Shandril nodded, suddenly exhausted. “Thank you, Lord,” she replied—Elminster winced at the title. “I fear I must sleep soon or fall where I stand.”
“Thanks, Elminster,” Narm added briskly, “and good fortune this night and hereafter. After I get our clothes back from the Knights, we’ll think on your words as we fall asleep!”
They chuckled together, and then the young couple went down the wooded hillside. The guards closed in around them. Florin and Merith flew watchfully above, leaving the Old Mage behind with Jhessail and Illistyl.
“Satisfied?” Illistyl asked her sometime master.
Elminster looked at the scorch marks on the rocks. “The power to unleash spellfire. Her mother had it.” Both lady Knights looked at him, startled, but Elminster merely smiled a distant smile that warned he’d say no more. “So what did ye hear of interest, Illistyl? Ye may edit such things as ye feel mine aged ears should not hear, out of consideration for my vulnerable heart.”
“Well, then,” Illistyl impishly, “there’s precious little to tell.”
Mist streamed through the trees as Korvan of the Rising Moon reached the butcher’s shop.
“Fair morn,” said a stooped stranger. The man leaned on the stockyard fence, the mud of travel on his boots and breeches.
“Morn,” Korvan replied sourly. He had come for meat not talk. Since that little brat Shandril had run off, he’d had to get his meat earlier, when he’d rather be abed.
“Buying lamb? I’ve thirty good tails in the pen there, just down from Battledale.” The herder jerked his head at the muddy paddock behind him.
“Lamb? Well, I’ll look … if I can find two good hand counts among them, I might do business,” Korvan begrudged.
The herder stared at him. “Two hand counts? You must have a monstrous large family!”
“No, no. I buy for the inn down the road, the Rising Moon.”
“Do you? Why, I’ve a tale for you, then … about that young lass who left your inn.”
“Oh?” Korvan said, turning his head sharply. “Shandril?”
“That’s her name? Pretty, that,” the herder replied. “I saw her in the mountains a few nights back, while I chased strays.”
“The Thunder Peaks?” Korvan asked, nodding toward a gray and purple wall of mountains above the trees.
“Aye, near the Sember. I came on a great crowd of folk asking this girl if she was all right, after she’d unleashed something they called ‘spellfire.’ ”
“Spellfire?” Korvan snapped in astonishment.
“Aye, I heard it plain. I hid, mind you—there were gold coins all over the place, and they had swords out; I wasn’t sure an uninvited guest would be left alive.”
Korvan nodded. “Aye, but who were these people?”
“Folk of Shadowdale, they were. That old wizard, and the ranger who rides about the dales speaking Shadowdale’s will—Falconhand, is he?—and the elf-warrior who lives there, and a priest, I think. They were all excited over the lass … seems she burned up a dragon or suchlike with this spellfire. There was something about someone called Shadowsil, too, but I couldn’t rightly hear that bit. Never found my sheep, either, but I got their price and better in gold by keeping hid and coming out for coins after they’d gone.”
“Thence to—?”
The herder grinned. “North, friend, down into the forest. To Mistledale, I suppose … and Shadowdale, beyond.”
Korvan sighed, feigning sorrow. “Too far to follow. If she’d wanted to come back, she’d have headed our way by now.” He shook his head. “Well, my thanks for your tale. She’s alive, at least; that’s good to know. Now, you’d some sheep? The faster I buy, the faster I can be smoking and hanging.”
The herder threw open the gate and waved him on.
Korvan’s mind was busy on how best to pass this news to certain ears. He never noticed the herder’s unlovely smile, or how the man’s arm reached a few inches farther than any human hand could as he drew the gate closed, or how his fingers—just for an instant—seemed like black tentacles.
Shandril must die, decided Malark. Not yet, but after these altruistic fools of Shadowdale have trained her to her full powers. Somehow she’d destroyed Rauglothgor and the dracolich’s lair, slain or escaped the Shadowsil, and driven away Manshoon of Zhentil Keep. She’d been lucky. It would be simply impossible for a slip of a girl to defeat the gathered mages of the Cult of the Dragon.
