Shadows of Doom

2

Storm was laughing in a flying web of steel, her flashing blade holding off two others in a deadly dance. It was the bright height of the day of Lord Aumry's Feast, and no clouds marred the circle of blue sky above her as she ducked and pivoted. The two men she fought had no spare breath to do more than grunt and gasp.

The Bard of Shadowdale was training two Harpers at sword work, showing them how with skill she could force their blades and bodies continually nearer each other, driving them into each other's way as they circled about the moss-carpeted glade. More than once the two men in leathers had stumbled into each other, muttered apologies and oaths, and leapt hastily out of the way of the weaving blade that stung them, teased them, flirted with their own steel, and slid past their sword hilts to touch them again and again.

It was a rare chance to cross blades with Storm Silverhand. Among Harpers she was as famous as Mintiper or Sharanralee, veteran adventurers of whom many songs had been sung and tavern tales told. Semiretired now, she dwelt in the green fastness of Shadowdale and trained Harpers in the ways of music and battle. Many came, some skeptical that one woman could really be so special. They left amazed and changed, and spoke of their meetings with her in awe and with fondness.

Storm Silverhand was really that special. An impish humor danced in her eyes as she faced them now, long hair bound back out of her face, her leathers creaking with the strain as she twisted and leapt and danced as lightly as a child at play.

Belkram and Itharr, rangers and Harpers both, wore faces as delighted and eager as boys at a favorite sport.

They had come almost as much to see if the legends were true as to hone their sword skills. Both had seen many deaths and much battle, and thought few could teach them more than a trick or two with a blade.

Now they knew they faced a true master. Thrice, five times, a dozen more the lady bard could have slain them, had that been her goal. Her slim but very long silvery sword leapt again and again through their guards to kiss shoulder, breast, forearm, or flank. Yet so skilled was she that she pulled back ere steel tasted flesh, time and again, even when blades met so hard that winking sparks flew, and the fray moved so fast that the two men were scrambling and all three panted like winded dogs.

A rare chance, this, to face one skilled enough not to hurt you but to keep the sword work as hard and as fast as if it were to the death. Belkram and Itharr, parrying the blade that seemed to be everywhere, found themselves helplessly maneuvered again into each other. They bumped shoulders, sprang apart murmuring apologies, and exchanged glances. Their eyes met for only an instant-it was all they dared spare time for-but each saw admiration for their opponent in the other's eyes. This Storm was truly magnificent with a long sword in her hand.

Belkram shook sweat out of his eyes for perhaps the sixtieth time and sprang back a pace to avoid any lunge the bard might make while he was doing so. Had this fight been in earnest, the awe he now felt would have been stone-cold fear. Storm, as she had been doing since she discovered both her opponents were good bladesmen, was smiling as she fought. Smiling merrily and, between gasps for breath, humming a sprightly tune that Belkram had often heard harped in Everlund.

Anyone who could toy with him-and with Itharr, who was as good as himself or better-as this lady was doing, and spare thought and breath enough to hum a tune, could be the death of him whenever she desired. Belkram had seen many quick swords in the years since he'd joined the Harpers, but never the equal of Storm Silverhand. He was old enough to realize the gift she was giving them: A chance to strive against one much better with a blade and have time enough in the fray to try all they knew against her. To feel, face, and master their fear rather than being paralyzed with terror and, an instant later, sinking into eternal red-edged darkness.

Belkram matched Storm's smile as he remembered a crossing attack he'd seen in a sea fight long ago. He arched to his left, parrying Storm's blade with a series of short, binding, feathering strokes of his own blade. His own side was exposed now, but Itharr should be attacking from that side, protecting it.

Then, not for the first time in that clash of steel, Storm was gone. Ducking smoothly to one knee, dropping below Belkram's parries, she spun back to face Itharr, tossing her sword to her left hand and raising it to parry his descending blade. In the same motion, her now-empty right hand grabbed Belkram's ankle and jerked.

The ranger hopped, trying to twist his foot loose, and fell helplessly. Storm straightened and put her shoulders into two furious strokes that drove Itharr-a burly man a hand shorter but at least six trade-blocks heavier than she, with arms and wrists twice as thick-back across the clearing. With a twist of her blade she disarmed him, sending his blade singing off into the trees.

