Spellfire

10
Full Flagons

The knights had traveled swiftly into the woods, moving northward, after the retreat of Manshoon. The Thunder Peaks marched north on their left with them as they went, leaving Rauglothgor's shattered lair behind. They walked until night fell, rose with the dawn, and went on again until another nightfall.

In Mistledale, the knights purchased mules. Elminster let lapse the last of a succession of floating discs he had conjured up to carry Shandril, despite her protests. The others had walked.

A footsore Narm clambered up onto his mule, which favored him with an unfriendly look, and glanced enviously at the knights who still sprang about and vaulted up into their saddles and traded jests with unflagging enthusiasm. They were obviously all used to walking miles at a stretch, from aged Elminster to the Lady Jhessail. Narm's thighs were achingly stiff. He grinned as Rathan, who had begun a ballad that told of the glories of Tymora's favor, gave up helplessly under Torm's persistent needling. The thief had quickly parodied line after line as they plunged into a narrow, gloomy path in the woods. Rathan ceased with a sigh when they were barely out of sight of Mistledale's sunlight.

The green dimness of the woods was all about them now. Shandril leaned over to Narm and asked in a low voice, "How far away is Myth Drannor?" They traded sober glances, and Jhessail turned in her saddle and said, "Due east of us, several days distant. The river Ashaba lies between us and Myth Drannor at all times, this trip. That gate The Shadowsil took you through in the ruined city took you across half the Dalelands to the dracolich's lair."

The couple's involuntary shared sigh of relief was cut short by Torm's dry, sharp voice saying from where he rode watchfully behind them, "Ah, yes. We can head that way if you'd like. I hear one can have a devil of a time there, heh-heh…"

He smiled benignly at the chorus of dirty looks flung his way. Someone has to provide entertainment, after all.

It was late. The golden light of approaching sunset glinted on leaves ahead of and above them. Vet the knights pressed on. Riding beside each other except where trees in the trail forced them into single file, Narm and Shandril clasped hands reassuringly. Whatever happened, they were together. When it grew suddenly much darker, Jhessail and Merith conjured glowing motes of light that drifted along in midair with them, bobbing and floating about, occasionally darting to one side to illuminate this or that tangle of brush or dark thicket.

They rode on slowly amid the giant trees and smaller saplings alike, the soft singing of crickets all about them. The chorus would die away in front of them and begin again behind them. Off to one side or the other, particularly to the right, eerie gray-green and blue radiances-small and scattered glows that did not move-could be seen occasionally.

"What's that?" Narm asked, pointing. "Is it witchfire?"

Merith nodded. "Glow moss, witchfire, and the other fungi of the forest that shine at night. The elven name for all of them is, in Common, 'nightshine'." The elf lounged in his saddle, helm hung from its horn, very much at his ease. Of course, Shandril thought, feeling suddenly less awed and much safer, to Merith this endless wood is home. She relaxed, and very soon sank low in her saddle.

Jhessail saw her, and quietly worked a spell of sleep upon her and upon Narm, who rode, nodding himself, beside her. Merith took charge of the mules as his lady cast another floating disc. Torm chuckled softly as he boosted the sleepers from saddle to disc, and then yawned himself.

"Oh, no, you don't!" Jhessail warned him. "Get back on your mule."

Torm spread his hands in injured and very feigned innocence. "Why you think all these terrible things of me I don't know-I am grievously wronged, indeed, and-"

He staggered forward a step under the unexpected impact of a solid nudge in the back from his mule, and his friends burst into laughter all around him.

"Be an adventurer," he grumbled as he settled himself in his saddle again. "Become rich and famous, they said. Hmph."

"Famous, anyway," Merith assured him. "Why, I've even seen notices with your picture on them posted here and there. And of course all these men with knives keep calling on you…"

Torm made a rude noise. It was returned, with spirit, from where Elminster rode in stately dignity ahead of them all, startling everyone into silence. It all made no difference to the mules.

The sun was bright and high again when Narm and Shandril came slowly awake. Their arms had crept about each other in slumber, and they were drowsy and deep-rested. Narm looked up at the sun-dappled leaves overhead, heard the familiar creak of leather and soft thud of the mules' hooves, and relaxed, Shandril's warmth and weight on his left side. His left hand tingled. He wiggled his fingers to bring feeling and strength back and felt her stir. Then he realized he was flat on his back, moving, with no mule bumping and shifting beneath him. He sat up in alarm.

He and Shandril were floating serenely along on a disc of firm nothingness, with Jhessail just behind them and Merith just ahead. Far ahead, over Elminster's shoulder, he could see Lanseril leading the way toward a brightening in the trees. Jhessail smiled reassuringly at him. "Well met, this morn," she said. "We are almost in Shadowdale."

As she spoke, and Shandril sleepily pulled herself up Narm's shoulder to see, they came out of the trees into a high-walled passage between two redoubts of heaped stones. The silver and blue banners of Shadowdale, showing the spiral tower and crescent moon, stirred in the faint morning breezes, and men in armor with Shadowdale's arms on their surcoats stood with pikes and crossbows.

"'Ware!" called the guard formally, barring the way to the bridge beyond. The sight of the lords and lady of the dale had them bowing and standing aside in the next breath. The sight of Elminster made them more silent than usual, and Narm and Shandril passed over the mill bridge and into the dale without a word of query or challenge.

No escort rode with them as they passed by lush green fields. The dale opened out before them, the forest rising on either side like great green walls. Shandril looked about her happily. Narm, who had seen it before, asked Jhessail, "Lady, may we ride? I would feel-less the fool, I suppose. My thanks for the traveling bed, mistake me not-it's a trick I must learn one day, if you will. It moves where you will it to go?"

"It does," Jhessail said gravely, "although if you mind it not, it will follow twenty paces or so behind-and if you leave it where it cannot follow, it speedily passes away and is no more." She grinned. "But of course you shall ride-it would not do for you to look different fools than the rest of us."

They all rode up to the Twisted Tower together and were made welcome. Mourngrym came striding out with his cloak slapping around him, and said to Narm, "So here you are back, and I find that not only must you stick your neck into clear danger again and again, you must drag all my protectors and companions with you, even Elminster, and leave the dale undefended." His eyes twinkled. "And do I look upon the reason for your return to peril? Lady, I am Mourngrym, the lord who is left behind to sit the seat in the dale while his elders take the air, see sights, and enjoy their journeys. Welcome! How may I call you?"

"Lord Mourngrym, I am Shandril Shessair," Shandril said firmly, blushing only faintly in her shyness. "I am handfast to Narm." Her voice lowered in curiosity. "These are your comrades? You have ridden to battle together?"

Mourngrym laughed. "Indeed," he said, handing her down onto a stool one of the guards had just whirled into place. "No doubt you can tell from what you've known of them already how wild the tales of our adventures are." Merith clapped him on the shoulder in passing. Mourngrym grinned. "I'm afraid you'll have to wait until too much drink has flowed before I start telling any tales, though others here"-he looked meaningfully at Torm-"are weaker."

They went into the tower. "And how was your journey, Narm?" Mourngrym asked as they entered a feasting hall where the mingled smell of cooking bacon and a great spiced stew made mouths water.

"Oh," Narm replied mildly, steadying Shandril as they came to the table, "eventful."

"You are called to feast, lady," said the serving maid with a smile. Through the open door Shandril could hear soft harping. "One waits without to take you down. Shall I send him in?"

"Oh-yes. Yes, please," Shandril said, still gazing around at the beautiful bedchamber, with its hangings of elven warriors riding stags through the forest-the High Hunt of the Elven Court, a unicorn glowing in the trees far off at its head-and its round, canopied bed.

