by Ed Greenwood
Shandril thanked them all, and then, in Narm's embrace, rose slowly from the earth. Both were silent in awe as they rose up through a clearing sky together. The bright disc of Tymora silently rose with them and followed, leaving Rathan staring up into the sky. "I do hope Tymora sends me back her holy symbol," be said, watching the faint radiance moving eastward over the forest.
"And I hope," Storm said as gently, "that they have the sense to steer well clear of Myth Drannor."
"I'll see to that, sister," came a soft voice from above, as a black falcon swooped out of the mists and then climbed away from them, heading east.
Elminster growled. "Now I suppose I'll have to keep eyes alight for whatever she might do to get spellfire, too!" he said, and became an eagle, and was gone into the sky.
Those who still stood where Sylune's Hut had been looked at each other, and then at the dalefolk hastening back toward the tower as swords flashed and sang amid the trees. Harpers and guards of the dale were battling men in a motley of leathers-mercenaries, by their look.
Jhessail sighed. "Well, back to the battle again," she said.
"Aye," Storm agreed. "As always." They drew blades, a wand, and two maces, and charged into the fray. As always.
14
To Turneth Not Danger Aside
Open the door, little fools: we wait outside.
The green dragon Naurglaur, Sayings Of A Wyrm, Year of the Spitting Cat
"We should go down," Shandril whispered into the wind. Narm's arms tightened about her, and he and Shandril flew for a time in silence. The great green expanse of the elven woods lay below them.
"Aye," he reluctantly agreed at last. "I shall not soon forget this."
"Nor shall I," she whispered. "As I should hope not!"
Narm chuckled at her mild indignation. Bending his will to turn northwest again over the seemingly endless trees of the Elven Court, they headed back to Shadowdale.
"I can't help but feel," he said, looking about them, "that we're being watched." It was an odd feeling to have while soaring naked high above the land.
"I'm sure we are, and we have been since we first rode with the knights," his lady replied. "How else could they protect us?"
'"Well, yes… but now?"
"I'm sure they've seen such things before," she said. "Elminster's five hundred winters old, remember?"
"Aye." Narm sighed, looking all about them. They were gliding low over the trees, the sky clear but for a line of clouds to the north. They could see no other creatures in the air or below. Narm shrugged. "Would that none of this were necessary," he said, "and we could walk unafraid together."
Shandril fixed him with very serious eyes. "I agree with you," she replied softly. "But without spellfire, you and I would be bones by now." They passed over the bare top of Harpers' Hill and left it behind them again. "Besides, it is the will of the gods. Rage as we might, it is so, and shall be."
Narm nodded. "Aye… Your spellfire can be handy enough, I'll admit. But does it harm you?"
Shandril shrugged. "I know not. I do not feel amiss or in pain, most times. But I couldn't stop it or give it up, even if I wanted to. It is part of me, now." She turned in his grasp to look back, and as she did so something circular and silver drifted out of the empty sky into her hands. Shandril caught it before thinking of danger. It was cold and solid, and the touch of its smooth weight sent her fingertips tingling.
"It is Rathan's holy symbol!" Narm said, astonished. "How came it here?"
"By the will of Tymora," Shandril said quietly. "To answer your doubts." Narm nodded slowly and almost sternly. The fine hairs upon his arms stood out stiff with fear. But he held her as gently and firmly as before.
"Where now?" he asked, as they saw The Old Skull Inn below. "The Twisted Tower?"
"No," Shandril said, pointing at chain mail flashing upon the backs of men below. "In all the alarm, the archers might well have us both down before they knew us."
"Or even," Narm muttered, "because they knew us."
Shandril slapped him lightly. "Think not such darkness!" she hissed. "Have any who are truly of the dale shown us anything but kindness and aid since we came here? We must be suspicious, aye, or perish-but ungrateful? But as I was about to say, I have little liking for the idea of greeting all the folk of the tower clad as we are."
Narm chuckled. "Ah, the real reason," he said, halting their flight over Elminster's tower. "My apologies, for such black thoughts. Still, it is better to look over one's shoulder than to die swiftly and surprised."
"Aye, but let not the looking make you sour," Shandril told him. "You would come down here?"