Belkram chuckled ruefully as he rolled to his feet and brought his own blade up barely in time to turn aside her sword point, inches away from his cheek. He dodged and twisted, his moves slowed and blunted by growing weariness. In an attempt to win past her blade, he tried a circular cut that extended into a lunge.

In the midst of the ring and skirl of their blades, Storm's face suddenly twisted. She stiffened as a blue-white glow surrounded her hair. Belkram didn't even have time to gape in astonishment as his blade slid into her breast.

It went into the leather-clad swell of her bosom just as easily as a hot knife into butter, as they say-a good three inches or more before he could stop. Beside him, Belkram heard Itharr gasp, but Storm made no sound. Her eyes had closed, and her mouth was parted in pain.

"Gods, you've killed her!" and "Oh, Lady! Forgive-" rang out together as Storm swayed, clutched the steel that stood out from her breast with both hands, and opened her eyes at last.

"My apologies, both of you," she said in a low voice. "Something… linked to me… took hold for a moment. No blame to you, Belkram."

Storm smiled at them, but the two Harpers were staring at her as if she had suddenly become a ghost or a dragon. Her eyes were two dancing flames of blue-white fire, and more flames crackled in her mouth as she spoke. Her hands moved down Belkram's blade, and in their wake blue-white fire danced along the steel. The ranger, who still held his sword, felt a tingling in his hand. The tingling grew to a painful burning. Without thought he let go of his blade.

Slowly Storm drew the steel out of herself, the blade blazing with cold, silent, blue-white fire from end to end. She laid a hand on her breast, and flames licked between her fingers. Then she smiled and glided forward to hand the blade hilt-first to Belkram. She did not move as if she were hurt.

In wonderment Itharr asked, "Are you all right, Lady?"

Storm nodded. "I am." The fire in her eyes was dying down, and she looked almost herself again.

Belkram felt the eerie tingling spread up his arm from the blade and said quietly, "Lady, I am sorry. It was as you said; I could not stop in time. But you have shown us both that you can halt your blade where you will, time and time again. I have never seen your like in battle, and hope never to do so. Tell me, if you will. Are you a mage also?"

Storm shook her head. "I am a bard and no more. This"-she spread out her hand and looked at the fading blue-white glow with interest-"is not of my doing. It was what… caught me and gave us all this scare." She raised eyes that were normal again, but somber, and added, "Let us bathe and then go in for wine and talk. I've no more stomach for fighting, this day."

"Aye," the men agreed together and put away their swords. Belkram had slid his weapon half into its scabbard before he remembered Storm's blood and hastily pulled the blade out again. A sword must never be sheathed wet, lest it rust. This blade had traveled long and far with him. Yet to wipe it clean in front of the very lady one has just wounded with it…

Storm saw his look and laughed. "No need, Belkram. See?" She caught hold of his blade with two deft fingers and turned it. Light flashed along the sword's length. It was shiny-clean and glowed faintly blue as if freshly oiled. "It will never rust now," Storm said softly. Both men looked at her without speaking.

Storm looked back at them. "It has tasted Mystra's fire," she explained. When she undid her leather jacket and peeled it unconcernedly off, her naked skin beneath was unmarked. There was no sign of the bloody wound that should have been there, and that should have drained her life away.

The Harpers stared and then quickly looked away with muttered apologies. One does not stare at a lady so. They had gone another six steps toward the stream before they realized that no sweat had glistened on her skin. That, too, must have been burned away.

They were very quiet as they stripped to bathe in the stream with her, and kept a respectful distance. One does not speak loudly or appear overbold when walking with one who might be a goddess. Storm tried to put them at their ease with light talk but dared not tell the two men what had really happened to her in the clearing. And so another legend of Storm Silverhand was born.

In the clear and early dawn, Elminster swung a cloak about his shoulders, left the tower quietly, and went for a walk in the dew that cloaked Shadowdale.

He felt as if he were drifting this morn and not really alive or present at all. Hardly surprising, he reflected; he'd not slept a wink all night.