Shandril's gown, too, was a beautiful thing of Calishite silk overlaid with a finework tabard for warmth in the stone halls of the north. The tabard's beading was of interwoven crescent moons and silver horns and unicorns. On her arm she wore proudly her joined ring and bracelet of electrum and sapphires. It awed Shandril to see herself in the great burnished metal mirror.

Then in came Narm, in a grand great-sleeved tunic of wine-purple velvet, matching silk hose, and boots trimmed with fur. Hanging from his belt was the lion-headed dagger. His hair had been washed and trimmed and doused with perfume-water, and his eyes outshone the rings on his fingers.

He came in eagerly, mouth opening in a smile to speak-and stopped in awe. Eyes shining, he took a hesitant step forward. "My lady?" he asked. "Shandril?" His voice was very quiet. "You are beautiful," he added slowly. "As graceful as any high lady I have ever seen."

"And how many such ladies have you seen?" Shandril teased him. "It's still the same me, if I'm in plain gray robes or a man's tunic and breeches, hair washed or unwashed."

"Yes," Narm said. "But I fear even to touch you, when you are clad so-I could only mar perfect beauty." His voice was husky and serious. His eyes shone.

"Shameless flatterer," Shandril said reprovingly. "But if that is so, I'll have them all off, at once, and go down in my thieves' garb. I would much rather go on your arm in rags, than walk grandly clad and alone."

"No, no," Narm said, taking her arm. "I can conquer my fears-see? — only promise me you'll talk with me after all the hurly-burly, and in good light. I would not soon forget how you look now."

"Talk, and in good light? Let us go down to table, my lord. Your hunger is weakening your wits," Shandril teased, and led him to the door. Thus it was in the hallway outside, under the politely averted eyes of a guard, that the young mage turned Shandril about and kissed her. The soft horn fanfare that summoned all to first table sounded twice before they parted and went down the stairs. The guard kept his face carefully expressionless.

"Thank you, but no, Lord. Truly, I can eat no more," Shandril protested, holding up a hand in front of a platter of steaming boar in gravy. Mourngrym laughed.

"Well enough," he warned, "but the more you eat, the longer you can drink. When none of these here can eat a crumb more, you will find that they can yet find room to drink. It's a mystery to me why some who come to my table say they are come to a 'feast,' when what they do is eat a few bites and then hoist flagons all the night through."

"I–I should be sick if I tried, Lord" Shandril said simply. Mourngrym smiled again.

"Good, then. I am similarly affected. If the two of you can spare us a few words before retiring, my Lady Shaerl and I would be very happy to have your company in the bower upstairs. I believe you have met Storm Silverhand and Sharantyr. We will have other guests: Jhessail and Elminster, and possibly Illistyl. Go up when you cannot hear each other any more-oh, yes, it grows much noisier than this. If you will forgive me, I must walk among my people. When their tongues are wet and loose, I learn their true grievances and concerns." He nodded to them both and rose. Shandril and Narm exchanged glances.

All around them was tumult. Softly glowing luminescent globes of glass, enspelled earlier by Illistyl, lit the hall. At one end, a gigantic fire blazed merrily beneath spits of boar and ox, filling the room with aromatic smoke. The long board was crammed with platters of food and decanters and skins of wine. A harpist and a glaurist played almost unheard amid the din of sixty-odd people laughing and talking all at once.

Most of the knights were there. Torm was almost unrecognizable in dazzling, almost foppish finery of slit and puffed sleeves, fur-trimmed silks set with winking gems, and many fine chains of gold studded with large rubies and emeralds. A single giant king's tear hung in silky-smooth clarity upon his bared breast, encupped in a webwork of polished strips of electrum, the first that either Narm or Shandril had ever seen. The thief outshone Mourngrym and, indeed, all the bejeweled ladies in the room, and strode grandly about drinking from a massive chased silver tankard as tall as his forearm was long.

He caught Shandril's eye as she stared. He winked, reached into one sleeve, plucked out a silver-hilted dagger whose blade was needle-thin and dull black, tossed it casually into the air, caught it a breath later, winked again, and put it away as smoothly. Rathan, ruddy-faced and amiable, also looked resplendent in green velvet, the silver symbol of Tymora upon his breast.

Many of the diners were standing, now, and a few had begun to dance. Far across the room Narm caught sight of the commanding height and broad shoulders of Florin, looking every inch a king. Beside him stood a lady Narm had last seen on a forest trail near Myth Drannor, and before that in the taproom of The Rising Moon inn in Deepingdale, sword drawn and ready: Storm Silverhand. She wore a simple gown of gray silk, with only a broad black cummerbund and a silver-hilted dagger for ornament, but she looked so regal and beautiful that Shandril forgot all thoughts of what a fine gown and tabard did for herself.

"Look," she breathed, grasping Narm's hand and pointing with a nod of her head.

"Yes. I see" he replied, and turned to Lanseril, who stood near at hand talking to a burly, bearded man in amber and russet. The druid wore a simple brown woolen robe. Narm touched his hand. "Pray excuse my interruption, friend Lanseril."

"No excuse needed, Narm-it's what everyone does. My life is a series of interruptions," Lanseril replied with a warm smile. He bent his head near. "What is it?"

"The Lord Florin-is the Lady Storm his-ah, handfast to him, or-?"

Lanseril chuckled. "Florin is married to Storm's sister, the ranger Dove, who is soon to bear his child, and is for her safety presently elsewhere. Storm's man, Maxam, was killed this past summer. She does not speak of that, mind. Florin and Storm are friends who keep each other from being too lonely at dance and at table. Despite what Torm may slyly hint, they are no more than that."

The druid turned and touched the sleeve of the man he had been speaking with.

"May I introduce Thurbal, Captain-of-Arms and Warden of Shadowdale?" he asked politely. Thurbal, a man of weatherbeaten and plain features whose eyes were at once shrewd and kindly, bowed to them both.

"Lady Shandril and Lord Narm," he said, "I bid you my own welcome. Have you enjoyed the feast thus far?"

"I–I, yes, greatly," Narm replied, noting the great plain-scabbarded broadsword Thurbal wore at his side, despite his high-booted finery.

"It's the first feast I've ever been invited to, Lord," Shandril replied. "I–I am no high lady, I fear."

Thurbal frowned slightly. "My pardon," he said, "I assumed-ah, but no harm done if you will forgive me, for I am no lord, either. Lord Lanseril told me something of your importance. I hope you will not take offence if I seem to watch you closely while you're here; it seems my brawn is on the block, so to speak, if you are endangered when I might have prevented it."

"Endangered?" Narm asked, as Shandril paled. "Here?"

Thurbal spread broad, heavy hands. "We live in a world of magic, Lord. There are no safe defenses. All the might I can muster to hold steel to your lady's defense and your own cannot stop magic that finds a way through. I sometimes wonder what it would be like if all men had to stand or fall by their actions at the end of a sword, and there was no magic about. But then again, such a world might be in a worse mess than this one."

"But we have enemies?" Narm asked soberly.

Lanseril shrugged and replied, "Shandril, or the two of you together, can create and hurl spellfire, something known only in the histories of art; something very powerful indeed. Many would like to be the only one to control and wield it. You must watch the shadows, and expect trouble, even here."

"And get used to being 'lord' and 'lady'," Thurbal said with a grin. "All of the knights hold that title, and you stand with them until you declare and choose otherwise. My men will obey and aid you the better if they continue to think you are Lord and Lady of the Dale." He paused, and then added, "By the way, Lady Shandril. I have heard from the Lord Florin and the Lady Jhessail of how you put Manshoon of Zhentil Keep to flight. I bow to you. Even with art that the rest of us lack, that is no light thing to have done."

"Have you enemies, indeed?" Lanseril added. "Manshoon is no little one-I don't doubt that he yet lives." Shandril shuddered, and he patted her shoulder immediately. "But think no more of this. Enjoy this night, and let tomorrow look to tomorrow's problems."

