Crown of Fire

Eight Soap, Steam, and Soft Curses

“Allow me, Lady,” the dwarf said gruffly, handing a brush and a hand-bucket of soap around the edge of the ragged curtain. Steam rose from the other side of it, accompanied by splashing noises and a few groans of pure pleasure. Baergasra the Harper, priestess of Eldath, was joyfully scrubbing away half a year’s sweat and dirt.

“My thanks, Sir Dwarf. Well met!” “Our thanks, Baera,” Mirt said feelingly. They were gathered in the inn’s largest and best bedroom. Shandril was feeling very sleepy again, but beside her, Narm felt much better—and was hungrily devouring a second serving of the dinner the innkeeper had brought up to them.

From the other side of the curtain, Baergasra chuckled. “Ah, but it was a little thing I did, and in return for it you’ve given me this. It feels good to be clean again!” There was a rueful pause, and she added despairingly, “But my hair!”

“What about yer hair?” Mirt asked carefully. “I’ve seen far worse, proudly sailing along the streets of Waterdeep, assured of a display of the highest fashion.”

The reply was mournful. “Most of this’ll have to be cut off to get rid of the worst that’s really stuck in the tangles.”

“If it’s not too personal,” Delg asked carefully, sitting down again on his stool beside the curtain, “just why did you choose to wander about in rags, anyway? Is begging so profitable hereabouts?”

“Little man,” Baergasra darkly replied, a nasty insult to any dwarf, “I do what I must, whether it’s harping or begging, and don’t snarl overmuch about it. Orders are orders, and a noble cause is, as they say, a noble cause. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy it.”

“Ah,” said the dwarf, cocking his head at the word harping. “Of course. Forgive me, big woman.”

There was a sputtering laugh from the other side of the curtain, and it suddenly bulged beside Delg’s head as the brush came swiftly back to him—or at least to a momentary embrace with the side of his brow.

“Ooohhh,” he commented from the floor a moment later, lying beside the stool. “This one bites.”

“As I recall,” Mirt rumbled jovially, “yes. It—”

“A gentle reminder, Mirt,” the Harper called from her side of the curtain. “I still have the soap bucket to return to someone.”

“Ahh, aye—’hem! Ahem,” Mirt replied hastily. “To be sure, to be sure …. Are ye hungry perchance, Baera? We’ve food here, and—”

“Thank you, I will. It’s been awhile since I’ve had something properly cooked, and with sauces, to boot. And Narm may need another spell or two; I’d best remain here to be certain. I’ll stay the night, if you’ve room. If he falls asleep, don’t try to wake him without me, mind; that venom can’t be hurried.”

“Yer bed is ready when ye are. How are things in the Hullack wilds, then?”

“Not so bad, yet,” was the reply, punctuated by sounds of a scalp being vigorously scrubbed. “But getting worse. Zhentarim and bandits both are multiplying in the Stonelands and raiding farther. That one who called you out, downstairs? He’s one of the local Zhentarim rats—a thief by the name of Osber. He was probably so eager to take all the credit for capturing Shandril of the Spellfire that he didn’t bother to call on any nearby magelings. Tymora smiled on you there; the Zhentarim spell-hurlers hereabouts lie low and aren’t all that strong, but they can lay hands on powerful wands and the like if they’ve a mind to.”

“But he did manage to round up six men-at-arms,” Narm protested.

Baergasra chuckled. “Those were his ‘fist,’ his own little band of bully-boys. They’re never far away from him, and tonight three of them were enjoying a quiet evening’s entertainment here with several of the local night girls.”

“What’s that?” Mirt asked, alert. “Shouldn’t we—?”

The Harper chuckled again. “No fears there. The girls aren’t Zhentarim; two, in fact, like to …”

“Harp?” Delg offered, back on his stool again.

“Indeed they do, Sir Dwarf.” Her voice changed again. “But there’s darker news than that.” She coughed briefly and went on. The real reason I want to see Narm safely back on his feet myself, in fact, is that all across the Realms, these last three rides or so, spells have been going wrong. Going wild, sometimes.”