The wagon rocked through a particularly deep pothole. Malark cursed. Through the wagon’s open front door, Arkuel grinned apologetically.
Malark snarled a wordless, mirthless reply, rubbed his aching shoulder, and considered how best to separate this Shandril from her protectors in the Tower of Ashaba. The cult had a loyal agent in its guard—Culthar. He could strike at Shandril when the time was right.
Malark snorted. He did not trust his underlings to saddle a horse unsupervised, let alone make such a capture and escape, given the Art and the swords that would come against them.
On the other hand, the longer the cult waited, the more likely someone else would try to snatch the source of spellfire—the Zhentarim or the priesthood of Bane. Perhaps that would be for the best. In the ensuing confusion, Malark could storm in and prevail for the greater glory of the Followers.
The archmage was jolted out of that pleasant daydream by a pothole. One wheel struck, bounced, and sank—and then another wheel pitched sharply down into an even larger hole. The rattling wagon surged upright just as its rear wheels skidded alarmingly sideways on loose stones.
Claws of Shargrailar! The gods alone knew how fat little merchants managed this, day in and day out—and this was one of the better roads in the North!
Malark questioned the wisdom of his own plan for the forty-third time, as the wagon—blessedly—slowed for the guard post that would admit him, a traveling merchant who dealt in love philters and medicinal remedies, into Shadowdale.
Well, it was under way now, for good or ill. Let the killing begin.
13
GODS HELP US ALL
Look to your priests and prayers and altars, for salvation comes from the gods. All aid, all beauty, all fortune and reward and plenty. It almost makes up for the beasts and bloodshed and heart-ravages they also send.
When red war sweeps the land and swords rise, is it not curious that every third warrior calls on this god or that, and swears divine favor is with him?
Yet the blood runs, and whenever one war falters, another bursts forth. Truly, the gods must starve for entertainment.
Hammeth Ilcarth of Telflamm
A Somewhat Honest Merchant’s Say
Year of the Weeping Moon
Morning light made the bare, fissured rock of the Old Skull a warm and pleasant place, despite the whispering wind. When it howled, the knoll-top was the coldest, bleakest guard post in Shadowdale. Three leather-clad figures stood there now, looking down over the green meadows and farms to the south and the grim, defiant Twisted Tower.
“Gods help us if the Red Wizards hear of Shandril before she and Narm are grown wise at battle and Art,” Storm said. “Without my sister, the defense of this little dale falls on a few Knights and Elminster. And for all his Art and holy Mystra’s favor, he is but one old, busy man.”
“Things will get bad enough with just the Zhentarim, if Manshoon sends them,” Sharantyr replied. “You all miss Syluné very much. She must have been special indeed. They still speak of her often—and wistfully—in yonder inn!”
Florin smiled. “She fell defending the dale against dragons, a danger we may soon face again with Shandril here. Cultists must be searching for her now—and with the testing’s bright fires in the night, it won’t take them long to find her.”
Storm smiled ruefully. “Elminster plays a deeper game than we do. He did that in front of everyone quite deliberately, though why …?”
Florin’s smile was every bit as rueful. “You think the public display was unwise. I, too—yet Elminster seemed
an actor in the streets of Suzail, playing to a larger audience than those standing around him, hoping to attract other eyes. Our Old Mage is no fool, and not feeble in wits—unless the gods have given him some feebleness that affects judgment but not power of Art!”
“There is such a thing,” Sharantyr teased. “It strikes the young, too. It makes us adventurers when we could stay safe at home, doing dull, honest work to earn local respect slowly as we grow gray and bent.”
Storm nodded. “Well said, yet I agree with Florin: Elminster has some purpose in displaying Shandril’s power so dramatically.” Storm shook her head. “I’ve not spoken formally with others who harp, but I can say that most who saw the testing were of like mind: ’twas the act of a rash youngster.”
Florin nodded, turning his gaze thoughtfully to Elminster’s small fieldstone tower below. “Shandril’s a danger to him, more than any other in all the Realms. With one hand she can smash spells to dust. If ever she moves against Elminster or is duped into foiling him, the Old Mage can be destroyed—and our defense against Zhentil Keep will be gone. Those who’d work such a deed are far too many for my comfort.”