"Hmmph-easy enough to say," Narm told him. "Not so easy to school one's mind not to think of something."

Lanseril nodded. "True, and I'm sorry I brought both your thoughts to this now. On the other hand-and think on this, mind; it is the most important training you can have for magecraft. You must be able to control your thoughts as an acrobat controls hands if you are to survive spell against spell. If you ever meet Manshoon to speak to at leisure, you will find him as cold and controlled as Elminster seems whimsical-but is not, underneath. If one is not controlled, one does not live to reach such power, unless one's art is never challenged." And then he smiled. "But enough. I must watch over these fools, while you speak with the more sober upstairs."

"You?" Shandril asked in surpise.

Lanseril looked at her. "Of course. Are these"-he spread both hands to indicate the revelers all around-"not creatures under my care here in the dale, even as the chipmunks and the farmwives' cats are?"

He left Shandril staring thoughtfully after him and strode over to where Torm stood laughing, each arm around a local beauty. Narm shook his head. "I don't know these people, really, yet," he said in her ear, "but they are good people-as good as any I've ever known."

"I know," Shandril whispered back. "That's why I'm so afraid we'll bring death upon them by being here."

Narm looked at her somberly for a long time. At last he said in a low voice, "We have to, Shandril. We will die without their protection-you know that."

Shandril nodded. "Yes. So I am here." Her eyes sought out Mourngrym and saw him walking slowly with Storm and Florin toward the doors. "We should follow on-they are going up now, I think."

Narm nodded amid the dancing and the deafening talk and laughter. Shandril noticed that Thurbal moved quietly to follow them, staying distant, eyes moving constantly.

Torchlight filled the hallway outside with light, reflecting off flagons and goblets all around. Many richly clad men and women, drinks in hand, leaned against the walls laughing and talking. Shandril heard a snatch of one story that was. considered old even in The Rising Moon as she passed, on Narm's arm. They followed a regal lady in shimmering blue-green who wore a twinkling diadem up the stairs. When she turned at the top, they saw that it was Jhessail. She smiled.

"Such long faces," she said tenderly. "Do you like feasts so little?"

"No, it's not that," Shandril whispered back. "We fear to bring danger upon you all."

Jhessail shook her head as they walked on together. "Is that all? Do you not know that we here stand in danger at all times? Zhentil Keep attacks us every summer, at the least. The Cult of the Dragon and the dark elves beneath us are constant menaces… Myth Drannor's devils are a worry to us, as is the lawlessness in Daggerdale. Adventurers may move on, or even run from such problems-but we cannot move the dale. Once we accepted Shadowdale, we became targets, and remain so. Why else live so high as we have been tonight, as those below"-she gestured to the noise-"still do?"

She traded glances with the young couple. "I could be slain tomorrow… should I therefore be miserable today? Why not make the best of it?" She took Narm's free hand, and drew them both into the bower. "Come, let us talk of other things." Behind them, Thurbal came watchfully up the stairs.

Within, it was much quieter than below. Florin greeted them both with a firm armclasp, as one warrior to another. Storm smiled and kissed them both, saying, "It is seldom these days that I see two who have entered Myth Drannor leave again, alive."

Beyond her stood another lovely lady with long, silky hair who wore a gown of rich blue that left flanks and back bare, and had slit sleeves. It had been a long road from the taproom of The Rising Moon, and it took a moment before either Narm or Shandril recognized her.

"Sharantyr!" Shandril said when she did, and found herself in a warm embrace. At the same time, Narm was introduced to Mourngrym's wife, Lady Shaerl, by Illistyl-and then a sudden silence fell.

Atop a table that had been bare a moment before stood Elminster. Thurbal was coming in the door with sword half-drawn before he saw who it was and halted, shaking his head. But the sage had eyes only for Narm and Shandril.

"Elminster!" Jhessail greeted him. "Well met!"

"Aye… aye," Elminster told her, "I've seen ye all before. It is with Narm and Shandril I would speak tonight." He turned to them where they stood, astonished, and said, "I fear I lack courtly graces and the patience for glib flattery and suchlike. So I'll just ask ye, Narm and Shandril. Will ye agree to a testing of thy powers this next night?"

Shandril nodded, her throat suddenly dry. Narm asked quietly. "Will it be dangerous?"

Elminster looked at him. "Breathing is dangerous, lad. Walking is dangerous. Sleeping can even be dangerous. Will it be more dangerous than these? A little. More dangerous than entering Myth Drannor alone? Nay, not by a long road."

Narm flushed and shook his head. "It would be a terrible thing, old mage, to fight you, both armed only with our tongues," he said dryly, and a muted roar of delighted laughter rose around him.

Elminster chuckled. "So, do ye agree?"

Narm nodded. "Yes. Where and when?"

"Ye shall know that only at the last," Elminster told him. "It's safer." Around them, talk began again. Elminster leaned close to them both. "Do ye enjoy the company of these folk?" he asked softly. Both nodded. "Good, then," he said. "Most will be at the testing." He patted Narm's shoulder absently in farewell and turned back toward the table. "Oh," he said, halting and turning in midstep. "I do grow forgetful. Shandril, what know ye of thy parents?"

Shandril almost reeled in surprise and sudden sadness. "I… I-nothing," she said, and burst into tears. Narm and Elminster looked at each other in bewilderment for a breath, and then the sage clapped Narm on the shoulder awkwardly. "My forgiveness, if ye will. I had no idea she'd be so upset. Comfort her, will ye? Ye can do it best of all living in Faerun." And with this cryptic remark the sage turned, muttered, "That explains much," to himself, stepped onto the table by way of the chair beside it, and was gone.

A guard touched Torm on his shoulder. "Lord," he said, voice carefully neutral, "it is the hour."

Torm looked up from the wench he'd been kissing and sighed. "My thanks, Rold." A sudden thought made him grin impishly. "Take my place, will you?" He rolled off the bed and to his feet, rearranging his clothing and adroitly bending to avoid the girl's angry slap. Rold held out his sword and belt for him solemnly.

"Me, Lord? It would be more than my life is worth."

"Aye," Torm said as they hurried out together. "I think you have the right of it." He halted in midstride, tore one of the chains off over his head, and handed it to the mustachioed veteran. "Give her this, will you, as a gift from me? My apologies, also, and I'll try to see her as soon as I can. My duty to Shadowdale must come first, and all that."

"Of course, Lord," Rold said, and turned back to calm Torm's angry companion. He found her sitting amid the disarray of the bed morosely, anger past, and dropped the chain into her hand.

"It's no fault of yours," he said, "that the Lord Torm is so young and ill-reared that he cannot give you a night when he is not called to guard duty. He gives you this by way of clumsy apology, and sends me to pour soothing words in your ear. I doubt he even knows we are kin."

"I could tell that," Naera said, taking her gown as he extended it to her wordlessly. "Are you angry with him, uncle?"

Rold shook his head. "Nay, lass, not for long. I have seen something of the road he walks. Are you?" He buttoned and adjusted with as much skill as any mistress-of-robes, and patted her behind fondly when he was done.

"Not after a breath or two. Where did he have to go in such haste?" She looked at the chain dangling in her hands.

"He patrols, outside, with the Lord Rathan. Elminster expects some trouble tonight… someone trying to get at our guests, no doubt."

Naera turned to him in astonishment. "The young lad and lass? What danger could they possibly be to anyone? They are not royal, or suchlike."

Rold chuckled. "Young, says Naera, who dallies with a man younger than herself, a-Oh? Did you not know? Yes, the lord's seen a winter less than you have… Don't look like that, now; was he any greater the monster for that?" He grew serious. "The young lass, as you rightly call her, defeated the High Lord of Zhentil Keep himself, the fell mage Manshoon. Scared him into flight, she did, and him riding a dragon, too! She holds some great power."

