“Wonderful,” Narm told him. “I’m as happy now as I’ve ever been in my life. We’re wed this day—and henceforth!”
Shandril nodded, eyes shining.
Lhaeo smiled. “Both of you: Remember how you feel now, when times are darker. Turn not on each other, but stand together to face the world’s teeth. But enough; I’ll not lecture you—you hear enough of that from other lips hereabouts!”
They all laughed.
Shandril asked, “Lhaeo … the battle at our wedding? Who was trying to reach us?”
“I was not there. Forgive me; I abide here to guard … certain things, but Lord Florin has told me of the men who struck with swords from the woods.”
“Yes?” Narm asked quickly.
The scribe looked up, and the two men held each other’s eyes. “There were over forty, we believe. Thirty-seven—perhaps more, now—lie dead. One talked ere his life fled. They were mercenaries, hired for ten pieces of gold each and meals, to snatch you both—Shandril alone, if they could take but one of you.”
Shandril swallowed. “Take me … where?”
The scribe spread his hands helplessly. “They were hired in Selgaunt only a few days back and flown here in a ship that sails the skies. Oh, yes, such things exist, though they be rare triumphs of Art. They were hired in a tavern by a large, balding fat man with a wispy beard, who gave his name as Karsagh. Their orders were to take you to a hill north of here to be picked up by the sky ship.”
Lhaeo idly tasted a ladle of stew as if they’d been discussing the weather. “They would then be paid in full. Each had received only two coins; many died still carrying them. Who this Karsagh is and why he wants you, we know not. Have you any favorite thoughts as to who he might be?”
Narm and Shandril shook their heads.
“Half the world is looking for us with swords and spells,” Shandril said bitterly. “Have they nothing better to do?”
“Evidently not,” Lhaeo replied, “ ’Tis not all bad, this seeking. Look who did find you, Shandril: this mageling called Narm, and the Knights who brought you here!”
“Aye,” she replied, her voice shaking, “and ’tis here we must leave—friends and all—because of this accursed spellfire.” She stared down at her hands, and angry spellfire leaped and spat in tiny, crackling threads from one palm to another.
“Not within these walls, good lady,” Lhaeo murmured. “Some things sleep herein that should not be awakened.”
Shandril sighed, shamefaced, and let the fires subside. “Sorry, Lhaeo. I’ve no wish to burn down your house!”
“I know,” said Lhaeo gently, turning to his cutting board. “Nor do I fear its coming to pass. You must not hate your gift, Lady, for the gods gave it to you in no such fury. And did not Tymora bless your union?” The scribe indicated the consecrated silver disc that Shandril had carefully set on a high table. It seemed to glow for a moment as they looked at it.
“Aye,” Narm said, getting up. “So we’re helpless in the hands of the gods?” He began to pace.
Lhaeo looked up, a knife flashing in his hand. “No, for where then would be your luck—the very essence of holy Tymora? What ‘luck’ can there be if the gods control your every breath? And how dull for them, too! Would you take any interest in a world if all the creatures in it had no freedom to do anything you’d not determined beforehand? The gods don’t fate men to act thus-and-so, despite the many tales—even those told by the great bards.”
“So we walk freely, and do as we will, and live or die by that,” Shandril agreed. “So where should we walk? You know maps, Lhaeo. Where in Faerûn should we go?”
Lhaeo shrugged. “Where your hearts lead is the easy answer, and the best. But you really ask me where you should run to, just now, with half Faerûn at your heels.” He paced alongside Narm for a few strides, and added, “I’d go south, quick and quiet, then through the Thunder Gap into Cormyr. There, keep to smaller places and try to join a caravan or pilgrims of Tempus seeking the great battlefields of the Sword Coast. Go where there are elves, for they know what ’tis to be hounded, and may well defend you with fierce anger.”
Narm and Shandril traded glances
“We’ve heard such directions before, yes,” Narm said, “almost word for word. If the best way’s so obvious as all that, will those who hunt us be waiting?”
“Aye, most probably,” Lhaeo agreed, with the ghost of a smile. “So you must take care not to get caught.”
Shandril surprised herself by laughing. “Well enough,” she said, saluting him with a flourish. “We’ll try to follow your advice, good Lhaeo. Know you ways of avoiding Shandril-hunters?”
