by Ed Greenwood
Naergoth shrugged. "A fire that burns and can be hurled as a mage casts bolts of lightning," he said, "and that affects magical items and spells as well as things not of art. More than that we do not know-which is why we sent Malark."
"What of him?" Commarth asked. "Has he spoken to you more recently than we know?"
Naergoth shook his head. "No, I have heard no more than I have told you. He is in or about Shadowdale now, as far as we know, seeking a time and a way to get at the girl."
"Shessair," one of the others mused." Wasn't that the name of the mage that your brothers of art who preceded Malark slew at the Bridge of Fallen Men, in the battle that bought them their deaths?"
"Aye, it was," Naergoth said, "but no connection is yet apparent. We have at least three eyes in Sword Coast cities who have the last name of 'Suld' that I know of… and none are blood-related or even know of each other."
"What boots it?" Dargoth said. "Ancient history only warms long tongues-it can have no bearing on what we decide to do in this matter."
"It certainly won't, if we do nothing," Commarth agreed in dry tones. "Have you any plans in mind, brothers?" Naergoth and Zilvreen shrugged.
"You first, brother," Zilvreen prompted.
Naergoth nodded and spoke. "The price of getting our hands on this spellfire seems far too high, and others-the Zhentarim, and the priests of Bane outside Zhentil Keep, for two-are known to seek it. Yet it is we who have already paid a price, and I am loath to turn away empty-handed. The price may seem too high to you… and yet we cannot afford not to gain spellfire for our own. No one can. I expect much bloodshed yet." He looked around the table. "How we go about getting it, I leave to you, brothers."
"Let the mages win it for us," said Zilvreen smoothly. "Waste no more swords-and especially no more of your bone dragons-on this."
"Well enough," Dargoth agreed. "But spellfire or no, we must not let this girl, or the knights, go unpunished for what they have done. We must never forget that we have lost much treasure, two dracoliches, and The Shadowsil over this. The girl must pay. Even if she becomes an ally, she must die after we have gained her secrets and her power. This must ride over all."
"Well said, brother," Naergoth agreed. There was a murmur of agreement around the table. "We are agreed, then-for now, we let your brother mages handle this affair?"
"Aye, it is his field," came one reply.
"Aye, it would be folly to do otherwise," said another.
"Aye-and if he comes not back, we can always raise other mages to the Purple."
"Aye to that, too!"
"Aye," the others all put in, in their turn. So it was agreed, and they all rose and left that place.
It was late in Shadowdale, and in the Twisted Tower the candles burned low. In an inner room of Lord Mourngrym's chambers off the great bedroom, there was much discussion over the remains of dinner-in low tones, as Lady Shaerl slept in her chair at one end of the table, and Rathan Thentraver dozed over one arm of his chair.
"We must leave," Shandril said, close to tears.
"Leave? Of course… how can you know yourselves and become strong if you are always in the midst of our hurly-burly?" Florin agreed. "But come back one day to see us, mind," he added softly.
"Have you a place in mind?" Jhessail asked, as she leaned drowsily upon Merith's shoulder. The elf's eyes gleamed in the candlelight. Tonight he had said little and listened much.
Narm shrugged. "We go to seek our fortune. The Harpers said to seek High Lady Alustriel in Silverymoon."
"Would you have some of us ride with you?" Lanseril asked. "There are greater evils in this world by far than those you have fought."
"With all respect, lord," Shandril answered him, "no. Too long you have watched over us and spilled much blood on our account. We must make our own way in the world and fight our own battles-or in the end, we will have done nothing."
"'Nothing,' she says," Torm said to Illistyl. "Two dracoliches and a mountaintop and a good piece of Manshoon of Zhentil Keep, yet, and 'nothing' she calls it! It's scary. What if she tries 'something'?"
"Hush you," Illistyl said, stopping his mouth with a kiss. "You're a worse windbag than the old mage himself."
"Why, thank ye," said a familiar voice wryly from the far darkness of the room. Narm saw the battered old hat first, perched atop the staff that Elminster bore, as the sage's bearded old face came forward into the light and regarded them all. He looked last at Narm and Shandril.
"Ye might," he said dryly, "go to The Rising Moon for a night, at least. It would be a kindness to Gorstag. He has been worried about ye."
