“I—I should be sick if I tried, Lord,” Shandril said simply.
Mourngrym smiled again. “I’m similarly affected. If you two can spare us a few words before retiring, my Lady Shaerl and I would be happy to have your company in the bower upstairs. I believe you’ve met Storm Silverhand and Sharantyr. We’ll have other guests, Jhessail and Elminster among them. Go up when you can’t hear each other anymore—it grows much noisier. If you’ll forgive me, I must walk among my people. When their tongues are wet and loose, I learn their true grievances and concerns.” He nodded to them and rose.
Narm and Shandril exchanged glances. All around them was tumult. Softly glowing glass globes lit the hall. At one end, a gigantic fire blazed beneath spits of boar and ox, filling the room with aromatic smoke. The long board was crammed with platters and decanters. A harpist and a glaurist played almost unheard in the din of laughing and talking.
Most of the Knights were there. Torm was nearly unrecognizable in dazzling, almost foppish finery—fur-trimmed silks with winking gems. Fine chains of gold studded with large rubies and emeralds looped across his stomach. His doublet flared into slit and puffed sleeves. A single giant king’s tear hung in silky clarity on his bared breast, cupped in a webwork of polished electrum. The thief outshone Mourngrym and all the bejeweled ladies in the room. He strode grandly about, drinking from a massive chased silver tankard as tall as his forearm.
He caught Shandril’s eye, winked, and from one sleeve plucked a silver-hilted dagger whose blade was needle-thin and dull black. Tossing it casually into the air, he caught it, winked again, and put it away in one casual, smooth motion.
Rathan rolled his eyes at the feat. Ruddy-faced and amiable, the priest looked resplendent in green velvet, a disc of Tymora gleaming in mirror-bright silver on his breast.
Many diners stood now, and a few danced. Far across the room, Narm caught sight of the commanding height and broad shoulders of Florin. The ranger looked every inch a king. Beside him stood a lady Narm had last seen on a forest trail near Myth Drannor, and before that in the taproom of the Rising Moon in Deepingdale—Storm Silverhand. She wore a simple gown of gray silk, with only a broad black cummerbund and a silver-hilted dagger for ornament.
“Look,” Shandril breathed, pointing. Storm looked so regal that the maid of Highmoon forgot what her own fine gown did for her.
“Yes,” Narm murmured and swallowed audibly. “I see.” Swiftly, he turned to Lanseril, who stood nearby, talking to a burly, bearded man in amber and russet. The druid wore a simple brown woolen robe. Narm said, “Pray excuse my interruption, friend Lanseril.”
“No excuse needed, Narm,” Lanseril replied with a warm smile. “My life is a series of interruptions.” He bent his head near. “What is it?”
“Lord Florin—is Lady Storm his—ah, handfast to him, or—?”
Lanseril chuckled. “Florin’s married to Storm’s sister, the ranger Dove, who’s soon to bear his child, and is for her safety presently elsewhere. Storm’s man, Maxam, was killed this past summer. She does not speak of that, mind. Florin and Storm are friends who keep each other from being lonely at dance and table. Despite what Torm may hint, they’re no more than that.”
The druid turned and touched the sleeve of the man he had been speaking with. “May I introduce Thurbal, Captain-of-Arms and Warden of Shadowdale?”
Thurbal, a man of weather-beaten and plain features, whose eyes were both shrewd and kind, bowed. “Lady Shandril and Lord Narm, I bid you my own welcome. Have you enjoyed the feast thus far?”
“I—I, yes, greatly,” Narm, replied, eyes falling to the plain-scabbarded broadsword Thurbal wore at his side.
“It’s the first feast I’ve ever been invited to, Lord,” Shandril replied. “I—I’m no high lady, I fear.”
Thurbal frowned slightly. “My pardon. I assumed—ah, but no harm done if you’ll forgive me. I’m no lord, either. Lord Lanseril told me something of your importance. I hope you’ll not take offense if I seem to always be watching you closely. My brawn is on the block, so to speak, if you’re endangered when I might have prevented it.”
“Endangered?” Narm asked, as Shandril paled. “Here?”
Thurbal spread broad, heavy hands. “We live in a world of magic, Lord. There are no sure defenses. All the steel I can muster to your lady’s guard can’t stop magic. I sometimes wonder what Faerûn would be like if all men had to stand or fall by their actions at the end of a sword, and there was no magic. Then again, such a world might be a worse mess than this one!”