Lhaeo lifted his eyebrows. “You both work with Art and walk with those mighty in Art, and you ask me? If you’d learn the ways of stealth and disguise without Art, ask Torm. I’ve escaped my hunters thus far, true, but I was truly cloaked in the Lady’s Luck.”
He turned to Narm. “If you must pace like a great cat in a cage, could you slice potatoes while doing it?”
Elsewhere, things were not so peaceful. In Zhentil Keep, two men faced each other across a table.
“Lord Marsh,” asked the mage Sememmon carefully, “does it seem to you that the priests of the Black Altar have fallen into confusion and disarray too great for us to leave the city? All reports agree that the beholder Manxam holds sway in the temple … where the sprawled corpses of many hundred clergy have begun to stink!”
“I’ve heard those same reports,” Lord Marsh Belwintle agreed smoothly, “and am forced to the same conclusions. This matter of one girl who can create fire will simply have to wait. If she shows up at our gates, I’m confident the power and skill of the gathered mages would defeat her—so long as they’ve not all been destroyed or weakened in the fulfillment of missions commanded by one who had transparent reasons for wishing them out of the city.”
“Exactly. I’d thought to discuss with you the advisability of setting just one of our mages of power—Sarhthor, perhaps—to observing this maiden’s doings, so her seizure by any foes could be noted or countered. Prudence seems to indicate some such vigilance.”
“An excellent thought,” Lord Marsh agreed, reaching for his glass of bloodwine. “An eye must serve where a claw might be cut off, if we’re not to be taken unawares. Yet you will send some magelings forth to impress their fellows and my warriors with our alacrity and attention to this matter?”
“Of course,” Sememmon replied, not quite allowing a smile to reach his lips. “The ambition of our younger spell weavers remains legendary. I was planning to send four rivals forth.”
“Excellent.” Marsh rose. “My own younger blades seem so busy just now, disposing of priests regrettably driven mad by this latest outrage of the eye tyrants. Untrustworthy allies, as I’ve said before. Order must be maintained; duty presses—so, for now, oloré to you.”
“Oloré to you.” Sememmon walked away.
An eye that neither of them saw under the table watched Sememmon go, and then winked out.
“The Wearers of the Purple are met. For the glory of the dead dragons!” Naergoth Bladelord intoned. The leader of the Cult of the Dragon was, as always, coldly calm.
“For their dominion,” came the ritual reply in unison.
Naergoth surveyed the large, plain underground chamber. Everyone of the ruling council of the Cult was present save the mage Malark. To work, then—all the sooner to feast in some fine festhall of Ordulin, far above.
“Brothers, we’re gathered to hear of a matter that’s set all mages into eager uproar: spellfire. Brother Zilvreen, what say you?”
“Brothers,” the master thief Zilvreen said with his soft, sinister grace, “I’ve learned little of the fates of the dracolich Rauglothgor and the mage Maruel. It seems likely, though, that Rauglothgor, its treasure, the she-mage, and even the sacred night dragon Aghazstamn have all been destroyed.”
There was a rumble of surprise and dismay, but Zilvreen’s next words cut it off like a sword stroke
. “Destroyed by the accursed archmage of Shadowdale, Elminster, his pet brigands the Knights of Myth Drannor, and by this Shandril Shessair … with her spellfire!”
“All?” rumbled Dargoth, of the Perlar merchant fleet. “I can scarce believe they all have been destroyed. Such slaughter would require an army large enough that we’d all see its whelming over many days!”
“No such swords’ve been raised,” added Commarth, the bearded general of the Sembian border forces.
“Men sent back by Malark describe the site of Rauglothgor’s lair as a pit of fresh-strewn rubble,” Zilvreen replied. “Draw your own conclusions.”
Dargoth shook his head in disbelief. “So just what is this spellfire, that it can destroy mighty mages and great wyrms alike?”
Naergoth shrugged. “A fire that can be hurled as a mage casts lightning,” he said, “to burn spells and enchanted things as readily as wood and flesh. More than that, we know not—wherefore we sent Malark.”
“What of him?” Commarth asked. “Has he spoken to any Follower?”
