Spellfire

Jhessail slipped softly into the bedchamber. Illistyl straightened up from where she had dragged the chest aside, and they shared a smile. "Worth hearing?" Jhessail asked softly, and Illistyl nodded.

"I'll tell you later," the young theurgist replied quietly as together they went to the bed. Narm and Shandril lay asleep in each other's arms among the twisted covers. The two spellcasters gently laid one of the bed furs over the sleeping couple before Jhessail leaned close to Shandril and said, "It is time. Rise, hurler of spellfire. Elminster awaits."

Shandril shivered in her sleep and clutched Narm more tightly. "Oh, Narm," she murmured. "How it burns…"

The two spellcasters exchanged glances, and Jhessail carefully laid a hand on Shandril's shoulder. There came a swift tingling into her fingertips.

"She holds yet more power," Jhessail whispered, "and this cannot be of the balhiir, not after so long a time and so much hurled forth. It's as Elminster suspected." She bent again to Shandril's ear. "Awaken, Shandril! We await you." The eyelashes below her flickered.

"Narm," Shandril said in a sleepy murmur, gaining strength. "Narm, we are called… ah… ohh. Where-?" Shandril raised her head and looked around. In the soft, leaping glow of the lamp Illistyl had just lit she saw the two ladies of art standing over her. She tensed involuntarily to hurl forth the spellfire within, then relaxed. "My pardon, Lady Jhessail, Lady Illistyl. I did not know you."

She shook her head as if to clear it and turned to Narm. "Up, love; arise."

"Eh? Oh. Gods, is it time already?"

"It is," Jhessail said gently. "Elminster awaits you."

"Oh, gods belch!" Narm said, rubbing his eyes and flinging back the fur. Hastily he pulled it up again. "Ah-my clothes?"

Shandril burst into weak, helpless laughter, and handed him his robe.

Illistyl smiled. "Jhessail and I will wait in the hall. Come when you are ready."

In the hallway, the theurgist said to Jhessail, "Tell no one yet, Jhess, but The Simbul came in by the window and listened, even as I did."

Eyebrows lifted, and then lowered again. "What did you both hear, aside from lovemaking?" Jhessail asked, lips twisted in amusement.

"The life-tale of Narm Tamaraith, full and open and unadorned. His mother, at least, may well have been a Harper," Illistyl replied, refering to the mysterious group of bards and warriors that served the cause of good in the Realms.

Jhessail nodded. "He thinks so?" Illistyl shook her head.

"The thought has not crossed his mind," she said. "It was the description."

Jhessail nodded again as the door opened, and the two hastily dressed guests of the dale stepped out. Narm looked at the two ladies curiously. "I mean no disrespect," he said slowly, "but is there a secret way into that room? I mean… that chest…"

"We workers of art have our dark secrets," said Illistyl crisply. "I dragged it."

"Oh," Narm said, surprised. "I see. Uh, sorry." They went down the stairs, nodded to the guards and went out into the night. It was very warm and still. Selune shone brightly overhead. Merith and Lanseril waited with mules. "Well met," the elf said softly.

"Where are we bound?" Shandril asked quietly, as he knelt to help her into the saddle.

"Harpers' Hill," Merith replied, and they set off. Shadowdale lay dark around them. Looking about, Narm could see the watchful guardposts atop the tower and the Old Skull Tor behind them and upon the bridge and at the crossroads ahead. Silently the guards watched as the small party rode at ease through the dale and into the trees.

It was very dark, and the mules slowed to a walk on the narrow forest trail. Someone saluted Merith quietly. As they passed, Shandril saw a grim man in dark leather, with a drawn sword. "A Harper," Jhessail said simply. "There will be others."

The forest changed as they traveled on. The trees became larger and older, growing closer together. The darkness of their foliage, which now blocked the moonlight, became deeper and somehow quieter. Thrice more they passed guards, and at last came up a steep slope into a clear space. Torm and Rathan waited there, with others standing beyond. The thief and the cleric greeted them with quiet smiles and encouraging pats, and took their mules.

Merith drew Narm to one side, proffering a cloak. "Remove your clothes and leave them here," he said. "Cover yourself with this." Away along the bare hilltop, Jhessail was doing the same with Shandril. "Boots, too-the ground is soft."

"Will this be… dangerous?" Narm asked Merith.

The elf shrugged. "Aye, but no more so than spending your night any other way, if it's death you fear. Come, now."

Elminster stood in the moonlight at the center of the hilltop with Florin and Storm. As Shandril and Narm were brought to them, Elminster scratched his nose and said, "Sorry to get ye from bed for all this mystery and ceremony, but 'tis necessary. I need to know thy powers for certain. Shall we begin, the earlier to be done?"

The knights embraced Narm and Shandril, and then left them alone on the hilltop with the old sage. He drew from his robes a small, battered book and handed it to Shandril.

"First," he said, "can you read this?"

The book was old, but upon its brown and crinkled pages were runes sparkling as clear and bright as if they'd only just been set down. Shandril stared at them, but she recognized nothing. Even as she looked, the runes began to writhe and crawl, moving on the page before her as if they were alive. She shook her head and handed the book back. "No," she said, rubbing her eyes. Elminster nodded, opened the book to a certain page, and extended it to Narm.

"And you? Only this page, mind-at the top; tell me the words aloud as ye can make them out." Narm nodded and peered in his turn.

'"Being A Means Both Efficient And Correct For The Creation Of-'" he began. Elminster waved him to silence, took the book back, and selected another page. Narm looked longer this time, forehead furrowed in concentration.

"I–I… 'A Means To Confound; I think it says here," Narm said at last, "but I cannot be sure even of that; nor is a word more clear to me, anywhere upon this page"

Elminster nodded and said, "Enough, and well enough." He turned to Shandril. "How do ye feel now?"

Shandril looked at him with a little frown. "Well in head and body, or at least I feel nothing amiss, but there is in me a… stirring, a feeling… a tingling."

Elminster nodded slowly, as if unsurprised, and looked to Narm. "Have ye any spells or cantrips in thy head?"

Narm shook his head. "No. I–I have scarce had the time to study, since…" His voice trailed off under Elminster's grin.

