“Hush, Lady,” Elminster said, eyes moist. “Keep it safe. We’ll trade them soon, aye. But not now.”
Tears came. “Ah, Old Mage,” the Simbul said into his chest, “I’ve been so lonely.…”
Lhaeo, who’d come silently up the dark stairs with tea, the pot wrapped in a thick scarf to keep it warm, stopped outside the door and heard them.
Without tarrying to overhear another word, he set the tray down carefully on a table nearby and went softly downstairs again for a second cup.
As he went, he wondered, what’s the weight of secrets? How many can a man carry? How many more can a woman or an elf?
It was dark outside, but in the little cottage near the woods, candles flickered and a hearth fire blazed. A woman at the cauldron straightened as they entered. She was no longer young, and her clothes were simple and much patched.
“My lords!” she gasped, alarm falling from her face. “Welcome! But I’ve nothing to feed you—my man won’t be back from the hunt until morn.”
“Nay, Lhaera,” Rathan rumbled kindly, embracing her. “We cannot stay, but must hasten back to Shadowdale. We’ve an urgent errand for thy daughter, and I’d renew Tymora’s bright blessing on this house.”
Lhaera looked at them in wonderment. “With Imraea? But she’s scarce six—”
Torm nodded. “Old enough that her feet reach the ground.”
He was promptly interrupted by the precipitous arrival of a small, dark-haired whirlwind who fetched up against his legs, laughing. As he reached down to embrace her, she danced back out of reach.
“Well met, Torm and Rathan, Knights of Myth Drannor. I’m pleased to see you.”
Both Knights bowed, and Rathan answered, “We’re also pleased to see thee, Lady. We come to discharge our duty to ye; are ye in good health and of high spirits?”
“Aye, of course. But look how beautiful Mother is since you healed her! She grows taller, I think!”
Torm and Rathan regarded the astonished and smiling Lhaera.
“Aye, I think you’re right. She does grow taller,” Torm said solemnly. “Send word when she grows too tall for the roof, and we’ll help you rebuild.”
Imraea nodded. “I’ll do that.” She eyed Torm. “You are making me wait, Sir Knight. Is my patience not well held? Am I not solemn enough?” She fairly danced. “Did you bring it?”
“ ’Tis not an ‘it.’ ’Tis a ‘he,’ as you are a she,” said Torm severely, opening his cloak to pour something soft and furry into her arms. Silver and black fur surrounded great, glistening eyes. It let out an inquiring meow. Imraea held it in wonder as it stretched its nose out to her.
“Has it—he—a name?”
Rathan regarded her gravely. “Aye, it has a true name, which it keeps hidden, and a kitten name. But ye must give it a proper name, the name ye can call it. Choose wisely. The kitten will have to live with thy choice.”
“Aye,” Imraea agreed. “Tell me, please, its kitten name, that I may call it so while I think on so important a choice.”
Lhaera smiled broadly.
“Its name,” said Torm with dignity, “is Snuggleguts.” He dropped a shower of gold into her hand.
“What’s this?” Imraea stared in wonder at the nine large coins.
“Its life,” Rathan replied. “Thy kitten will need milk and meat and fish and much care, and to be kept warm. Ye, or thy parents, must buy those things. Ye must take the mice and rats it kills, thank thy pet without disgust or sharp words, and bury them. ’Tis thy duty. Know ye, Imraea, that the gods gather back to themselves cats and dogs and horses even as they do ye and me. There’s no telling when Snuggleguts may die. So treat him well and enjoy his company, but let thy kitten roam free and do as he will. And remember: Each time ye see thy pet may be the last.”
“I will. Oh, I thank you both. You are kind, you two Knights.”
“We but do the right thing,” Torm replied softly.
“Aye, that you do,” Lhaera said to them. “And there’s few enough, these days, who take the trouble to.”
20
REVELATIONS AT THE RISING MOON
By night dark dreams bring me much pain—but always comes, after, bright morning again.
