Spellfire

"We should go down," Shandril whispered into the wind. Narm's arms tightened about her, and he and Shandril flew for a time in silence. The great green expanse of the elven woods lay below them.

"Aye," he reluctantly agreed at last. "I shall not soon forget this."

"Nor shall I," she whispered. "As I should hope not!"

Narm chuckled at her mild indignation. Bending his will to turn northwest again over the seemingly endless trees of the Elven Court, they headed back to Shadowdale.

"I can't help but feel," he said, looking about them, "that we're being watched." It was an odd feeling to have while soaring naked high above the land.

"I'm sure we are, and we have been since we first rode with the knights," his lady replied. "How else could they protect us?"

'"Well, yes… but now?"

"I'm sure they've seen such things before," she said. "Elminster's five hundred winters old, remember?"

"Aye." Narm sighed, looking all about them. They were gliding low over the trees, the sky clear but for a line of clouds to the north. They could see no other creatures in the air or below. Narm shrugged. "Would that none of this were necessary," he said, "and we could walk unafraid together."

Shandril fixed him with very serious eyes. "I agree with you," she replied softly. "But without spellfire, you and I would be bones by now." They passed over the bare top of Harpers' Hill and left it behind them again. "Besides, it is the will of the gods. Rage as we might, it is so, and shall be."

Narm nodded. "Aye… Your spellfire can be handy enough, I'll admit. But does it harm you?"

Shandril shrugged. "I know not. I do not feel amiss or in pain, most times. But I couldn't stop it or give it up, even if I wanted to. It is part of me, now." She turned in his grasp to look back, and as she did so something circular and silver drifted out of the empty sky into her hands. Shandril caught it before thinking of danger. It was cold and solid, and the touch of its smooth weight sent her fingertips tingling.

"It is Rathan's holy symbol!" Narm said, astonished. "How came it here?"

"By the will of Tymora," Shandril said quietly. "To answer your doubts." Narm nodded slowly and almost sternly. The fine hairs upon his arms stood out stiff with fear. But he held her as gently and firmly as before.

"Where now?" he asked, as they saw The Old Skull Inn below. "The Twisted Tower?"

"No," Shandril said, pointing at chain mail flashing upon the backs of men below. "In all the alarm, the archers might well have us both down before they knew us."

"Or even," Narm muttered, "because they knew us."

Shandril slapped him lightly. "Think not such darkness!" she hissed. "Have any who are truly of the dale shown us anything but kindness and aid since we came here? We must be suspicious, aye, or perish-but ungrateful? But as I was about to say, I have little liking for the idea of greeting all the folk of the tower clad as we are."

Narm chuckled. "Ah, the real reason," he said, halting their flight over Elminster's tower. "My apologies, for such black thoughts. Still, it is better to look over one's shoulder than to die swiftly and surprised."

"Aye, but let not the looking make you sour," Shandril told him. "You would come down here?"

"Have we anyplace else?" Narm asked. "I doubt the art that protects Storm's home will be kind to us now, if we come calling when she is not there."

"True," Shandril agreed and took one last look around from their height, looking north over the Old Skull's stony bulk to the rolling wilderness beyond. The wind slid past them gently now. "Learn this spell yourself, as soon as you can," she urged as she clung to him. "It is so beautiful."

"Aye." Narm's voice was husky. "It is the least of the beauty I have known this day."

Shandril's arms tightened about him, and she and Narm sank gently to the earth in a fierce embrace in front of Elminster's tower.

Overhead, a falcon waggled its wings to an eagle and veered away to the south. The eagle bobbed in slow salute and wheeled about, sighed audibly, and dove earthward.

"Must ye stand about, naked, kissing and cuddling, and generally inflaming an old man's passions?" Elminster demanded loudly, inches behind Narm.

Narm and Shandril both jumped, startled, but barely had time to unclasp and turn about before the sage was pushing them roughly toward the door. "In! In, and try your hands at peeling potatoes. Lhaeo can't feed two extra guts on naught but air, ye know!" Shandril's fending hands encountered a deep and silky beard.

Elminster came to a dead halt and glared at her. "Pull my beard, will ye? Ridicule a man old enough to be thy great — great — great — great — great — great — and — probably — great-

again-grandsire? Are ye mad? Or just tired of life? How would ye like to enjoy the rest of thy life from the mud, as a toad, or a slug, or creeping moss? Aye? Aye? Aye?"

He was pushing them both again, now, step by step to the door. Narm had begun to chuckle uncertainly. Shandril was still white and open-mouthed. The door opened behind them, and Elminster added in sudden calm, "Two guests again, Lhaeo. They'll be needing clothes first."

"Aye," came the dry reply from within. "It is cold in the corners, herein. How are they at peeling potatoes?"

Elminster's answering chuckle urged them in, and he closed the door with a brief, "I'll follow, anon… some tasks remain." They were inside in the flickering dimness with Lhaeo, already moving toward a certain closet.

"We've gone through more clothes since you've come to Shadowdale," he said. "You were a head shorter than I, were you not, Shandril?"

"Yes," Shandril agreed, and she began to laugh. After a moment, Narm joined her. Lhaeo shook his head as he handed clothes backward without looking. Truly they serve most who know when to laugh and when to listen.

The stew warm inside her, Shandril leaned back against the wall on her stool happily. She looked over at Narm, clad in the silk robes of a grand mage of Myth Drannor, and smiled at him, heart full. The hearth glowed, and Lhaeo moved softly back and forth in front of it, stirring and tasting and adding pinches of spice kept in a rack above his cutting board. Pheasant hung from the rafters above the scribe, and a plump gorscraw lay upon the table, waiting to be plucked and dressed. Narm sipped herbed tea and regarded Lhaeo's deft movements over his stewpots. "Is there anything we can do to help?" he asked.