"Aye, and good." From his robes, he drew forth a scroll, glanced at it, and handed it to Narm. "Read this" he commanded, "and cast it-at thy lady. 'Tis but a light spell; ye cannot harm her." He stepped back to watch.

Narm glanced around at the bare, moonlit hilltop, feeling the watching eyes he knew to be there in the trees. He took a slow, deep breath, and then cast the spell as carefully as he had done the first time ever. He turned and centered the art upon Shandril, who stood waiting.

Light flared around her, and then in a moment died. Elminster stepped near, looking at Shandril. Nodding at the fire in her eyes, he then produced another scroll. He gave this to Narm and said, "As before. It will not harm her."

Narm cast another light spell, and again it was absorbed. Shandril's eyes glowed brighter. A third time Elminster handed Narm a scroll, and he cast light. Shandril's body took it in. The old mage came near to Shandril and waved Narm away but did not touch her. He then said to Shandril, "Lady, do ye see that boulder, there? Shatter it with thy spellfire, if ye will."

Shandril looked at him, trembling a little, the fire leaping in her eyes, and said only, "Yes." Once again tingling fire coiled and raced within her, roiling about in her veins. She bore down on it with her will, thrusting it down one arm until it built, to a soundless thunder.

From her hand burst forth spellfire in a long, rolling gout. The boulder was enveloped in orange flame, building to white intensity. The three could feel heat upon their faces, and there was a sharp crack as the stone shattered. Shards sprayed in a small shower upon the hillside as the flames died away. Silence stretched for long moments.

Elminster turned to Narm. "Stand back, now," he warned. "Over there, beneath that tree." The mage cast a light spell of his own. It, too, was absorbed. Elminster then cast two more. Then he created a wall of force to one side, and nodded toward it. Shandril raised her hands and hurled fire.

The flames clawed at the wall and raged, becoming a blinding inferno as Shandril fully bent her will upon the barrier. When at last she gave up and let her flame die, shrugging, the wall still stood. Elminster nodded again, and asked, "How do ye feel?"

Shandril shrugged. "A little scared, but I neither hurt nor feel strange in any way." She pushed with her will, letting flames leap up from her palms and then wink out in a little spurt, and added, "I hold more yet"

The sage nodded and said, "I shall raise a wall of fire there, before thee. When I nod, kneel before it and hurl spellfire through it, angling upward into the sky so as not to harm the forest. Only a little, mind thee. Cast it only for the length of a long breath, then cease."

Shandril smiled, flames dancing in her eyes, and said, "As you will… a short but steady burst of flame." Spellfire roared through the wall of flames as though it was not there, and roared onward, drawing the mage's flames with it When the burst ended and curled away from the hilltop with a rippling, tearing noise of air, the wall of flames was gone. Flames dimmed and faded in the starlit sky above, and then all was gone as though it had never been. Shandril got up from her knees where she had been watching the beauty of the flames in the sky above her, and sighed.

"Are ye well?" Elminster asked, intently. Shandril nodded, and the mage said, "Right, then." He raised his hands and quietly cast a bolt of lightning at her.

It crackled and struck, and Shandril reeled. Narm cried out involuntarily, but already Shandril stood strong again, and the lightning was gone. The smell of the bolt hung in the air about her as she turned, bleeding a little from where she had bitten her lip, and smiled reassuringly at Narm.

"How are ye now?" Elminster asked.

"Well enough," she said. "I feel weary, a little, but not sick or strange."

"Good," the old mage said gently. "I shall cast more lightning at thee. Gather and hold it as long as ye can. If it starts to hurt thee, or ye feel it trying to burst out and ye cannot stop it, fair enough. Let it flow out at the sky or at the rock you struck earlier. Do not release it until then, so that I may roughly learn thy capacity. We have healing means near at hand. Be not afraid."

Shandril merely nodded and stood waiting, hands at her sides. When the sage's bolt struck her, she flinched but then stood quiet as Elminster hurled bolt after bolt at her. The air about the hill crackled and tingled upon the faces of those who watched. Narm trembled and twisted his hands about in the robe he wore, but could not look away.

More and more energy the delicate, aged fingers of the old mage poured into Narm's lady, and she stood silent and unmoving. At last she bent at the waist with a sob, threw her arms wide as she took a few steps to steady herself, and burst into a pillar of coiling flame.

"Mother Mystra!" Narm prayed hoarsely, in horror. Merith laid hands upon him quickly then, to prevent him running to his beloved-and a fiery death. Narm screamed Shandril's name and wrenched at Merith's grasp. He dragged the silent elf forward until Florin arrived to set his strength against the young spellcaster's. Narm struggled helplessly in their iron grip. On the hilltop above them a pillar of living flame writhed where Shandril had stood.

Abruptly, flames shot from it down the hill to strike the boulder. There was a flash, and those watching ducked as small red-hot chunks of stone showered down through the leaves around them. Jhessail hastily worked a wall of force from a scroll she had held ready, and Lanseril quenched those fires that started around them.

A smoking scar was all that was left where the boulder had stood. On the summit, a pillar of flame roared up as if to touch the glimmering stars. Elminster stood watching calmly, a cooling fragment of stone cupped in his hands.

Slowly, the roaring flames winked out. Shandril stood nude in the moonlight, sniffing curiously at the sharp smell of the scorched ends of her hair, which was otherwise untouched. Her cloak had burned away to nothing, but the flames had not marked her. Narm burst free of Merith and Florin's grasps and ran across the scorched rock, heedless of the pain in the bare soles of his feet.

Elminster moved to intercept him, but it was not necessary. Shandril herself backed away. "Keep back, love!" she warned. "I know not if my touch will slay, right now." Narm came to a halt barely a pace away. "I am well," she added gently. Her long hair rippled and stirred in the calm air as if with a life of its own.

"What can you do?" Narm asked Elminster in anguish.

"I will touch her myself, to end the test," the old mage replied firmly. "I am protected by potent spells, where ye are not. A moment, if you can contain yourself." He strode forward and took Shandril's hand in his own.

"Well met, sir," Shandril said with grave courtesy. Narm waited tensely.

"At your service, madam," Elminster replied, bowing. His face was expressionless, but his eyes twinkled. Narm caught his gaze and shook his fists in impatience.

