Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

Shandril peered in open pleasure at the craft and construction of the bedside table, but Narm fixed Jhessail with a hard stare. “You had this planned. You’d given us no choice!”

  Jhessail shook her head. “No … if you’d refused, Illistyl and I would have shared this morningfeast—I swear, by holy Mystra!” She grinned. “Elminster will tell you never to force by magic what you can trick a man to do. But know, please, we’ll not force you to act as we desire—ever. You can still change your minds; only tell us so we can best guard you.”

  She kissed them both fondly on their foreheads. “Still, a whole day together in bed … not something I’d pass up.” She went to the door, where Illistyl had already gone. “Fare you well until eventide. We’ll call for you. Worry not about the testing; the whole affair is simply to know what you are, not change you. Illistyl and I have both been tested by Elminster—when I came to the dale, and when she came to her powers. There’s a guard outside; call if you need me—or anything.” She went out slowly.

  (Between her feet, a smoky gray cat slipped in before the door closed, winked with Illistyl’s eyes, and darted unseen under the bed.)

  The door closed, and they were alone. “Well, my lord?” Shandril teased challengingly.

  He grinned and reached for the tray. “Morningfeast first.” He uncovered spiced eggs fluffed with chopped tomatoes and onions, fried bread, slices of black sausage as large across as his hand, and steaming bowls of onion soup. “Holy Mystra. We had less than this for evenfeast at some inns!”

  “Mourngrym told me yestereve,” Shandril replied, reaching for the soup, “that in a prosperous dale, there’s no better rule for a happy life than, ‘Before all, eat well.’ ”

  “No disagreement here,” Narm mumbled around his fork. “This is a fair place—at least, what we’ve seen.”

  “Yes, it is,” Shandril replied, suddenly ravenous.

  They ate in companionable silence.

  (Unseen, a long, slim centipede crawled through a tiny gap in the window frame and cautiously descended to the floor. Once there, it shifted, blurred, and was suddenly a rat. The rodent darted sleekly under the bed—and froze as it saw the cat watching from a paw’s reach away. The two stared at each other for a moment. The rat shifted and became a crouched cat, lightly larger than Illistyl. They stared at each other again.)

  Above, Narm pushed away his plate with a contented sigh and looked at Shandril lovingly. “Well, my lady, we still know little of each other. Will you trade life tales with me?”

  Shandril regarded him thoughtfully. “Yes, so long as you believe me when I say I know little about my lineage.”

  “Is that why you were upset when Elminster asked?”

  “Yes. I … I’ve never known who my parents were. As far back as I can recall, I’ve lived at the Rising Moon. Gorstag, keeper there, was like a father to me. I never knew a time before the inn was his, nor seen the world beyond its gate. I—I wanted to know adventure, so I ran away with the Company of the Bright Spear—and that’s truly all there is to tell.”

  “How came you to Myth Drannor?”

  (Under the bed, both cats cocked an ear, but kept their eyes firmly on each other.)

  “I know not. Some magic or other. I read a word written on a bone, and was trans—tel—what do you call it?”

  “Teleported,” Narm said eagerly, “as Elminster did, to fetch the healing potions for Lanseril.”

  Shandril nodded. “I was snatched to the heart of Myth Drannor. I wandered its ruins until I was caught by that lady mage, Symgharyl Maruel, and you saw me.”

  (More interest beneath the bed.)

  “How, if you grew up only in the Moon, do you know so much of life and Faerûn?” Narm asked curiously.

  “In truth, I know little,” Shandril replied with an embarrassed little laugh. “My tutors have been tales told in the taproom by far travelers and old Deepingdale veterans. You heard one such. Splendid tales they were, too.…”

  “Could Gorstag be your father?”

  (Tense interest, beneath the bed.)

  Shandril stared at Narm, her face frozen on the edge of a laugh. “No. No, I think not, though I’m not as sure as I was before you asked. We’re not at all alike in face or speech, and he always seemed too old … but he could be.” She sat in silence. “I’d like Gorstag to be my father … but I doubt he is.”

  “Did you never see Deepingdale? Did Gorstag keep you locked up?”

  “No! It was just … there was always work. The cook forbade me some things, and the older girls would forbid me others. Gorstag said outside the inn and woods, the wide world—even Highmoon—was no place for a young girl, alone. I was no one’s special friend except his, and I wasn’t big or strong enough to fetch and carry, so I was never taken along on errands.” She shrugged. “So the days passed.”