She paused, but no one said anything. Narm stared at the curtain in growing horror. If that was true, what in the name of all the gods was he going to defend Shandril with? And what, a small voice whispered chillingly inside him, will befall if Shandril’s spellfire itself becomes unreliable?

“Magic is no longer the sure thing it once was,” Baergasra said quietly. “A—A certain friend of mine reminded me of Alaundo the Seer, and his prophecies. Something about ‘chaos of Art.’ Remember, Mirt?”

“Aye. Aye.” The old merchant’s voice was rough. “That’s part of the one about the gods walking the world and making war, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Baergasra said in a near whisper from behind the curtain. She was silent for a long time, and then added, “I knew you’d remember, Old Wolf. It’s good to see you again, if Realmsdoom is really upon us. That’s another reason I’d like to stay until morn.”

Mirt nodded and rose quietly, wheezing only a little. He walked around the curtain and replied, “It’s good to see ye again too, Baera. Hmmm—the rags did add a certain something, didn’t theeeeaaHHH!”

He reeled back into view again, doubled over. Mirt, sometimes the Merciless, had ducked too slowly. The soap bucket looked most fetching on his head.

Delg convulsed in silent laughter. Narm and Shandril could not keep so quiet. The dwarf rose amid their mirth and solemnly handed Mirt the brush, pointing meaningfully at the curtain.

Mirt removed the bucket slowly and winced, but took the brush. “I’ll save it for later,” he muttered, and sat down again. “Thanks, Delg.”

“No quarrels,” said the dwarf, finding his stool. “You were impressive indeed, downstairs.”

Mirt grinned. “So it’s my turn to be the giddy-goat here and now, hey?”

“Something like that,” Delg agreed, and they laughed.

“You’ve certainly assembled a band of giggling idiots this time, Mirt,” came the sharp voice from the other side of the curtain.

Mirt raised an eyebrow. “What d’ye mean, ‘this time’?”

Storm took off her second boot and stretched, catlike. On the other side of their leaping fire, Elminster sat sucking his pipe into life in a cloud of drifting, snapping white sparks and curling green smoke.

“The wards, El?” the silver-haired bard asked.

Elminster nodded. “Set as strong as my Art can make them in these troubled times. None can see us or reach us, short of the gods. Ye can lay blades aside, take thy ease, and undress—if that’s what ye’re asking.”

Storm grinned at him and began unbuckling and unlacing. Then she frowned. “What do you mean, ‘in these troubled times’?”

Elminster puffed on his pipe; a small inferno went up. “Magic’s not the sure thing it was a winter ago,” he said. “It’s going wild now sometimes, and not even Mystra herself will answer me over it.”

Storm met his eyes for a long breath of silence, then shivered. “Alaundo,” she whispered, and he nodded. Storm stared at him a moment longer and then sighed, shrugged, and went on disrobing. Silver hair curled free about her shoulders and down her back; she removed dagger sheaths and safe-pouches from where they were strapped next to her skin, and with obvious pleasure rubbed away the marks they left behind.

The old man across the fire had seen her do this many a time before, since the days when he himself had changed her, when she was only a babe. He sat and smoked companionably, directing discarded apparel away with magic that spun unseen from one lazy finger. Clothing floated silently through the air in his direction; more than once Storm smiled her thanks at him. When she was done, he said merely, “Ye still look magnificent, lass.”

“It’s a good thing ye’re the great age ye are, isn’t it?” Storm teased him, mimicking his own voice and manner before he could utter the same sentence. Elminster chuckled and wiggled his eyebrows. Obediently his pipe extinguished, rose up into the darkness overhead, and vanished.

The fire followed it, leaving behind only a warmth and a glowing in the air.

Storm stared at it, and then looked at Elminster, mouth open. “Ye gods,” she whispered, “was that—spellfire? I thought you’d used fire spells to ignite real wood ….”

Elminster shrugged. “The little lass isn’t the only one alive who can work such tricks. She merely does it naturally. Azuth taught me, long ago. It drains me overmuch, mind; I don’t do it lightly.”

“But you did it just for me,” Storm protested.

“That was not a light thing,” Elminster said, deadpan. He winked at her.