Mintiper Moonsilver, bard
Nine Stars Around a Silver Moon
Year of the Highmantle
They rode steadily west. Narm peered about constantly, expecting attack, but Shandril found this forest friendlier than the Elven Court. She could see through thick tangles of trunks and gnarled limbs into deep, hidden places. Vines hung in soft-furred arcs from one branch to the next. Ferns grew thick on the ground. Shandril shook her head in wonder at man-shaped clumps of moss and trees as large about as cottages. Narm saw only danger, possible ambush, and concealing shadows … but as the day grew older and no attack came, he too began to enjoy the road to Deepingdale.
“This is beautiful,” he said as they crested a ridge. Sunlight streamed down through the trees, lighting a small clearing as if it was afire.
“Yes,” Shandril said. “I’ve never really seen these woods before, though I lived just a day’s ride hence.” She sighed. “I wish I’d never known spellfire and could just go home with you now—instead of fleeing half a hundred power-mad mages.”
“Why not stay in Highmoon? You have the power to slay half a hundred power-mad mages!”
“Maybe … but I’d lose the dale and my friends and even you. Powerful mages always destroy things around them. They work worse devastation than forest fires and brigands! Sometimes I think life would be much simpler without Art.”
Narm smiled. “I said that to Elminster, and he said not so. If I could see the strange worlds he’s walked, he told me, I’d understand.”
“No, thank you,” Shandril replied. “I’ve troubles enough in this one!”
The road rose through a leafy tunnel of oaks, out into a clearing. Narm and Shandril rode close and quiet, looking for danger. Tiny, whiplike branches fallen from trees above lay amid the dead leaves and tangled grass and ferns. They seemed faerie fingers waiting to clutch or snap underfoot. Silence reigned. They rode on, and still no attack came. Nor did they meet travelers on the road.
Shandril frowned. “This is eerie. Where is everyone?”
“Elsewhere, for once,” Narm said. “Be thankful, and ride while we’ve the chance. I would be free of the dales, where everyone knows of us; your spellfire can’t triumph forever.”
Shandril shivered. “I’ve thought about that. Thus far, we’ve been very lucky. We’ve also fought many who knew not what they faced; ere long wizards will strike at us with spells crafted to disable me or foil spellfire—and then how shall we fare?”
Narm sighed. “Ah, Shan, you moan a lot! Adventure, you wanted; adventure you have. Did you hear Lanseril’s definition of adventure, at that first feast in Shadowdale?”
Shandril wrinkled her brow. “I did overhear it—something about being cursedly uncomfortable and hurt or afraid, and then telling everyone later that it was nothing.”
“Aye, that was it.” They rode over another rise with still no sign of other travelers. “ ’Tis a long way to Silverymoon,” Narm added thoughtfully. “D’you remember all the Harpers Storm named, along the way?”
“Yes. D’you?” his lady replied impishly.
Narm shook his head. “I’ve forgotten half of them. I wasn’t born to be a far traveler. Nor did Marimmar’s teach me to be one.”
Shandril laughed. “I’ll bet. If much of the Realms is as beautiful as this, I won’t mind the trip ahead.”
“Even with a hundred or so evil priests and mages after us?”
Shandril wrinkled her nose. “Just don’t call me ‘Magekiller’ or suchlike. Remember: They come after me. I’ve no quarrel with them.”
“I’ll remind the next dozen corpses,” Narm replied dryly. “If you leave enough for me to speak to, that is.”
Shandril looked away and said very softly, “Please don’t speak so of the killing. I hate it
. Never, never do I want to become so used to it that I grow careless of my power. Who knows when this spellfire might leave me? Then, Narm, I’ll have only your Art to protect me—think on that!”
They rode down into a dell cloaked in lush green moss. Pools of water glistened under dark and rugged old trees.
Narm looked around warily. “Aye. I think of it often!”
“It seems this Shandril’s fated to grow old unhindered—by us, at any rate,” Naergoth said dryly to Salvarad when they were alone at the long table. “Is there any other business?”
“Aye. The matter of your mage. He was destroyed in Shadowdale—how, I know not—but know this: Malark perished at the hands of Shandril Shessair.”
“You’re sure?”
“I watch closely, and others watch for me. All told, we miss little.”
Naergoth looked at him expressionlessly. “What have you seen in the way of mages to take Malark’s place in the Purple?”