Lhaeo looked up at him with a quick smile. "Aye, but it is not cooking. Talk, if you would. I have heard little enough speech that is not Elminster's. Tell me how it is with you."

"It is wonderful, Lhaeo," Narm said. "I am as happy now as I have ever been in my life. We are wed this day and henceforth. It is joyous indeed!"

"You, too?" the scribe asked Shandril. She nodded, eyes shining.

Lhaeo smiled. "Both of you," he said, "remember how you feel now, when times are darker, and turn not one upon the other, but stand together to face the world's teeth. But enough. I will not lecture you. You must hear enough of that from other lips, hereabouts."

They all laughed. Shandril stopped first and asked, "Those men-at the wedding? Who were they, do you know?"

"I was not at your wedding," Lhaeo said softly. "Forgive me. I abide here to guard-certain things. I did learn something from the Lord Florin of the men who drew swords and would have attacked you, if that's whom you mean."

Narm nodded. "Those men, yes."

The two men held each other's eyes for a moment, and then Lhaeo said, "There were over forty, we believe. Thirty-seven-perhaps more by now-lie dead. One talked before his life fled. They were all mercenaries hired, for ten pieces of gold each and meals, to grab you both-Shandril alone, if they could take but one of you.

"They were hired in Selgaunt only a few days back and flown up in a ship that sails the skies. Oh, yes, such things exist, though they be rare triumphs of art. They were hired in a tavern by a large, balding, fat man with a wispy beard, who gave his name as Karsagh. They were directed to take you to a hill north of here to be picked up by the skyship.

"They would then be paid in full. Each had received only two pieces of gold. Many died carrying it, still unspent. Who this Karsagh is and why he wants you, we know not. Have you any favorite thoughts as to who he might be?"

Narm and Shandril both shook their heads. "Half the world seems to be looking for us, with swords and spells," Shandril said bitterly. "Have they all nothing better to do?"

"Evidently not," Lhaeo replied. "It is not all bad, that. Look who found you, Shandril-this mageling called Narm, and the knights who brought you here."

"Aye " she said very quietly, "and it is here we must leave-friends and all-because of this accursed spellfire." Fire leaped and spat in tiny, crackling threads from one hand to another, as she stared down at her hands in anger.

"Not within these walls, if you please, good lady," Lhaeo said, eyeing it. "Things sleep herein that should not be so suddenly awakened." Shandril sighed, shame-faced, and let the fires subside.

"Sorry I am, Lhaeo," she said sadly. "I have no wish to burn down your house." The hearthfire let out a crack, then, that startled them all, as a tiny pocket of pitch in a branch blew apart. Narm stared from it to Shandril, a little fear on his face. At his look, Shandril nearly burst into tears.

"Nay, nay," said Lhaeo, turning to his cutting-board. "I know you do not, nor do I fear it coming to pass. You must not hate your gift, Shandril, for the gods gave it to you without such fury. And did not Tymora bless your union?" The scribe indicated the holy symbol that Shandril had carefully set upon a high table. As if in response to his words, it seemed to glow for a moment as they looked at it.

"Aye," Narm said, getting up. "So we are helpless in the hands of the gods?" He began to pace. Lhaeo looked up, sharp knife flashing as he cut up the tripes of a sheep.

"No," he answered, "for where then would be your luck, which is the very essence of holy Tymora? What 'luck' can there be, if the gods control your every breath? And how dull for them, too! Would you take any interest at all in the world beneath your powers, if you were a god and if the creatures in it had no freedom to do anything you had not determined beforehand?

"No, you can be sure that gods do not fate men to act thus-and-so often, if at all, despite the many tales-even those by the great bards-that would have it otherwise."

"So we walk freely, and do as we will, and live or die by that," Shandril agreed. "So where should we walk? You know maps, Lhaeo-I have seen your mark upon the charts here and in the tower yonder. Where upon the land of Faerun should we go?"

The scribe looked at her and spread his hands. "Where your hearts lead, is the easy answer," he said, "and the best. But you really ask me where you should run to now, this season, with half Faerun at your heels and with the Harpers your chosen allies. A good choice, know you by the road."

He paced alongside Narm for a few strides and then said, "I would go south, quick and quiet, and go by the Thunder Gap into Cormyr. There, keep to the smaller places and join with a caravan or with pilgrims of Tempus who seek the great fields of war that lie inland from the Sword Coast. Go where there are elves, for they know what it is to be hounded and will defend you with fierce anger."

He turned back to the cutting-board. "I daresay you would hear much the same advice from those who travel, if you could trust one to ask." Narm and Shandril traded glances in silence. Then Narm spoke.

"We have heard such directions before, yes," he agreed, "almost word for word. If the best way is so obvious as all that, will your enemies not be looking for us to take it, and be waiting?"

"Aye, most probably they will," Lhaeo agreed, with the ghost of a smile. "So you must take care not to get caught."

They both stared at him for a moment in frustration, and then Shandril laughed. "Well enough," she said. "We shall try to follow your advice, good Lhaeo. Know you any ways of avoiding those who search?"

"You both work with art and walk with those who are mighty in art, and you ask me?" Lhaeo replied, eyebrows raised. "If you would learn the ways of stealth and disguise without art, ask Torm. I have escaped thus far, true, but in my case I was cloaked in the Lady's Luck." He turned to Narm. "If you must pace about like a great cat in a cage," he added, "could you slice potatoes while doing it?"