"Is she safe?" he almost pleaded. The sage nodded, and was fairly bowled over by Narm's rush to embrace his lady. He stepped back and waved at the trees. Harpers, knights, and guardsmen of the dale appeared from all sides.

Elminster looked at Narm and Shandril, smote his forehead suddenly and muttered, "Gods, I must be getting old!" and swept off his cloak to cast it about Shandril's shoulders. As he did, the stone he held suddenly twisted from his grasp and grew. In an instant he was facing a strange-eyed woman in dark, tattered robes, whose long silvery hair strayed wildly about her shoulders. All around, approaching Harpers reached for their blades.

"Well met," Elminster said calmly and turned to Shandril. "Shandril Shessair," he said formally, "I present to thee The Simbul, Queen of Aglarond." There was a murmur from those who approached, and then silence, as all waited for the infamous archmage to speak. Shandril gently freed herself from Narm, and bowed solemnly in greeting. The Simbul almost smiled.

"Impressive, young lady," she said, "but dangerous-perhaps too dangerous. Elminster… all of you… have you thought on this? Here stands a power you may have to silence. She may have to be destroyed." There was a babble of talk and then a hush. Shandril stared, white-faced, at the archmage, but it was Elminster who moved forward to stand between them and speak.

"No," said the old mage. He glared around at all on the hilltop with very old, sad eyes. "Ye," he said to The Simbul, "I, and all gathered here now, are dangerous. Should we then be destroyed out of hand because of what we might do? Nay! It is the right and the doom of all creatures who walk Faerun to do as they will; it is why we of the art frown so at those who charm often, or in frivolous cause.

"Not even the gods took unto themselves the power to control ye or me so tightly that we cannot walk or speak or breathe save at another's bidding! It is their will that we may be free to do as we may. Slay a foe, sure, or defend thyself against a raider-but to strike down one who may some day menace thee? That is as monstrous as the act of the usurper who slays all babies in a land, for fear of a rightful heir someday rising against him!"

"Aye. Well said," Florin agreed grimly, in quiet, deliberate challenge of the woman in black who stood among them. No other spoke. They waited in silence for the reaction of The Simbul.

The witch-queen stood in their midst, alone and terrible. They had heard of the awesome art she commanded, that held even the Red Wizards of Thay at bay, and hurled back their armies time and time again to preserve her kingdom. They knew the tales whispered of her temper and cruel humor and mighty power. Narm could smell their fear, there on the hilltop. Not a drawn sword moved.

The Simbul nodded, slowly. "Aye, great one," she said to Elminster, "you truly have the wisdom lore grants you in these lands. I agree. If others had not also agreed so, many winters gone, I would not have lived to stand here upon Harpers' Hill now." She stepped around Elminster, and he did not bar her way.

Narm, however, moved protectively in front of Shandril even as The Simbul advanced. She came to a halt and stood facing him. "I have trusted," she whispered. Her eyes were very proud. "Will you not also trust me?" Narm stared at her for a long, tense breath, and then nodded slowly and stepped aside. The Simbul glided up to Shandril and said, "My forgiveness, if you will take it. I wish you well."

Shandril nodded, swallowed, and said softly, "I–I hold nothing against you, great lady." She smiled, tentatively.

The Simbul smiled, too, and added, "A gift for you." Her hand went to the broad black belt about her waist and drew from it a plain brass ring. She leaned close until Shandril could smell a faint, strange, stirring perfume at her throat. Shandril had never seen eyes so steel gray, stern, and sad all at once. "Use this only when all else is lost," The Simbul whispered. "It will take you, and anyone whose flesh touches yours directly when you use it, to a refuge of mine. It will work only once, mind, and only one way. The word of command is on the inside of the band, invisible except when you heat the ring. Do not speak it aloud until you intend to use it. Your spellfire will not harm this ring." Cold hands touched Shandril's and pressed the ring, strangely warm, into her palm.

"One last thing," said The Simbul. "Walk your own way, Shandril; let no one control you. Beware of those who stand in shadows." She smiled again and kissed the wondering Shandril gently on the cheek. Then she patted Elminster's arm wordlessly and turned in sudden haste. Her form writhed and rose, until a black falcon soared up among the stars and was gone.

Eyes watched in silence until she could be seen no more, and then everyone spoke at once. Amid the hubbub, Elminster said, "My thanks, Shandril. The test is at an end. Narm, take thy lady home, and sleep. Keep the spellfire that remains within thee until ye have need of it. It will not harm thee to carry it, I know now. Guard well thy ring. A gift from The Simbul is rare indeed." Behind them, Florin was quietly arranging a ring of guards to be about the couple as they returned to the tower.

"Think on this, and let us know when ye have decided," Elminster said as they went down from the hilltop. "Jhessail and Illistyl will train thee, Narm, if ye wish, and I shall show thee what I can of working together spellfire and spells. The cloak is thine to keep. It will protect thee in battle. It is old, and its magic is not strong, so beware not to drain its magic without intention. It is easy enough to do." The sage coughed. "Go now," he said, "and get thee to bed-where these old bones would be, if I had any sense. After all, you could be needed to save Faerun tomorrow, after highsun sometime, I suppose."

Shandril nodded, suddenly exhausted. "Thank you, lord," she said-Elminster winced at the title-"I must sleep soon, or fall down where I stand."

"Thanks, Elminster," Narm said with sudden boldness. "Good fortune this night and hereafter. After I get our clothes back from the knights, we shall go and think on your lords for a breath or maybe two before falling asleep."

They chuckled together, and then the young couple went down the hill, the guards closing in around them. Florin and Merith flew watchfully above, leaving the sage behind with Jhessail and Illistyl.

"Satisfied?" the sorceress of Shadowdale asked her sometime master.

Elminster looked at the scorched marks on the rock at his feet. "I thought so," he said softly. "The power to unleash spellfire. Her mother had it." Both lady knights looked at him, startled, but Elminster merely smiled that distant smile that warned he would give no answer, and asked, "So what did ye hear of interest, Illistyl? Ye may edit such things as ye feel mine aged ears should not hear, out of consideration for my vulnerable heart."

"Well, then," Illistyl said, with an impish grin, "there is precious little to tell."

The mist was still streaming through the trees when Korvan from The Rising Moon, arrived at the butcher's shop. "Morning," said a stooped man the cook had never seen before. The stranger leaned upon the yard fence by the door, the mud of much travel on his boots and breeches.