Storm reached a hand out through the faint glow to clasp the sage’s hand. “You are a delight, El. I love you, Old Mage.”

“Oh, good,” was the dry reply, and she felt him wriggling closer. “Then ye won’t mind if I lie beside ye here. Being old and shy an’ all that, I’ll be leaving my clothes on, though.”

“You? Shy?” The bard snorted, and then wrinkled her nose. “I forgot to get our blankets. They’re—”

“On the horses where they should be, keeping the faithful beasts warm,” Elminster replied tranquilly. “Ye’ll find ye won’t need blankets—my Art’ll keep us as if we were bundled up, but without getting too hot or the like, and make the ground beneath gentle to lie upon, as well. Trust me.”

Storm met his eyes and smiled. “I do.” They lay side by side in the darkness, holding hands, and looked at the silent stars glimmering high overhead. As Selûne rose and grew bright, Elminster let the faint spell-glow fade until they lay in darkness under the night sky.

They remained together in silence for a time, watching the stars wheel overhead. Although a stranger looking down on them would have placed Storm in her lush late thirties, despite hard muscles and white sword-scars aplenty, and Elminster somewhere the gray side of sixty, both bard and archmage were hundreds of winters older than that.

With his fingers, Elminster stroked the hand that he held, and he thought about the secret he shared with the woman who lay beside him in the grass. The secret that had shaped both their lives.

Both of them carried some of the immortal magefire locked forever inside their bodies, small parts of the divine power of Mystra placed in mortals of Faerûn to maintain some great and mysterious balance. They could be slain, releasing the power of Mystra—as Storm’s sister Syluné had been, not long ago—but grew old only slowly, aged more by the care of responsibilities and the grief of outliving even elven friends than by physical causes. Sometimes, they felt very old.

Elminster was wise enough to give Storm this time to drift into slumber under the watching stars. It would ease her heavy heart. For himself, however, it was enough to have her beside him. Of the sisters he’d reared, Storm was the most his friend, even if he loved the Simbul more as mate and companion. Elminster smiled up at the stars and was happy.

“El,” the beloved voice beside him came softly, “you know I love riding Faerûn with you … but tell me; where are we bound this time, and why?”

“We go to meet a certain old enemy of mine, and do a certain thing,” Elminster said carefully. “Is that enough?”

He heard the grin in her voice. “Of course. You phrase nothing so eloquently.” With easy grace, she rolled up to one elbow and looked down at him. “And the ‘why’?”

Elminster looked into her level gaze and melted. “It is part of an ongoing game I play against—certain folk. A very old and deep game, to limit the power of those who watch from shadows in this world. The Malaugrym—aye, ye remember them, I know—are after Shandril of Highmoon. Her affair’s by no means clear and done yet. We’ll doubtless meet in Silverymoon, these Shadowmasters and I, to do spell-battle over her …. What we do now will become important then. “’Tis more important that the Shadowmasters have no benefit from what I’ve left undone than that the Harpers or Shandril—or Toril itself—gain strength by what we do, if we prevail ….”

Storm laughed softly and kissed him. “I love it, Old Mage, when you’re so forthcoming and open.” She lay down again beside him. “Never change, will you? Promise me that.”

“Ah, lass,” he said sadly. “That’s one of the promises none of us can keep.”

He lay there in silence until she slept, holding her hand tightly. When her slumber was deep, he waved his free hand, and a spellbook floated silently out of the night to hang above his nose. Spellfire was but one of Elminster’s little secrets; another was the fact that he no longer needed to sleep.

The old, familiar symbols and phrases filled his mind again as they had so many times before, but he did not let go of Storm’s hand, even for a moment. Throughout life, one does not miss any chance to hold onto the things that are really precious, if one is truly wise.

A cool wind whipped around the mages and howled off east, along the old and broken rock ridges of the Stonelands. It brought faint, far-off howls with it.

Ramath involuntarily looked over his shoulder, but the black-robed wizard beside him only smiled.

“Whatever it is would have to travel much of the night to reach us, mageling, even if it knew we stood on this spot. My Art will turn it away if it tries. So stand easy.”