Elsewhere, things were not so peaceful. In Zhentil Keep, two men faced each other across a table.

"Lord Marsh," said the mage Sememmon carefully, "does it seem to you that the priests of The Black Altar, through some unfortunate internal dispute or other, have fallen into confusion and disarray too great for us to leave the city with it unaddressed? I know my fellow mages feel that eye tyrants cannot be trusted and should not be given more authority than the minimum one is obliged to accord them to win their support. All reports indicate that the beholder Manxam presently holds sway in the temple, and the corpses of many hundred clergy, great and lesser, that lie there have begun to stink."

"I have heard those same reports," Lord Marsh Belwintle agreed smoothly. "I am forced to the same conclusions… as, I hold, any reasonable man would be. This matter of one girl who can create fire will simply have to wait, unless or until she shows up at your gates to do us harm. Whereupon I am fully confident that the power and skill of the gathered mages of the city would defeat her, so long as they have not all been destroyed or weakened in the interim by being sent off here and there on missions by one who had rather transparent reasons for wishing them out of the city."

"Exactly," Sememmon agreed. "I had thought to discuss with you the advisability of setting just one of your mages of power-Sarhthor, perhaps-to observing this maiden's doings, so that her seizure by any of your foes or other concerns could be noted or countered by us. Were she to reveal any power or method whereby she gained spellfire, we could benefit merely from such a watch, with no blood lost to us and no art or coin wasted. Prudence would seem to indicate some sort of vigilance on your part."

"An excellent plan, indeed," Lord Marsh agreed, reaching for a glass of blood-red wine before him. "The fighting arm of the Zhentarim would certainly concur with-and even expect-such a tactic. An eye must serve us where a claw might be cut off, if we are not to be taken unaware by some creeping enemy and ultimately overwhelmed. More wine?"

"Ah, thank you," replied Sememmon, "but no. It is excellent, indeed, but its taste lingers on the tongue and makes the sampling of potions when concocting them a chancy business, at best. Such onerous duties call, I fear."

"Quite so, quite so," Marsh agreed, rising. "Well then, we are agreed. I shall not keep you longer. We may have to speak with each other later, and speedily, should the beholders prove troublesome. But for now, olore to you and your fellows-in-art."

"Olore to you," Sememmon agreed. He walked away.

An eye that neither of them saw floating under the table watched Sememmon go and then winked out.

"The Wearers of the Purple are met. For the glory of the dead dragons!" Naergoth Bladelord said. The leader of the Cult of the Dragon was, as always, coldly calm.

"For their dominion," the ritual reply answered him, more or less in unison. Naergoth looked about the large, plain, underground chamber. All were present save the mage Malark. Well enough. To tongue-work, then, the faster to feast in some fine festhall of Ordulin, above, and then bed and then sleep. The ruling Council of the Cult waited expectantly.

"Brothers," he said, "we are gathered to hear of an affair that preoccupies your mages: this matter of spellfire and all that is drawn into it. Brother Zilvreen, what say you?"

"Brothers," Master Thief Zilvreen said with soft, sinister grace. "I have learned little from your loyal followers of the fates of the dracolich Rauglothgor and the mage Maruel. But it appears likely that Rauglothgor, its treasure, the she-mage, and even another sacred night dragon, the wyrm Aghazstamn, whom Maruel called on for aid and rode upon back to Rauglothgor's lair, have all been destroyed. Destroyed by the accursed archmage of Shadowdale, Elminster, a group of adventurers who call themselves the Knights of Myth Drannor, and by this young girl we have heard of, this Shandril Shessair, who can cast spellfire!"

"All?" rumbled Dargoth of the Perlar merchant fleet. "I can scarce believe they can all have been destroyed. What is so powerful, save an army of a size that we could see gathering for many days?"

"No such swords have been raised," Commarth, the bearded general of the Sembian border forces, added dryly.

"Men sent back by Malark have described the site of Rauglothgor's lair as a pit of freshly strewn rubble," Zilvreen answered. "Draw your own conclusions."

"So just what is this spellfire," Dargoth asked, "that it can destroy great mages and great wyrms alike?"

Naergoth shrugged. "A fire that burns and can be hurled as a mage casts bolts of lightning," he said, "and that affects magical items and spells as well as things not of art. More than that we do not know-which is why we sent Malark."

"What of him?" Commarth asked. "Has he spoken to you more recently than we know?"

Naergoth shook his head. "No, I have heard no more than I have told you. He is in or about Shadowdale now, as far as we know, seeking a time and a way to get at the girl."

"Shessair," one of the others mused." Wasn't that the name of the mage that your brothers of art who preceded Malark slew at the Bridge of Fallen Men, in the battle that bought them their deaths?"

"Aye, it was," Naergoth said, "but no connection is yet apparent. We have at least three eyes in Sword Coast cities who have the last name of 'Suld' that I know of… and none are blood-related or even know of each other."

"What boots it?" Dargoth said. "Ancient history only warms long tongues-it can have no bearing on what we decide to do in this matter."

"It certainly won't, if we do nothing," Commarth agreed in dry tones. "Have you any plans in mind, brothers?" Naergoth and Zilvreen shrugged.

"You first, brother," Zilvreen prompted.