The moon had gone down before Merith Strongbow had slipped into the tower looking for his wife. He'd found Jhessail asleep by the fire, wrapped in furs and snoring ever so faintly. Lhaeo provided slumbrous harmony from the stool in the corner, and Elminster sat sleepless, silent watch over them both, his pipe lit and his eyes as empty and dark as the night outside.

He and Merith had shared a silent toast to Jhessail's love and caring with chill green Calishite wine. Rather than wake her or Lhaeo, Merith had curled up in Elminster's last chair to sleep. Elminster had finished the bottle of wine by himself, and thought much.

Answers and clear paths seemed as elusive as ever, but after a time Elminster arose and opened the door. There he softly spoke a word and pointed into the night with one of the wands Lhaeo had found. His heart leapt as lightning crackled and spat into the darkness. This sort of magic, at least, he could still command.

He went to a certain railpost on the stairs, bent to a particular spot, and pushed just so. A curved section of the post swung open, and a dusty, long-forgotten bag fell out. The Old Mage selected two plain brass rings from the bag, put them on, and went down to the door again.

The rings worked, too. Much heartened, Elminster drew himself a cool tankard of beer. Then he frowned and got up again to close and bolt the door, locking it for the first time in years. He and Lhaeo usually left it open, for anyone who needed them at night to get in with a minimum of fuss. He'd have to remember to change such habits now.

As he had been changed, the wry thought rose unbidden. He pushed it away and went to find another tankard. He did not take the rings off.

So the night had gone, stealing slowly toward morning. Grieving for his lost magic, Elminster walked alone as morning came. He was drawn, as always, into the welcoming green reaches of the trees that cloaked Shadowdale. He walked among them in soft-shod silence for what seemed a very long time as the dale awoke behind him. Birds called, small things scampered in the underbrush, and rising breezes stirred the leaves.

Elminster smiled, breathed deep, and looked all around. It had been long indeed since he'd taken the time to really see this forest. From ahead on the path, Elminster heard the sudden clear call of a child.

"Well met!" the young treble voice called out.

Giggles answered, followed by another child's voice replying, "Are we so, base villain?"

The children of the dale awoke early for farm chores and were now playing. The Old Mage stepped aside from the path, pulling his cloak around him, and leaned against a tree to listen.

He was startled to hear, very loud and close at hand, a young but confident male voice declaim grandly, "I, Elminster the Great, smite thee with fires and lightnings that none can withstand!"

There was movement on the other side of the tree. Elminster cocked his head to look around the trunk and saw a smooth but rather crooked twig cutting the air, flourished in a young boy's hand.

Its bearer pointed the stick across a little open place at a rather dirty little girl, perhaps six summers old, who was standing on a stone to make herself taller.

She faced the twig-wand without fear and replied triumphantly, "Well, I'm the Simbul, and my power is even greater. Besides, Elminster loves me and does what I want!"

The Old Mage found himself smiling. With the smile, hot tears came unbidden, and his eyes swam.

He waited until he could see the trees clearly again and slipped quietly away.

Sweat glistened on bare, knot-muscled shoulders as Storm Silverhand greeted the morn. A bastard sword with a blade as broad as a man's hand glinted blue and deadly in the rising light as it spun and leapt in her hands.

Storm wore only boots, tattered and patched leather breeches, and huge metal war gauntlets. She grunted from time to time as she twisted, lunged, and danced, fencing with shadows. When she was breathing heavily, Storm paused, leaned on her blade, and called softly, "Vethril! Vethril! To battle, sister!"

In the round-windowed room under the eaves, her two Harper guests awoke as Storm's soft words floated in through the open window. Belkram and Itharr yawned, rubbed their eyes, stretched, and winced. Both were as sore as old saddle horses after being ridden hard. Their eyes met ruefully. Gods, did the woman never rest?

She'd talked late into the night, matching them flagon for flagon. They'd fallen asleep listening to her sing soft, sad sleep-songs of lost Myth Drannor as she swept and washed up. Now she was up and about in the dawn after a day of battle-and that wound-that would leave most men stiff and numb for half a day after.

Perhaps it was this beautiful house and the dale beyond. Harpers, who tend to be folk of the open road, can seldom relax and rarely sleep without a blade to hand. This place was a refuge, a rare opportunity to let go for two men who had a lot of sleep to catch up on.

