Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

“Why do you pretend to be … Elminster’s companion?”

  Lhaeo looked at her soberly. “My lady, I’m in hiding. I’ll tell you who I am only if you never tell anyone, beyond Narm.”

  “I promise, by whatever oaths you wish.”

  Lhaeo shook his head. “Your word is enough. Come into the kitchen.”

  Warmed by a small hearth fire, Lhaeo’s lair smelled deliciously of herbs, simmering stew, and onion soup.

  “Are you a lost prince?” Shandril prompted jokingly.

  He waved her to a stool and went to inspect the huge stewpot. “I suppose you could say that,” Lhaeo said, stirring with a long-handled ladle. “I’m the last of the royal house of Tethyr.”

  Shandril’s mouth fell open.

  Lhaeo smiled and waved his ladle. “In happier times I was so far from the throne that I never thought of myself as a prince. But there’ve been so many deaths that I am, so far as Elminster and I can tell, the last alive of royal blood.”

  “Why do you hide?”

  Lhaeo shrugged. “All who seize power expect others to do as they would. Anyone of royal blood must want to wear the crown, they think. I live because they don’t know I live. That’s all there is to tell. Not so impressive, is it? But ’tis a secret that must be kept, for my life hangs upon it.”

  “I’ll not tell it,” Shandril said firmly. “What can I help with, here?”

  Lhaeo looked at her. “Cook what you like and teach me as you go, please?” They smiled at each other across a bag of onions. “And, my thanks.”

  “For keeping your secret?”

  “Aye. Each secret has a weight all its own. They add up, secrets, to a burden you carry all your days!”

  Shandril looked up from selecting onions. “You carry many?”

  “Aye. But my load is nothing to Elminster’s.”

  Shandril looked down. “Whose gown is it that I wear?”

  “That’s a secret. I’d tell, but ’tis his to unfold, not mine.”

  “Well enough. Have you an old apron I can wear?”

  “Aye, hanging behind you. Tell me of the Rising Moon.”

  She did. They serve others most who ask the right question, and then listen. The day passed, and they marked not the time.

  The day passed, and Narm grew weary. He was used to the clear and careful teaching of Jhessail and Illistyl. Elminster’s methods were a rude shock.

  The Old Mage badgered and derided and made testy comments. The simplest query on a small detail of casting brought a scholarly flood of information—a voluminous barrage that never included a direct answer. Elminster had worked over Narm’s newest spell, the Sphere of Flame, until Narm could have screamed.

  Weary hours of study to impress the difficult runes on Narm’s mind, and then a sharp lecture on precisely how to cast the spell in view of his obvious shortcomings became grinding irritants. Then came a moment of casting, a ball of scorching flame, and a thrill the first few times. Now, though, Narm saw each as a failure even before Elminster spoke in scathing critique. Clumsy, slow, lazy, inattentive, imprecise, off-target …

  “Have ye not seen your lady hurl spellfire?” Elminster demanded in acid tones. “She can shape the flame—a broad fan or a thin, dexterous tongue—bend it around comers, or pulse short spurts to avoid setting her surroundings ablaze. I suppose ye couldn’t tell me the hue of her eyes, either!”

  “Hey! They’re …” Narm angrily replied—but Shandril’s face wouldn’t come to mind. Confused and badgered, he hurled fire angrily, tossing the ball of flames twenty feet before it landed and rolled.

  “Temper, boy,” Elminster admonished, watching it. “Too easily it can be thy death. Mages cannot afford it—not if it affects the precision of their casting. Here ye are, furious with me, and we’ve spent merely a morning together. Not good! Oh, I’ll grant ye that’s good enough for lesser talents, who swagger about throwing fireballs and bullying honest farm folk. I’d hoped ye’d look for something more in the service of Mystra.”

  Their gazes met—the one sorrowful, the other glowering.

  “Ye can be a great mage, Narm, if ye develop just two things: precision in spell effects and imagination in Art. The latter ye’ll need later, when ye reach past most mages. The precision ye must master now, else thy every spell will have some waste about it. Thy Art will lack that edge of shrewd phrasing and maximum effect that may mean the difference between defeat and victory.”