  “What did you, in the inn?” Narm asked quietly.

  “Oh, most anything. Chopping, washing in the kitchen, and fetching water, cleaning taproom tables and floors.” She waved a hand, remembering. “Emptying chamber pots, and lighting hall candles and lamps, cleaning, washing bedding. There’re many little tasks in running an inn, things seldom done, like repainting the signboard or daubing the chimneys, and I helped with those. It was mainly the kitchen, though.”

  “They worked you like a slave all those years?” Narm burst out. “For what? You took no coin when you joined the company! Were you not even paid?”

  Shandril looked at him in shock. “I—no, not a single coin.”

  Narm got up, furious, and paced. “You were treated little better than a slave!”

  “No. I was fed, and given clothes, and—”

  “So is a jester; so’s a mule, if you count its livery! Before the gods, you were done ill!”

  Shandril suddenly snapped, “Enough! You were not there and cannot know the right of it! Oh, yes, I got sick of the drudgery, and ran … and left my only friends—Gorstag, and Lureene—and I sometimes wish I had not, and I hated Korvan, but … but—” Her face twisted, and she turned away.

  In astonished silence, Narm stared at her back. He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what to say. Shandril whirled around to face him, eyes large and dark.

  “I was happy at the Rising Moon,” she said coldly and clearly, “and I do not think Gorstag did me any ill. Nor should you judge him.” She drew a deep, unhappy breath, and put away her furious glare. “But before all else, let me not quarrel with you!”

  “Let me not quarrel with you, my lady. Ever.” He looked away, white-faced, his hands trembling.

  Shandril felt her face grow hot, and hastily turned away, striding to the door.

  (Beneath the bed, two cats, looked at each other and did not—quite—smile.)

  When she turned back to face him, the look in Narm’s eyes made the last of Shandril’s anger melt into regret. She hurried back to him. “Oh, Narm,” she said despairingly as they embraced.

  “I’m sorry, Lady,” he whispered, his arms tightening around her. “I never meant to upset you, nor darken Gorstag’s good name. I … I lost my temper.”

  “No, forgive me,” Shandril replied. “I should have let you yell, and not rebuked you, and there could be no quarrel.”

  “Nay, the fault is mine. Forgive—”

  “Disgusting,” Torm’s cheerful voice said loudly from behind them. “All this sobbing and forgiving—and not even wed yet!”

  The Knight gave them no time to reply. He strode forward to pluck the food tray from the table. “Terrible stuff, isn’t it? And such small portions, too! So, have you heard each other’s life stories yet? Picked out any juicy bits to pass on to old, bored Torm? Pledged undying love?” He crooked an eyebrow and raised the tray to his shoulder with the deft skill of a tavern wench. “Changed your minds? Decided what to do next? Yes?”

  “Ah, fair morning to you, Torm,” Narm replied cautiously. “Are you well?”

  “Never better! And you two?”

  “Don’t leer, it makes you look ill,�
� said Shandril crisply. “I hear you prevented my capture last night. My thanks.”

  “Ah, ’twas nothing!” Torm replied, waving tray, bowls, and all perilously. “I—”

  “Nothing, was it?” Jhessail challenged him severely from the doorway. “Three healing spells you took, with much moaning and complaining, and ’twas ‘nothing.’ Next time we’ll save ourselves the Art so you’ll appreciate your folly the more.” She took him briskly by the arm. “Now come away … how’d you like someone to burst into your bedroom, when you are alone with your love?”

  “That would depend very much on who the someone was.”

  Jhessail propelled him firmly out the door. “My apologies, you two. He’s just come from his bride-to-be, Naera, and is in high spirits.”

  Torm gaped at her. “Bride-to-be?” he gasped. “B-b-but …” His voice faded as he was marched away down the passage.

  “Well met, Torm,” Narm said dryly as the door closed again. He and Shandril looked at each other and burst into laughter.

  (Beneath the bed, both cats looked pained by Shandril’s giggles.)

  When they subsided, the two embraced and sat in comfortable silence.

  “What do you think this test will be, love?” Shandril asked, her head cradled on his shoulder.