“Aye,” Storm said, her silver hair stirring in the breeze. She looked to the tower where Shandril was, and her eyes were very dark. “So that must not be allowed to happen.”
“A lot of folk have died here, it seems,” Shandril said, her voice too soft to hide the fear in it.
Illistyl sat down on a cushion, waving Shandril to the next seat. “Many have died, yes. Zhentil Keep has attacked the dale twice since the Knights came; almost half the farmers I grew up with are dead now. So are more adventurers than you could cram breast-to-breast in this room.” She shrugged. “Real life is not all tavern tales and fond memories. In the crypts ten levels beneath us, three Knights sleep forever. It’s a price they never intended to pay—but pay it they did, most without choice.” Illistyl leaned forward, took Shandril’s arms, and looked her full in the face. “The adventurer’s life may well take Narm from you, or cripple one of you beyond putting right. Once folk know you’ve power, though, you’ve little choice. You become a foe and a target for many, and must become an adventurer … or a corpse.”
“So I fear. Yet I chose to leave the inn. All else has followed on that. I suppose there’s no other choice left.” Shandril smiled. “Yet I regret none of it, for it’s brought me Narm.”
“Hold to that,” Illistyl said almost fiercely. “Never forget you’ve felt so. Hard times lie ahead; your power, wielded with deliberate intent, is a menace to all weavers of Art. Many folk will try to destroy you or wield you as a weapon.” On the verge of shaking Shandril, she let go and sat back. “You’ll see wizards enough to sicken you, and no matter how mighty you become, there’s always someone more powerful. Learn that quickly; the lesson’s fatal if ignored. It can happen to you, too, Shandril—something of Art may well counter spellfire, perhaps something as simple as a cantrip.”
Shandril nodded. “Sometimes I think I can’t go on with this … and yet hurling spellfire feels so good, even with the pain. I see how happy Jhessail is with Merith, too—and both of them are adventurers. As an elf Merith must know his lady will die hundreds of winters before he does. Yet they wed, and seem happy. It can happen.”
Illistyl nodded. “It’s good you see that. It takes work and patience, mind. How does Jhessail seem to you, in manner—her character?”
“Warm, kind, yet strict and proper … understanding. I can say little more; I barely know any of you!”
“Indeed, yet I’d say you’ve seen Jhessail well enough. But there’s more. Her control’s so great that one doesn’t notice she’s passionate—not just romantically, mind, but strong-willed. She and the priest Jelde were lovers when I first came to the tower. There was a great fight between Jelde and Merith over Jhessail. Jhessail decided she loved Merith more, so she set out to win him, before all the Elven Court and mindful of her brief span of years. She seeks longevity by her Art, but she’s never thought to outlive even his youth.”
Illistyl rose and started to pace. “That sort of self-discipline is required to master Art. You’ll need control to stand at Narm’s side through all that will come against you both. Hear and heed, Shandril, for I would be your friend for more than a few years.” The mage grinned suddenly. “I seem to be one for long speeches this day.”
Shandril shook her head. “No, no, I thank you! I’ve never had someone my age—or close—that I could talk of things to, and not have to curb my words. Even Narm … especially Narm!”
“Yes. Especially Narm.” Illistyl glanced around. “Remember the places I’m going to show you now. One day you and he may be glad of a place to hide away in, together.” As Shandril rose to join her, the lady mage turned and gave her a grim look. “One day soon.”
Shandril could only nod.
Night had fallen, deep and dark, before Rozsarran Dathan rose from his table in the Old Skull’s taproom, waved a wordless goodnight to Jhaele, and staggered to the door.
The plump innkeeper shook her head ruefully as she went to mop up the table where two of Rozsarran’s fellow guards slumped snoring in their chairs, dice and coppers fallen from their hands.
They’re like children betimes, she thought, lifting one leather-clad sleeve out of a pool of spilled ale and adroitly avoiding the instinctive yank and punch its sleeping owner launched. Good lads, but not drinkers.