Shandril met his gaze in silence, and a breath had passed before Narm realized that she was crying. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. He turned to her and took her in his arms, but her tears still fell.
"Don't cry, beloved," Narm soothed her. "You're among-"
"Shush her not," Merith said gently. "It is no shame to weep. Only one who cares not, cries not. I have seen what happens to those-Florin and Torm, at this table-who cry inside and try to hide it from others. It sears the soul."
Jhessail nodded. "Merith is right," she said. "Tears don't upset us, only the reasons for them."
"Cry here, lord," murmured Shaerl in her sleep, patting her own shoulder. "It is soft and listens to you." Mourngrym looked faintly embarrassed. Torm grinned.
"You see?" he said to Illistyl. "You could do that for me… You have the shoulders for it." She slapped him fondly.
Shaerl stirred and frowned. "Oh, it is that game tonight, is it?" she murmured. "Well, my lord, you'll have to catch me first, I assure you." Chuckles arose from around the room. Mourngrym leaned forward and lifted his lady gently from the chair. Sleepily she clung to his neck and drew her legs up across his chest, settling herself with murmurs of contentment.
Mourngrym turned to them all with Shaerl cradled in his arms. "Good even, all," he said with a smile. "Shaerl should be in bed-and so should all of us."
"Now where were we?" Elminster asked, settling himself into a chair that looked as old, shabby, and well-worn as he did. "Oh, aye… your plans for the future, Narm and Shandril." Groans, silence, and faint snores answered him from elsewhere, as the newly healed knights lay sleeping upon couches and blankets. Jhessail looked at him and smiled ruefully, but she said nothing. Narm also kept silence, but the slow, disbelieving shake of his head was eloquent.
Shandril fixed the sage with her own tired eyes. "I suppose you'll tell us to steer clear of fights, or we'll be dead within a day, eh?"
"Nay." Very clear blue eyes looked deep into hers. "You two will be given no such choice. You must fight or die. But think: one mistake is enough when you're dealing with those who wield art. Remember that." His gaze shifted to Narm. "Ye too, Lion of Mystra."
Elminster cleared his throat, then continued. "If ye find thyself facing a mage, stand not to trade spells with him. Throw rocks, and run right at him unless he's much too far away to reach. Then run away and find a place to hide where ye can grab rocks to throw. Simple, eh? Recall how thy lady first struck down Symgharyl Maruel before ye laugh."
"Five hundred-odd winters, eh?" was all Narm said.
The sun rose again over a very quiet tower of Ashaba. The Lord and Lady of Shadowdale, in the company of the sage Elminster, the young married lad and lass, and the knights all remained on an upper floor within a great, blinding sphere of shimmering colors, a prismatic sphere cast by Elminster. Rold warned everyone not to approach.
Several times the prismatic sphere melted away and was replaced by the art of the old mage. During one cessation of the sphere, a simpering Lhaeo was waiting. With the aid of several strong guards, he brought tea, a great cauldron of hot stew, bowls and a monstrous ladle, and two fat spellbooks for the old mage. The scribe then went away again and advised everyone else except the guards to do the same.
The envoys waited in their guestchambers, and the merchants went away from the forecourt again, for the lo
rd and lady and all in the sphere rested that day and into the night. Once, in the dark hours, Elminster used a sending spell to deliver a message to a certain eye tyrant in a certain cold stone city, a message that left the tyrant black and seething with anger. But then, Elminster had five hundred years-worth of impudence saved up. He sat humming to himself in the tent he and Florin (who were both immune to the sphere's blinding effects) had erected to shield the eyes of their companions from the sphere's swirling colors.
"Elminster," Shandril asked hesitantly, "may I ask you something?"
"Aye," Elminster prompted her, waving a cooling hand over his bowl of stew. "Ask, then."
"Why is it that my spellfire was turned aside by a wall of force spell you created while testing me, and yet this prismatic sphere-a much more powerful spell, Jhessail tells me-can be destroyed by a mere wisp of spellfire?"
Elminster regarded her thoughtfully. "Like much else about thy spellfire, young lady, I know not. I could tell thee airy theories about the anti-spell nature of the wall and the many-layered and inherently less stable nature of the sphere, which focuses its energies more toward preventing attack from without than from within. Such words, however, would be just that-airy theories."