Naergoth shook his head. “Nothing from him. He’s in Shadowdale, as far as we know, seeking his chance to get at the girl.”
“Shessair,” another of the council mused. “Wasn’t that the name of the mage our brothers-of-Art slew at the Bridge of Fallen Men years back, in the battle that bought them their deaths?”
“It was,” Naergoth replied, “but no connection’s yet apparent. Look you: We’ve at least three eyes in Sword Coast cities who share the last name of Suld … and none are related.”
Naergoth nodded. “The price of getting this spellfire seems far too high. Others—the Zhentarim and other priests of Bane—avidly seek it. Yet ’tis we who’ve already paid a price, and I’m loath to turn away empty-handed. We can’t afford not to take spellfire for our own. No one can. I expect much bloodshed yet.” He looked around the table. “How we go about getting it I leave to you, Brothers!”
“Let the mages win it for us,” said Zilvreen smoothly. “Waste no more swords—and especially no more sacred bone dragons—on this.”
“Well enough,” Dargoth agreed. “But spellfire or no, we cannot let this girl or the Knights go unpunished for what they’ve done. We’ve lost much treasure, two dracoliches, and the Shadowsil over this. The girl must pay. Even if we win her as an ally, she must die after we have gained her secrets and her power. This must ride over all.”
“Well said, Brother,” Naergoth responded. There was a murmur of agreement around the table. “We’re agreed, then—for now, we let our Brother mage handle this affair?”
“Aye, ’tis his field,” came one reply.
“Aye, ’twould be folly to do otherwise,” said another.
“Aye—and if he comes not back, we can always raise other mages to the Purple.”
“Aye to that, too!”
“Aye,” the others put in, in their turn.
So it was agreed, and they rose and left that place.
The hour was late; all through the Twisted Tower, candles burned low. In an inner room of Lord Mourngrym’s chambers, there was much discussion over the remains of dinner—in low tones, as Lady Shaerl slept in her chair at one end of the table, and Rathan Thentraver dozed over one arm of his seat.
“Have you a place in mind?” Jhessail asked as she leaned drowsily upon Merith’s shoulder, their eyes gleaming together in the candlelight.
Narm shrugged. “ ‘We hunt our fortune, where’er,’ as the saying goes. The Harpers said to seek High Lady Alustriel in Silverymoon.”
“Would you have some of us ride with you?” Lanseril asked. “There’re greater evils in this world than those you’ve fought.”
“With all respect, Lord,” Shandril said softly, “no. Too long have you watched over us, and spilled much blood on our account. We must make our own way in the world and fight our own battles—or in the end, we’ll have done nothing.”
“ ‘Nothing,’ she says,” Torm sighed to Illistyl, rolling his eyes. “Two dracoliches, a mountaintop, and a good piece of Manshoon of Zhentil Keep—and ‘nothing,’ she calls it! Scary; what if she tries ‘something’?”
“Hush, you,” Illistyl said, stopping his mouth with a kiss. “You’re a worse windbag than the Old Mage himself!”
“Why, thank ye,” came a wry and familiar voice from the room’s far darkness. Narm saw the battered old hat first, perched atop the staff that Elminster wore. As the wizard’s bearded face came into the light to regard them all, the smallest of smiles played about his lips. He looked last at Narm and Shandril. “Ye might go to the Rising Moon for a night, at least. ’Twould be a kindness to Gorstag. He’s been worried over ye.”
Shandril met Elminster’s gaze, and silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
Narm took her in his arms, but her tears still fell. “Don’t cry, beloved. You’re among—”
“Hush her not,” Merith said gently. “ ’Tis no shame to weep. Only one who cares not, cries not. I’ve seen what befalls those—Florin and Torm, at this table—who cry inside, to hide it from others. It sears the soul.”
Jhessail nodded. “Merith’s right. Tears don’t upset us, only the reasons for them.”
“Cry here, Lord,” murmured Shaerl in her sleep, patting her own shoulder. “ ’Tis soft, and listens to you.”
Mourngrym looked faintly embarrassed.
Torm grinned. “You see?” he said to Illistyl. “You could do that for me … you’ve the shoulders for it!”
She slapped him fondly.
Shaerl stirred and frowned. “Oh, ’tis that game this night? Well, my lord, you’ll have to catch me first, I assure you.”