"Have we anyplace else?" Narm asked. "I doubt the art that protects Storm's home will be kind to us now, if we come calling when she is not there."
"True," Shandril agreed and took one last look around from their height, looking north over the Old Skull's stony bulk to the rolling wilderness beyond. The wind slid past them gently now. "Learn this spell yourself, as soon as you can," she urged as she clung to him. "It is so beautiful."
"Aye." Narm's voice was husky. "It is the least of the beauty I have known this day."
Shandril's arms tightened about him, and she and Narm sank gently to the earth in a fierce embrace in front of Elminster's tower.
Overhead, a falcon waggled its wings to an eagle and veered away to the south. The eagle bobbed in slow salute and wheeled about, sighed audibly, and dove earthward.
"Must ye stand about, naked, kissing and cuddling, and generally inflaming an old man's passions?" Elminster demanded loudly, inches behind Narm.
Narm and Shandril both jumped, startled, but barely had time to unclasp and turn about before the sage was pushing them roughly toward the door. "In! In, and try your hands at peeling potatoes. Lhaeo can't feed two extra guts on naught but air, ye know!" Shandril's fending hands encountered a deep and silky beard.
Elminster came to a dead halt and glared at her. "Pull my beard, will ye? Ridicule a man old enough to be thy great — great — great — great — great — great — and — probably — great-
again-grandsire? Are ye mad? Or just tired of life? How would ye like to enjoy the rest of thy life from the mud, as a toad, or a slug, or creeping moss? Aye? Aye? Aye?"
He was pushing them both again, now, step by step to the door. Narm had begun to chuckle uncertainly. Shandril was still white and open-mouthed. The door opened behind them, and Elminster added in sudden calm, "Two guests again, Lhaeo. They'll be needing clothes first."
"Aye," came the dry reply from within. "It is cold in the corners, herein. How are they at peeling potatoes?"
Elminster's answering chuckle urged them in, and he closed the door with a brief, "I'll follow, anon… some tasks remain." They were inside in the flickering dimness with Lhaeo, already moving toward a certain closet.
"We've gone through more clothes since you've come to Shadowdale," he said. "You were a head shorter than I, were you not, Shandril?"
"Yes," Shandril agreed, and she began to laugh. After a moment, Narm joined her. Lhaeo shook his head as he handed clothes backward without looking. Truly they serve most who know when to laugh and when to listen.
The stew warm inside her, Shandril leaned back against the wall on her stool happily. She looked over at Narm, clad in the silk robes of a grand mage of Myth Drannor, and smiled at him, heart full. The hearth glowed, and Lhaeo moved softly back and forth in front of it, stirring and tasting and adding pinches of spice kept in a rack above his cutting board. Pheasant hung from the rafters above the scribe, and a plump gorscraw lay upon the table, waiting to be plucked and dressed. Narm sipped herbed tea and regarded Lhaeo's deft movements over his stewpots. "Is there anything we can do to help?" he asked.
Lhaeo looked up at him with a quick smile. "Aye, but it is not cooking. Talk, if you would. I have heard little enough speech that is not Elminster's. Tell me how it is with you."
"It is wonderful, Lhaeo," Narm said. "I am as happy now as I have ever
been in my life. We are wed this day and henceforth. It is joyous indeed!"
"You, too?" the scribe asked Shandril. She nodded, eyes shining.
Lhaeo smiled. "Both of you," he said, "remember how you feel now, when times are darker, and turn not one upon the other, but stand together to face the world's teeth. But enough. I will not lecture you. You must hear enough of that from other lips, hereabouts."
They all laughed. Shandril stopped first and asked, "Those men-at the wedding? Who were they, do you know?"
"I was not at your wedding," Lhaeo said softly. "Forgive me. I abide here to guard-certain things. I did learn something from the Lord Florin of the men who drew swords and would have attacked you, if that's whom you mean."
Narm nodded. "Those men, yes."
The two men held each other's eyes for a moment, and then Lhaeo said, "There were over forty, we believe. Thirty-seven-perhaps more by now-lie dead. One talked before his life fled. They were all mercenaries hired, for ten pieces of gold each and meals, to grab you both-Shandril alone, if they could take but one of you.