“But we have enemies?” Narm asked soberly.
Lanseril shrugged. “Shandril, or the two of you together, can create and hurl spellfire, something infamous in the histories of Art—a weapon very powerful indeed. Many would like to have sole control over it. Watch the shadows, expecting trouble, even here.”
“And get used to being ‘lord’ and ‘lady’,” Thurbal added with a grin. “All the Knights hold that title, and you stand with them until you declare and choose otherwise. My men will obey and aid you the better if they think you are lord and lady of the dale.” He added a trifle hesitantly, “Lady Shandril, I’ve been told of how you put Manshoon of Zhentil Keep to flight. I bow to you. Even using Art the rest of us lack, that’s no light thing to have done.”
“Have you enemies, indeed?” Lanseril put in. “Manshoon is no little one—I don’t doubt he yet lives!” Shandril shuddered. He patted her shoulder hastily. “Think no more of this. Enjoy this night, and let the morrow look to its own problems.”
“Easy enough to say,” Narm told him. “Not so easy to not think of something!”
Lanseril nodded. “True, and I’m sorry I brought your thoughts to this now. On the other hand, ’tis the most important training you can have for magecraft. You must be able to control your thoughts as an acrobat controls his hands if you’re to survive spell against spell.” He waved northeast, in the direction of distant Zhentil Keep. “If ever you speak with Manshoon, you’ll find him cold and controlled. Elminster might seem whimsical, but he is not underneath. Those who lack control never live to reach such power, unless their Art’s never challenged.” He smiled. “But enough. I must watch over these fools while you speak with the more sober upstairs.”
“You?” Shandril asked in surprise.
Lanseril looked at her. “Of course. Are these”—he spread his hands to indicate the revelers all around—“not creatures under my care here in the dale, even as the chipmunks and the farmwives’ cats?”
He left Shandril staring thoughtfully after him and strode to where Torm stood laughing, each arm around a local beauty.
Narm shook his head. “I don’t know these folk, really, yet,” he said in her ear, “but they’re good folk—as good as any I’ve ever known.”
“I know,” Shandril whispered back. “That’s why I’m so afraid we’ll bring death down upon them by coming here.”
Narm looked at her somberly. In a low voice, he said, “We have to, Shan. We’ll die without their protection.”
Shandril nodded. “Yes. So I am here.” She saw Mourngrym walking slowly with Storm and Florin toward the doors. “We should follow. They’re going up now, I think.”
Narm nodded and led her through the tumult of dancing and talk and laughter. Thurbal quietly followed, staying distant, eyes moving constantly.
Torchlight filled the passage, reflecting off flagons and goblets in plenty. Richly clad men and women leaned against the walls, laughing and talking, drinks in hand. Shandril heard a snatch of one story that was considered old even in the Rising Moon. On Narm’s arm, she ascended the stairs. They followed a regal lady in shimmering blue-green who wore a twinkling diadem. At the top, when she turned, they saw that it was Jhessail.
She smiled. “Such long faces. Do you like feasts so little?”
“No, it’s not that,” Shandril whispered. “We fear to bring danger on you all.”
Jhessail shook her head as they walked together. “We stand
in danger at all times. Zhentil Keep attacks every summer, at the least. The Cult of the Dragon and the dark elves constantly menace. Myth Drannor’s devils, the lawlessness in Daggerdale … adventurers may move on, but we cannot move the dale. Once we accepted Shadowdale, we became targets, and remain so. Why else live so high as we do tonight? I could be slain tomorrow. Should I therefore be miserable today? Why not make the best of every moment?” She took Narm’s free hand, and drew them both into the bower. “Come, let us talk of other things!”
Behind them, Thurbal watchfully topped the stairs.
Within, it was much quieter than below. Florin greeted them with a firm arm clasp, warrior to warrior.
Storm smiled and kissed them, saying, “Seldom do I see two who’ve entered Myth Drannor return again alive!”
Beyond her stood another lovely lady with long, silky hair. She wore a gown of rich blue that left flanks and back bare. It had been a long road from the taproom of the Rising Moon, and some moments passed before Shandril recognized her.
“Sharantyr!” Shandril burst out and found herself in a warm embrace.
Illistyl meanwhile introduced Narm to Mourngrym’s wife, Lady Shaerl.
