. All this skulking infuriated him. At every moment, the girl and her mageling were together, and at every moment, they were flanked by at least one accomplished in art, or one of the knights armed with powerful items of art-with others close at hand.
Malark would not soon forget the desolation of Rauglothgor's lair. A mistake in this matter could be his last. He turned tired eyes toward the Twisted Tower. She was guarded even now. Especially now.
The wedding ceremony would be one chance to get at Shandril-of-the-Spellfire, but not a good one. All of the most powerful protectors of Shadowdale would be gathered there. Perhaps later… these two had to leave the dale sometime. Malark had the uncomfortable feeling that others were waiting for just that to happen, and he might have to battle rival bids for spellfire, perhaps even Oumrath.
Malark growled to himself, and took flight restlessly, heading south across the road. Soon, Shandril of Highmoon, he thought. You'll feel my art soon…
The day dawned cool and misty. Shandril and Narm had slept apart as custom demanded, Shandril in the Temple of Tymora with Eressea, and Narm in the Twisted Tower with Rathan. Both were up and awake before dawn to be bathed in holy water and blessed. Word had spread throughout the dale, and folk began to gather early by the banks of the Ashaba.
Rathan filled a glass from a crystal decanter and held it high. "To the Lady," he said, and emptied it into the bath. Then he turned his head to look down at Narm and grinned. "That's all the wine I'll touch this day."
Narm rose, dripping. "You mean you'll miss all the festive tippling, later?"
Rathan shrugged. "How else can I make this a special occasion? Eressea and I will go off together somewhere after it's all done and share a glass of holy water." He stared off into reverie for a moment and then blinked and said gruffly, "Come on, then. Out and dry yourself! If ye are so heedless as to get the chills, Shandril may wed a walking corpse!"
"Cheery, aren't you?" Narm observed, as Rathan unwrapped heated linens from hot rocks, grunting and licking his fingers, and held the linen out for Narm to take.
"If it's a clown ye want, I'll send for Torm straightaway," Rathan replied. "But don't blame me if he gets thee so drunk and distracted that ye forget to come to thy wedding-or if he locks thee in a chest somewhere so that he can have the pleasure of marrying your Shandril himself!"
"Torm?"
"Aye. And if he's busy misbehaving elsewhere, I may take his place in such adventures myself."
Eressea was kissing Shandril's forehead formally, and then hugging her fondly. "We must make haste now," she said. "Your lord-to-be awaits you. Shadowdale gathered awaits you, too. So let us 'scoot,' as Elmninster says." Shandril rolled her eyes, and together they hurried down the stairs.
A lone horn rang out from where Sylune's Hut had been and echoed in the dale, to signal that Narm waited with Rathan. It was answered immediately from the battlements of the tower of Ashaba, as the bride-to-be and the Preceptress Eressea set forth on the long walk south.
Storm Silverhand walked behind them, blade drawn, as the guard of honor. Any hostile eyes watching and planning an attack on the maid who commanded spellfire could not help but notice the many bright glows of art that hung about the bard's person. She was armed with power and expecting trouble. There were not a few gasps and mutters among the dalefolk at the display.
Well ahead of them walked Mourngrym, Lord of Shadowdale, bareheaded but fully armored, the arms of the dale upon his breast, and a great sword at his side.
The trumpeters along the route bowed to him but did not sound their horns until Shandril reached them. One by one their calls rang out as the bride drew nearer.
Mourngrym saluted Narm and then stepped aside. A few bare stone flags among still-scorched grass marked the spot where Sylune's hut had stood. When she lived and was Lady of the Dale, no temples had stood in Shadowdale. All had come here to be wed before her. Now at least one more couple would be wed here.
Rathan stood square upon the stones, looking for Shandril. The disc of Tymora upon his breast began to glow as he cupped it in his hands.
Nearer they came, Shandril and Eressea, and the last trumpeter blew two high notes. A fanfare of all the trumpets joined him, loud and long and glorious. When the last, thrilling echoes had died away, Shandril stood before Rathan.
The priest smiled at her and cast the disc of Tymora, which he had taken off its chain, into the air. It hung a man's height above their heads, spinning gently, and its glow grew brighter.
"Beneath the bright face of Tymora, we are gathered here to join together Narm Tamaraith, this man, and Shandril Shessair, this woman, as companions in life. Let their ways run together, say I, a friend. What saith Tymora?"