“Zannastar, certainly. You could even give him the Purple now; we’ve but the one mage among us.”
“Why Zannastar?”
“He’s competent at Art, but better than that, he’s biddable, something Malark was not.”
“Aye, then. Who else?”
“The young one, Thiszult. Wild—quiet but reckless. He could be dangerous to us, or brilliant. Why not send him, alone and in secret, after spellfire with half a dozen warriors? He’ll either bring it back or get himself killed—or learn caution. We can’t do ill by this.”
“Oh? What if he comes back with spellfire and uses it against us?”
“I know his true name,” Salvarad replied smugly, “and he doesn’t know anyone has learned it.”
Naergoth almost smiled. “Send your wolf, then. Perhaps he’ll succeed where others have failed—ours and those of Bane and Zhentil Keep. The gauntlet this girl runs will bring her down in the end, though we pay richly for it in blood.”
Salvarad nodded. “Yes. She’s only one young maid, and not warlike at that. We’ll have her by and by, spellfire or no. I mean to have spellfire, too … but if we take her alive, she’s mine, Naergoth!”
Naergoth raised an eyebrow. “You can have women much easier than that, Salvarad.”
“You mistake me, Bladelord,” Salvarad replied coldly. “The power she’s handled … does things to people. I must learn certain things from her.”
Naergoth said, “Then why not go after her yourself?”
Salvarad smiled thinly. “I am intrigued, Bladelord. I am not suicidal.”
“Others have said that, you know.”
“I know, Naergoth. Some of them even meant it.”
Night caught them in the woods. Narm and Shandril drew their cloaks against the cold and rode on. Mist rose among the trees.
Narm watched it drift and roll. “I don’t like this. An ambush would be all too easy.…”
Shandril nodded. “All the wishing in the world won’t change that. We’re not far from the Moon; travelers who left it midmorning expected to make Tasseldale by night.” She looked into the soft silence of the trees. Tangled branches hung still and dark. Nothing stirred, and no attack came.
Shandril sighed. “Come!” she said, spurring her horse into a trot. “Let’s get there. I want to see Gorstag again.”
The fire burned low in the hearth, and the taproom of the Rising Moon grew quiet as the last few guests went up to bed.
Lureene quietly swept up fallen scraps, and Gorstag made the rounds of the doors. She heard his measured tread on the boards in the kitchen, drawing nearer, and her heart rose. They’d have time for a kiss, perhaps.… She smiled in the glow of the dying fire.
Gorstag, who carried no candle when he walked alone by night, came into the room. “My love, I would ask something of you this night.”
“ ’Tis yours, Lord,” Lureene said affectionately, reaching for the laces of her bodice. “You know that.”
Gorstag coughed. “Ah … nay, lass, I be serious … ah, I mean—oh, gods look down!” He drew in a deep breath and approached her in the gloom. Quietly and formally, he said, “Lureene, I am Gorstag of Highmoon, a worshiper of Tymora and Tempus in my time, and a man of some moderate means. Will you marry me?”
Lureene stared at him, her mouth open, for a very long time. Then she was suddenly in his arms. “My lord, you need not … marry me! ’Twas not my intention to—ah, trap you into such a union.”
“D’you not want to be my wife?” Gorstag asked slowly, his voice rough. “Please tell me true.…”
“I’d like nothing more in all Faerûn than to be your wife, Gorstag.”
His smile was like a flash of sunlight, and his arms tightened about her.
“I accept,” Lureene added, gasping for breath. “Kiss me, now, don’t hug the life from me!”
Their lips met, and Lureene let out a little moan of happiness. Gorstag held her as if she were a fragile and beautiful thing. They stood together among the tables as the front door of the inn creaked gently open. A cool breeze drifted in about their ankles.
Gorstag turned, hand going to his belt. “Aye?” he demanded, before his night-keen eyes showed him who had come.
Lureene let out a happy cry. “Shandril!”
“Yes,” said a small voice. “Gorstag? Can you forgive me?”
“Forgive you, little one?” Gorstag rumbled, striding forward to embrace her. “What’s to forgive? Are you well? Where have you been? How—” Outside, there was a snort and a creak of leather. In midsentence Gorstag said, “But you’ve horses to see to! Sit down, sit with Lureene, who has a surprise to tell you. I’ll learn all when I’m done!”