A sudden silence fell. Atop a table that had been empty a moment before, someone appeared. Thurbal came in the door, sword half-drawn, and then halted, shaking his head.
“Elminster!” Jhessail greeted him. “Well met!”
“Aye … aye,” Elminster told her. “I’ve seen all of ye before. ’Tis Narm and Shandril I’d speak with tonight.” He looked to where the young couple stood in astonishment. “I fear I lack the patience for courtly graces, glib flattery, and suchlike. So I’ll just ask ye straight, Narm and Shandril—will ye agree to a test of thy powers this next night?”
Shandril nodded, her throat suddenly dry.
Narm asked quietly, “Will it be dangerous?”
Elminster looked at him. “Breathing is dangerous, lad. Walking is dangerous. Sleeping can even be dangerous. Will it be more dangerous than these? A little. More dangerous than entering Myth Drannor alone? Nay, not by a long road!”
Narm flushed. “It would be a terrible thing, Old Mage, to fight you tongue to tongue.”
A roar of delighted laughter rose around him.
Elminster chuckled. “So, ye agree?”
Narm nodded. “Yes. Where and when?”
“Ye’ll know that only at the last. ’Tis safer.” Around them, talk began again. The wizard leaned close. “Do ye enjoy this company?”
Narm and Shandril nodded together.
“Good. Most of these folk will be at the testing!” He patted Narm’s shoulder in farewell, turned to the table, and then whirled back around. “I do grow forgetful. Shandril, what know ye of thy parents?”
Shandril reeled in surprise and sadness. “I … I—nothing.”
Narm and Elminster looked at each other, and the Old Mage clapped Narm on the shoulder again. “Forgive, if ye will. I’d no wish to upset. Comfort her, will ye? You can do it best of all living in Faerûn!” The wizard turned away, muttering to himself, “That explains much.” Stepping onto the table by way of the chair beside it, he was gone.
A guard touched Torm’s shoulder. “Lord,” he said, voice carefully neutral, “ ’tis the hour.”
Torm looked up from the wench he’d been kissing and sighed. “My thanks, Rold.” A sudden thought made him grin impishly. “Take my place, will you?” He rolled off the bed to his feet, adroitly twisting to avoid the girl’s angry slap.
Rold solemnly held out his sword and belt. “Me, Lord? ’Twould be more than my life’s worth.”
“Aye,” Torm said as they hurried out together. “I think you have the right of it.” He halted midstride, lifted a fine chain off his neck, and handed it to the mustachioed veteran. “Give her this, as a gift from me. My apologies, also, and say I’ll try to see her as soon as I can. My duty to Shadowdale comes first.”
“Of course, Lord,” Rold replied, and turned back to calm Torm’s angry companion. He found her sitting morosely amid the disarray of the bed and dropped the chain into her hand.
“It’s no fault of yours,” he said, “that Lord Torm’s so young and ill-reared he cannot give you a night when he’s not called to guard duty. He gives you this by way of clumsy apology and sends me to pour soothing words in your ear. I doubt he even knows we’re kin.”
“I could tell,” Naera said, taking her gown as he held it out to her. “Are you angry with him, Uncle?”
Rold shook his head. “Nay, lass, not for long. I’ve seen something of the road he walks. Are you?” He buttoned and adjusted with much skill and patted her behind fondly when he was done.
“Not after a breath or two. Where did he have to go in such haste?” She looked at the chain dangling in her hands.
“He patrols with Lord Rathan. Elminster expects trouble … someone trying to get at our guests.”
Naera lifted an eyebrow in astonishment. “The young lad and lass? What danger could they be to anyone?”
Rold chuckled. “ ‘Young,’ says Naera, who dallies with a man younger than herself, a—Oh? Did you not know? Yes, the lord’s seen a winter less than you. Don’t look like that, now. Was he any greater the monster for that?” He grew serious. “The young lass, as you rightly call her, defeated the High Lord of Zhentil Keep himself, the fell mage Manshoon. Scared him into flight, and him riding a dragon, too! She holds some great power.”
Naera stared at him. “Torm’s needed to guard that?”
Rold nodded. “Why else d’you think I’ve never spoken ill to you of pursuing him? ’Tis a rare one you chase, for all his rashness and rudeness and dishonest ways. I’d not want to stand against him in a fight.” He paused at the door and looked back. “You’d do well to remember that, little one, when next you’re sending slaps his way. Come down now, and we’ll see what’s left at table. You must be hungry after all you’ve been up to!”