"Morning," Korvan replied sourly. He had come for meat, not a lot of talk. Since that little brat Shandril had run off, he'd had to get his meat earlier, at a time of the day when he'd rather be abed yawning and dozing.

"Buying lamb? I've thirty good tails in the pen there, just down from Battledale." The sheepherder jerked his head at the muddy yards behind him.

"Lamb? Well, I'll look… if I can find two good hand-counts among them, I might do business with you," Korvan said grudgingly. The herder stared at him.

"Two hand-counts? Have you a large family?"

"No, no," Korvan said sourly as they went in. "I buy for the inn, The Rising Moon, down the road."

"Do you? Why, there's a tale I have for you, then!" the herder said, with sudden interest. "It's about that young girl who worked at the inn and left."

"Oh?" Korvan said, turning his head sharply in sudden interest. "Shandril, her name was."

"Oh… pretty, that," the herder replied, nodding. "I saw her in the mountains only a few nights back. I was chasing two lost sheep."

"The Thunder Peaks?" Korvan asked, nodding at the wall where, beyond, they knew the gray and purple mountains could be seen above the trees.

"Aye, near the Sember. I came upon a great crowd of folk, with weapons and all. They were all standing about, asking this girl of yours if she was all right, after she'd unleashed 'spellfire,' they called it…"

"Spellfire?" Korvan said, astonished.

"Aye. I hid-there were gold coins all over the place, and they had swords out. I wasn't sure that a guest who came uninvited would be left alive to walk away again, if you take my meaning-"

Korvan nodded. "Aye… but who were these people?"

"Shadowdale folk, they were. That old sage, and the ranger who rides about the Dales with their messages-Falconhand, is it? — and the elf-warrior who lives there, and a priest, I think. They were all excited over the girl… seems she burned up a dragon or suchlike with this spellfire. There was something about someone called Shadowsil, too. They walked about so that I couldn't rightly hear it. Never found the sheep, but I got their price and better in gold coins by keeping hid and coming out after they'd gone."

"She went off again, then?" Korvan asked. The herder nodded.

"North, down into the forest. Toward Mistledale, I suppose… and Shadowdale, beyond."

Korvan sighed. "Too far to follow," he said with feigned sorrow. "Anyway, if she wanted to come back, no doubt she'd have headed home by now." He shook his head. "Well, my thanks for your story," he said, looking past the butcher to the yard door. "Now, you had some sheep I'd do well to buy? The faster I buy from you, the faster I can be smoking and hanging."

Shandril must die, Malark of the cult decided. Not yet, but after these altruistic fools here had trained her to full powers. Somehow she had destroyed Rauglothgor and the dracolich's lair, slain or escaped The Shadowsil, and, if the talk hereabouts could be believed, had also somehow escaped-and driven away-Manshoon of Zhentil Keep. She had been lucky. It would be simply impossible for a slip of a girl to defeat the gathered mages of the Cult of the Dragon.

Malark cursed as the wagon crashed and rocked through a particularly deep pothole. Arkuel, in the leathers of a hired guard, turned and grinned apologetically through the open front door of the wagon. Malark snarled wordlessly and rubbed his aching shoulder. He collected his wits and considered how to separate this Shandril from her protectors in the tower of Ashaba. The Twisted Tower, they called it. Obviously, Malark would have to get into the ranks of the tower guards. Perhaps it was too soon.

There was a loyal cult agent already in the guard-Culthar, his name was. He could strike at Shandril later, when the time was exactly right. To try and take her now would be too risky. Malark did not trust his underlings to saddle a horse unsupervised, let alone do what would be necessary to make such a capture and escape, given the art and the swords that would come against them.

On the other hand, the longer the cult waited, the more likely it was that someone else would try to take the source of spellfire for themselves-the Zhentarim, certainly, and perhaps the priesthood of Bane.

Perhaps that would be for the best, though. With all the confusion that would ensue if one of those foes did make an attempt, Malark could storm in then and prevail, for the greater glory of the followers.

The archmage was jolted roughly out of that pleasant daydream as one wheel of the coach struck a pothole, bounced and sank, and then another wheel pitched sharply down into an even larger pothole. The wagon came back upright just as its rear wheels skidded sideways alarmingly on loose stones. The gods alone knew how fat little merchants managed this, day in and day out-and this was judged one of the better roads in the North! Malark questioned the wisdom of his own plan for the forty-third time, as the wagon slowed for the guardpost that would let him, a traveling merchant who dealt in love philtres, medicinal remedies, and special substances for use by distinguished practitioners of the art, into Shadowdale.

The bright light of morning made the bare, fissured rock of the Old Skull briefly a warm and pleasant place, despite the whispering wind that all too often made it the coldest, bleakest guardpost in Shadowdale. The three who stood there looked down over the green meadows to the south, and the grim and defiant Twisted Tower to their right.

"The gods help us if the Red Wizards of Thay hear of Shandril before she and Narm are both grown wise in the ways of battle and art," Storm said. "Without my sister, the defense of this little dale falls upon a few knights, and upon Elminster. And for all his art, he is but one old man."

"Things will get bad enough with just the Zhentarim, if Manshoon raises them against us," Sharantyr replied. "You miss Sylune very much. She must have been special indeed. They still speak of her often, and wistfully, in the inn below."

Florin smiled. "She was special-and she fell while defending the dale against a wyrm of the cult, a danger we may soon face again, with Shandril here. Even now, the cult must be searching for her-and with the testing, it will not take them long to learn that she is here."

Storm smiled, almost ruefully. "Elminster plays a deeper game than we do. He did that in front of everyone quite deliberately… I trust him completely, and yet I confess his doings often make me uncomfortable. We will all have to deal with the consequences."

"You think such a public display was unwise," Florin said with a smile. "I, too-and yet I thought then, and still feel, that Elminster was like an actor in the streets of Suzail. He plays to a larger audience than those standing around him, hoping to attract the eyes of those who pass, perhaps a noble or even a ruler. Our sage is no fool, and not feeble in wits from age, unless there is some feebleness that affects the judgment but leaves one able to perfectly work art and develop new magics."

