Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

Jhessail grinned again. “Well enough. Remember—no, don’t look up at me. You already know I’m beautiful, and I know it, too, but the Art of Mystra is far more beautiful. Its beauty lasts where mine will wither with the years. Remember that I’ve learned Art from Elminster himself—” Narm looked up in surprise, but Jhessail scowled and pointed severely down at his book again. “—and I’m fast running out of severe things that he said to me, to parrot back at you. So for the love of Mystra, Narm, look down at your spells and try. That way I can lecture you on the kings of Cormyr, or the court etiquette of Aglarond, or recite the love songs of Solshuss the Bard, and not have to tax my wits so!”

  Narm looked up at her. “Aye, I—I’ll try. One question of you if I may, Lady.” Jhessail smiled and nodded. “Elminster spoke so to you? Why?”

  “Because it is necessary at this stage in the training of one who wields the Art. Your Marimmar never knew such discipline. Illistyl, who wields far less powerful spells, has known it, and is the better for it. Elminster thinks his tutoring remiss if a mage knows not such frustration.”

  Narm’s opinion must have shown in his face, because Jhessail leaned forward, silver-gray robes shimmering. “The Art is a thing of beauty in itself. It can also be helpful and creative. Too many mages neglect such facets in their haste to gain wealth, influence—and enemies—by mastering fire and lightning. Remember that, Narm. If you forget everything else, remember that. You saw the Shadowsil die. Elminster trained her for a long time. You saw what a fascination with power, and power only, can do!”

  “Aye … but why else become a mage?”

  “Why? Why become anything other than a farmer, a hunter, or a warrior? The world forces those three professions on any who try to scratch out a living in the wilderness. All else—carpentry, painting, weaving, smithing—one does because one has the aptitude and the desire. If power is all you want, become a warrior—but mind you always strike at the weak and unprotected. Your arm may grow weary with all the slaying, but power you’ll have and power you’ll use over others—until you fall before the greater power of another. Keep up questions of this ilk, Narm, and you’ll find I can keep up the testy temper of Elminster! Why aren’t you looking at your books?”

  “I—aye. Sorry, Lady Jhessail.”

  This time, Jhessail flung up her hands in despair. “Gods above. To think I once behaved as this one does! ’Tis a wonder Elminster didn’t deem the form of a slug or a toad more apt for the end of my days! Patience, above all, patience! Pity the poor student of Art; this lesson still waits ahead of him!”

  Narm looked up, alarmed.

  Jhessail winked—and then screamed, “Again you allow meaningless noise to distract you! Call yourself a wizard?” She rose in a rustling of robes and strode at Narm, snarling, “Have you ever seen a rat? Oh, they’ll crouch back to avoid a stick—but if you run about yelling and they’re eating in the grain sack, they’ll bite and chew as long as they can. If they must run, ’tis with mouth full, intending to return! Have you no more brains than a rat? Study, boy, study! Kings are born to their station; rats are born to theirs, too. All the rest of us must work for ours! Study, I say!”

  The door opened and Illistyl peered in. “Quite a performance,” she remarked. “Now, if you could only imitate Elminster’s voice.…” She closed the door again hastily as Jhessail hurled a quill stand in her direction. After its crash, Illistyl looked in again rather anxiously. “You haven’t any more of those, do you?”

  “Unfortunately not. He’s using it.”

  “Using it? Whatever for? He hasn’t written a line all this time! He seems to have been otherwise occupied,” Illistyl declared with exaggerated innocence. Her eyes found Narm, staring up at them both in astonishment, and she grew a head taller upon the instant. Her hair rose, and her eyes flashed. “What’s this? We exchange a few words and this student breaks off studying? Is he weak-minded? A prankster? Or is he just wasting his teacher’s time?”

  Illistyl rushed at a frightened and dumbfounded Narm and halted only a hand-span away—whereupon she smiled sweetly. “Narm, how’re you ever going to advance your Art if you can’t concentrate as well as any three-year-old playing in the mud?”

  Narm looked as if he were about to cry, and then burst into helpless laughter. “I’ve never learned Art like this before!”

  “You must be used to a lot of ponderous dignity and mystical mumbling,” Illistyl said. “Now look down at your book again … you can’t read runes while you’re looking at me.”