Naergoth nodded and spoke. "The price of getting our hands on this spellfire seems far too high, and others-the Zhentarim, and the priests of Bane outside Zhentil Keep, for two-are known to seek it. Yet it is we who have already paid a price, and I am loath to turn away empty-handed. The price may seem too high to you… and yet we cannot afford not to gain spellfire for our own. No one can. I expect much bloodshed yet." He looked around the table. "How we go about getting it, I leave to you, brothers."

"Let the mages win it for us," said Zilvreen smoothly. "Waste no more swords-and especially no more of your bone dragons-on this."

"Well enough," Dargoth agreed. "But spellfire or no, we must not let this girl, or the knights, go unpunished for what they have done. We must never forget that we have lost much treasure, two dracoliches, and The Shadowsil over this. The girl must pay. Even if she becomes an ally, she must die after we have gained her secrets and her power. This must ride over all."

"Well said, brother," Naergoth agreed. There was a murmur of agreement around the table. "We are agreed, then-for now, we let your brother mages handle this affair?"

"Aye, it is his field," came one reply.

"Aye, it would be folly to do otherwise," said another.

"Aye-and if he comes not back, we can always raise other mages to the Purple."

"Aye to that, too!"

"Aye," the others all put in, in their turn. So it was agreed, and they all rose and left that place.

It was late in Shadowdale, and in the Twisted Tower the candles burned low. In an inner room of Lord Mourngrym's chambers off the great bedroom, there was much discussion over the remains of dinner-in low tones, as Lady Shaerl slept in her chair at one end of the table, and Rathan Thentraver dozed over one arm of his chair.

"We must leave," Shandril said, close to tears.

"Leave? Of course… how can you know yourselves and become strong if you are always in the midst of our hurly-burly?" Florin agreed. "But come back one day to see us, mind," he added softly.

"Have you a place in mind?" Jhessail asked, as she leaned drowsily upon Merith's shoulder. The elf's eyes gleamed in the candlelight. Tonight he had said little and listened much.

Narm shrugged. "We go to seek our fortune. The Harpers said to seek High Lady Alustriel in Silverymoon."

"Would you have some of us ride with you?" Lanseril asked. "There are greater evils in this world by far than those you have fought."

"With all respect, lord," Shandril answered him, "no. Too long you have watched over us and spilled much blood on our account. We must make our own way in the world and fight our own battles-or in the end, we will have done nothing."

"'Nothing,' she says," Torm said to Illistyl. "Two dracoliches and a mountaintop and a good piece of Manshoon of Zhentil Keep, yet, and 'nothing' she calls it! It's scary. What if she tries 'something'?"

"Hush you," Illistyl said, stopping his mouth with a kiss. "You're a worse windbag than the old mage himself."

"Why, thank ye," said a familiar voice wryly from the far darkness of the room. Narm saw the battered old hat first, perched atop the staff that Elminster bore, as the sage's bearded old face came forward into the light and regarded them all. He looked last at Narm and Shandril.

"Ye might," he said dryly, "go to The Rising Moon for a night, at least. It would be a kindness to Gorstag. He has been worried about ye."

Shandril met his gaze in silence, and a breath had passed before Narm realized that she was crying. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. He turned to her and took her in his arms, but her tears still fell.

"Don't cry, beloved," Narm soothed her. "You're among-"

"Shush her not," Merith said gently. "It is no shame to weep. Only one who cares not, cries not. I have seen what happens to those-Florin and Torm, at this table-who cry inside and try to hide it from others. It sears the soul."

Jhessail nodded. "Merith is right," she said. "Tears don't upset us, only the reasons for them."

"Cry here, lord," murmured Shaerl in her sleep, patting her own shoulder. "It is soft and listens to you." Mourngrym looked faintly embarrassed. Torm grinned.

"You see?" he said to Illistyl. "You could do that for me… You have the shoulders for it." She slapped him fondly.

Shaerl stirred and frowned. "Oh, it is that game tonight, is it?" she murmured. "Well, my lord, you'll have to catch me first, I assure you." Chuckles arose from around the room. Mourngrym leaned forward and lifted his lady gently from the chair. Sleepily she clung to his neck and drew her legs up across his chest, settling herself with murmurs of contentment.

Mourngrym turned to them all with Shaerl cradled in his arms. "Good even, all," he said with a smile. "Shaerl should be in bed-and so should all of us."

"Now where were we?" Elminster asked, settling himself into a chair that looked as old, shabby, and well-worn as he did. "Oh, aye… your plans for the future, Narm and Shandril." Groans, silence, and faint snores answered him from elsewhere, as the newly healed knights lay sleeping upon couches and blankets. Jhessail looked at him and smiled ruefully, but she said nothing. Narm also kept silence, but the slow, disbelieving shake of his head was eloquent.

Shandril fixed the sage with her own tired eyes. "I suppose you'll tell us to steer clear of fights, or we'll be dead within a day, eh?"

"Nay." Very clear blue eyes looked deep into hers. "You two will be given no such choice. You must fight or die. But think: one mistake is enough when you're dealing with those who wield art. Remember that." His gaze shifted to Narm. "Ye too, Lion of Mystra."

Elminster cleared his throat, then continued. "If ye find thyself facing a mage, stand not to trade spells with him. Throw rocks, and run right at him unless he's much too far away to reach. Then run away and find a place to hide where ye can grab rocks to throw. Simple, eh? Recall how thy lady first struck down Symgharyl Maruel before ye laugh."

"Five hundred-odd winters, eh?" was all Narm said.

The sun rose again over a very quiet tower of Ashaba. The Lord and Lady of Shadowdale, in the company of the sage Elminster, the young married lad and lass, and the knights all remained on an upper floor within a great, blinding sphere of shimmering colors, a prismatic sphere cast by Elminster. Rold warned everyone not to approach.