  Narm opened his mouth to speak, but Elminster continued, “As ye advance, ye’ll become a target for those who gain spells by preying on other mages. If ye lack precision in a duel of Art, ye’ll be utterly destroyed—then ’twill be too late for my lessons. Such a waste of my time that would be.”

  “But I can’t hope to win a duel now! How will spending all day throwing balls of flame about make any difference to that? If I win a duel, surely it will be because I have stronger spells and more of them!”

  “Perhaps. Yet, know ye, a mage can do more with a few simple spells he knows back-to-front, and can use shrewdly, than with an arsenal hastily memorized and poorly understood. D’ye follow?”

  Narm nodded.

  “Good,” the Old Mage said briskly. “I’ll leave ye to thyself, if ye promise to study and cast your flaming sphere at least four times more, here in this field, before ye rest for the day. Move the sphere just where ye want it and form it precisely in the place ye choose. Think on how ye can use such a weapon against, say, a group of goblins who scatter in all directions when they see it coming—but try to get past it toward ye.” He started to trudge away. “Only foolish, arrogant mages stand still after they’ve cast. Move, or a simple arrow will make ye a dead wizard, no matter how impressive ye were in life. Oh, and worry not about the stubble; ye’re doing the farmer a favor by burning it off. Try not to take the fencing with it—’tis harder to term that ‘friendly help.’ Have I thy promise?”

  “Yes, and my thanks.”

  “Thanks? ’Tis impatient ye are again, Narm! The task’s not done. Save thy thanks till ye master this spell. Then thank thyself first. I can talk all day and only waste breath if ye fail to heed, work, and master the Art.”

  Narm grinned. “You do.”

  Elminster’s grin lit his face only an instant, but the twinkle in his eye remained as he became a falcon and flew away.

  Narm stood in the field and watched him go, sighed, and reached for his spellbook. The sun was bright on the Old Skull. He bent his head to the book.

  Much later, when he stood to cast his first flaming sphere, Narm drew a deep breath of satisfaction. At least he was alone and could work Art without watching eyes and sharp comments. He turned to look at the stubble, choosing what he could burn.

  A small boy had appeared from somewhere and hung on the fence rails, watching.

  “Go away!” Narm said crossly.

  “This your field?” the boy asked laconically.

  “You could get hurt! I’m casting spells.”

  “Aye. I’ve been watching. But I won’t be hurt unless you cast spells at me. You won’t; there’re no evil wizards in Shadowdale. Ma says Elminster won’t allow it.”

  “I see,” Narm snapped, his jaw set. He turned and hurled fire.

  The boy watched fire roll away and stayed glued to the fence. All day long he stayed, as Narm hurled fire, sat down to study, got up and threw fire, and went back to his books. Narm was weary and thirsty when he went to the gate at evening.

  The boy climbed down from the fence and fell into step beside him. “I wish I could be a great mage, like you.”

  Narm laughed. “I wish I could be a great mage. I know so little. I feel so useless.”

  “You?” The boy shook his head. “I saw you cast balls of fire. You point them where to go, and they move at your bidding! You must be mighty!”

  “Being a mage is a lot more than hurling fireballs.”

  The boy nodded thoughtfully, waved a sudden farewell, ducked through a gap in the hedge, and was gone.

&nb
sp; Narm shrugged and walked on. Ahead he could see a patrol of guards on horseback, trotting with lances raised. It must be nice to call a place like this home.

  When Narm came up the path, Elminster sat smoking on a boulder near his front step. “Well? Can ye put a sphere where ye want to?”

  Narm nodded.

  “So are ye a mage?”

  Narm shrugged. “I’ve a long road to go before I’m strong in Art. But I can stand in most company, now, and know my Art will serve me.” He added proudly, “There’ll always be others more powerful, but I’ve truly mastered what I do know.”

  “Oh?” Elminster asked. “Think ye so?” His features blurred and shifted beneath the battered hat, flowing and changing. Narm suddenly faced the young boy who had watched his spell practice from the fence. The little face grinned; its mouth opened, and in a perfect imitation of Narm’s own voice, said solemnly, “Being a mage is a lot more than hurling fireballs.”

  Narm stared in anger, then resignation, and then sheepish amusement. “Elminster won’t allow it, indeed. I’ll have to rise early in the day to get ahead of you!”