Naera stared at him in amazement. "And Torm is needed to guard that?"

Rold nodded. "Why else do you think I've never spoken ill to you of pursuing him as you have? It is a rare one you chase, for all his rashness and rudeness and dishonest ways. I'd not want to stand against him in a fight." He paused at the door and looked back, saying, "You'd do well to remember that, little one, when you're sending slaps his way. Come down, now, and we'll see what's left at table. You must be hungry after all you've been up to this evening."

Naera made a face at him, but rose to follow. She wore the chain proudly around her neck as they swept down the stairs.

In his chambers, Torm had torn off his fine clothing and jewelry like so many rags and pebbles and hurled them onto the bed, leaped around finding his gray leathers and blades, and burst back out the door like a lunatic, almost colliding with Rathan. The cleric stood waiting, arms crossed patiently, leaning on the wall across from Torm's door.

"Remembered, did ye?" the cleric said jovially. "I warrant ye had help. It's your short stature, I tell ye… with that small head ye carry upon thy shoulders, there's no room for a brain that can think, once ye've filled it with mischief until it runs out thy ears and mouth-"

His words were cut short by a shrewd elbow in the belly as they hurried down the stairs. Puffing for breath, the cleric leaned on a pillar by the door, thought a prayer to Tymora, and then bustled out the door into the night.

"Remembered, did you?" a mocking voice asked out of the darkness beside him.

"Tymora forgive me," Rathan Thentraver said aloud as he swept a pike out of the startled hands of a doorguard and rammed its butt end hard into the shadows. He was rewarded by a grunt. Satisfied, he returned the pike with a nod of thanks, and said kindly, "If ye're quite finished playing the bobbing fool this night, perhaps we can get going. It might interest ye to know, by the way, that the guard ye gave the chain to is the uncle of the maid ye were dallying with. Adroit, lad. Adroit."

"Oh, gods," came the softly despairing cry, out of shocked silence. "Why me?"

"I've often wondered that. Truly, the gods must have grander senses of humor than we do," Rathan replied, as they clapped hands on each other's shoulders in the darkness, and drew their weapons. "Now, let's get on with this, shall we?"

They had much wine and talked until late. At the last, Illistyl (she who had rescued Narm from devils not so very long ago) and Sharantyr were left in the bower, standing together, the ranger a head and more taller than Illistyl.

"We should say good-night, if we are to be fit for the testing on the morrow," Illistyl said wearily, putting down an empty goblet. "You have seen them both in battle, have you not? What manner of dweomercraefters will I be training?"

Sharantyr shook her head. "I never saw them fight. I cannot help you, I fear." She shrugged. "I think it better you should come to the task, if it falls to you, knowing nothing of them, and alert for all. What say you?"

Illistyl nodded and sighed. "You have the right of it." She turned for the door. "Good evening, sister-at-arms. I must seek my bed before I fall upon any bare stretch of floor."

"Good evening," Sharantyr replied, and they kissed cheeks and parted. The ranger wandered down the stairs, a little dizzy, and nodded to the guards. Setting her goblet upon a table in the hall, she sought cool air to clear her head, and went out by the great front doors. One of the guards asked her, "Would you have an escort, lady?" He eyed her gown. "It is cold," he warned briefly.

"Aye? Oh, no, thank you," Sharantyr told him. "And it is the cold I seek," she added, putting the back of her hand to her forehead in mock-faintness. Both guards chuckled and saluted her.

"The Lady of the Forest and Tymora both watch over thee, Lady," they wished her, and she nodded. She went on past other guards and flaring torches and the last fading sounds of revelry, into the cool, dark night.

Overhead, Selune rode high in the starlit night sky, trailing her Tears. Sharantyr stood for a long breath looking up at the bright moon, and then set off toward the river at a brisk walk. It would not do to catch a chill by remaining still too long-and, besides, no doubt her bladder would want to be free of much wine now she was out in the cold. The tall ranger looked about her without fear at the dark trees ahead. This was her true home, for all that she had come to it late. The dizziness was leaving her as she came out into the road with the dew of the tower meadow on her boots. She let fall the hem of her gown again and approached the bridge.

"Most will be drunk by now," the one called the Hammer of Bane grunted. "These Dalefolk are all alike. Too much to eat and too much to drink all at once, and they'll be as sluggish as worms in the winter until tomorrow eve, when they can do it all over again. The ones we want will be inside, you can be sure, and may be well guarded. But if we are quick enough that they cannot wake any mages, there should be few others they can call to their aid."

Laelar, the High Imperceptor's henchman priest, rose, in the darkness, and continued, "You two cast a spell of silence on that stone, and bear it with us as we swim across. Remain below, by the bank, until the rest of us have the rope up, and then stay at the bottom and deal with anyone who happens by. We'll up and do the grab. If we pull on the rope thrice, come up to us. Otherwise, stay where you are." There were nods, all around, and the curly-haired priest of Bane nodded. "Right… let's go. Cast your spell."

The guards on the bridge greeted Sharantyr with polite curiosity, but let her pass unchallenged. As she passed into the trees, she glanced back and saw them shrug to each other and smiled ruefully. Oh, well, no doubt they already considered all of the knights crazy. She walked on swiftly and quietly, past the temple of Tymora and into the deep woods, until she found a stump where she could sit and relax.

After a time, she heard unmistakable noises, and looked up with a frown. There were large creatures off to her right; men, most probably. Best to be quiet until she knew who they were, and why they were here. Then utter silence fell, very suddenly. Puzzled, Sharantyr rose and peered through the moon-dappled trees. Eight men were moving soundlessly down to the river Ashaba.

"Time to stop shivering here and make another round of the tower," Torm said. "Even anyone foolish enough to attack the dale in the first place knows that everything and everyone of value is in the tower. If they aren't creeping through these trees, they'll be over there on the other side of the river, in those trees."

"Think ye so?" Rathan grunted. "If they're as foolish as ye say, why don't they ride right up to the gates pretending friendship and then do their fighting? It'd save a lot of time and creeping around, would it not?" Torm chuckled. "Of that," Rathan noted, "ye can be sure. I may be reckless enough to please Tymora, but I'm not reckless enough to creep around as ye do." He peered ahead. "Look ye, down by the old dock… was that not a man, moving?"

Torm peered. "I see nothing," he muttered. "Get down, will you? They'll be well warned if some great giant with a mace and the sanctity of Tymora heavy upon him sails into their midst. Down!" Rathan grunted his way reluctantly to his knees and then to his breast in the dew-wet grass. "Now," Torm continued, "look along the ground and see if Selune above us lights them from behind as they stand above you." His tone changed. "There! Was that the place you saw before?"

"Aye, and there's another." The cleric rolled over and rose to his knees. Holding the disc of Tymora out before him by its chain, he chanted softly.

The silver disc seemed to sparkle for a moment, and then Rathan turned his head and said shortly, "Evil. Aye."

Torm nodded. "The prudent thing to do now would be to summon guards, create a big fray and much upset… Look, they have one of those magical ropes that climbs by itself. By the time we could rouse all, they could well have done much damage."

Rathan was already clambering to his feet. "Ye want to have fun, is what ye mean. Right, then; let's go." His mace gleamed in Selune's pate light as he raised it. "Don't fall, now," he warned. "It would not do for a priest of Tymora to rush upon them with the ferocity of a raging lion, but alone."

"Keep up, if you can," Torm replied, breaking suddenly into a run of almost frightening speed. Rathan shook his head and followed.

Laelar was third on the rope. He watched narrowly as the adept at the top looked cautiously in a window. If the alarm was raised now, before they could get proper footing within, things could go ill indeed. He belched to ease his taut stomach, knowing that the magical silence would cover the sound, for he carried a second stone that bore a dweomer of silence upon it. Utter silence reigned. Overhead, the moon shone uncaring.