Several times the prismatic sphere melted away and was replaced by the art of the old mage. During one cessation of the sphere, a simpering Lhaeo was waiting. With the aid of several strong guards, he brought tea, a great cauldron of hot stew, bowls and a monstrous ladle, and two fat spellbooks for the old mage. The scribe then went away again and advised everyone else except the guards to do the same.

The envoys waited in their guestchambers, and the merchants went away from the forecourt again, for the lord and lady and all in the sphere rested that day and into the night. Once, in the dark hours, Elminster used a sending spell to deliver a message to a certain eye tyrant in a certain cold stone city, a message that left the tyrant black and seething with anger. But then, Elminster had five hundred years-worth of impudence saved up. He sat humming to himself in the tent he and Florin (who were both immune to the sphere's blinding effects) had erected to shield the eyes of their companions from the sphere's swirling colors.

"Elminster," Shandril asked hesitantly, "may I ask you something?"

"Aye," Elminster prompted her, waving a cooling hand over his bowl of stew. "Ask, then."

"Why is it that my spellfire was turned aside by a wall of force spell you created while testing me, and yet this prismatic sphere-a much more powerful spell, Jhessail tells me-can be destroyed by a mere wisp of spellfire?"

Elminster regarded her thoughtfully. "Like much else about thy spellfire, young lady, I know not. I could tell thee airy theories about the anti-spell nature of the wall and the many-layered and inherently less stable nature of the sphere, which focuses its energies more toward preventing attack from without than from within. Such words, however, would be just that-airy theories."

Elminster shifted uncomfortably. "The truth is, I know not, nor does any mage ye will ever face in Faerun, unless or until some new lore comes to light or ye are tested further. I do not care to test thee further myself, for such tests are dangerous to the one being tested. I have no desire to assure thy corpse-and Narm-that I have learned the precise limits of thy powers."

"My thanks for that," Narm said dryly.

"Many is the mage who would not scruple a moment, lad," Elminster told him gently. "The pursuit of an edge in art is all, for most. Some who care nothing for glory and battle-strength delight in learning what none have learned before. They'd not hesitate. Consider that, ye who hope to be a master of the art, and govern thyself accordingly.

"I do not want to hear news someday of how ye've turned thy bride into a weapon against rival mages, or burned her powers out in striving to further them or win them for thyself. Aye, aye… I know the very idea repels ye. But it is an easy road, step by innocent step, to such things, and dead is dead and wishing brings the past not back. Enough. Be not hurt or angry at my words, but sit and think upon them instead, and grow wise." Elminster grinned suddenly. "I'm in a mood to give away wisdom today… come all, and take some, until I have none left."

"I hear you," Mourngrym said wryly, from the great couch where he and Shaerl lay at ease in each other's arms. "I take it this is a mood that comes often upon you?" Elminster favored him with a look.

Jhessail chuckled. "Admit it, Master," she said. "Your wisdom is often in short supply."

"Aye," the old mage replied, looking around at them all with a raised brow. "Its like is rare indeed in this company." Torm had lost his sight for a time because of an incautious look at the whirling, shimmering sphere. "Why do we cower here like-like-"

"Like blind men?" Rathan put in helpfully. Torm gave him a sour look. There were chuckles. Elminster rolled his eyes and picked up one of his spellbooks without replying. Jhessail gave Torm a pitying look.

"Listen, little snake-brains," she said lovingly. "How well could you have fought Manshoon, say, without the light of your eyes to guide you?"

"Aye, but I'm better now" the thief told her. "Why must we sit caged up like this? Time slips away! Armies march, and mages weave! The gods sleep never, and orcs-"

"Will do as they always do, aye, and spill the blood of others and beget more orcs between bloodlettings-we know the sayings. If there is such a thing as patience in your mind, in some dark and seldom-visited corner, seek it out, and hunt it down, and once you have hold of it, let it not go from your grasp." Jhessail fixed him with dark eyes. "Use your knot, man. Or I'll teach you to."

"That might be fun," Torm said to the tent above him.

"I wouldn't, Torm," Merith said calmly from where he lay. "I just wouldn't. It is unwise."

"Threats, dire warnings, and sinister words he heeded not," Torm sang lightly, "but rushed in and took the crown for his own."

"If it's crowning ye're looking for," Rathan grunted, hefting his mace and leaning forward, "I could see my way clear to obliging ye."

"Why, darling," Torm said, mocking the tones of a high court Cormyrean lady (Shaerl frowned, and then couldnt hold it; her severe expression slipped into laughter). "I knew not the depths of your caring. My champion!" (Squeal of excitement, breathy delight.) "My brave warrior! My-"

"— bringer of slumber," Rathan grumbled, flinging Torm's half-cloak over the thief's head and holding it down firmly to muffle his cries. "Silence, now," he added as the thief struggled, "or I'll just bounce my mace off this nasty lump here"-he patted Torm's enshrouded head-"until it goes down."

"Sleep now, all of ye," Elminster told them. "Narm and Shandril begin a long journey in the morning." He darkened the glowing globe that hung by his shoulder. A few halfhearted jests were tossed back and forth by the weary knights, but sleep came swiftly.