Nonetheless, they were Harpers. At the first clash of steel they were up, naked but with swords ready in their hands, and rushing to the window. Their jaws dropped together.

Outside, the half-naked Bard of the Blade, silver hair swirling about her, was fighting a ghost. Her translucent, utterly silent opponent swung a very real black-bladed battle-axe. When it met the great bastard sword Storm wielded, sparks flew from the force of the blow.

The two men drank in the sight of Storm's magnificence for a breath and then stared hard at the opponent who hardly seemed to be there. They exchanged glances and whistled soundlessly. The fighting down there was fast. Like their combat in the glade yesterday, it was obviously a friendly battle; no one was striking to slay. But as those huge weapons flashed and spun, crashed together and bobbed about in the hands of their dodging, dancing wielders, the Harpers were struck by just how fast the two women were going at it. Perhaps their own work, yesterday, had looked like that. They'd been far too busy to watch.

Two women? Aye, for the ghost-if that was what it was-was a slim, long-haired woman in a gown. Shorter than Storm, she looked very like the Bard of Shadowdale in features, build, and movement.

The two men could see right through her, but from time to time as she moved, her features grew clearer and more solid. This seemed to happen when emotion rose, whenever the silent figure made an exultant grin, a delighted, soundless laugh, or a grimace of remorse at a missed chance or bad bit of weapon wielding. As the two men watched, Storm leapt high, slashing the axe aside with her own blade, and crashed down on her ghostly opponent with knees drawn up. There was an audible thump as they fell to the trodden turf together.

Itharr leaned out the window to see what had happened just as the axe leapt skyward again and there was a clanging flurry of blows. His naked sword grated for an instant on the window frame.

The silent figure stared up in terror and melted away in an instant, the axe falling. Storm batted it away with her blade, but not fast enough to avoid taking a long slice as the axe blade caught on one bare forearm and slid past.

She shook her head, smiling up at them ruefully, and said, "Fair morn, men. I can't seem to avoid getting cut open when you're around." Clapping a hand to the welling blood, she asked, "A little practice? Or dawnfry first?"

"Uh-food first, if that's your pleasure, Lady," Belkram managed, trying not to stare. "Err-who was that?"

Storm took up the axe in the crook of her arm and started for the door beneath them. "Come down and I'll tell," she called.

Hastily pulling on boots and breeches, the two Harpers went down. They brought their swords because they were, after all, Harpers. The kitchen was as cool and inviting as it had been yesterday.

"Well met." Storm grinned, muscling a cauldron of soup off the hearth, an apron wrapped around her hands to ward off burns. Wordlessly, Itharr went to her and turned up her arm. A long white scar there was fading already. He raised his eyebrows.

Storm gestured with her chin at a shelf behind him, under the stairs they'd descended. "Healing potions there, if you need them."

Belkram cleared his throat. "Lady, at the risk of seeming a complete idiot, I'd like to ask you to tell us whatever you care to about what we just saw-and for that matter, about what happened yesterday."

Storm waved them to seats, whipping warm bread from a hearth pan, and said, "Of course. One of my customs is to limber up of mornings with the heaviest blade I can comfortably swing." She cast a fond glance at the great bastard sword. The two men looked at it leaning against the wall, and both raised their eyebrows at its length and evident weight. "From time to time I call on a sparring partner, whom you saw."

"A ghost?"

"If you like. A soul who dwells here with me and can materialize for short periods. The rest of the time she is my watchguard. If ever you have a message for me and can't find me here, speak it aloud and she'll usually make some sign that she's heard. Moving a chair, for instance. She's handy that way for scaring off thieves."

Itharr nodded slowly. "I can imagine." He looked all around. "She's here all the time?"

Storm nodded. "She doesn't like to show herself to any but me, and I don't like to reveal her to others. I came up to wake you two-with a kiss and a hot mug of bitterroot, as I did yestermorn-and you both slept right on. Well, it's never failed before." She grinned again, and Belkram rolled his eyes. "So I thought you were safely snoring for a bit, and called her."

Itharr nodded again and said, raising his voice only a little, "Ah-well met, Vethril! I'm sorry we broke into things; you swing a mean axe."