There was a violent tug on the rope, and the warrior immediately above Laelar lost his hold and came crashing down upon the Hammer of Bane in a silence that could only be magical.

Torm rushed straight in at the two warriors. Blades swept out to impale him, but he dove hard at the turf in front of them, rolled, and straightened his legs as he somersaulted to catch those blades and bring their points down. Rathan leaned over him, mace glinting in the moonlight, to strike a blow with all his weight behind it. The man he struck crumpled, neck shattered, and fell to the side, forcing his comrade to leap away or be struck and encumbered.

Torm, on the ground, scissored the man's legs between his own, and twisted around hard. The warrior toppled helplessly, arms and blade flailing, and Rathan dealt another heavy blow with his mace. He spun around to see if any of those on the rope were close enough to attack them, but the velvet silence had prevented any warning sounds. Only the man at the bottom of the rope was turning, startled. Torm slammed into him like a dark wind in the night, and swept him away from the rope into the wall beyond, knife flashing repeatedly as they fell together.

Rathan hurried to the rope, saw with satisfaction that only Torm was getting up, wrapped his hand around it securely, and hauled. He let go immediately and stepped back, not a breath too soon. Two mailed bodies crashed together into the space he had just left. Rathan attacked again with his mace. Tymora smiled, surely, or else it could never be this easy.

It wasn't. One of the two who had fallen still moved. Torm rushed in, catlike, with his dagger, and was struck by a black rod that seemed to come out of nowhere and shook him from teeth to fingertips. He staggered back soundlessly, and Rathan moved in.

Rod struck mace. Rathan felt the jolt up his arm, shuddered-magic! Gods' laugh, wouldn't you know it-and struck again. His blow was countered. The force of the counter-blow drove him back. Another was down the rope now, this one a warrior with a blade. Rathan and Torm went forward together, cautiously.

There was a flurry of blows, much shoving and twisting, and the foes reeled apart again. Torm threw daggers carefully at the curly-haired one with the rod, more to spoil any working of magic than to injure. They were struck aside, harmlessly. The other foe, the warrior, plucked something from his throat and threw it over Torm's shoulder.

The world burst into flames. Torm and Rathan were thrown forward in that terrible silence. Blistering flames raged over and past them. Those they faced reeled back against the tower wall at the searing heat. The rope, still standing upright by itself, was blackened but not burned. Torm stared at it as he sank to his knees in agony, face twisting in a soundless scream.

Laelar staggered grimly forward, his rod of smiting raised to strike.

Out of the night came something long and slim and feet first. The Hammer of Bane was struck in the neck and throat and flipped over backward like a child's toy, the black rod bouncing free of his weakening grasp as he hit the ground. Sharantyr, her wet gown plastered to her, landed on her shoulders after her devastating kick, and rolled over and up in time to face the warrior.

She stood, panting, hands spread but weaponless, facing that advancing blade. She suddenly realized that she could hear the wet grass slithering as her foe advanced and Torm groaning on the ground beside her. The spell of silence had been lifted. Light suddenly sprang into being all about them, and Sharantyr saw Rathan struggling to his feet out of the corner of her eye for an instant before the warrior of Bane charged. Someone-she had not time to see who-fell heavily out of the darkness above, and crashed to earth beside the rope with a horrible thud. The warrior was rushing at her.

"Die, bitch!" she heard him hiss under his breath, as he slashed down at her crosswise, a blow she could not hope to avoid. Sharantyr flung herself backward, and felt the very tip of his blade burn along her ribs as she fell. She cursed weakly, as she struck the ground, and rolled desperately away to her left-straight into Torm. Oh, gods, she thought, this is it. She twisted around, trying to raise her feet to kick away the killing blade.

But it never came. There was a solid, meaty thwack off to her right, grunts and the ringing clang of hard-driven metal upon metal, and crashing about in the grass. Then a very weak, whispering voice by her elbow said, "Good lady, I fear you are lying upon my arm. It's almost worth the pain, though, for the view." Sharantyr grinned in spite of herself.

"Sorry, Torm," she said, wincing, as she fell onto her side and rolled clear of him again. Across the beaten grass, a blackened and burned Rathan was thoughtfully picking up the black rod. Hefting it, he brought it down on the back of the warrior's neck, and then rapped the helm of the cleric with it smartly. Then he looked up.

Mourngrym was leaning out of the window above, Jhessail beside him, wand in hand. "All well?" he called. Mutely shaken heads answered him, and then guards and hastily-roused acolytes from the temples were around them.

"Don't kill that one," Rathan said faintly, indicating the cleric. "Mourngrym will want to question someone about this, and I'd rather it wasn't me." Then he fainted, laying aside his mace and all his cares for a time.

Dawn was clear and chillingly cold, despite the sunrise that shone brightly on the Thunder Peaks above. The small party of dragon cultists climbed the last reaches of a familiar trail and stared at the destruction before them. Where an abandoned but solid keep had stood, over the caverns that led to the lair of Rauglothgor the Undying Wyrm, there was now a vast, round basin of tumbled rock. Here and there gold coins glimmered in the bright, early light.

"May the Dead Dragons wake," Arkuel muttered, shocked. Malark ignored the blasphemy in his own amazement and gathering rage. It was even as those cowards had said. The girl-or others, but there was no reason to doubt their story now that he'd seen this-had blown the entire mountaintop asunder. The hallowed Rauglothgor, his treasure, the storage caverns, and all the spare weapons and provisions of the followers stored there were gone. This was magic such as the gods must have hurled about in careless might when the world was young. Oh, aye, a dozen archmages could wreak such a result on undefended, unmagical walls, given time enough-but one girl-child, untutored and alone, in the midst of a battle?

Malark drew off his gloves idly. A formidable foe, indeed, if she could do this to great Rauglothgor. Yet she must die. The honor of the cult, of Sammaster First-Speaker, now dust in a ruined city, and of Rauglothgor, now destroyed, demanded it. The safety of us all who remain, he added wryly to himself, also demands it.

Malark, Archmage of the Purple, sat straighter in his saddle, slim and cruel, and looked around with cold black eyes. He gestured to the coins at their feet. "Pick those up-all of them. Recover the lost treasure of Rauglothgor." He dismounted, cloak swirling, and strode over to stare at the shattered stone. Gods above, he thought, shaken. The entire mountain has been smashed. He looked at the hand-sized pieces of rubble and recalled the tower upon its bare ridge of rock, as he'd seen it the last time he was here, and shook his head. He saw it, but he could still scarcely believe it. And yet he, Malark Himbruel, must stand against-and defeat-the power that had done this.

If he could not, who else? There were the liches, yes, but tiches were chancy things. They served, really, only themselves, and were like the wine of Elversult-they did not travel well. There were other, lesser mages among the ranks of the followers, yes, but he dared not let such a one prevail against an important foe. His own standing in the ranks of the Purple might be threatened.

He was not loved, he knew. The others-who for the most part hated and feared magic that they could not control in their hands, magic not trapped in items they could wield and understand, or that which did not come from a god who laid down strict rules for its use-would not be slow to replace him if other, more controllable mages were at hand. Of course, they would discover that they had merely exchanged one dangerous blade with another-but by then it would be too late for Malark the Mighty. What would it be? Poison? A knife while he slept? Or a magical duel? No, the last was too risky, unless he were drugged or the duel was set against him by allowing his opponent items of power or protective art arranged beforehand; otherwise, Malark might win. The Purple would run red then, indeed.