Shandril awoke much later in a cold sweat, pursued through the crumbling tunnels of a ruined city by a black-winged devil who cornered her at last and reached for her, with Symgharyl Maruel's cruel, smiling face. She caught a shuddering breath and started up. Florin sat nearby with Elminster, talking in low tones through the blue haze of the sage's pipe. He leaned over with concern on his ruggedly handsome face and laid a soothing hand on her arm. She smiled gratefully at him and held to his arm as she sank back down beside Narm, who slept peacefully. Florin gently wiped the sweat from her forehead and jaw, and she smiled and must have drifted off to sleep again, for when next she knew her surroundings, morning had come.

Jhessail was laughing with Merith over hot minted tea. Sunlight shone warmly all about, for the tent and the sphere were both gone, and the knights, variously clad, were sitting up on their couches or bedrolls, or walking quietly about.

The clear tones of a horn floated up to them from somewhere below, where an unseen player was blowing his delight in a fine morning. Shandril looked around at the old stone walls of the chamber and said aloud to herself, "I'm going to miss this."

"Yes," Narm agreed, suddenly beside her. Shandril turned to him in pleased surprise. He grinned. "You seemed ready to sleep forever," he said, hugging her.

Shandril hugged him back. "You're mine, now!"

"A…aye," Narm managed from within her arms.

"Not for much longer, if you break him like a clay cup," Torm said dryly. "They're more useful, you know, when they're whole… back and arms able to carry, and all…"

Shandril burst out laughing. "You're utterly ridiculous!"

"It is how I get through each day," Torm told her earnestly. It was much later when she realized he'd spoken the sober truth.

"Well," said Florin at last. "Here we part." He nodded at the weathered stone pillar just ahead. "Yonder is the Standing Stone." The pillar rose, watchful and defiant, out of the brush, overlooking the fields back to Mistledale and south toward Battledale. Florin pointed. "Down that road lies Essembra. Take rooms at the Green Door. It once had a talking door, but we took a fancy to it, so that door is back at the tower. Somehow," he grinned, "we forgot to show it to you in all the excitement."

The white horse under Shandril snorted and tossed its head. "Easy, Shield," Florin said to her. "You've barely begun, yet."

There was a sudden lump in Shandril's throat at his words. She turned in her saddle to look back. Past the pack mules on their reins, past the watchful crossbowmen who rode behind with quarrels at the ready, back to where the knights rode with an ever-grumbling Elminster. She'd miss them all. She felt Narm's hand clasp hers hard. She held back sudden tears.

"None of that," Rathan ordered her gruffly. "All this sobbing robs an occasion of its grandeur."

"Aye," Lanseril agreed. "You'll be too busy staying out of trouble to cry, soon. So get in the habit now, and let's have dry eyes. Remember that Mourngrym serves his best wine at Greengrass. We'll be looking for you, some year."

Narm nodded. Shandril was too busy wiping away tears that would not stop. Her shoulders shook in silence.

"Go now," Torm said gruffly, over his shoulder. "Or we'll be all day a-weeping and a-saying farewells."

Rathan nodded and urged his large bay forward to take a hand of both Narm and Shandril. "Tymora go with ye and watch over ye," he said fervently. "Think of us when ye are downcast or cold-such thoughts can warm and hearten."

Torm stared at his friend. "Such bardic soft and high glory," he said in amazement. "You've not been drinking, have you?"

"Get on with ye, snaketongue, to the nearest mud, and fall from thy saddle into it," Rathan said kindly, "and mind ye get lots of muddy water in thy mouth."

"Peace, both of you" Jhessail chided them. "Narm and Shandril should be well away before highsun, if they are to make Essembra even two nights hence." She turned to the young couple. "Mind you stay on the road. The Elven Court is not the safest place in Faerun these days."

"Let not fear or pity stay your hand, either," Florin said gravely. "If you are menaced on the road, let fly with spellfire before hands are laid upon you. A swinging sword often can't be stopped in time by spellfire or art."

"Oh, aye… one last thing," Elminster said. "I know something of illusions. This will make ye both look rather older, and a trifle different in appearance-save to each other's eyes. It will wear off in a day or so, or ye can end it at any time, each of ye affecting only thyself, by uttering the word gultho — nay, do not repeat it now, or ye will ruin the magic. Let me see…" He drew back his sleeves and sat upon his placid donkey and worked magic upon Narm and Shandril while the knights drew their mounts around in a respectful circle.

When it was done, the knights moved their mounts in closer for careful, critical looks. Narm and Shandril looked to each other and could not see the slightest difference in each other's appearance, as Elminster had said, but it was clear that they looked different to the eyes of others.

"Go now," Elminster said gently, "or ye'll be seen. We shall ride north toward Hillsfar with illusions of ye for a time to confuse any who seek ye, but those who pursue ye are not weak-minded. Go now, and go swiftly. Our love and regard go with ye." His clear blue eyes met theirs fondly and steadily as they slowly turned their mounts about, and then, with a vast wave, spurred away.

Looking back as they thundered south along the road with tears stinging their eyes, Shandril and Narm saw the knights sitting their saddles watching. Florin raised something that flashed silver to his lips as they rode on over the first rise, and as the descending slope of the road hid the knights from their view, the clear notes of the knights' battle-leader's war-horn rang out in a farewell. He was playing the Salute to Victorious Warriors. Shandril had heard it played by bards at the inn, but she had never dreamed it would someday be played for her!

"Will we ever see them again?" Narm asked softly, as they slowed.

"Yes," said Shandril, with eyes and voice of steel, "whatever stands in the way." She brushed her hair out of her eyes. "It is time we learned to look after ourselves. If I must slay with this spellfire every jack and lass seems so eager to take, then so be it. I'm afraid I can't laugh at devils and dracoliches and mages and men with swords the way Torm does. They just make me angry and afraid. So I'll strike back at them. I hope you won't be hurt… I fear much battle lies ahead of us."