"There is such a thing," Sharantyr teased. "But it strikes the young, too-it makes us adventurers when we could stay safe at home in fields or forests, doing dull, honest work and acquiring respect as we grow gray and bent."

"Well said," Storm noted. "But I think Elminster has some purpose, though not clear to us yet, in displaying Shandril's power so dramatically."

"Is this 'us' we three here?" Sharantyr asked, "or the Harpers? Answer me not, if you'd rather not speak of them."

Storm shook her head. "I have not spoken formally with others of the fellowship, but I can tell you that most who saw the testing were of like mind. It is the act of a rash youngster."

Florin nodded, turning his gaze thoughtfully to the top of Elminster's small, rough fieldstone tower, just visible over the foothills of the tor below them. "Shandril is a danger to him, more than any other in the dale, for she brings spells to dust. If ever she moves against Elminster, or is duped into foiling him, the old mage can be destroyed-and our defense against Zhentil Keep will be gone. Those who would work such a deed are only too many."

"Aye," Storm said, her silver hair stirring with the rising breezes. She looked to the tower where they knew Shandril to be, and her eyes were very dark as she looked back at the two rangers. "So it must not happen."

"A lot of folk have died here, it seems," Shandril said, her voice showing fear. The young theurgist Illistyl was showing her the tower.

Illistyl sat down on a cushion and waved at Shandril to do the same. Shandril sank down as Illistyl answered calmly, "A lot of people have died, indeed. Zhentil Keep has attacked the dale twice since the knights came here. Almost half the farmers I grew up with are dead now. So are more adventurers who came to the dale than you could cram breast-to-breast into this room. It is real life; people die, you know.

"It is not all tavern-tales and fond memories. Ten levels beneath us, in the crypts, I know at least three of the knights who sleep forever. It is a price some of them, no doubt, never intended to pay-but pay it they did, most without choice. Think on this before you become an adventurer.

"The life you choose may well take Narm from you, or cripple one of you beyond art that you can command or hire to put right. Once you have power, though, you have very little choice-you become a foe and a target for many, and must become either an adventurer or a corpse."

"How did you come to be a knight?" Shandril asked curiously. "You are younger than Florin and Jhessail, and your art is…"

"Lesser? Aye, so it is. There was a lycanthrope here in the dale a few years back-not long ago, though it seems long enough to me now. The knights took a census, so that their art could be used to try and detect the weretiger. It was poor Lune Lyrohar, one of the girls at Mother Tara's.

"They found that I had powers of the mind, and Jhessail took me to study under her, I lost all my folk in the wars, so I came to live at the tower." She smiled. "Much of the time thus far has been spent raising Jhessail's and Merith's daughter; most of the rest, studying art. One has little choice once it begins."

"So I fear. Yet it was my choice to leave the inn. All else has followed on that. I suppose there is no other choice now." Shandril smiled. "Yet I do not regret any of it, for it has brought me Narm."

"Hold to that," Illistyl said, almost fiercely. "Do not forget that you have felt so. Hard times lie ahead, I fear. Your power, if wielded with deliberate intent, is a menace to all workers of art in this world. Few are stupid enough not to realize that. All who have the inclination will attempt to destroy you or control you as a weapon against others.

"You will see spellcasters enough to sicken you before long, and yours is an endeavour in which no matter how mighty one becomes, there is always someone more powerful. Learn that very quickly. The lesson is usually a fatal one if ignored. It can happen to you, too, Shandril-something of art may well be able to counter spellfire, perhaps something as simple as a cantrip most apprentices know."

Shandril nodded, soberly. "Sometimes I think I cannot do it… and yet it feels so good, even with the pain-when I let it out, that is. I see Jhessail, too; how happy she is with Merith, and both of them are adventurers. Even if she is not slain, Merith, as an elf, must know his lady will die hundreds of winters before he does. Yet they married, and seem happy. It can happen."

Illistyl nodded. "It is good you see that. It takes much work and patience, mind. Look-how does Jhessail seem? Her character, I mean."

"Warm, kind, yet strict and proper… understanding. I can say little more; I barely know any of you."

"Indeed, yet I would say you've seen Jhessail well enough. But there is more. Her control is so great that one does not notice that which won her Merith, which underlies her warmth. She is passionate-not just romantically, but spiritually-and strong-willed.

"Jhessail and the cleric Jelde were lovers when I first came to the tower. There was a great fight between Jelde and Merith over Jhessail. Jhessail decided she loved Merith more, so she set out to win him, before all the Elven Court and mindful of her brief span of years. She seeks longevity by her art, always, but she has never thought to outlive even his youth.

"That sort of control is required to master all but the simplest art. It is the sort of control you will need to stand at Narm's side through all that will come against you both. Hear and heed, Shandril, for I would be your friend for more than a few years, if I can." The theurgist grinned suddenly. "I seem to be one for long speeches this day."

Shandril shook her head. "No, no, I thank you! I've never had someone my age-or close, you know-that I could talk of things to, and not have to curb my words. Even Narm… especially Narm."

Illistyl nodded. "Yes," she agreed. "Especially Narm." She glanced around. "Remember the places I'm going to show you now," she added, as they got up. "One day you and Narm may be glad of a place to hide away in, together.

"One day soon," she added warningly, and Shandril could only agree.

Night had fallen, deep and dark, before Rozsarran Dathan rose from his table in the Old Skull's taproom, waved a wordless good-night to Jhaele, and staggered to the door.

Behind, the plump innkeeper shook her head ruefully as she went to mop up the table where two of Rozsarran's fellow guards slumped senseless and snoring in their chairs, dice and coppers alike fallen from their hands. They were like children sometimes, she thought, lifting one leather-clad sleeve out of a pool of spilled ale and adroitly avoiding the instinctive yank and punch its sleeping owner launched vaguely at her. Good lads, but not drinkers.

Outside, in the cool night air, Rozsarran reached the same conclusion, albeit slowly and less clearly. Hitching up his swordbelt, he began to walk hastily back toward the tower. An overcast sky made the night very dark, and a brisk walk might make him feel less rock-witted before he reached his bed. Late duty tomorrow, praise Helm. He could use the sleep…

A silent shadow rose out of the night clutching a horse-leather knotted about a fistful of coins. He tipped Rozsarran's helmet sharply forward to expose the back of his head, and gave sleep to him.