Chuckles rose around the room. Mourngrym leaned over and lifted his lady gently from the chair. Still lost in slumber, she clung to his neck and drew her legs up across his chest, settling herself with murmurs of contentment.
Mourngrym turned to them, Shaerl cradled in his arms. “Good even, all. Shaerl should be in bed—and so should we all.”
“Now, where were we?” Elminster asked moments later, settling himself into a chair that looked as old, shabby, and worn as he. “Oh, aye … thy plans for the future!”
The slow, disbelieving shake of Narm’s head was eloquent.
Shandril fixed the wizard with tired eyes. “I suppose you’ll tell us to steer clear of battles, or we’ll be dead in a day.”
“Nay.” Very clear blue eyes looked deep into hers. “Ye two’ll be given no such choice. Ye must fight or die. But think: One mistake is enough when disputing with those who wield Art. Remember that!” His gaze shifted to Narm. “Ye too, Lion of Mystra. If ye find thyself facing a mage, stand not to trade spells with him. Throw rocks and run right at him—unless he’s too far away to reach. Then run away and find a place to hide—where ye can grab more rocks. Simple, eh? Before ye laugh, recall how thy lady first struck down Symgharyl Maruel.”
“Hundreds of winters, eh?” was all Narm said.
Shandril awakened, in a cold sweat from being pursued through a ruined city by a black-winged devil. It had cornered her at last and reached for her, leering with Symgharyl Maruel’s cruel, smiling face! She sat bolt upright, gasping.
Florin sat nearby with Elminster, talking in low tones through the blue haze of the wizard’s pipe. He leaned over, concern on his ruggedly handsome face, and laid a soothing hand on her arm.
She smiled gratefully and held to his arm as she sank back down beside Narm, who slept on, peacefully.
Florin gently wiped the sweat from her forehead and jaw.
Shandril drifted off to sleep while still smiling her thanks. The next thing she knew, morning had come.
Jhessail was laughing with Merith over hot minted tea. Sunlight shone down warmly. The Knights, variously clad, lounged on couches or walked quietly about. The clear tones of a horn floated up from somewhere below, where an unseen guard blew his delight at a fine morning.
Shandril looked around at the old stone walls of the chamber and said both fiercely a
nd mournfully, “I’m going to miss this.”
“Yes,” Narm agreed, hugging her. “You seemed ready to sleep forever!”
Shandril hugged him back. “You’re mine, now!”
“A-aye,” Narm managed, within her arms.
“Not for much longer, if you break him like a clay cup,” Torm said dryly. “They’re more useful, you know, when they’re whole … back and arms able to carry, and all.…”
Shandril burst out laughing. “You’re utterly ridiculous!”
“ ’Tis how I get through each day,” Torm told her earnestly.
It was much later when she realized he’d spoken the sober truth.
“Well,” said Florin. “Here we part.” He nodded at the weathered stone pillar just ahead. “Yonder’s the Standing Stone.”
The stone rose watchful and defiant out of the brush, overlooking the fields to Mistledale and south toward Battledale. Florin pointed. “Down that road lies Essembra. Take rooms at the Green Door. It once had a talking door, but we took a fancy to it, so now it swings at the tower.” He grinned. “In all the excitement, we forgot to show it to you.”
The white horse under Shandril snorted and tossed its head.
“Easy, Shield,” Florin soothed. “You’ve barely begun!”
His words made a sudden lump rise in Shandril’s throat. She turned in her saddle to look back. Past the pack mules on their reins, past the watchful guards who rode with crossbows ready, back to where the Knights rode with an ever-grumbling Elminster. She’d miss them all. She felt Narm’s hand clasp hers hard, and fought down tears.
“None of that,” Rathan ordered her gruffly. “All this sobbin’ robs an occasion of its due grandeur.”
“Aye,” Lanseril agreed. “ ‘Soon you’ll be too busy staying out of trouble to cry, so acquire the habit now. Remember: Mourngrym serves his best wine at Greengrass; we’ll be looking for you, some year.”
Narm nodded. Shandril was too busy sniffing.
“Go, now,” Torm said gruffly, over his shoulder, “or we’ll be all day a-weeping and a-saying farewells.”
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