"I hope you won't be hurt, my lady," Narm answered her, as they rode on. "You're the one they'll be after."

"I know," Shandril said softly, and steel shone in her eyes again. "But it is I who'll have spellfire ready when they find me."

They slowed their horses to a steady trot. The road was lightly traveled that day. They saw no one traveling south, and only a few merchants heading north. All rode ready-armed, but nodded without incident or ill looks.

Great old trees of the Elven Court rose on both sides of the road. Between them and the road itself stumps rose out of the ditch like the gray fingers of buried giants, all that remained of saplings cut by travelers as staves and litter-poles and firewood. Narm watched these narrowly as they rode, half-expecting brigands to rise up out of them at every bend and dip of the way.

They rode in silence for the most part, until the sun glimmered low, and the trees laid dark shadows across the road.

"We should find a place to sleep, love," Narm said as shadows lengthened and their horses slowed.

Shandril looked at him and nodded soberly. "Aye, and soon," she said. "We are almost upon the vale. A cursed place. Let us stop here-at that height, ahead-and hope none find us."

They reined to a halt, and Narm swung down. "Ohhh," he groaned. "Stiff… ohhh. Tymora watch over us." He patted his mount's head and listened. "Water, down there," he said after a moment, pointing.

Shandril swung down into his arms. "Good, then," she said lightly, inches from his nose. "You fetch some while I tie the horses, oh mighty conjurer."

Narm growled and kissed her, and then unhooked the nosebags from the mules and went down to get water. Somewhere nearby a wolf howled. Overhead, as the last light faded and the moonlight began, a black falcon came silently to a branch above Shandril, and clung, watching.

They awoke in each other's arms on a hard bed of canvas tent laid flat upon mossy ground. Birds called in the brightening morning. It was damp and misty among the trees. They were in a beautiful place, but somehow it was not welcoming. They were intruders, and could feel it.

Once Narm thought he saw elven eyes far off in the gloom, regarding him steadily, but he blinked and they were gone. The Elven Court itself may have gone from these woods, but the hand of man had not tamed them-yet. Narm felt more comfortable with his hand resting on the hilt of his drawn dagger, beneath the cloak that covered their shoulders and throats. He turned to Shandril, who smiled through tousled hair, looking sleepy and vulnerable. "Good morn, my lady," Narm greeted her softly, rolling over to draw her close.

"And to you, my love," Shandril replied softly. "It is nice to be alone for once, without mages attacking us and guards watching over us always, and Elminster fussing about… I love you, Narm."

"I love you, too," Narm said quietly. "How lucky I've been to see you in the inn and then be parted, only to find you deep in ruined Myth Drannor again. I would have come back to The Rising Moon someday when I was free of Marimmar, only to find you long gone."

"Aye," Shandril whispered against his chest. "Long gone and probably dead. Oh, Narm…" They lay in each other's arms, warm and safe and unwilling to rise and end this feeling of peace.

Then they heard the dull thudding of hooves from the road nearby, and the creak of harness leather. Shandril sighed and rolled free of Narm. "I suppose we must get up," she said, long, blond hair hanging about her shoulders as she rose to her knees, pulling the cloak about her against the chill. "If we stop in Essembra only to buy feed and to eat and then hasten on, we could camp on the southern edge of the woods this night. I would be out and away, west of the Thunder Peaks, before the Cult of the Dragon and Zhentil Keep and whoever else is after me know we have parted from the knights. Come, now. You can kiss me more later."

Narm nodded a bit mournfully. "Aye, I know." He sat up and looked all about at the drifting mist in the trees, and the horses chewing on leaves patiently. He sighed too, then, and scrambled up to draw on his clothes. His thighs were raw from yesterday's riding. He drew on his belt, then stopped abruptly, listening. He could have sworn he had heard a chuckle, but there was no one to be seen. All was quiet from the road, too. After a long time he shrugged and continued on, glancing back often at his lady. He never saw the black falcon winging low over the treetops to the east on the long flight home.

In falcon shape, The Simbul shook her head and chuckled again. They were good folk, she thought, and then rose on powerful wings to look around at the trees below. Children, still, but they'd not be for much longer. She had other concerns, too long neglected, to see to now. Perhaps they'd be killed-but then again, it was entirely possible that they'd do the killing if any in Faerun quarreled with them. Farewell, you two. Fare-you-very-well. The lonely queen of Aglarond flicked raven-black wings and rose higher.

They made good time across the strangely still place known as the Vale of Lost Voices. Sacred to the elves, it was, and men whispered that something unseen and terrible guarded it. Something that destroyed axe-wielding men and great mages alike, and left no trace behind. In the vale the elves of the Elven Court buried the bodies of their fallen, but those who dared to dig for treasure there vanished in the mists and were not seen again.

Narm and Shandril, and those who passed them there, said not a word all the time they rode across that tree-choked valley. The largest trees they had seen yet grew in the vale, some as big around as Elminster's tower back in Shadowdale. The light was eerily blue under the trees where mists coiled slowly far off, and faint glowing lights drifted and danced. No one stepped off the road while they traversed the vale.

They left it at last, Shandril shivering in sudden relief as they came up over the crest of the steep hill that marked its southern edge.

"The Lost Dale, they call it in Cormyr," Narm said, low-voiced. "Forever lost to men, because of the elves."

Shandril looked at him. "They say in the dales that every elf in the Elven Court would have to be dead before one tree of the vale could be safely cut."