There were ten non-mages in the Purple: the renegade priest of Tales, Salvarad, the most personally dangerous of them all; their warrior lord and leader, Naergoth; seven warrior-merchants, vicious clods, all; and the soft-spoken, slimy little master thief, Zilvreen. They'd be watching Malark Himbruel to see if he put a foot wrong in this affair. They'd all be watching. Malark thought silent curses upon the head of this mysterious girl and resolved to find someone who'd seen what she'd actually done in the fray. He had to know what the secret of all this power was!

Malark let none of this show on his hawkish face as he watched the men-at-arms scrabbling about in the rocks. "Enough, Arkuel," he called. "You and Suld, come with me. All others are to find all treasure, remains of the great Rauglothgor, and any other recently dead creatures who may be found where the lair was, and bear them to Oversember." Then he turned his back upon them all and began the casting of a Tulrun's tracer spell.

The girl who destroyed this place, Malark ordered firmly, and on a hunch he stood in the trail that led down the northern end of the rocky spur where the ruined keep had been. At once the air about him began to glow, and the radiance burst northward down the trail and into the trees below. Well enough. "Arkuel, Suld!" he commanded, and led his horse down the trail without looking back.

Looking back is a thing that one of the Purple cannot usually afford to do.

The Seat of Bane stood as empty as ever. The wan-faced High Imperceptor looked up to it in awe, as he always did, in case one day the Black Lord himself should indeed be sitting there. The head of the church of Bane sighed and took his own seat. He rang the little gong beside his throne with the Black Mace of Bane, wielding the great weapon with a delicacy that bespoke strength and skill surprising in one so thin and wan-looking. An upperpriest hurried in and knelt before the throne.

"Up, Kuldus," the High Imperceptor said. "The reports should be in by now. Tell me."

The priest nodded. "There is no report from Laelar yet, Dread Lord, or any who went with him," he began, "but Eilius has just come from Zhentil Keep, and he says that Manshoon has been absent from the city since the meeting he dismissed, the meeting already reported to you! The other lords seek him, and that rebel Fzoul has been trying to contact Manxam and the other beholders. The Zhentarim are plotting and whispering like Calishites all this past day." The High Imperceptor's smile lit up his face as if a lamp had been lit within it. He rose from his seat. "Call in all the upperpriests!" he ordered. "If Laelar reports with the girl, well and good. If he reports and has not taken her, have him forget all and return here at once. To Umbo with this maid and her spellfire, while we have a chance at Zhentil Keep and that traitor Fzoul! Go, speedily!" And he whirled the great mace over his head as if it weighed nothing and brought it down upon the stone altar with a crash that shook the very Seat of Bane itself. Kuldus scurried out of the room with the wild laughter of the High Imperceptor ringing in his ears.

The clear light of dawn laid a network of diamonds upon the bed as it came through the leaded windows. Narm awoke as it touched his face, reaching vaguely for a dagger or something of the sort, and abruptly recalled where they were-and where exactly he was now: in Shandril's bedchamber. But-he reached out his hand-where was she?

He sat up abruptly, which set his head throbbing, and looked all about. The tapestries were beautiful, and even the vaulted corners of the ceiling were impressive, but they weren't Shandril. He looked the other way, past a tall, arched wardrobe and a burnished metal mirror taller than he was, to the door-which obligingly opened. Shandril looked in and grinned.

"Ah, you're awake at last," she said delightedly. "Not feeling ill, I hope?"

Narm held his head for a moment, considered the nagging ache within, and said carefully, "Not really, my lady. Is there morningfeast? And-is there a chamber pot?"

Shandril laughed. "How romantic, I must say, my lord. Morningfeast is an ask-in-the-great-hall affair that lasts until highsun. The chamber pot is under there if you must, but behind that door over there is a water-bain-you flush with the jug after using it, or with the hand-pump-that all the ladies here have in their chambers. Was there not one in your room?"

"No," Narm said, vanishing through the little door to investigate. "Nothing like. It had only a bed and a clothes-chest, a wardrobe, and a little window."

"That," said Jhessail from the doorway, "is because Mourngrym and Shaerl figured you'd spend far more time here."

"Oh?" Shandril asked with lifted brows, "and how came they by that idea?"

"I suspect," Jhessail said innocently, "that someone must have told them." She chuckled at Narm's hasty reappearance to find the door-handle and pull it closed behind him as he vanished again. Then they both chuckled at his muffled complaint from within.

"It's dark enough!"

"Just like a cavern." Jhessail said encouragingly. "You'll get used to it… or you could light the night-lamp just within the door. Only mind you put it out when you leave, or the room will be a smoke-hole the next time you want to use it." She turned to Shandril. "Do you have plans for the day, you two?"

Shandril shook her head. "No. Why do you ask?"

Jhessail got up and paced thoughtfully over to the mirror. "Well, it is usual to see the dale, your first full day, and hunt or ride the countryside after highsun, with gaming and talk in the evening… but I'd like to advise a far less interesting alternative, if I may-Narm, the lamp, remember? — at least until after the testing this evening."

Shandril said simply, "Say on." She plucked up Narm's over-robe and, opening the jakes door, thrust it within.

"If you don't mind," Jhessail suggested, "Illistyl and I will bring your meals. You stay here in this room until tonight. Any of the knights will come to see you, or you could spend the day together, just the two of you…" The jakes door swung open and Narm emerged.

He grinned. "No words against that from this mouth."

"Nor from mine," Shandril agreed. "Only, why?"

Jhessail studied the rich rugs beneath her feet for an instant, and then raised solemn eyes to theirs. "Eight men tried to get into the tower last night, using magic. They were sent by the High Imperceptor of Bane, and they were after you, Shandril. They were to capture you for your power to wield spellfire. They were all slain, or are all dead now. They might well have succeeded except for Torm and Rathan, who were out on an extra patrol requested by Mourngrym, and Sharantyr, who went for a walk, unarmed, to clear her head."

Shandril's face had gone slowly white, and Narm had grown more and more angry, as she had spoken. "You mean," he burst out, "that enemies are going to be after Shandril for the rest of her life? I won't have it! I'll-"

"How will you stop them hunting you out?" Jhessail asked quietly.

Narm stared at her. "I… I'll master art enough to destroy them, or drive them away in fear of such a fate!"

Jhessail nodded. "Good. It's about all you can do. Once they get the idea you are powerful, as all know Elminster or The Simbul of Aglarond is, they will leave you alone-unless they have business with you, or with your tombstone, as the saying goes. But all of these who look upon you as weak and easy targets who have some power they can wrest or steal will fall away once you show Faerun that you are not to be so trifled with." She grinned suddenly. "But that time hasn't come, so stay in this room today, will you?"

Shandril grinned weakly and nodded; after a long moment Narm nodded, too.

Jhessail got up. "Good!" she said, and clapped her hands loudly. The door opened wide, and Illistyl came in, bearing a covered silver tray that steamed around the edges. With practiced ease she hooked a toe under a certain carving on the side of the bed, pulled it outward to reveal a folding pair of legs and a webwork of canvas attached to it, and set the tray on the table thus created. Shandril stared in open pleasure at the thought and construction of the bedside table, but Narm fixed Jhessail with a hard stare.

"You had it planned beforehand, did you not?" he said accusingly. "You would have given us no choice."

Jhessail shook her head. "No… if you had refused, Illistyl and I would have shared this morningfeast. I swear this, by holy Mystra." She grinned suddenly. "Elminster will tell you soon enough," she teased, "never force by magic anything you can trick a man to do for you. But know, please, that we will not force you to act as only we desire-ever. You can still change your minds; only tell us, please, so we can best arrange to guard you."

She got up, kissed them both fondly on their foreheads, and said, "Still, a whole day to spend together in bed-it's not something I'd pass up." She went to the door, where Illistyl had already gone, and said softly, "Fare you both well until tonight. We shall call for you then. Worry not about the testing; you are yourselves, and the whole affair is simply to know what that is, not change you. Illistyl and I have been tested by Elminster, when I came to the dale, and when she came to her powers. There is a guard outside; call if you need me." She went out slowly; between her feet a fast and silent smoky gray cat slipped in before the door closed, winked at her with Illistyl's eyes, and darted unseen under the bed.