  “I’ve several hundred years’ start on ye. Come. Evenfeast’s ready. Ye’ve chosen wisely; thy lady’s a cook of rare skill. See that ye serve her as well, boy.” He knocked his pipe out on the doorstep and went in.

  Narm looked once at the stars beginning to sparkle in the darkening sky, and followed him inside.

  16

  TO WALK UNSEEN

  Bards soon forget a warrior falling without a great feat of arms. Would you be forgotten? Face each battle, each foe, as though it is your last. One day it will be.

  Dathlance of Selgaunt

  An Old Warrior’s Way

  Year of the Blade

  Morning sun laid bright fingers across the table in the audience chamber of the Twisted Tower. Shandril watched stray dust motes sparkle above the table as she and Narm waited for Elminster. Narm’s hand found hers. They sat together in contented silence, alone with the fading tapestries of Shadowdale’s past and the empty throne.

  “Before we two met, I was brought here by Illistyl,” Narm said quietly, “and spoke with Mourngrym. It seems an age ago.”

  Shandril nodded. “I’d swear I left Deepingdale very long ago, yet ’tis tendays, not months!” She looked at the great painted map of the Dragonreach. “I wonder where we’ll be in a year?”

  The doors opened, and Elminster came in. The wizard was alone. He walked slowly and truly looked old. He sat in a chair beside them and fixed them with a bright gaze. “So quiet? Have ye both stopped thinking, then?”

  “No,” Narm replied boldly. “Why say you so?”

  The Old Mage shrugged. “The young are said to be always talking or laughing or fighting; ye two surprised me.” He took out his pipe, looked at it, and then put it away again.

  “I asked ye here to tell thee I’ve watched and seen and judge ye two as well trained with Art and spellfire as we can make thee. ’Tis up to thee, now, if ye’d grow more powerful. More—’tis time for ye to decide what to do with thy lives!”

  “Do?” Narm asked.

  Elminster nodded. “ ’Tis not good to drift along under the influence of the Knights and myself. Ye’d be swept into our councils and struggles … and grow embittered as ye lost the will to walk thine own roads and think for thyselves.”

  “But we’ve found friends here, and happy times,” Shandril protested, “and—”

  “And danger,” Elminster interrupted smoothly. “I want to keep ye with me; one can’t have too many friends, and I grow weary of losing them one after another with the years. But if I let ye stay, I draw doom to ye, just as will settling down together in the dale.”

  “What? Living together will bring danger?” Narm asked.

  “Nay—staying in one place will. With thy talent,” Elminster said, pointing a long finger at Shandril, “one mage after another will seek to slay thee. Mulmaster, Thay, and the Zhentarim all would destroy anything that threatens magecraft. So walk ye out into the wide Realms—and disappear. I can alter thy outward selves, though to each other ye’ll look the same. Pass from sight, and thy menace will be forgotten in the struggles these tyrants of Art have with one another.”

  “Just ‘disappear’?” Shandril said. “Doing what, exactly?”

  “My advice is to wander and hide. Ye’ll need friends to raise sword or Art to aid thee, so walk with Storm Silverhand and her fellow Harpers, to find thine own ways and adventures. Mistake me not—I’d not be rid of ye.” The wizard put his pipe in his mouth. “If ye stay, ye’ll soon be slain or stunted in Art and spirit. Come back and visit, though.” A flame sprouted from Elminster’s forefinger, and he puffed his pipe furiously into life, his eyes misty.

  Shandril and Narm looked at each other. “I—we both think you’re right,” Shandril replied. “Yet we’d speak with the Knights before deciding.”

  Elminster looked to Narm, who nodded silently.

  “We don’t want to leave this place—our friends,” Shandril added. “If we must, we’d know where in the Realms ’tis best to go.”

  “Well said,” Elminster agreed gravely. “If ye like, I’ll tell Mourngrym.”

  Shandril nodded. “Please.” She did not burst into tears until after he’d gone.

  “He’s right,” Narm said gently, his arms about her.

  “Oh, I know,” Shandril sniffled. “It’s leaving friends. First Gorstag and Lureene at the inn, then Delg, Burlane, Rymel … and now the Knights. I’ll even miss Elminster, the crusty old bastard.”

  “Well, that’s as polite and honest a calling as I’ve had in a long time,” the wizard’s unmistakable voice said dryly, from just behind them.