A little chill went down his spine as a feminine mouth and chin appeared in the air before him for a moment, over the table. The mouth smiled and was gone.

For a long moment, Belkram stared at where the apparition had been and said, "Yes. Well. Lady, will you tell us about yesterday?"

Storm nodded, not smiling now, and said, "Something happened. Something very important that wisdom forbids me to tell you about. Something, as you know, connected with Mystra. All I can say is beware magic for some time to come. It may go awry in strange ways. More than that; in the days ahead we must all be wary, ready for trouble. It's all too likely to come."

She sighed and broke off a large chunk of bread in her long, strong fingers. Itharr looked from them to the gauntlets and back again. Then his gaze drifted up her naked torso, to be caught and held by Storm's own eyes. She was not smiling, and her eyes held them both as if on two dark sword points. Her voice, when it came, was very soft.

"There is more. For the next little while, the most important being in the entire Realms is the archmage Elminster of Shadowdale. He must be aided and watched at all times by every Harper, so spread the word. He must be kept alive, and he might not be able to use his own magic. We must guard him as if he were a defenseless child. Nothing you do in your lives, gentlemen, is likely to be half so important as this, believe me."

Deep silence fell, and lasted five long breaths before Itharr shivered. They all stirred, and Storm smiled at them again.

"That reminds me," she said briskly, "that we'd best go see Elminster. So break bread, men, and let's be washed up and done."

"Ah," Belkram said, eyeing her, "can we get dressed first? You seem used to going about near unclad and all, but…"

They all chuckled, and Storm rose and took down the leathers she'd worn the day before, from a drying-rack in the beams low overhead.

Itharr looked up at her and said softly, "Vethril? Vethril, are you near?"

The empty chair beside him turned by itself. Itharr nodded and said, "That's your truename, isn't it?" Silence gave him reply. He drew a deep breath and said, "Well, I think it is. And you are a friend-no, a sister"-he heard a sharp intake of breath from nearby-"to a fellow Harper. Know, then, that my truename is Olanshin, and I would be pleased to know thee."

Belkram nodded at the formal words and added, "And mine, unseen lady, is Kelgarh. Well met."

Itharr was startled, then, to feel the touch of soft, cold lips upon his cheek, then wetness. But he was a strong man and a Harper, and did not flinch or bring his hands up but only smiled.

He did not wipe the tears from his cheek. Storm looked at him with an expression of thanks and pride that Itharr would remember to the end of his days. She said huskily, "And mine, friends, is not mine to give. If I could, know you that I would."

Belkram nodded. "We understand," he said, rising from the table with the dishes in his hands. "Mystra forbids."

Storm looked at the empty air. "Truly, sister," she said with a smile, "we've two good ones this time."

The reply, when it came, startled them all: a hissing, ghostly whisper. "You'll need them," was all that Vethril said.

When they were out on the dale road, walking toward the junction that would take them to Elminster's tower, Itharr turned to Storm and said quietly, "That's your sister Sylune, isn't it?"

Storm smiled and nodded, and Itharr saw that her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. "What's left of her," she said, very softly.

"We'll come back to visit you both, when we can," Belkram added. "She's tied to your house, isn't she?"

Storm nodded. "Would that Elminster were, too," she replied. "It would often make my tasks much easier."

One never pays all that much heed to what one has and what one has grown used to, Elminster reflected wryly, looking down at his left hand. Yestermorn these fingers could have hurled lightnings or raised walls of shimmering force with but a thought, but now they could call forth nothing. The same as the hands of most men, the Old Mage reminded himself. Few have been as fortunate to face life with the arms and armor of Art I've wielded. And, oh, Mystra, but I've grown used to it!

Lady, why me?

An instant later, Elminster raised his head defiantly and looked about. Why? he thought, then answered his own question. Because, look ye, I was the best she could turn to. The best. No less.

So I carry her power within me. It has unmanned me, aye, but my wits are still my own, my strength-forgive me, Jhessail! — has not failed me… yet. I may be old, but I carry wisdom and experience more than most. I've seen what one can and cannot do with a blade, and can show most young swagger-swords a thing or two!