  Narm shook his head. “I know not. Your spellfire, surely, will be put to the test, but how I cannot guess!” He frowned. “But another thing occurs to me … this Gorstag must know who your parents are … and by the way he put it to you, Elminster may know, too.”

  Shandril nodded. “Yes. I want to know, but have lived a fair tally of winters without. I’d rather know you better, Narm … I know not even your family name, let alone anything of your parents.”

  “Oh, have I not—Tamaraith, ’tis, my lady. Sorry. I never thought I’d told you so little as that.”

  Shandril laughed. “We haven’t had overmuch time for talk. You may have said, and I’ve forgotten in all this tumult.… If this is adventure, it’s a wonder any soul survives it long!”

  (Two cats exchanged amused glances. The one that was Illistyl pointed at the other, spread its paws in question, and put its head to one side suspiciously. The other nodded, traced a sigil in the dust, saw Illistyl’s knowing nod—and hurriedly brushed it out. The cats settled at ease together.)

  “Well said,” Narm agreed. “I’ve not the love of constant whirl and danger that Torm does! Will we ever be able to relax and do just as we please?”

  “I’d like to try.” Shandril’s eyes were very steady on his.

  Narm took her in his arms, face set and serious. “I would like that, too.…”

  (Under the bed, the strange cat shook its head, rolled its eyes, and yawned.)

  When their lips parted, Shandril pushed Narm away a little, and said, “Tell me of your life. Who’s this man I’m to marry? A would-be mighty wizard, yes, but why? And why do you love me?”

  (Four eyes rolled.)

  Narm looked at his lady, opened his mouth, shut it, and burst out, “Gods, I know not why I love you! I can tell of things about you that I love, and how I feel, but as to why—the gods will it, perhaps. Will you accept that answer? ’Tis honest, and no base flattery.” He paced, agitated, and turned by the window. “I promise you this, I will love you, and as I learn the whys, I’ll tell them to you.”

  “My lord,” Shandril answered, eyes shining, “I’m honored you’re so honest with me. Pray we both remain so with each other, always. I approve, yes—now get on with your tale! I would know!”

  (Two cats burst into soundless laughter.)

  Narm chuckled. “I was born some twenty-two winters ago, in the far city of Silverymoon in the North. I was not a winter old when my parents journeyed to Triboar, and thence to Waterdeep, and—”

  “You’ve seen great Waterdeep? Is it as they say, bustle and gold and beautiful things from all Faerûn in the streets?”

  Narm shrugged. “It may well be, but I cannot say. I was there but a week when my parents moved on. We traveled the Sword Coast North often, with the trade. My father was Hargun Tamaraith, called ‘the Tall,’ a seller of weapons and smith work. I think he’d been a ranger before he fell ill; he had the shaking-fever. My mother was Fythuera—Fyth to myself and my sire—and her last name I never knew. They’d been wed long before I was born. She played the harp and traded as my father’s equal. I know not if ever she’d been an adventurer. They were good people.”

  He stared into nothingness, and Shandril laid her hand upon his. His face was sad and wistful. “They’re both dead, of course. Burned to ashes in a sorcerous duel in Baldur’s Gate when I was eleven. The ferryboat they were on was struck by a fireball flung at the wizard Algarzel Halfcloak by a Calishite archmage, Kluennh Tzarr. Algarzel flew aside. All others aboard—who had no part in the dispute—perished. Algarzel was slain later, or escaped into another plane, some said. He’s not been seen since.”

  The young mageling started to pace. His arms swung easily, his eyes remote. “Kluennh Tzarr left for his citadel in triumph. ’Tis said dragons serve him and he has many slaves. One day, if another does not get there first, I will be his death.”

  Something in his soft tone chilled Shandril.

  (Under the bed, the cats nodded approvingly.)

  “To defeat an archmage I needed magic—so I tried to become an apprentice.” He laughed, a little bitterly, at the memory. “Imagine it—a ragged, barely lettered boy, alone and with no wealth to buy a mage’s time or trouble, in Baldur’s Gate where there are a dozen homeless boys on every street. I pestered every mage that passed. Only by Mystra’s grace did I escape being turned into a toad or burned to nothing.…”

  His smile changed, rising spirits making it more real. “One day, two years after I started, a mage said yes. A pompous, sour mage—Marimmar, my master. His pride weakened him. He never worked to strengthen his Art where he lacked spells or technique. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—see where he was weak. But I learned much from him, perhaps more than I might from a masterful spell weaver. He had a temper and little patience—and was perhaps the laziest man I’ve ever met, so he needed an apprentice to do all the drudgery. You know about drudgery.”