  Narm and Shandril whirled around. “You must have been waiting outside the door!” Shandril said hotly to Mourngrym.

  The lord of Shadowdale raised calming hands. “Everyone must stand somewhere. I lost five gold pieces at dice with the guards, if ’tis any consolation. The others’ll be here in a breath or two.”

  He strode to a tall cabinet. “In the meantime, a flagon of wineapple? I strained it myself. ’Tis not fermented; you can’t get drunk.”

  “Well, seeing as you’ve yon cabinet open …” Rathan growled from the door.

  Mourngrym sighed. “Is Torm with you? I thought as much. Leave something drinkable that I can give to visiting gentles, will you?” He sat on his throne, flagon in hand. “Well met, Jhess … Illistyl. Where’s Merith?”

  “Along in a minute,” Jhessail told him. “He was in the bath when Shaerl called!”

  “Ah, that’s why she isn’t back yet!” Torm said innocently, addressing the glass he raised to his lips. An instant later, Mourngrym’s empty flagon bounced off his head.

  “My lord, if I may borrow your boot?” said a voice from the door, sweet and low.

  “Of course, Lady,” replied Merith beside her, drawing it off and proffering it politely.

  Shaerl threw hard and accurately.

  Torm groaned and dropped Mourngrym’s flagon with a clatter, amid general mirth.

  “All here?” the lord of Shadowdale asked. At the door, Lanseril nodded as he settled an ornate lock bar into place. “Good. Narm and Shandril have something to ask you!”

  Silence fell. Shandril gazed around, suddenly shy, and nudged Narm.

  He looked at her uncomfortably, cleared his throat, and—lapsed into silence.

  “Ye need no speech, lad,” Elminster said. “Just say thy piece straight out, before someone else attacks the tower to seize thee.”

  Amid chuckles, Narm swallowed and got to his feet. “Well, then, Shan and I think we should leave, to live our own lives. We don’t want to insult or upset anyone. You’ve been good friends and protectors; my lady and I will be ever grateful. Yet as long as we stay, Shadowdale will be an armed camp. We must go … but where, we know not.” He looked at Shandril, read something in her eyes, and added, “We would talk it over with you and then decide, the two of us, afterw
ard. We alone must live with our decision—and with each other.” He sat down suddenly, feeling foolish.

  “Good speech,” Illistyl said. “Well then, what would you know?”

  Shandril spoke. “What are the Harpers? Not who, but what?”

  Florin answered, “My wife is one, yet even to me they remain mysterious. They’re secretive about their ranks and precise aims, as a defense against foes, but do work for good. When you see a silver moon and harp, you face a Harper. Storm Silverhand is openly a Harper, as is the High Lady of Silverymoon. Many bards, rangers, and half-elves are Harpers. They oppose the Zhentarim and those who plunder wilderlands, thoughtless mining and felling of timber—the merchants of Amn, for instance. In Shadowdale, we respect and aid Harpers.”

  “Well enough,” Narm said, nodding. “Where should we wander, Harpers or no?”

  “Somewhere you can get filthy rich,” Torm said with a grin, “and hide among masses of people, finding any living you fancy—Waterdeep, for instance!”

  Mourngrym, whose family was of noble Waterdhavian stock, shook his head ruefully.

  “Have you no honor?” Jhessail inquired wearily of Torm.

  “Aye, indeed. I keep it at the bottom of my pack and take it out to polish and admire on windy nights in the wilderness. It shines grandly, but ’tis poor company, and keeps one not warm.”

  “Ignore him,” Rathan said. “His ratlike city breeding leads his lips astray. Waterdeep is a good place to hide, aye, but more dangerous by far than Shadowdale. ’Tis full of prying eyes, and not a few folk who’ll take all they can and leave what remains in a gutter.”

  Lanseril nodded. “Better to travel the wilds of the Sword Coast North, High Forest, and fair Silverymoon. The Unicorn Run’s breathtaking in its beauty—great trees gowned in moss that have stood since the world was young … worth the trip, I tell you!”

  “Aye, go where few tread and see what few see and ye’ll always remember,” Rathan agreed. “I envy thee thy journey, bring what perils it may—”

  Elminster rolled his eyes. “Is every lord and lady here going to philosophize pompously the whole tenday through?”