"They were hired in Selgaunt only a few days back and flown up in a ship that sails the skies. Oh, yes, such things exist, though they be rare triumphs of art. They were hired in a tavern by a large, balding, fat man with a wispy beard, who gave his name as Karsagh. They were directed to take you to a hill north of here to be picked up by the skyship.
"They would then be paid in full. Each had received only two pieces of gold. Many died carrying it, still unspent. Who this Karsagh is and why he wants you, we know not. Have you any favorite thoughts as to who he might be?"
Narm and Shandril both shook their heads. "Half the world seems to be looking for us, with swords and spells," Shandril said bitterly. "Have they all nothing better to do?"
"Evidently not," Lhaeo replied. "It is not all bad, that. Look who found you, Shandril-this mageling called Narm, and the knights who brought you here."
"Aye " she said very quietly, "and it is here we must leave-friends and all-because of this accursed spellfire." Fire leaped and spat in tiny, crackling threads from one hand to another, as she stared down at her hands in anger.
"Not within these walls, if you please, good lady," Lhaeo said, eyeing it. "Things sleep herein that should not be so suddenly awakened." Shandril sighed, shame-faced, and let the fires subside.
"Sorry I am, Lhaeo," she said sadly. "I have no wish to burn down your house." The hearthfire let out a crack, then, that startled them all, as a tiny pocket of pitch in a branch blew apart. Narm stared from it to Shandril, a little fear on his face. At his look, Shandril nearly burst into tears.
"Nay, nay," said Lhaeo, turning to his cutting-board. "I know you do not, nor do I fear it coming to pass. You must not hate your gift, Shandril, for the gods gave it to you without such fury. And did not Tymora bless your union?" The scribe indicated the holy symbol that Shandril had carefully set upon a high table. As if in response to his words, it seemed to glow for a moment as they looked at it.
"Aye," Narm said, getting up. "So we are helpless in the hands of the gods?" He began to pace. Lhaeo looked up, sharp knife flashing as he cut up the tripes of a sheep.
"No," he answered, "for where then would be your luck, which is the very essence of holy Tymora? What 'luck' can there be, if the gods control your every breath? And how dull for them, too! Would you take any interest at all in the world beneath your powers, if you were a god and if the creatures in it had no freedom to do anything you had not determined beforehand?
"No, you can be sure that gods do not fate men to act thus-and-so often, if at all, despite the many tales-even those by the great bards-that would have it otherwise."
"So we walk freely, and do as we will, and live or die by that," Shandril agreed. "So where should we walk? You know maps, Lhaeo-I have seen your mark upon the charts here and in the tower yonder. Where upon the land of Faerun should we go?"
The scribe looked at her and spread his hands. "Where your hearts lead, is the easy answer," he said, "and the best. But you really ask me where you should run to now, this season, with half Faerun at your heels and with the Harpers your chosen allies. A good choice, know you by the road."
He paced alongside Narm for a few strides and then said, "I would go south, quick and quiet, and go by the Thunder Gap into Cormyr. There, keep to the smaller places and join with a caravan or with pilgrims of Tempus who seek the great fields of war that lie inland from the Sword Coast. Go where there are elves, for they know what it is to be hounded and will defend you with fierce anger."
He turned back to the cutting-board. "I daresay you would hear much the same advice from those who travel, if you could trust one to ask." Narm and Shandril traded glances in silence. Then Narm spoke.
"We have heard such directions before, yes," he agreed, "almost word for word. If the best way is so obvious as all that, will your enemies not be looking for us to take it, and be waiting?"
"Aye, most probably they will," Lhaeo agreed, with the ghost of a smile. "So you must take care not to get caught."
They both stared at him for a moment in frustration, and then Shandril laughed. "Well enough," she said. "We shall try to follow your advice, good Lhaeo. Know you any ways of avoiding those who search?"
"You both work with art and walk with those who are mighty in art, and you ask me?" Lhaeo replied, eyebrows raised. "If you would learn the ways of stealth and disguise without art, ask Torm. I have escaped thus far, true, but in my case I was cloaked in the Lady's Luck." He turned to Narm. "If you must pace about like a great cat in a cage," he added, "could you slice potatoes while doing it?"