The door closed and they were alone. "Well, my lord?" Shandril teased Narm challengingly. He grinned and reached for the tray deliberately.

"Morningfeast first, I'd say," he announced, and uncovered spiced eggs, scrambled with chopped tomatoes and onions, fried bread, slices of black sausage as large across as his hand, and steaming bowls of onion soup. "Holy Mystra," he said in awe. "I've had less than this for evenfeast at some inns!"

"Mourngrym told me yestereve," Shandril replied, reaching for the soup, "that in a prosperous dale, when one can, there is no better rule for a happy life than, 'Before all, eat well'."

"No disagreement here," Narm mumbled around his fork. "This is a fair place, indeed-at least, what we've seen thus far."

"Yes, it is," Shandril replied briefly, suddenly ravenous.

They ate in companionable silence for a time. Unseen, a long, slim centipede crawled in a tiny gap in the windowframe, and cautiously descended to the floor. Once there, it shifted and blurred and was suddenly a rat. It darted sleekly across the rugs and under the bed-and froze as it saw the wide-eyed cat watching it steadily, very near. The two stared at each other for a moment, and then the rat shifted and became a crouched cat just slightly larger than Illistyl, and they sat and stared at each other again.

Above, Narm pushed away his plate with a sigh of contentment, and looked at Shandril lovingly for a long time. "Well, my lady," he said slowly, "we still know only a little about each other. Will you trade life stories with me?"

Shandril regarded him with thoughtful eyes and nodded. "Yes, so long as you believe me when I say I know little enough about my own heritage."

"Oh? Is that why you were so upset when Elminster asked last night?"

"Yes. I… I have never known who my parents were. As far back as memory goes, I have lived at The Rising Moon. Gorstag, the innkeeper there-you saw him, that night; it was he who asked for the company's peace, and stopped the knife being thrown at old Ghondarrath-he was like a father to me. I never knew a time before the inn was his, and never saw the rest of Deepingdale. I still have not. I wanted to-to know adventure, so I ran away with the Company of the Bright Spear, who were there the night you were-and that is truly all there is to tell."

"How came you to Myth Drannor?" (Underneath the bed, both cats cocked an ear, but kept their eyes firmly on each other.)

"I know not-some magic or other. I read a word written on a bone, and was trans-tel-what do you call it?"

"Teleported," Narm said eagerly. "Like Elminster did, to fetch the healing potions for Lanseril."

Shandril nodded. "I was teleported to a dark place with another teleport-door in it, and a gargoyle that chased me. I was carried to Myth Drannor. I wandered about in the ruins for a long time, and then I was caught by that lady mage-Symgharyl Maruel. You saw me then." (More interest from beneath the bed. Both cats looked up, intently.) "How, if you grew up only in the inn, do you know so much of life, and of Faerun?" Narm asked curiously.

"In truth, I know little," Shandril said with an embarrassed little laugh. "What I do know, I heard from tales told in the taproom nights, by far travelers and the old veterans of the dale. You heard one, at least, I think. Splendid tales they were, too…"

"Could Gorstag be your father?" (Tense interest, beneath the bed.)

Shandril stared at Narm, her face frozen upon the edge of a laugh, and then said, "No, I think not, although I am not as sure now as I was before you said that. We are not at all alike in face or speech, and he always seemed too old… but he could be, you know." She sat a moment in silence. "I think I'd like Gorstag to be my father," she said slowly. Time passed again. "But I don't think he is."

"Why did you never see Deepingdale? Did Gorstag keep you locked up?"

"No! It was just… there was always work. The cook would forbid me to do some things, and the older girls and chamber-ladies would forbid me others. Gorstag said that outside the inn and the woods just behind it, the wide world-even Highmoon-was no place for a young girl, alone. I was no one's special friend, except his, and I was not big or strong enough to fetch and carry as much as the older girls, so I was never taken along on any errands." She shrugged. "And so the days passed."

"What did you do in the inn?" Narm asked quietly.

"Oh, most anything. The chopping and washing and cleaning in the kitchen mostly, and fetching water, and cleaning the tables and floors in the taproom, and emptying the chamber pots, and lighting the hall-candles and the lamps in the rooms, and cleaning rooms, and helping wash the bedding. There are many little tasks in the running of the inn, too, things seldom done, like repainting the signboard or redaubing the chimneys, and I helped with those. It was mainly the kitchen, though."

"And they worked you like a slave all those years?" Narm burst out angrily. "For what? You took no coin with you when you joined the company! Were you not even paid?"

Shandril looked at him in shock. "I-no, not a single coin," she said, "but-"

Narm got up, furious, and paced about the room. "You were treated little better than a slave!"

"No, I was fed, and given clothes, and-"

"So is a jester; so is a mule, if you count its livery! Before the gods, you were done ill!"

Shandril stared at him as he raged, and suddenly snapped, "Enough! You were not there and cannot know the right of it! Oh, yes, I got sick of the drudgery, and ran… and left my only friends-Gorstag, and Lureene, too-and I sometimes wish I had not, and I hated Korvan, but… but-" Her face twisted suddenly and she turned away. Narm stared at her back in astonished silence.

He opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what to say, but Shandril said coldly and clearly, as she turned about to face him, "I was happy at The Rising Moon, and I do not think Gorstag did me any ill. Nor should you judge him. But I would not quarrel with you."

Narm looked at her. "I would not quarrel with you, my lady. Ever." He looked away, then, and Shandril saw how white he was, and that his hands were trembling. She felt suddenly ashamed and abruptly turned aside as she felt her face grow hot. She got up hastily and walked toward the door. (Beneath the bed, two silent cats, who had watched all this, looked at each other and almost smiled.)

When she turned, Narm was watching her, and the look in his eyes made the last of Shandrils anger melt away into regret. She hurried back to him. "Oh, Narm," she said despairingly, and his arms tightened about her.

"I am sorry, lady," he whispered, head against hers. "I did not mean to upset you, or darken Gorstag's good name. I–I lost my temper…"

"No, forgive me," Shandril replied. "I should have let you yell, and not rebuked you, and there would be no quarrel."

"Nay, the fault is mine. Forgiv-"

"Disgusting," Torm's cheerful voice said loudly behind them. "All this sobbing and forgiving each other all over the chamber-and not even wed yet!"

The knight gave them no time to reply as he strode forward to pluck the food tray up from the table, saying, "Terrible stuff, isnt it? And such small portions, too! So, have you heard each other's life stories yet? Picked out any juicy bits to pass on to old, bored Torm? Pledged undying love? Changed your minds? Decided what you want to do next? Yes?"

"Ah, fair morning, Torm," Narm replied cautiously, rightly ignoring all the questions. "Are you well?"

"Never better! And you two?"

"Don't leer, it makes you look ill," said Shandril crisply. "I hear you prevented my capture, or worse, last night. My thanks."

"Ah, it was nothing," Torm said, waving tray, bowls, and all perilously in the air with one hand. "I-"

"Nothing, was it?" Jhessail challenged him severely from the doorway. "Three healing spells you took, and much moaning and complaining all the while, and it was nothing. Next time we'd do best to save the magic, and you'd appreciate your folly the more." She took him briskly by the arm. "Now come away… how'd you like someone to burst into your bedroom, when you are alone with your love?"

"Well, that would depend very much on who they were," Torm began, but Jhessail was propelling him firmly out the door.

"My apologies, you two," she said, over Torm's protests. "He's just come from his bride-to-be, Naera, and is in somewhat high spirits."