Elminster shifted uncomfortably. "The truth is, I know not, nor does any mage ye will ever face in Faerun, unless or until some new lore comes to light or ye are tested further. I do not care to test thee further myself, for such tests are dangerous to the one being tested. I have no desire to assure thy corpse-and Narm-that I have learned the precise limits of thy powers."
"My thanks for that," Narm said dryly.
"Many is the mage who would not scruple a moment, lad," Elminster told him gently. "The pursuit of an edge in art is all, for most. Some who care nothing for glory and battle-strength delight in learning what none have learned before. They'd not hesitate. Consider that, ye who hope to be a master of the art, and govern thyself accordingly.
"I do not want to hear news someday of how ye've turned thy bride into a weapon against rival mages, or burned her powers out in striving to further them or win them for thyself. Aye, aye… I know the very idea repels ye. But it is an easy road, step by innocent step, to such things, and dead is dead and wishing brings the past not back. Enough. Be not hurt or angry at my words, but sit and think upon them instead, and grow wise." Elminster grinned suddenly. "I'm in a mood to give away wisdom today… come all, and take some, until I have none left."
"I hear you," Mourngrym said wryly, from the great couch where he and Shaerl lay at ease in each other's arms. "I take it this is a mood that comes often upon you?" Elminster favored him with a look.
Jhessail chuckled. "Admit it, Master," she said. "Your wisdom is often in short supply."
"Aye," the old mage replied, looking around at them all with a raised brow. "Its like is rare indeed in this company." Torm had lost his sight for a time because of an incautious look at the whirling, shimmering sphere. "Why do we cower here like-like-"
"Like blind men?" Rathan put in helpfully. Torm gave him a sour look. There were chuckles. Elminster rolled his eyes and picked up one of his spellbooks without replying. Jhessail gave Torm a pitying look.
"Listen, little snake-brains," she said lovingly. "How well could you have fought Manshoon, say, without the light of your eyes to guide you?"
"Aye, but I'm better now" the thief told her. "Why must we sit caged up like this? Time slips away! Armies march, and mages weave! The gods sleep never, and orcs-"
"Will do as they always do, aye, and spill the blood of others and beget more orcs between bloodlettings-we know the sayings. If there is such a thing as patience in your mind, in some dark and seldom-visited corner, seek it out, and hunt it down, and once you have hold of it, let it not go from your grasp." Jhessail fixed him with dark eyes. "Use your knot, man. Or I'll teach you to."
"That might be fun," Torm said to the tent above him.
"I wouldn't, Torm," Merith said calmly from where he lay. "I just wouldn't. It is unwise."
"Threats, dire warnings, and sinister words he heeded not," Torm sang lightly, "but rushed in and took the crown for his own."
"If it's crowning ye're looking for," Rathan grunted, hefting his mace and leaning forward, "I could see my way clear to obliging ye."
"Why, darling," Torm said, mocking the tones of a high court Cormyrean lady (Shaerl frowned, and then couldnt hold it; her severe expression slipped into laughter). "I knew not the depths of your caring. My champion!" (Squeal of excitement, breathy delight.) "My brave warrior! My-"
"— bringer of slumber," Rathan grumbled, flinging Torm's half-cloak over the thief's head and holding it down firmly to muffle his cries. "Silence, now," he added as the thief struggled, "or I'll just bounce my mace off this nasty lump here"-he patted Torm's enshrouded head-"until it goes down."
"Sleep now, all of ye," Elminster told them. "Narm and Shandril begin a long journey in the morning." He darkened the glowing globe that hung by his shoulder. A few halfhearted jests were tossed back and forth by the weary knights, but sleep came swiftly.
Shandril awoke much later in a cold sweat, pursued through the crumbling tunnels of a ruined city by a black-winged devil who cornered her at last and reached for her, with Symgharyl Maruel's cruel, smiling face. She caught a shuddering breath and started up. Florin sat nearby with Elminster, talking in low tones through the blue haze of the sage's pipe. He leaned over with concern on his ruggedly handsome face and laid a soothing hand on her arm. She smiled gratefully at him and held to his arm as she sank back down beside Narm, who slept peacefully. Florin gently wiped the sweat from her forehead and jaw, and she smiled and must have drifted off to sleep again, for when next she knew her surroundings, morning had come.