“I’m married, Gorstag,” Shandril blurted. “He’s—Narm’s with the horses.”
Gorstag threw her a surprised look but never slowed his step. By the light of the fire, Shandril saw tears on his cheeks … and then he was gone.
Lureene threw her arms about Shandril. “Lady Luck be praised, Shan! You’re back and safe! Gorstag’s been so worried, but now … but now—” She burst into tears and held Shandril tightly.
Shandril felt tears of her own stinging her eyes. “Lureene … Lureene …” she managed, voice breaking, “We can’t stay. Half the mages in Faerûn are after us, and we’re a menace to you even by being here!” Fearfully, she stared at the tavern maid. She was touched that Lureene had missed her so—she’d always thought the older girl must find her tiresome. Would Lureene’s regard be swept away by fear?
Lureene met her gaze and smiled, shaking her head. “Ah, little kitten, you’ve been hurt indeed to fear these doors shut to you. If to see you again we must entertain a few thousand angry mages, entertain them we shall, Gorstag and I, and think it a small price to pay!” She laughed and hugged Shandril again. “Ah, Shan, thank you, thank you! You’ve made Gorstag so happy! He’s like a youngling again—did you not see him stride to the door like a young buck? You’ve made him happy … as he’s not been since you left.”
“But we must leave again on the morrow. How—?”
“He’ll understand, Shan. He knows you’re not ours anymore—I don’t doubt he’s taking the measure of your man right now! It’s just that he didn’t know what had befallen you! Could you not have left a note, or some word?”
Shandril sobbed, pouring out all the fear and regret and homesickness of the days since she’d fled.
Lureene held her, rocking her wordlessly, until tears gave way to shuddering breaths. She kissed the crown of Shandril’s bent head. “Be not so full of sorrows, little kitten. I’m most grateful to you!” The body in her arms made a bleating, questioning sound. Lureene hugged her more tightly. “Gorstag was so upset over you one night that he couldn’t sleep. I comforted him. He’d never have permitted me to do as I did, if he’d not been so in need—and he’d never have asked me to be his wife.”
Shandril looked up, hair in disarray across her reddened eyes. “He did? Gorstag? Oh, Lureene!” Her tears were happy this time, and she hugged the tavern maid with brui
sing force.
Lureene fought for balance and thought, ye gods, if this is what adventure does for a woman … A woman? Shandril? But—aye! She is a woman now.
This was not the girl who’d slipped away from the kitchen. This was a lady with a lord of her own—and something else, something beyond the weapons worn so easily at hip and boots.… Shandril had a quiet confidence, of power hidden, but none of the arrogance of many adventurers who came to the inn.
“Shandril, what’s happened to you?” she asked quietly.
Shandril gave her an almost haunted look. “Oh … you can see it so clearly?”
Lureene nodded. “Aye, but I know not what ’tis!” She raised a hand to Shandril’s lips. “No … tell me not, if you would not. I needn’t know.”
“But you should know. ’Tis not something easily believed, though. I hope Gorstag will be able to tell me more about why I have it.”
Lureene grinned. “Then it can wait until after you’ve soaked your feet and eaten. I’ll wake Korvan.”
“No!” Shandril said sharply. “No, please. Wake him not. I can’t trust his cooking—no offense to you—for my own good reasons. I’ll cook, if you’ll have me!”
Lureene frowned. “Did Korvan … bother you?”
“ ’Tis not that,” Shandril said. “Please trust me, and wake him not! I’ll tell you, but ’tis better not to rouse him!”
“Then I’ll not leave your side while you’re here unless Gorstag or your man’s at hand to protect you,” Lureene said firmly. “You can tell me what you like after you’ve rested. Come to the fire.”
Shandril let herself be led to a warm high-backed chair. Lureene poked the fire into new flames, set fresh wood on it, and went for a bowl. When she returned, Shandril’s head had fallen onto her shoulder, and she was asleep.
Narm held the bridles of both horses, his body tense—ready to flee if need be. He peered into the moonlit mists, but could see or hear no creature moving in the silence.
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