Elsewhere, things were not so peaceful. In Zhentil Keep, two men faced each other across a table.
"Lord Marsh," said the mage Sememmon carefully, "does it seem to you that the priests of The Black Altar, through some unfortunate internal dispute or other, have fallen into confusion and disarray too great for us to leave the city with it unaddressed? I know my fellow mages feel that eye tyrants cannot be trusted and should not be given more authority than the minimum one is obliged to accord them to win their support. All reports indicate that the beholder Manxam presently holds sway in the temple, and the corpses of many hundred clergy, great and lesser, that lie there have begun to stink."
"I have heard those same reports," Lord Marsh Belwintle agreed smoothly. "I am forced to the same conclusions… as, I hold, any reasonable man would be. This matter of one girl who can create fire will simply have to wait, unless or until she shows up at your gates to do us harm. Whereupon I am fully confident that the power and skill of the gathered mages of the city would defeat her, so long as they have not all been destroyed or weakened in the interim by being sent off here and there on missions by one who had rather transparent reasons for wishing them out of the city."
"Exactly," Sememmon agreed. "I had thought to discuss with you the advisability of setting just one of your mages of power-Sarhthor, perhaps-to observing this maiden's doings, so that her seizure by any of your foes or other concerns could be noted or countered by us. Were she to reveal any power or method whereby she gained spellfire, we could benefit merely from such a watch, with no blood lost to us and no art or coin wasted. Prudence would seem to indicate some sort of vigilance on your part."
"An excellent plan, indeed," Lord Marsh agreed, reaching for a glass of blood-red wine before him. "The fighting arm of the Zhentarim would certainly concur with-and even expect-such a tactic. An eye must serve us where a claw might be cut off, if we are not to be taken unaware by some creeping enemy and ultimately overwhelmed. More wine?"
"Ah, thank you," replied Sememmon, "but no. It is excellent, indeed, but its taste lingers on the tongue and makes the sampling of potions when concocting them a chancy business, at best. Such onerous duties call, I fear."
"Quite so, quite so," Marsh agreed, rising. "Well then, we are agreed. I shall not keep you longer. We may have to speak with each other later, and speedily, should the beholders p
rove troublesome. But for now, olore to you and your fellows-in-art."
"Olore to you," Sememmon agreed. He walked away.
An eye that neither of them saw floating under the table watched Sememmon go and then winked out.
"The Wearers of the Purple are met. For the glory of the dead dragons!" Naergoth Bladelord said. The leader of the Cult of the Dragon was, as always, coldly calm.
"For their dominion," the ritual reply answered him, more or less in unison. Naergoth looked about the large, plain, underground chamber. All were present save the mage Malark. Well enough. To tongue-work, then, the faster to feast in some fine festhall of Ordulin, above, and then bed and then sleep. The ruling Council of the Cult waited expectantly.
"Brothers," he said, "we are gathered to hear of an affair that preoccupies your mages: this matter of spellfire and all that is drawn into it. Brother Zilvreen, what say you?"
"Brothers," Master Thief Zilvreen said with soft, sinister grace. "I have learned little from your loyal followers of the fates of the dracolich Rauglothgor and the mage Maruel. But it appears likely that Rauglothgor, its treasure, the she-mage, and even another sacred night dragon, the wyrm Aghazstamn, whom Maruel called on for aid and rode upon back to Rauglothgor's lair, have all been destroyed. Destroyed by the accursed archmage of Shadowdale, Elminster, a group of adventurers who call themselves the Knights of Myth Drannor, and by this young girl we have heard of, this Shandril Shessair, who can cast spellfire!"
"All?" rumbled Dargoth of the Perlar merchant fleet. "I can scarce believe they can all have been destroyed. What is so powerful, save an army of a size that we could see gathering for many days?"
"No such swords have been raised," Commarth, the bearded general of the Sembian border forces, added dryly.
"Men sent back by Malark have described the site of Rauglothgor's lair as a pit of freshly strewn rubble," Zilvreen answered. "Draw your own conclusions."
"So just what is this spellfire," Dargoth asked, "that it can destroy great mages and great wyrms alike?"