  Narm sighed loudly and feelingly. “Mystra aid me.”

  “She’ll have to. But give her a little help, too, eh?” Illistyl turned to Jhessail. “Well, it’s nice to know I’m not the only one to climb stone walls in frustration at this stage of your teaching!”

  Jhessail raised an eyebrow. “You think I didn’t, in my turn? Elminster continually threatened to spank me with an unseen servant spell while I studied. Then he threatened to force me to battle him with the spells I’d managed to memorize through all of that!”

  Illistyl chuckled. “You never told me that! Did he make it any more than a threat?”

  “No. I learned to study through nearly anything, with astonishing speed.”

  “Think he’ll do as well?” Illistyl asked quietly, nodding at Narm’s bent head. Jhessail shrugged.

  “For himself, aye. But as protector and mate to one who’ll be attacked day after day because she has spellfire—that’s less certain. Are you listening again, Narm?”

  Narm looked up. “Sorry?”

  “Much better,” Jhessail replied. “See that you apply yourself in this, Narm. Your life—and your lady’s life—depend on it.”

  Shandril looked around the cavern in awe. It was vast and dark and littered with rubble.

  “An accident, long ago,” Elminster said gruffly. “Be ye ready, little one?”

  “Aye,” Shandril answered in mimicry. “What now?”

  Elminster looked grave. “A few more tests. Things better learned before thy life depends on it.” He walked a few paces from her. “My Art shields this chamber against prying magic,” he added. “First—hold thy hand up, so … now the other.”

  Shandril looked at him, a little afraid. “Do you want me to turn my spellfire upon myself?”

  Elminster nodded slowly. “We must know,” he said, “but mind ye proceed very gently. Stop at once if it affects thee.”

  Shandril nodded back, and bent her will to the task. The thought of burning herself made her feel sick. She set her teeth, glanced at the Old Mage, and then stared at the hand she was to scorch. Spellfire blossomed from her other hand in a small, delicate flame to lick at her unprotected hand.

  No pain came but a tingling that grew in intensity as she wreathed her hand in fire. She withdrew it from the raging, blistering heat, found it unmarked, and plunged it in once more. The flames roared; her uncontrollable shuddering grew.

  Elminster grasped her arm, drawing her hand from the flames. His hand took its place. He grunted in pain and drew back. With his good hand, he touched her shoulder, and then, slowly and deliberately, her bare cheek. No flame erupted. “Enough.”

  The flames died.

  Elminster faced her, working the fingers of one blackened hand. His frown mingled interest and pain. “Well, then. It does not burn thee, but the force may harm thine innards, circling back in. It does burn another, regardless of defenses of Art. When ye’re not so full of energy that it burns in thine eyes, it harms only where ye intend it, and not at any touch. Narm should last longer than I’d feared.”

  Shandril giggled at his tone. “You’ll want to watch the two of us abed to further your investigations?”

  Elminster looked disapprovingly up past his brows at her. “It may not surprise ye to learn that over many hundred winters, I’ve seen such things a time or two before.” He grinned. “I’d have seen far more, too, if I’d had the courage to keep my eyes open at a younger age. But ’tis an unsuitable topic for an old man to discuss w
ith a young lady alone in the dark. Turn thy spellfire on this wall—nowhere else, mind; this cavern may not be entirely stable! Let us see what befalls.”

  Again Shandril set her will, and spellfire flamed out. It struck the wall with a hollow roar and burst in all directions. Sparks and tendrils of flame leapt among the rocks. The wall held, despite Shandril’s fierce efforts to hurl all she could at it. When Elminster patted her on the shoulder to desist, the cavern wall was red-hot.

  “How does it feel to hold such power?” Elminster asked softly.

  “Eerie,” Shandril answered truthfully. “Exciting. Fearsome. I—I never seem able to relax anymore!”

  “Could ye at the inn?”

  “Well, yes. Short moments by myself, now and then. But it’s not just the adventure … nor the spellfire.…”

  “It’s Narm,” Elminster said dryly. “Would ye try something else for me?”

  “Yes. What’s your will?”