Torm looked at her, as if dazed. "Bride-to-be?" he gasped. "B-b-but…" His voice faded as he was marched out the door.

"Well met, Torm," Narm said dryly as the door closed again. He and Shandril looked at each other and burst into laughter. (Beneath the bed, both cats looked pained at Shandril's giggles.) When they subsided, the two embraced again, and sat in comfortable silence for a time.

"What do you think this test will be, love?" Shandril asked. Narm shook his head.

"I know not. Your spellfire, surely, will be put to the test, but how I cannot guess." Narm frowned. "But another thing occurs to me… this Gorstag must know who your parents are… and by the way he put it to you, Elminster may well know, too."

Shandril nodded, "Yes. I want to know, but I have lived all these winters so far without knowing. I would rather know you better, Narm… I do not even know your last name let alone your parents."

"Oh, have't not told-Tamaraith, it is, my lady. Sorry. I didn't realize I had told you so little as that."

Shandril laughed. "We haven't exactly had overmuch time for talk, have we? You may have told me, and I've forgotten in all this tumult. All has been so confusing… if this is adventure, it's a wonder any soul survives it long!"

(Two cats exchanged amused glances. The one that was Illistyl pointed at the other with a paw, then spread its paws questioningly, and put its head to one side suspiciously. The other nodded and traced a sigil in the dust with one paw, saw that Illistyl had seen and recognized it-her feline head nodded, satisfied-and hurriedly brushed it out of existence again. The two cats settled down at their ease together.)

"Well said," Narm agreed. "I have not the love of constant whirl and danger that Torm does, that's one thing certain! Will we ever be able to relax and do just as we please, do you think?"

"I'd like to try," Shandril said softly, her eyes very steady upon his, Narm nodded and took her in his arms again, face set and serious. "I would like that, too, yes," was all he said. (Under the bed, the strange cat shook its head, rolled its eyes, and yawned soundlessly.)

When their lips parted again, after a time, Shandril pushed Narm away a little, and said, "So tell me the tale of your life. Who is this man I am to marry? A would-be spell-caster, yes, but why? And why do you love me?" (Four eyes rolled, beneath the bed.)

Narm looked at his lady, opened his mouth, and shut it again. "Ah… I-gods, I know not why I love you! I can tell you things about you that I love, and how I feel, but as to why-the gods will it, perhaps. Will you accept that answer? Poor it may be, but it is honest, and no base flattery, I swear? He paced, agitated. "I promise you this," he said finally, turning by the window, "that I will love you, and as I learn the whys, I will tell them to you. How's that?"

"My lord," Shandril answered him, eyes shining, "I am honored that you are so honest with me. Pray that we both remain so with each other, always. I approve, yes-now get on with your tale! I would know!" (Under the bed, two cats burst into soundless laughter.) Narm chuckled and nodded.

"Yes, I tarry. Know, then: I was born some twenty-two winters ago, in the far city of Silverymoon in the North. I don't recall it; I was still not a winter old when my parents journeyed to Triboar, and thence to Waterdeep, and-"

"You have seen great Waterdeep?" asked Shandril, awed. "Is it as they say, all bustle, and gold, and beautiful things from all Faerun in the streets?"

Narm shrugged. "It may well be so, but I cannot say. I was there but a week, and still not a year in measure, when my parents moved on. We moved about the Sword Coast North often, with the trade. My father was Hargun Tamaraith, called 'the Tail,' a trader. I think he had been a ranger, before he fell ill. He had the shaking-fever; he dealt in weapons and smith-work. My mother was Fythuera-Fyth, to myself and my sire-and her last name I never knew. They had been wed long before I was born. She played the harp and traded as my father's equal. I know not if ever she had been an adventurer. They were good people."

He stared into nothingness for a moment, and Shandril laid her hand upon his. His face was sad, but it was wistful, more than upset. "They are both dead, of course," he added calmly. "Slain in a sorcerous duel in Baldur's Gate when I was eleven-burned up in flames when the ferryboat they were on was struck by a fireball flung at the mage Algarzel Halfcloak by a Calishite archmage, Kluennh Tzarr. Algarzel flew out of the way; the ferry could not. All aboard who had no part in the dispute perished. Algarzel was slain later, or escaped into another plane, some in the city said. Whatever, he has not been seen since.

"Kluennh Tzarr left for his citadel in triumph. It is said that dragons serve him, and that he has many slaves. One day, if another does not get there first, I will be his death." His soft, cold tone chilled Shandril as he walked slowly around the chamber, arms swinging easily, eyes remote. Under the bed, the cats nodded approvingly.

"To defeat an archmage I needed magic-or at least, needed to know its ways. I knew not, then, that one cannot hope to separate them. So I tried to become an apprentice." He laughed, a little bitterly, at the memory.

"Imagine it, love-a ragged, barely lettered boy, alone and with no wealth to buy a mage's time or trouble, in Baldur's Gate where there are a dozen homeless boys on every street in the docks, pestering every mage that passes! I only escaped being turned into a toad-or just burned to ashes-by Mystra's will… nothing else can explain it.

"One day, two years after I started, a mage said yes. A pompous, sour mage-Marimmar, my master. His pride weakened him. He never worked to strengthen his art where he lacked spells or technique, in those places where he couldn't-or wouldn't-see that he was weak. But I learned much from him, perhaps more than from a smooth and masterful worker of the art. He had a temper, yes, and little patience-and he was perhaps the laziest man I have ever met, so he needed an apprentice to do all the drudge-work. You know the drudge-work," Narm added with a sudden smile. Shandril matched it ruefully.

"Marimmar disliked conflict, so he never fought mages to gain their spells-and he was obviously shining-proud that no mage ever challenged him. Those of real power saw him as a posturing know-nothing, with no spells worth seizing. Those of lesser power feared always that he must have something up his sleeve, he seemed so confident and fearless. His confidence killed him, in the end. He nearly took me with him.

"He saw the elves' abandonment of the Elven Court and Myth Drannor within it as his chance to become a great mage by seizing all the magic that he thought-as most mages seem to think-is just lying around in the ruins. I doubt there's much to be easily found. Anything that was has been seized already by the priests of Bane, or whoever it really was that summoned all the devils there.

"The devils slew Marimmar, and almost killed me, too. Lanseril and Illistyl of the knights rescued me-they are so kind, Shandril, I can scarce believe it, after all the swaggering heroes I've seen prancing down city streets-and here I am. I went back to Myth Drannor because… because I knew not where to go, really, and because I–I felt I owed it to the crusty old windbag, and because I could not sleep for fear of devils until I had faced them again. But by some miracle of Mystra, or the whim of Tymora or another, I was not slain, and I saw you. The rest you know." Narm turned thoughtful eyes upon her. "Forgive me if I have talked too long, my lady, or spoken bluntly or harshly of those now dead. It was not my intent to be rude or to upset you. I said what you asked, and now am done."

Shandril shook her head. "I am not upset, but much relieved, I had to know, you see." She rose and turned back the bed. "And now, my lord, if you will be so good as to drag that chest over in front of the door, we'll to bed." She smiled slyly. "The testing is to be late; I must have sleep first. Will you see me to sleep?"

Narm nodded. "Aye, willingly." One cat rolled its eyes again, and became a rat, and flashed over to the wall before Illistyl could even stretch. It dwindled and twisted and was a centipede again, and gained the sill while Narm was still heaving the chest toward the door, with many a grunt, and Shandril was hanging her robe upon a hook on one post of the canopy. An interested Illistyl saw a raven suddenly appear outside the window and fly soundlessly away. She nodded and curled up for a nap. Eavesdropping was one thing, but there were limits…

Narm finished with the chest, straightened up slowly, and caught sight of Shandril in the mirror. Two bounds and he was on the bed. Few delights come, it is said, to he who tarries.