Perhaps I should seek out Storm and practice some blade work. But no. She also carries Mystra's burden. What if one or both of us were hurt by some mischance, or by the attack of a Manshoon or Ghalaster? What then? We'd perish, aye, but what of Mystra's spilled power? Lost to the Realms forever, perhaps blasting Shadowdale to dust on the way? Or stolen by a tyrant-mage to use as a whip to bring the Realms to their knees before his rule? No, that's out. Even meeting with others who bear the burden would be ill judgment, with all the foes I've made.

Storm abides in Shadowdale. I am too close to her already. Besides, the longer I tarry here, the more likely someone calling on me for aid will discover what has befallen me. When the word gets out, Shadowdale first, and then what I hold dear in the Realms, will be doomed as I am doomed. Absent, I remain a threat-someone who might return in fury to smite down any invader.

I must go. Slip away, and lose myself-forever, if my magic does not return. Whither, then?

There was a sudden burst of laughter around his very feet. Bewildered, Elminster looked down. He'd walked one of the narrow trodden paths that twist and cross in Shadowdale's backwoods like the web of some giant forest spider. The children he'd seen before, joined by several other dale urchins, had dashed about by other ways. At length and by chance, they'd met with him. Surprise and delight lit their voices as they crowded around his robes, patting and tugging.

Elminster managed a smile and found his gaze caught-and pulled in, as a fisherman drags close his catch-by a pair of very brown, very beautiful eyes. They belonged to a little girl, the one who'd earlier pretended to be the Simbul. Her hands and frock were dirty-she'd evidently fallen down or been pushed-and she was barefoot, but she drew herself up under his gaze with unconscious dignity. Her eyes alight with wonder, she crossed her arms on her breast and bowed from the waist as they did at court in Suzail and on the Sword Coast when meeting royalty.

Elminster stared down at her, oddly touched, his mouth curling in a smile. The bow had been done out of respect, not in the obsequious or emptily formal way he'd seen so often in real courts. He gave her the low, hand-sweeping bow of gallant knights in return, solemnly and with none of the archness with which he bowed to, say, Torm of the Knights in jest.

The girl was silent for a moment and then, very slowly, she blushed. Wonder sparkled in her eyes. She turned suddenly and made as if to dash away but halted, like a bird snagged upon a thorn, as another young voice rang out in protest.

"Jhaleen, you promised! You said you'd ask him! Well, here he is, so…"

The girl, her eyes very large, looked back at the boy who'd spoken and then at Elminster, like a trapped hare. Elminster smiled invitingly.

Jhaleen blurted out, "Lord Elminster! Old Mage! Make magic for us, please! Please!" A chorus of young voices joined her bold one, and she added excitedly, "A dragon flying. Only a little one, just for us!"

Elminster smiled, felt tears near again, and knelt down to embrace her. "Not this morn, little one," he said softly, his eyes very blue. "Magic must be saved up, like coins, and used only when other ways fail."

She blinked up at him, disappointed, and Elminster chuckled and rubbed her cheek with the back of one long, gentle finger. He remembered, then, where he'd seen this brown-eyed girl before. In one of his dreams.

"Nay, be not downcast, Jhaleen. I see some things, know ye, in my dreams. Things I know will come to pass, in summers still to come." He leaned close to her, and whispered for her ears alone, "I've seen thee-much taller than now, and stern-riding a dragon."

She looked into his eyes and saw truth, and her mouth dropped open in awe and trembled just a little in fear. It is one thing to dream of dragons, and quite another to know with cold certainty that someday you will be touching one. More than that; flying high above the ground on a dragon's scaly back, with empty air as high as castles beneath you, and a twisted death below should you fall.

Elminster chuckled, and clapped her on the shoulder. "Go on playing thy games," he said, "and watch close what the Queen of Aglarond says and does when she visits us. And perhaps ye will befriend and even come to command dragons." Then he rose and walked slowly away from them all.

White-faced and silent, Jhaleen watched the Old Mage as he moved away into the depths of the forest. She'd seen the glint of tears in the archmage's eyes and could only think he foresaw something terrible that would happen to her. She stood watching him go until the trees hid him from view, then turned and hurried toward the path that led out of the trees toward home.