The guard slumped without a sound. Suld caught him under the arms before he reached the ground and heaved him up. Arkuel caught hold of his booted feet, and they hurried him into the trees.

There Malark worked magical darkness and commanded Arkuel to unhood the lamp. In its faint light the cult arch-mage cast a spell of sleep upon the guard and then studied him carefully. "Strip him," he ordered briefly. When it was done, he studied the mage's face and hair intently and had his underlings turn the body, seeking birthmarks. None. Right, then. He cast yet another spell, slowly and carefully. His form twisted and dwindled and grew again, and a double of Rozsarran stood where Malark had been moments before. The disguised archmage dressed hastily, ensured that his concealing amulets were still upon him, and said coldly, "Wait here. If I do not return by dawn, withdraw a little way into the woods and hide. Report in Essembra-you know where-if I come not back in four days. Understood?"

"Aye, Lord Mage."

"Understood, Lord Malark."

"Well enough. No pilfering, no wenching, and no noise! I don't plan to be long." And Malark was gone, adjusting his swordbelt. How did they even lift such blades, let alone swing them about as if they were as light as wands? This one was as heavy as a cold corpse. He felt his way back out of the trees and the magical ring of darkness to the road.

There he found two guardsmen weaving slowly toward the tower. They were half asleep, irritable, and smelled strongly of drink. "Aghh, it's Roz!" one greeted him loudly, nearly falling. "Bladder feel the better for it, old sword? Fall over any trees?"

"Arrghh," Malark answered, loudly and sourly, thinking it the safest reply. He deftly ducked and rose up between their linked hands, putting an arm about the shoulder of each. One of the guardsmen gave at the knees and almost fell. Malark winced at the weight dragging at his shoulder.

"It is good you came back," the collapsing guard rumbled as he hauled himself up Malark's arm and rocked on his heels a moment before catching his balance again. "I need your shoulder, I fear. Gods, my head!"

"Arrghh," Malark said again, stifling a grin.

"Urrghh," the guard on his other arm agreed sagely, and they stumbled on. Ahead, the torchlight at the tower gates grew brighter and closer, step by bobbing step. Elsewhere, Malark might have crept or flown in the shape of a bird or vermin to a window and dispensed with all this dangerous foolishness, but not here. Not with Elminster about, and all these knights who could call on his aid. "Best I ever drank was at The Lonesome Tankard, where the roads meet in Eveningstar… 'at's in Cormyr, old sword."

"Uhh," Malark agreed.

Somehow he got the three of them through the guards and inside. He let them stumble slightly ahead of him to guide him, and they went straight down a long, high hallway to the guardroom. There luck was with Malark. Culthar, his spy, was one of the two watchmen, waiting in the guardroom until a bell rang on the board before him, calling him to assist of another guard elsewhere. The other was just rising, with an oath, to answer a bell three floors up.

"Why can't Rold relieve himself before he takes up his post?" he growled as be made for the back stairs.

Malark's companions stumbled around the room, catching at the table for balance. They made for the door to the bunkroom. One began to sing-under his breath, fortunately-as he went. "Oh, I once knew a lady of far Uttersea… she'll never come back, now, no never come back to me…" The door banged, and there came a fainter crash on the other side of it. Culthar cursed.

"He's always falling over that chair. It'll be broken now, sure, and we'll have to fix it again because"-Culthar's voice now rose in vicious mimicry of the guard-"he's not too good with his hands, and all." At that moment, the other guard who had come in with Malark heaved and shuddered, and made a sickening gulping sound. "Oh, gods!" Culthar cursed. "Quick, get his face into that bucket! Hurry! I should have known Crimmon would drink himself sick!" Malark scooped a leather bucket from its peg and did as he was bid, just in time.

When the retching was done, Crimmon roused himself blearily and walked toward the bunkroom almost normally, saying, "No more for me, I think. I'd best be getting back, Jhaele," back over his shoulder.

"Yes, dearie," Culthar said in disgusted mimicry, and they both waited. An instant passed in silence, and then there was another splintering crash from the bunkroom. Malark chuckled helplessly, and after a moment, Culthar joined in, as Crimmon's curses faded in the bunkroom. Malark put down the bucket and closed the bunkroom door. He turned to face Culthar, who frowned and said, "And how much have you had to drink?"

Malark let his face shift back to his own features for two slow, deliberate seconds and said, "Nothing, Culthar. Sorry to disappoint you." When he grinned, an instant later, it was Rozsarran's own lopsided grin.

Culthar stared at him in astonishment. "Lord, why are you here?" he whispered. "Is Roz…?"

"Sleeping. I have little time for talk. Take this." He pressed a ring into Culthar's palm. "Hide it well, on your person, and do not part with it. It has magics upon it to conceal it from normal scrutiny by one of the art, but wear it only when you intend to use it. Speak its command word, which is the name of the first dracolich you served when you joined the followers, and it will instantly take you and one other creature whom you are touching flesh to flesh to Thunderstone-specifically, a hill above that town where one of our group lives as a hermit. His name is Brossan. If he is not there, go to…" Several more instructions followed. Then-

"One thing more. I may appear to you and give the sign of the hammer, or a redcrest may fly into this guardroom-it may be but an illusion, mind. These both are signals that you are to try and take this Shandril Shessair and escape with her by means of the ring if you see any opportunity, however scant. Otherwise, you are to take her when you think best-you guessed the task before I said it, did you not? Good. You will do this?"

"Aye. For the greater glory of the followers," Culthar whispered. Malark nodded and picked up the reeking bucket.

"Before your fellow watchmen return," Malark said, "I shall go to be sick outside." Holding the bucket before him, he staggered out and down the hall, once again every inch the drunken Rozsarran. It was a white-faced and thoughtful Culthar who drew off his boot and ran the brass ring onto his little toe where he could feel its presence reassuringly at every step.

It was a loudly and realistically sick Rozsarran who staggered out through the guards at the gate and into the night. It was a coolly efficient nightcat who loped from where the bucket and clothes had fallen, heading for a certain spot in the trees. There the nightcat became a rat, crept close to the the waiting cultists, and listened.

"Do you hear anything?" Suld asked suspiciously, peering into the night.

"Probably the master, coming back," Arkuel said. "Just sit quiet, now, or we'll both catch it."