Outside in the cool night air, Rozsarran reached the same conclusion, albeit slowly and less clearly. Hitching up his sword belt, he set off hastily toward the tower. An overcast sky made the night very dark, and a brisk walk might make him feel less rock-witted before he reached his bed. Late duty tomorrow, praise Helm. He could use the sleep.…
A silent shadow rose out of the night, clutching a horse-leather knotted about a fistful of coins. The figure tipped Rozsarran’s helmet sharply forward to expose the back of his head and gave sleep to him.
The guard slumped without a sound. Suld caught him under the arms and heaved him upright. Arkuel caught his boots, and together they hurried him into the trees.
There, Malark worked magical darkness and commanded Arkuel to unhood the lamp. In its faint light the cult archmage cast a spell of sleep on the guard.
“Strip him,” he ordered. When it was done, he studied the man’s face and hair intently and had his underlings turn the body, seeking birthmarks. None. Right, then.
Slowly and carefully Malark cast yet another spell. His form twisted, dwindled, and grew again.… A double of Rozsarran stood where Malark had been moments before. The disguised wizard donned the real guard’s clothes, ensured that his magic-warding amulets were still secure under them, and ordered coldly, “Wait here. If I return not by dawn, withdraw a little way into the woods and hide. Report in Essembra if I come not back in four days. Understood?”
“Aye, Lord Mage!”
“Understood, Lord Malark.”
“Well enough. No pilfering, no wenching, and no noise! I don’t plan to be long!” And Malark was gone, adjusting his sword belt.
Urkhh. How did guards even lift such blades, let alone swing them as if they were wands? This one was as heavy as a cold corpse. The false guard felt his way back out of his enchanted ring of darkness and reached the road.
There he found two guardsmen weaving slowly toward the tower. They were half asleep, irritable, and smelled of drink.
“Aghh, it’s Roz!” one greeted him, nearly falling. “Bladder the better for it, old sword? Fall over any trees?”
“Arrghh,” Malark answered, loudly and sourly, thinking it the safest reply. He deftly ducked and rose up between their linked hands, putting an arm about the shoulder of each. One of the guardsmen gave at the knees and almost fell. Malark winced at his weight.
“ ’Tis good y-you came,” the collapsing guard rumbled. He hauled himself up Malark’s arm and rocked on his heels before catching his balance. “I need your shoulder, I fear. Gods, my head!”
“Arrghh,�
�� Malark said again, stifling a grin.
“Urrghh,” the guard on his other arm agreed sagely.
They stumbled on. Ahead, the torchlight at the tower gates grew brighter and closer, step by bobbing step. Elsewhere, Malark might have crept or flown in the shape of a bird or vermin to a window and dispensed with all this dangerous foolishness, but not here. Not with Elminster about, and all these Knights.
“Best I ever drank,” one of his companions said dreamily, “was at the Lonesome Tankard, where the roads meet in Eveningstar … ’at’s in Cormyr, old sword!”
“Ummhuh,” Malark noted.
Somehow he got the three of them through the guards and inside. He let them stumble slightly ahead to guide him, down a long, high hallway to the guardroom.
Luck was with Malark. His spy Culthar was one of the two guards standing duty. The other was just rising, with an oath, to answer a bell three floors up. On his way to the back stairs, he growled to no one in particular, “Why can’t Rold relieve himself before he takes his post?”
Malark’s companions stumbled across the guardroom, catching at the table for balance, heading for the bunkroom door. One began to sing under his breath: “Oh, I once knew a lady of far Uttersea … she’ll never come back, now, no, never come back to me.…” The door banged, and there came a fainter crash from the other side of it.
Culthar rolled his eyes. “He’s always falling over that chair. It’ll be broken now, sure, and we’ll have to fix it again because”—Culthar’s voice rose in vicious mimicry of the vanished guard—“I’m not too good with my hands!”
At that moment, Malark’s other companion heaved, shuddered, and made a sickening gulping sound.
“Oh, gods!” Culthar cursed. “Quick, get his face into that bucket! Hurry! I should have known Crimmon would drink himself sick!”
Malark scooped a leather bucket from its peg, just in time.
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