"Jhaleen, where be you going, then? Don't you want to play at high magic, anymore?" the boy who'd pretended to be Elminster called.

Jhaleen wheeled around so suddenly that the smaller children, who'd followed her out of habit, jumped back in apprehension. With a fierceness that surprised even herself she hissed, "I'll never play games about magic again! Never. It's… not something to play at."

She turned about again and ran out of the woods as if the black-armored warriors of Zhentil Keep were chasing her, faster than she'd ever run before. Her lungs burned and tears swam before her eyes, but the black terror that ran after her was worse.

Her fleet bare feet pounded along the earthen paths, stumbling and hurrying, until she came out into the dapped sunlight at last. Panting like a winded horse, she tore her way through young branches and, with a little shriek of fear, almost ran into someone. A tall lady clad in leather armor stood in the meadow beyond, brown hair flowing down over her shoulders in a fall almost as long as the slim sword scabbarded at her hip.

Jhaleen twisted to avoid running right into that blade, and fell. In an instant, gently strong hands raised her again and steady gray-green eyes looked into her own.

It was the Lady Sharantyr of the Knights. "What's wrong, lass? What's to run from, so?"

A breath later, Jhaleen was sobbing out all the Lord Elminster had said and how he'd been crying and had walked away.

The lady ranger held Jhaleen close. Sharantyr comforted the girl, turned her back to face the trees, and told her firmly never to run from what frightened her but to back away from it calmly and carefully, to see what it did.

Jhaleen felt a little better and managed a smile. She nodded when Sharantyr told her to take a walk in the sunlight and think carefully about what Elminster had said, so as to remember it properly later.

Biting at her knuckle to hold back fresh tears, Jhaleen watched Sharantyr go on into the wood. The lady had looked so sad when Jhaleen had told her about the Old Mage, and now she was hurrying through the trees as if to catch him. Something was wrong, very wrong. And with the Lord Elminster at the heart of it, who could tell her what was right, and what should be done, and what the truth of it all was?

As Jhaleen backed carefully away from the dark trees into the warmth of the full sun, she looked around, but no one came with answers. She was all alone with the trees and the grass, and there was no one to guide her. She walked without a known way before her, unsure of what to do next. Like someone she'd just seen, she realized suddenly.

Just like the Old Mage, walking away into the trees.

Elminster walked on into the deepening forest, just walking ever onward, tree-cloaked hillsides rising and falling under his feet. He felt empty and weak, as useless as a rotted log, and at the same time restless with the power that fairly crackled within him. Power he could not use, could not touch, dare not try to unleash. "By Mystra's touch," wizards often swore. By Mystra's touch, indeed.

His wandering feet brought him to the edge of a little gully, and Elminster paused a moment, gazing about to choose his route onward. He heard the faintest of sounds in the underbrush far behind him and nodded. The fifth time… too often for all such noises to have been small, disturbed forest creatures.

Someone-or something-was following him. Someone intelligent and with deliberate purpose. Someone who took care to keep out of sight. Elminster sighed and turned to face back the way he had come. "Ye may as well walk with me," he announced to the woods, "though truth to tell ye I'd prefer silent company this day."

Silence greeted him, the listening, waiting silence of the forest. The old wizard joined its wait for a breath or two and then shrugged, turned about, and went on. Not a friend, then-or not overbold, at least.

His hand strayed to the hilt of the belt knife he'd almost forgotten and then fell away again. Perhaps the magic he wore would suffice-in rings and pipe and wand, and even in the dagger strapped inside his right boot, whose soft sole was already wearing thin-even if the Art of his head and hands had deserted him. Elminster feared he'd soon have to find out.

He shrugged, trotted down a little bank, and plowed through a hollow that was ankle deep in dry leaves. He climbed its far side steadily and walked deliberately on into the rising land beyond, but paused in a stand of massive shadowtops to listen.

After what seemed like a long time, he heard the sound he'd waited for. Now was as good a time as any to look at death, he supposed wryly. He turned and took one step around the dark trunk of a forest giant, laid a hand on his belt knife-and the world fell on him, gauntleted hands smashing brutally into his face and stabbing steely fingers at his throat.