Jhessail was laughing with Merith over hot minted tea. Sunlight shone warmly all about, for the tent and the sphere were both gone, and the knights, variously clad, were sitting up on their couches or bedrolls, or walking quietly about.
The clear tones of a horn floated up to them from somewhere below, where an unseen player was blowing his delight in a fine morning. Shandril looked around at the old stone walls of the chamber and said aloud to herself, "I'm going to miss this."
"Yes," Narm agreed, suddenly beside her. Shandril turned to him in pleased surprise. He grinned. "You seemed ready to sleep forever," he said, hugging her.
Shandril hugged him back. "You're mine, now!"
"A…aye," Narm managed from within her arms.
"Not for much longer, if you break him like a clay cup," Torm said dryly. "They're more useful, you know, when they're whole… back and arms able to carry, and all…"
Shandril burst out laughing. "You're utterly ridiculous!"
"It is how I get through each day," Torm told her earnestly. It was much later when she realized he'd spoken the sober truth.
"Well," said Florin at last. "Here we part." He nodded at the weathered stone pillar just ahead. "Yonder is the Standing Stone." The pillar rose, watchful and defiant, out of the brush, overlooking the fields back to Mistledale and south toward Battledale. Florin pointed. "Down that road lies Essembra. Take rooms at the Green Door. It once had a talking door, but we took a fancy to it, so that door is back at the tower. Somehow," he grinned, "we forgot to show it to you in all the excitement."
The white horse under Shandril snorted and tossed its head. "Easy, Shield," Florin said to her. "You've barely begun, yet."
There was a sudden lump in Shandril's throat at his words. She turned in her saddle to look back. Past the pack mules on their reins, past the watchful crossbowmen who rode behind with quarrels at the ready, back to where the knights rode with an ever-grumbling Elminster. She'd miss them all. She felt Narm's hand clasp hers hard. She held back sudden tears.
"None of that," Rathan ordered her gruffly. "All this sobbing robs an occasion of its grandeur."
"Aye," Lanseril agreed. "You'll be too busy staying out of trouble to cry, soon. So get in the habit now, and let's have
dry eyes. Remember that Mourngrym serves his best wine at Greengrass. We'll be looking for you, some year."
Narm nodded. Shandril was too busy wiping away tears that would not stop. Her shoulders shook in silence.
"Go now," Torm said gruffly, over his shoulder. "Or we'll be all day a-weeping and a-saying farewells."
Rathan nodded and urged his large bay forward to take a hand of both Narm and Shandril. "Tymora go with ye and watch over ye," he said fervently. "Think of us when ye are downcast or cold-such thoughts can warm and hearten."
Torm stared at his friend. "Such bardic soft and high glory," he said in amazement. "You've not been drinking, have you?"
"Get on with ye, snaketongue, to the nearest mud, and fall from thy saddle into it," Rathan said kindly, "and mind ye get lots of muddy water in thy mouth."
"Peace, both of you" Jhessail chided them. "Narm and Shandril should be well away before highsun, if they are to make Essembra even two nights hence." She turned to the young couple. "Mind you stay on the road. The Elven Court is not the safest place in Faerun these days."
"Let not fear or pity stay your hand, either," Florin said gravely. "If you are menaced on the road, let fly with spellfire before hands are laid upon you. A swinging sword often can't be stopped in time by spellfire or art."
"Oh, aye… one last thing," Elminster said. "I know something of illusions. This will make ye both look rather older, and a trifle different in appearance-save to each other's eyes. It will wear off in a day or so, or ye can end it at any time, each of ye affecting only thyself, by uttering the word gultho — nay, do not repeat it now, or ye will ruin the magic. Let me see…" He drew back his sleeves and sat upon his placid donkey and worked magic upon Narm and Shandril while the knights drew their mounts around in a respectful circle.
When it was done, the knights moved their mounts in closer for careful, critical looks. Narm and Shandril looked to each other and could not see the slightest difference in each other's appearance, as Elminster had said, but it was clear that they looked different to the eyes of others.