  “See if ye can hurl spellfire from thy knee, or forehead, or foot, or behind … or eyes. See if ye can hurl it in a spray, or curve the flames around sharp bends, or hurl small balls or streamers of flame. Knowing the accuracy of thy aim would also be useful.”

  “How long d’you—never mind. Guide me.” Shandril mopped her sweating forehead; her fire had made the cave hot.

  Elminster held out his pipe wordlessly.

  She pointed one finger and pushed, just a little, with her will. A tiny spurt of flame shot out.

  The old wizard turned the pipe bowl adroitly to catch the flame and puffed contentedly. “Aye, we’ll start so.…”

  That night, the hall was quiet despite the gathered Knights. They sat at the great trestle table that stretched thirty paces down the center of the warm, smoky chamber.

  The remains of a good feast still lay upon the table. The guards who usually lined the walls and the servants scurrying between table and kitchen were absent, barred by Mourngrym.

  The lord and lady of Shadowdale sat at the head of the table and Elminster at its foot. On one side sat Storm Silverhand, Shandril, and Narm, facing the Knights on the other. The rest of the seats stood empty.

  Jhessail rose. “My lords and ladies, Narm Tamaraith has advanced his Art considerably since his arrival. He lacked not aptitude or dedication, but merely suffered from poor and insufficient training.” She smiled, and to Narm’s intense surprise added, “He was a joy to train. Illistyl and I have no hesitation in presenting Narm before this company as an accomplished mage. It is my understanding Elminster wishes to examine and train Narm yet, to further him for the special task of Art required in supporting the unique power of his betrothed. I yield to my master.”

  As Jhessail sat smoothly, Elminster rose. “Aye. I’ll talk to Narm of that before long. But I’m here this night in answer to Mourngrym’s request.” His subtle emphasis on the last word made the lord of Shadowdale suppress a smile. “I’ll report on what I’ve learned of the powers of Shandril Shessair, specifically that unique ability we call ‘spellfire.’ The power to wield spellfire has been known in the Realms in the past—”

  “ ’Tis my duty this time, I fear,” Florin interrupted, standing with a polite bow to Mourngrym and to the Old Mage. “Elminster—the short version, please. No disrespect intended, but we lack both your lore interest and patience.”

  Elminster eyed him sourly. “Patience certainly seems in short supply these days. ’Tis a lamentable state of affairs when things happen at such a pace that folk can scarce grumble before the land changes again. Woeful days, indeed—” He forestalled several Knights who’d opened their mouths by saying, “But I digress. To the matter directly at hand: Lady Shandril, betrothed to Lord Narm Tamaraith, both of whom sit among us.”

  He nodded at the small figure sitting between Storm and Narm. “Shandril can now, without benefit of the balhiir that apparently awakened her spellfire, draw in spells without much personal harm—though some occurs, with certain magic—and store it for an unknown length of time and without apparent ill effects. She can subsequently send it forth, upon command and with some precision, as a fire that burns through most magical defenses and affects all things and beings I’ve observed it against thus far. Shandril has a finite capacity for absorbed magic, but we’re presently uncertain what that is. We know neither the precise effects of the spellfire upon Shandril, nor the limitations of the spellfire she wields.”

  The Old Mage felt for his pipe, forgetting that it floated serenely by his ear. “I can tell you what spellfire is: the raw energy that all workings of Art are composed of, broken down by Shandril’s body in some unknown manner. As the Simbul, distinguished ruler of Aglarond, pointed out at the test, such a power is dangerous—to Shandril personally and to those nearby. When her body holds so much energy that her eyes flash, her very touch can harm through unintentional discharge. She’s also a threat to those who work magic everywhere in this world. Those who see this threat will act to destroy or possess her.”

  Elminster discovered and took hold of his errant pipe. “Certain fell powers undoubtedly already know of her abilities and will act soon. There’s much more to be said, but—hem—ye asked for the short version.” The Old Mage sat down.

  “So you’re saying war will come to the dale again because the source of spellfire is here?” Lady Shaerl asked.

  “Aye,” Elminster replied, “and we must be ready. To arms and alert! We must defend Shandril’s person with our swords, and whelm the Art at our command to defend against the many mages who’ll come for her spellfire. She cannot be everywhere to battle all of them, were she the most willing slayer in the world. Our spells we must also cast at Shandril, to feed her spellfire—’tis this her man Narm does best. Days of blood, I fear, are upon us.”