  Shandril gave a rueful grin.

  “Marimmar disliked strife, so he never fought mages to gain spells—and he was so loud and proud that no wizard challenged him. Those of real power saw him as a posturing know-nothing, with no spells worth seizing. Those of lesser power feared he had something up his sleeve. His overconfidence killed him, in the end. He nearly took me with him.

  “He saw Myth Drannor as his chance to become a great mage by seizing the magic lying around in the ruins. I doubt there’s much to be easily found. It’s been seized already by the priests of Bane, or whoever summoned all the devils.”

  Shandril nodded. She could well believe that magic raged or lurked in many a crumbling corner of Myth Drannor—but not scrolls or tomes of magic just waiting for a wandering wizard to stroll up and take them.

  “The devils slew Marimmar,” Narm continued, “and almost killed me, too. Lanseril and Illistyl of the Knights rescued me—they’re so kind. I went back to Myth Drannor because … because I knew not where to go, really. Also I felt I owed it to the crusty old windbag—and I couldn’t sleep for fear of devils until I’d faced them again. By some miracle of Mystra, or the whim of Tymora, I was not slain … and saw you.”

  Narm turned thoughtful eyes on her. “Forgive me if I’ve talked too long, my lady, or spoken bluntly about the dead. It was not my intent to upset you.”

  Shandril shook her head. “I am not upset, but much relieved. I had to know, you see.”

  She drew back the bed furs. “And now, my lord, if you’ll be so good as to drag that chest over in front of the door, we’ll to bed.” She smiled slyly. “The test is to be late. I must sleep first. Will you see me to sleep?”

  Narm nodded. “Aye, willingly.”

  (One cat rolled its eyes again, became a rat, and flashed over
to the wall before Illistyl could even stretch. It dwindled and twisted and was a centipede again. It gained the sill while Narm heaved the chest door-ward and Shandril hung her robe on a bedpost. Illistyl saw a raven appear outside the window and swoop away. She nodded and curled up for a nap. Eavesdropping was one thing, but there were limits.…)

  Narm finished with the chest, straightened slowly, and caught sight of Shandril in the mirror. In two bounds, he was on the bed. Few delights come, ’tis said, to he who tarries.

  12

  SPELLS TO DUST

  High magic is strange and savage and splendid for its own sake, whether one’s spells change the Realms or no. A crafter who by dint of luck, work, skill, and the Great Lady Mystra comes to some strength in Art is like a thirsty drunk in a wine cellar—he or she can never leave it alone. Who can blame such a one? It is not given to all to feel the kiss of such power.

  Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon

  A Harper’s Song

  Year of the Dying Stars

  Jhessail slipped softly into the bedchamber. Illistyl straightened from dragging the chest aside, and they shared a smile. “Worth hearing?” Jhessail asked softly.

  Illistyl nodded. “I’ll tell you later.” They crept to the bed.

  Among the twisted covers, Narm and Shandril lay asleep in each other’s arms. The lady mages gently laid a fur coverlet over the sleeping couple before Jhessail leaned close to Shandril and said, “ ’Tis time. Rise, hurler of spellfire. Elminster awaits.”

  Shandril shivered in her sleep and clutched Narm more tightly. “Oh, Narm, how it burns.”

  The lady mages exchanged glances. Carefully Jhessail laid a hand on Shandril’s shoulder. Heat tingled under her fingertips.

  “She holds yet more power,” Jhessail whispered, “and this cannot be of the balhiir. Things are as Elminster suspected.” She bent again to Shandril’s ear. “Awaken, Shan. We await.”

  Eyelashes flickered. “Narm … Narm, we’re called t—ohh. Where—?” Shandril lifted her head. In the leaping glow of the lamp Illistyl lit, she saw the two ladies of Art standing over her. She involuntarily tensed to hurl spellfire, and then relaxed. “My pardon, Lady Jhessail, Lady Illistyl. For a moment, I knew you not.” She shook her head ruefully. “Up, love. Arise.”