Eressea stepped forward and spoke. "I speak for Tymora, and I say, let their ways run together," Rathan bowed his head at her words.
"We stand in Shadowdale," he said then. "What saith a good woman of the dale?"
Storm Silverhand took a step forward and spoke. "I say, let their ways run together."
"We stand in Shadowdale, and hear you. What saith a good man of the dale?"
The smith Bronn Selgard stood forth from the gathered Dalefolk then, his great grim face solemn, his mighty limbs clad in old, carefully patched finery. His deep voice rolled over them all. "I say, let their ways run together."
"We stand in Shadowdale, and hear you," Rathan said in response. "What saith the Lord of the Dale?"
Mourngrym stood forth. "I say, let their ways run together."
"We stand in Shadowdale, and hear you," came Rathan's voice, and it suddenly rose into a deep challenge. "What say the people of the dale? Shall the ways of these two, Narm and Shandril, run together?"
"Aye!" came the cry from a hundred throats.
"Aye, we have heard ye. We have heard all, save Narm and Shandril. What say ye two? Will ye bleed for each other?"
"Aye," said Shandril, first as was the custom. Suddenly she was dry-throated.
"Aye," Narm said, as quietly.
"Then let ye be so joined," Rathan said solemnly, and took their left hands in each of his. Mourngrym stepped forward with his dagger drawn.
In the throng nearby, Jhessail and Elminster tensed. Now their protection on Mourngrym might be tested by someone seeking to compel him to strike at the young couple. Rathan's face, too, was tense as he watched.
Gravely the Lord of Shadowdale reached out his dagger and carefully pricked the upturned backs of the two hands,
Shandril's first. Then he wiped the blade upon the turf before them, kissed it, and put it away. He stepped back in silence.
"Now, as we told thee," Rathan whispered to them, and stepped back.
Narm and Shandril brought their bloodied hands to each other's mouths, and then stepped into each other's arms and kissed, embracing fiercely. A cheer arose from those watching.
"Of one blood, joined, are Narm and Shandril," Rathan said. "Let no being tear asunder this holy union, or face the dark face of Tymora forevermore." Above their heads, the spinning disc flashed with sudden, intense light. There were cries of surprise and wonder.
"See the sign of the goddess!" Rathan shouted. "Her blessing is upon this union!"
The disc rose, shining brightly, as Narm and Shandril stepped back, hands clasped, to watch. From it sprang two shafts of white radiance, with a
noise like high, jangling harping. They stretched down, one to touch Narm and the other Shandril.
Narm stood motionless, smiling, eyes wide in astonishment as he felt power rushing through him, cleansing and strengthening him. At the touch of the light, Shandril burst into flames, and as she moved to embrace Narm in wild joy, her spellfire rose above them both in a great teardrop of rising flame. Their clothes blazed and were gone, but their hair and bodies were unharmed.
Elminster clucked disapprovingly and began to move his hands in the gestures of a weaving of art, muttering spell phrases unheard by those around him. The Harpers stepped from trees all about, then, to play The Ride of the Lion on many harps that shone and glittered in the bright light of Tymora.
For a moment it seemed that another Lady stood with Elminster and the bridal couple on the fire-scarred flagstones, a smiling lady with silver hair. Only Jhessail saw the wraith-like figure before it faded silently away again. "Sylune!" Jhessail whispered, and tears came into her eyes.
Robes of illusion enclothed Narm and Shandril as the flame died down. Rathan shouted, "It is done! Go forth in joy! A feast awaits you at the tower of Ashaba! Dance, all!"
Jhessail came forward amid the happy tumult then to where Elminster, Mourngrym, the clerics, and Storm stood guard about the happy couple, smiling.
"It is done," she said softly, and kissed them both. "It is time for me to give you what was given to Merith and I upon our wedding day. Foes are gathering even now in the woods to take you, and there will be battle. Mind you fly high, and take no part."
Elminster gravely began the casting of a spell of flight upon Shandril, and Jhessail did the same upon Narm. When they were done, Elminster said gruffly, "Remain aloft no more than ye must-this magic will not last forever. Go, now!" He guided them into another embrace, and patted Shandril's back awkwardly. "Rise!" he bid them, "before the fighting reaches us!"