  Mourngrym rose and looked down the table. “ ’Tis hardly fair, you powerful and experienced adventurers, to drag these young folk into a battle that will almost certainly mean their deaths, just to use them as weapons against those who come!”

  “They are in such a battle as we breathe now,” Elminster said sharply. “We delivered them out of it once, as a knight drags a weary fellow out of the fray for a time to catch his breath, quell his pain, and set to again. ’Tis the price of adventuring, such strife—and don’t tell me they’re not adventurers. One ran off with a chartered company, while the other willingly returned to Myth Drannor, alone and unarmed, to ‘seek his fortune’ after the death of his master at the hand of devils. We do not intend to ‘use them as weapons,’ but to see they know their powers fully.”

  The Old Mage glanced around at the Knights. “Why invite such peril? Why see a young maid become a threat to one’s own powers? Why build her strength, and that of her consort, to make them an even greater menace? Because … because, after all these years, it still feels good to have helped someone, and accomplished something. This first fight is part of that, and we cannot avoid it. When ’tis done, our duty will be to let them go whither they will, and not compel them or make their choices for them.”

  As the last words left Elminster’s mouth, a large green glass bottle on the table, full of wine and unopened, began to grow and change shape.

  As all watched in astonishment, it became the Simbul, kneeling atop the table with proud and lonely eyes. The Witch-Queen nodded to Narm and Shandril, and then looked to Elminster.

  “You’ll let these two walk freely?” she asked. “Truly?”

  The archmage nodded. “Aye. I will. We all here will.”

  “Then you have my blessing,” she said softly. Her tall, slender body shifted, blurred, and shrank again. Suddenly it was a black bird. With a whir of wings, she darted up the chimney and was gone.

  The Knights relaxed visibly.

  “One day I suppose I’ll be used to that,” Torm remarked. “Old Mage, can’t you tell by Art when she’s near?”

  Elminster shook his head. “Unless she actively uses Art of her own, nay. Her cloak-of-Art is as good as any great archmage’s—which is to say, well nigh perfec
t.”

  “Such as yours, perhaps?” Torm pressed him.

  Elminster smiled broadly, and suddenly wasn’t there. His chair was empty, without flash or sound. Only the faint smell of pipe smoke hung in the air.

  Jhessail sighed, cast a spell, looked about keenly, and shook her head. “Faint magic, all about, and those things I know to be enchanted, but no Old Mage.”

  “You see?” Elminster said, appearing and kissing her cheek. “ ’Tis not as easy as it might seem, but it works.”

  “Now that’s a trick I’d give much to learn,” Torm said.

  “Much it will cost ye,” Elminster replied. “But enough. Be thankful, all of ye, that the Simbul favors our desires in this matter. If she did not, all of my time would be spent thwarting her; my Art would be lost to you. Who knows what foes we yet face? Ye may have need of me!”

  “We always need you, Old Mage,” Mourngrym answered, a twinkle in his eye. “Is there anyone else who’d now speak? Narm and Shandril, you needn’t say a word you don’t desire to—nor answer any queries put to you.”

  “I would speak, Lord of the Dale,” said Storm Silverhand softly. She rose, silver hair swirling about the leather that sheathed her shoulders, and looked at Narm and Shandril. “We Who Harp are interested in you. Think on whether you might want to walk our way.”

  Eyebrows lifted in silence all around the table. Rathan looked about and asked noisily, “Is all the formal tongue work done? Can we enjoy ourselves and let all the others back in?”

  Mourngrym grinned. “I think you’ve cut to the heart of the boar, Mighty of Tymora. Open the doors! Let us feast! Elminster, don’t go, I pray you!”

  The Old Mage had already risen. “I’m a mite old for all the babbling and flirting of your feasts. I look at all the comely lasses and see only the faces of those I met at feasts long ago, in cities now dust—truly, Mourngrym, I enjoy it not. Besides, I’ve work to do. My Art stands not still, and more things unfold under the eyes of Selûne than just spellfire. Fare ye well, all.” He strode forward, crouched before the fire—and was suddenly a great, gray-feathered eagle. He soared up the chimney just as the Simbul had.