"Sit quiet, yourself, cleverjaws. It wasn't me who bought a wagon whose front seat was so full of splinters it was like a carpenter's beard."

"Pierced your wits, did they? You shouldn't carry them so low down," Arkuel said smugly.

"You say a lot of clever things," Suld responded darkly. "I hope the scant wits you have about you work half as well for more useful work."

"Well met," said Malark dryly, stepping from the darkness in a spot neither of them was facing. "I'm glad to hear you both so happy and good-natured." He pointed at the sleeping Rozsarran. "Take up our sleeper, and come. Cover the lantern and I'll carry it."

When the light was hidden, the mage dispelled his darkness and set off back toward the tower. There he raised darkness again and within it they dressed Rozsarran and left him with the bucket in his hands, for the other guards to find. "Back to the inn," Malark commanded simply, banishing his darkness again.

The mage raised his arms and his fingers flowed and grew, then branched and branched anew. In the space of a breath or two, Malark's upper body looked like a large bush. A mouth opened high on one of the branches and said, "Come! And stay behind me." Together they crept through the night to the back of the stables.

"The dogs sleep," Arkuel whispered.

"Yes, but the stablemaster does not," Malark hissed back, and withdrew slightly, becoming himself again and muttering the phrases of a spell while Arkuel and Suld stood guard, swords drawn. Malark rejoined them and eyed the blades with contempt. "Put those away," he muttered angrily. "We're not carving roasts."

"The stablemaster, then?" Arkuel asked, as his blade slid back into its sheath. Somewhere off in the hills to the north, a wolf howled.

"He has something to watch, over by the well," Malark said. "Dancing lights. Come, now-quickly and quietly, to the wall." He strode across the innyard, his underlings at his heels.

At the base of the wall, the archmage's body shifted shape again, rising into a long pole with broad rungs; it gripped the windowsill of their rented room with human hands. The pole sprouted two eyes on stalks that peered back across the innyard. The stablemaster stood, axe in hand, watched the bobbing lights suspiciously.

"Hurry," commanded a mouth that appeared on the crossbrace Arkuel was reaching for. He flinched back and almost fell from the ladder.

"Don't do that," he pleaded, catching himself.

"Move!" the ladder responded coldly. "You too, Suld. Our luck can't hold all night." But they all reached the chamber and closed the shutters without incident.

Malark wondered, as he erected a wall of force between himself and his underlings, just what would go wrong when the time came. Everything had gone smoothly, yet he could feel in his bones that the secret of spellfire was not fated to come within the grasp of the followers.

Such hunches had given him sleepless nights before, but this time he fell asleep before he could fret. Soon he was falling endlessly through gray and purple shifting mists, falling toward something he could not quite see that glowed red and fiery below. "Horsecobbles," he said to it severely, but the scene did not go away, and he went on falling until he reached morning.

"I would speak with the cook," the traveler said. "I eat only certain meats and must know how they are prepared. If you have no objection-?"

"None," Gorstag rumbled. "Through there, on the left. Korvan's the name."

"My thanks," the dusky-skinned merchant said, rising. "It is good, indeed, to find a house where food is deemed important." He strode off, leaving Gorstag staring after him in bemusement. After a moment, the innkeeper caught Lureene's eye and nodded at the kitchens, pointing with his eyes. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and straightened from a table where a fat Sembian merchant was staring at her low-laced bodice. Turning with her hand on her hip in a way that made Gorstag snort with amusement, and the eyes of every man at the Sembian's table involuntarily follow her, she glided toward the kitchen.

The stranger was suddenly at Korvan's elbow. "What news have you for the followers?" a silky voice said in Korvan's ear. The cook froze. He then turned from a pan of mushrooms sizzling in bacon fat and reached for the bowl of chopped onions, his long cook's knife still in one hand. He nodded briefly as his eyes met the merchant's.

"Well met," he muttered, as he turned back to the pan and dumped the onions in, tossing them lightly with his knife. "Little news, but important. A herder saw a girl who used to work for me here, a little nothing named Shandril who ran off a few tendays back, in the Thunder Peaks with the Knights of Myth Drannor and Elminster of Shadowdale. She had just wielded spellfire, and burned 'a dragon or something;' Rauglothgor the Undying, I fear. This man said he heard The Shadowsil's name mentioned, and that there were gold pieces all around-"

"There will be, indeed. Sir Cook, if you do the boar just so," the merchant replied smoothly. Korvan, looking up with knife in hand, saw Lureene gliding into the kitchen behind him. He glared at her.

"What keeps you, girl?" he growled. "Can't you seduce patrons as fast as you used to? I'll be needing butter and parsley for those carrots, and I need the fowl-spit turned now, not on the morrow!"

"Turn it, then," Lureene said crisply, "with whatever part of you first comes to hand." She swept warming rolls from the shelf above the stew cauldrons into a basket and was gone with an angry twitch of her behind.

The merchant chuckled. "Well, I'll not keep you. Domestic bliss, indeed. My thanks, Korvan. Is there anything more?"

"They all went off northward, the herder said, from where he saw them, near the Sember. Nothing more." The onions sizzled with sudden force, and Korvan stirred them energetically to keep them from sticking.

"Well done, and well met, until next time," the silky voice replied, and when Korvan turned to reply, the merchant was gone. On the counter beside Korvan were three gleaming red gems, laid in a neat triangle. The cook's eyes bulged. Spinels! A hundred pieces of gold each, easily, and there were three! Gods above! Korvan snatched them in one meaty fist and then stood, eyes narrowed in suspicion. What if this was some trick? He'd best not be caught with them about the kitchen.

The kitchen door banged. Outside, Korvan glared all around until he was satisfied that no one watched. With a grunt, he put his shoulder to the waterbarrel just outside the back door. Ignoring the water slopping down the far side, he tipped it so that he could lay the gems, and a dead leaf to cover them, in a hollow beneath the barrel's base. Carefully he lowered the barrel again and straightened up with a grunt to look about again for spying eyes. Finding none, he rushed back into the kitchen again where the smell of burning onions greeted him.

"Gods blast us!" he spat angrily as he raced across the kitchen. Lureene stuck her head in at the door from the hall that led to the taproom and grinned at him.