"But all the elves are gone now," Narm said. Shandril shook her head.

"No. I saw one in the woods at Storm Silverhand's. She waved to Storm and went away as we came down to the pool." Shandril turned to peer all around into the trees.

"But that's far from here," Narm protested.

"Think you so?" asked Shandril very softly. "Look there, then." Narm followed her gaze and saw a motionless figure in mottled green-gray standing upon the mighty branch of a shadowtop that towered high above the road ahead. The figure was an elf, and he leaned easily upon a bow that must have been a head taller than Narm. He looked at them with steady blue, gold-flecked eyes. Shandril bowed her head, spread empty hands, and smiled. Narm did the same. A slow nod was their only answer. The horses carried them past at a steady pace, and Shandril said, "A moon elf, like Merith."

"A possible enemy, unlike Merith," Narm replied grimly. "We must watch our every step." He peered ahead. "The trees thin," he said. "We must be nearing Essembra. I can see fields."

A caravan rumbled toward them, then, a dozen wagons pulled by oxen. The wagons were surrounded by hard-eyed outriders who rode with crossbows at their saddles and short spears in their hands. The wagons bore no merchant banner, but passed without incident.

Well behind the caravan rode a family on heavily laden draft horses, leading strings of pack mules. They were led by a single excited youth with a halberd that dipped and swung alarmingly as he rode forward to challenge them. "Way, there! Way, if you be not foes! Declare yourselves!"

Narm stared at him in silence. The halberd lowered upon them.

"Declare yourselves, or defend yourselves!"

"Ride on in peace," Narm replied, "or I'll turn your halberd into a viper and turn it back upon you!"

The boy recoiled, his horse dancing uncertainly as its rider waved about trying to draw his blade wrong-handed while keeping the halberd menacingly upon Narm. "If you be a mage," he said shrilly, backing away as Narm and Shandril rode steadily on, "give your name, or face swift death!" Beyond him Narm saw small crossbows raised ready upon saddles, and calm, wary eyes above them. He could not hesitate longer. Beside him, Shandril rode serenely silent.

Narm drew himself up in his saddle. "I am Marimmar the Magnificent, Mage Most Mighty. I and my apprentice would pass you in peace. But offer us death, and it shall be yours!"

Beside him, Shandril burst into muffled giggles. Narm kept his composure with an effort, as the boy cast him a frightened look and hastened by. Narm nodded pleasantly and then stared straight ahead as he rode past the other men and the mules behind, managing to hide a smile that kept creeping onto one side of his face.

"Sarhthor?" Sememmon asked aloud, peering into the depths of the crystal ball before him. Its magical telepathy was always difficult to focus at first. In its depths he could see flickering lamps and an expressionless, elegantly bearded face. Sarhthor looked back at him and sent his thoughts without speaking. Sememmon tried to hide his own irritation at the other mage's precise ease of art and apparent fearlessness.

"Well met, Sememmon. I have searched the dale. Elminster and the knights have just returned, using the road south from Voonlar. The girl with spellfire and her consort mageling are not here, as far as I can determine."

"Not in Shadowdale?"

"Not. They may be here in hiding, but I doubt it. None of the knights-or those Harpers I can observe in safety-have gone anywhere out of the ordinary or met with anyone. The folk of the tower know they left two nights ago."

"Two nights?" Sememmon almost screamed. "Why, they could be almost anywhere!"

Precisely why I'm returning to you, as soon as possible, Sarhthor thought flatly, then said aloud, "By the way, who is that with you?"

"With me?" Sememmon asked, angry and startled. "I am alone!"

"You are indeed-now. A moment ago there was an eye floating above your left shoulder-the ocular construction of a wizard eye spell. A spy, then. Guard yourself, Sememmon."

Sememmon had already turned angrily away from the ball, to stare wildly about his chamber. "Show yourself!" he thundered, casting a detect magic spell. Dweomer-the auras of familiar objects imbued with art-glowed all around him. The faint traceries of spells, too, shone in the field of revealed magic created by his spell, but they were all spells he knew about, preservative and defensive, all art that should be there. There was no sign of any intruder.

At last Sememmon turned angrily back to the crystal ball, but it was dark. No one waited at the matching globe at the other end any longer. Sememmon cursed the shadows about him, but they did not answer.

The sun was low again. Shandril and Narm passed a skin of hot spiced tea between them as they rode, their bellies full of warm roast phledge, the plump ground-partridge of the woods, smoky-tasting and delightful in a thick pea gravy. No one had acted suspicious of them at the inn Florin had recommended.

"How do you feel, my lady?" Narm asked suddenly, not meeting her eyes. "About the spellfire, I mean. Does it… change one?"

A little startled at the suddenness of the question, Shandril looked at him with something close to pity in her eyes. "Yes, no doubt. But not in the larger sense, I think. I am still the Shandril you rescued from Rauglothgor." She hesitated, then added in a much softer voice, "I am still the Shandril you love."

Narm looked at her, and there was a little silence as they regarded each other. And then the attack came.

Shandril felt something was wrong an instant before the boulder struck Narm's shoulder, and his head flew back. The jarring made her bite her lip. Narm was whirled about, his arm striking her head solidly as he spun, and he toppled and fell.

Stunned, Shandril stared at the huge, mossy boulder as it settled past her to hang above Narm's head. He lay crumpled, unmoving. The boulder sank slowly, and over the grassy bank beyond where Narm lay, Shandril saw a man in robes.

He grinned at her without humor. His eyes glittered black and deadly. She drew breath to scream, as wild fear rose and choked her from within.