Naera made a face at him, but rose to follow. She wore the chain proudly around her neck as they swept downstairs.
In his chambers, Torm tore off his fine clothing and jewelry like so many rags and pebbles, leaped around finding his gray leathers and blades, and burst back out the door, almost colliding with Rathan.
The priest stood waiting, arms crossed patiently, leaning against the wall.
“Remembered, did ye?” Rathan greeted him jovially. “I warrant ye had help. ’Tis short stature, I tell ye … that small head on thy shoulders has no room for a brain that can think, once ye’ve filled it with mischief until it runs out thy ears and mouth—”
His words were cut short by a shrewd elbow in the belly. They hurried downstairs. Puffing for breath, the cleric leaned on a pillar by the door, furiously thought a prayer to Tymora, and bustled out into the night.
“Remembered, did you?” a mocking voice asked out of darkness.
“Tymora forgive me,” Rathan Thentraver said aloud. He swept a pike from the hands of a door guard and rammed its butt into the shadows. He was rewarded by a grunt.
Satisfied, he returned the pike with a nod of thanks. “If ye’re quite finished playing the bobbing fool, perhaps we can proceed. It might interest ye to know, that the guard ye gave the chain to is the uncle of the maid ye dallied with.”
“Oh, gods,” came the softly despairing cry. “Why me?”
“I’ve often wondered that. Truly, the gods must have grander senses of humor than we,” Rathan replied. They clapped hands on each other’s shoulders and drew weapons. “Now, let’s get on with this, shall we?”
They had much wine and talked until late. At the last, Illistyl—she who’d rescued Narm from devils not long ago—and Sharantyr were left in the bower, the ranger a head and more taller than Illistyl as they stood together.
“We should say good night, if we’re to be fit for testing on the morrow,” Illistyl said wearily, putting down an empty goblet. “You’ve seen them in battle, have you not? What manner of spell weavers will I be train
ing?”
Sharantyr shook her head. “I never saw them fight. Perhaps you should come to the task, if it falls to you, knowing nothing of them and alert for all. What say you?”
Illistyl nodded and sighed. “You have the right of it.” She turned for the door. “Good even, sister-at-arms. I must seek my bed before I fall on my face.”
“Good even,” Sharantyr replied, hugging her. Kissing cheeks, they parted.
The ranger wandered down the stairs a little dizzily, nodding to the guards. Setting her goblet on a table, she sought cool air to clear her head, and went out by the front doors.
One of the guards asked, “Would you have an escort, Lady?” He eyed her gown. “ ’Tis cold.”
“Aye? Oh, no, thank you,” Sharantyr told him. “ ’Tis the cold I seek,” she added, putting the back of her hand to her forehead in mock faintness.
Both guards chuckled and saluted her. “The Lady of the Forest and Tymora both watch over thee, Lady.”
Sharantyr nodded and smiled. Past other guards, flaring torches, and the last fading sounds of revelry, she went out into the cool, dark night.
Overhead, Selûne rode high in the starlit night sky, trailing her Tears. Sharantyr stood looking at the bright moon, and then set off for the river at a brisk walk. It’d not do to catch a chill by remaining still too long—and in the cold, her bladder wanted to be free of much wine.
The tall ranger smiled at the dark trees ahead. This was her true home, for all that she’d come to it late. The dizziness was leaving her as she came out into the road, the dew of the meadow on her boots. She let fall the hem of her gown and strode soft-footed toward the bridge.
“Most will be drunk by now,” Laelar, the Hammer of Bane, grunted in the dappled moonlight. “Dalefolk are all alike. Too much to eat and too much to drink, and they’ll be as sluggish as worms in winter until tomorrow eve, when they do it all over again. The ones we want will be inside and well guarded, but if we’re swift enough that they can’t wake any mages, there’ll be few others to aid them!” The High Imperceptor’s henchman spat thoughtfully onto the unseen ground. “You two cast a spell of silence on that stone and bear it as we swim across. Remain by the bank until we have the rope up the tower, and then guard its end and deal with anyone who happens by. We’ll up and do the grab. If we pull on the rope thrice, come up to us. Otherwise, stay where you are.”
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