Ramath shook his head. “I’ve tried, Dread Master—but whenever I look where it’s dark, I see her.”

“Who?” The question was sharp.

Ramath swallowed. “A light-haired girl … shrouded in flames.”

“What? She’s here, and moving about, hidden from all but you by magic? Or can you see rocks and trees through her; do you see something from your dreams?”

“A dream image I suppose, Master—yet I’m not asleep. I see her walking amid trees, with a dwarf, a wizard of about my age, and a fat man in floppy old boots. They’re just walking, not seeing me or anything—but they’re always heading this way, straight toward us ….I walked to the cliff over there—you saw me—and it seemed the same; straight toward me. It’s—I’ve never known anything like this before.”

Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr regarded him coldly for a moment, and then said very softly, “Who has spoken to you of such a band of travelers?”

Ramath looked startled. “No one, Dread Master. I’ve not heard of or seen any of these folk before—I was hoping you’d know what spell or ghost was affecting me.”

“I think I do,” the Dread Master replied. “Go down to the Zhentilar swordmaster by the fire and tell him to come up to me. And pay close heed to these images you see. When you return, I shall want a full and detailed account of anything new that you’ve seen. Hasten.”

Obediently his apprentice scrambled away along the path. Stroking his sharp-pointed chin thoughtfully, Ghaubhan Szaurr watched him go.

The wind flung the wizard’s cloak out behind him like a black sail. Ghaubhan stood on the rocky height feeling its tug and listening to it flapping as excitement rose within him: Ramath had some sort of magesight, the gift of Mystra or Bane or some other dark power—and Shandril of Highmoon was coming this way.

Spellfire would be his soon; Ghaubhan could almost taste it. He thought how best to place the warriors—stupid brutes all, but useful against the maiden’s companions—for the battle to come. It was even more crucial to use his magelings so they stood no chance of tricking or turning on their Dread Master. Best if they all died at the maid’s hands—men turned to ashes by spellfire could tell no tales to seeking magic, and could not whisper against him. If one ashen corpse wore Ghaubhan’s cloak and ring, in fact, they’d think Ghaubhan Szaurr fallen.

And given time to master spellfire while in hiding, this lowly tutor of magelings would become a Dread Master indeed! Then the high lords of the Keep had best look to their Art, for the Zhentarim would soon have a new master …. If that book he’d found in old Asklannan’s spell library spoke truth, any man whose blood joined with one who wielded spellfire stood a chance of gaining it himself. That joining, moreover, would be a pleasure ….

Ghaubhan grinned wolfishly in the dark, and waited for the hurrying steps of Ramath to announce the mageling’s return. He’d bear watching, that one … such sight does not come from empty air; how came he by it? Fzoul and his upperpriests thought Ghaubhan Szaurr served the Cult of the Dragon; only Manshoon and a few senior wizards knew he in truth worked for the Zhentarim …. Was this Ramath a spy for Fzoul, then? Was he sent by someone in the Cult who’d become suspicious of Ghaubhan’s loyalty? What fell and mysterious power moved the young fool? None known to a lowly Dread Master, for sure ….

“ ‘Fell and mysterious power!’ I like that,” Gathlarue said softly in the night-gloom. “It has a certain ring ….”

“It does,” Mairara agreed. “This Dread Master is an engaging half-wit all around. Such twisted cruelty … such lame deceits.”

“Lame they may be,” Gathlarue said, “but it is my hope he does gain the spellfire. Not only will he be straw in our hands, but it will be entertaining to the utmost, watching him destroying most of the Brotherhood as he seeks to master it.”

“Fun watching, to be sure,” came the reply, “so long as he holds the Zhentarim together long enough to destroy Elminster of Shadowdale first. If we feed this Ramath visions for long enough, our ambitious Dread Master will not dare to start the foolishness too early. I would see Elminster perish soon, and the Brotherhood is the only blade we can wield that seems strong enough to slay him.”

“There are others,” Gathlarue said softly. “If we could turn the one called the Simbul against him …”

“They love each other strongly now.”

“Precisely,” Gathlarue said. The slow smile that stole onto her face then made Mairara shiver despite herself. “Precisely ….”