"Something burning?" she inquired sweetly, and withdrew her face just before the knife he hurled flashed through the doorway where her smile had been, and clattered off the far wall.

Korvan was still snarling when Gorstag found the knife, minutes later. "How many times have I told you not to throw things?" the innkeeper demanded angrily. "And a knife, man! You could have killed someone! If you must carve something to work off your furies, let it be the roast! The taproom is filling up right quickly, and they'll all want to eat, I doubt not!" Gorstag tossed the knife into the stone sink with a clatter and went out.

Lureene, seeing his face as he went behind the bar to draw ale, sighed. He smiled all too seldom, now, since Shandril had run off. Perhaps the tales in Highmoon all these years had been true: Shandril was Gorstag's daughter. He had brought her with him as a babe when he bought the inn, Lureene was sure. She shrugged. Ah well, perhaps someday he'd say.

Lureene remembered the hard-working, dreamy little girl snuggling down on the straw the other side of the clothes-chest, and wondered where she was now. Not so little, anymore, either…

"Ho, my pretty statue!" the carpenter Ulsinar called across the taproom. "Wine! Wine for a man whose throat is raw with thirst and calling after you! It is the gods who gave us drink-will you keep me from my poor share of it?"

Lureene chuckled and reached for the decanter she knew Ulsinar favored. "It is patience the gods gave us, to cope when drink is not at hand," she returned in jest. "Would you neglect the one in your haste to overindulge in the other?" Other regulars nearby roared or nodded their approval

"A little patience!" one called. "A good motto for an overworked inn, eh?"

"I like it!" another said. "I'll wait with good will-and a full glass, if one is to be had-for Korvan's stuffed deer, or his roast boar!"

"Oh, aye!" another agreed. "He even makes the greens taste worth the eating!"

He fell silent, suddenly, as his wife turned a cold face upon him and inquired, "And I do not?"

Ulsinar (and not a few other men) laughed. "Let's see you wriggle, Pardus! You're truly in the wallow this time!"

"Wallow! Wallow!" others called enthusiastically. The wife turned an even stonier face upon them all.

"Do you ridicule my man?" she inquired. "Would you all like your teeth removed, all at once and soon?"

The roars died away. There were chuckles here and there. Gorstag strode over. "Now, Yantra," he said with a perfectly straight face, "I can't have this sort of trouble in The Rising Moon. Before I serve all these rude men who have insulted you and your lord, will you have the deer or the boar?"

"The boar." Yantra replied, mollified. "A half-portion for my husband." Gorstag stared quickly around to quell the roars of mirth. The innkeeper winked as he met the eye of Pardus, who, seated behind his wife, was silently but frantically trying to indicate by gesture and exaggerated mouthing of words that he wanted deer, not boar, and most certainly not a half-portion.

"Why, Pardus " Gorstag said, as if suddenly recalling something. "There's a man left word here for any who makes saddles of quality that he'd like a single piece, but a good one, for his favorite steed. I took the liberty of recommending you, but did not presume to promise times or prices. He's from Selgaunt and probably well on his way back there by now. He'll call by again in a few days, on his way out from Ordulin to Cormyr. Will you talk with me, in the back, over what I should tell him?" He winked again, only for an instant.

"Oh, aye," Pardus said, understanding. There was no Sembian saddle-coveter, but he would get his half-portion of boar out here, in the taproom, and as much deer as he wanted in the back, with Gorstag standing watchful guard, a little later. He smiled. Good old Gorstag, he thought, raising his flagon to the innkeeper. Long may he run The Rising Moon. Let it be long, indeed.

Late that night, when all at last were abed, and the taproom was red and dim in the light of the dying fire, Gorstag sat alone. He raised the heavy tankard and took another fiery swallow of dark, smoky-flavored wildroot stout. What had become of Shandril? He was sick at heart at the thought of her lying dead somewhere, or raped and robbed and left to starve by the roadside… or worse, lying in her own sweat and muck in slave-chains, in the creaking, rat-infested hold of some southern slave-trader wallowing across the Inner Sea. How much longer could he bear to stay here, without at least going to look? His glance went to the axe over the bar. In an instant the burly innkeeper was up from his seat-the seat where unhappy Yantra had sat-and over a table in a heavy but fast vault. He soon stood behind the bar, the axe in his hands.

There was a little scream from behind him-a girl's cry! Gorstag whirled as if he was a warrior half his age, snake-quick and expecting trouble. Then he relaxed, slowly. "Lureene?" he asked quietly. He couldnt go-they needed him here, all these folk… oh, gods, bring her safe back!

His waitress saw the anguished set of his face in the firelight and came up to him quietly, her blanket about her shoulders. "Master?" she asked softly. "Gorstag? You miss her, don't you?"

The axe trembled. Abruptly it was swept up and hung in the crook of the old innkeeper's arm, and he came around the bar with whetstone, oil-flask, and rags with almost angry haste. "Aye, lass, I do."

He sat down again where he'd been, and Lureene came on silent bare feet to sit beside him as he worked, turning the axe in his fingers as if it weighed no more than an empty mug. After a long minute of silence, he pushed the tankard toward her. "Drink something, Lureene. It's good… you will be the better for it."

Lureene sampled it, made a face, and then took another swallow. She set the tankard down, two-handed, and pushed it back. "Perhaps if I live to be your age," she said dryly, "I'll learn a taste for it. Perhaps."

Gorstag chuckled. The metal of the axe flashed in his hands as he turned it again. Firelight glimmered down its edge for an instant. Lureene watched, then asked softly, "Where do you think she is now?"

The strong hands faltered and then stopped. "I know not." Gorstag reached for the brass oil-flask and stoppered it. "I know not," he said again. "That's the worst of it!" Abruptly he clenched his hand; the flask in his grasp was crushed out of shape. "I want to be out there looking for her, doing something!" he whispered fiercely, and Lureene put her arm about him impulsively. She could tell Gorstag was on the edge of tears. He spoke in a tone she'd never heard from him before. "Why did she go?" he asked. "What did I do wrong that she hated it here so much?"

Lureene had no answer, so she kissed his rough cheek, and when he turned his head, startled, stilled his sobs with her lips. When at last she withdrew to breathe, he protested weakly, "Lureene! What-?"

"You can be scandalized in the morning," she said softly and kissed him again.