Spellfire

"No… make no sound," the man in robes warned. "Speak not. Cast no spells. Use no spellfire, Shandril Shessair-or I will let fall the rock on the head of your husband." His eyes bore into hers. "Do not think to trick me or take me unaware," the man added calmly, "for I am not such a fool-and yonder stone can hardly miss its mark."

Shandril sat still in her saddle, cold fear trickling slowly-slowly and chillingly-down her spine. She stared at the mage and wondered for an instant who this one was. How to win free? her mind screamed then. How to win free?

"I am Malark " the man said with cold pride, "of the Cult of the Dragon. I come for revenge, and I will have it." His eyes flickered. "Get down off your horse slowly, and stay just where you land, or your husband will die."

Shandril did as he commanded, never taking her eyes off his. He watched her with the cold patience of a snake.

"Lie down. Slowly. To your knees, and then upon your belly, arms outstretched toward me. Do not touch any weapon." Shandril did so, heart sinking as she pressed her face into the rocky ground. "Good," said the voice coldly.

"Spread your arms and legs apart. Do not try to rise."

He was nearer. Shandril obeyed, wondering how much she'd have the courage to endure. She gathered spellfire within her, silently. Malark walked around her, staying at a safe distance. Angry warmth filled her chest and throat. She glared at the grass before her eyes, and it began to smoulder. She hooded her fire, hastily, and held herself ready. Tymora aid me!

"You have cost us much indeed, Shandril Shessair. The Shadowsil, the dracolich Rauglothgor, his lair, and the fortified tower above it, with all his treasure, the dracolich Aghazstamn, many devout worshippers-the worth of all these, you owe us. The price is your spellfire-that, and your service and that of your husband. You may serve us, or die. Lie still." The cold voice began the mutterings of spellcasting.

Gods aid me, Shandril thought. What will become of us? There are no knights here to rescue us, now.

Malark's cold chanting ended in a sudden squealing, gurgling sound. Shandril, waiting to absorb his spell, froze and then rolled over in breathless haste. If that rock fell on Narm…

But Narm was safely to one side, in the grip of a grinning Rathan. Malark stood staring at her, black eyes very dark and very large, and over his shoulder Torm was grinning.

In the thief's hands were the ends of the waxed cord that had choked off Malark's spell in mid-word. Malark was hanging from the cord now, face terrible, frantic fingers clawing at the cord about his throat growing feeble. Malark's eyes rolled up into his skull, and he began to sag. Torm held the cord tight as he lowered the mage slowly to the ground.

"Well met," the thief said cheerfully as he rolled the body over, drawing his dagger in one fluid motion, and beckoned Rathan over with a jerk of his head. "His purse, quickly, before he is fully dead… these damned mages all have spells set to trigger all manner of mischief at their deaths."

Rathan bent to work obediently. "Ho, Shandril-thy lad's all right," he said quickly. Shandril stared at the boulder, now sunk into the grass nearby, and shuddered. "Nothing but a bit of rag and a handful of coppers," Rathan told Torm.

"His boots," Torm directed, still holding the cord tight. Malark's face looked so dark and terrible that Shandril turned away.

"Is-is he dead?" she asked weakly.

"Nearly. I'll cut his throat in a moment… Then, lady, it would be best to burn the body completely, or some bright-minded bastard of the cult will raise him to lurk on your trail." Torm turned professional eyes upon the boots. "Try that heel."

"Hah!" Rathan said in satisfaction a moment later, holding up six platinum pieces. "Hollow, indeed!"

"Hmmph," Torm said, wrinkling his nose. "No magic? Scarce worth all this trouble. Have off his robe, Rathan, and we'll cut his throat and be done with it."

"His robe?"

"Aye, his robe. Where he conceals the components for his spells, a few extra coins, and the gods know what else… which we'll soon learn. Come on-my arms grow weary!"

"They do? Pretend they're around a wench, and ye'll have no trouble at all," Rathan told him gruffly, tugging off the mage's robe. He stepped back, looked at the body as Torm laid it down with both ends of the cord in one fist and a dagger gleaming long and wickedly in the other, and then grinned at Shandril.

"Not unimportant, are you?" he said. "Malark, one of the rulers of the Cult of the Dragon. An archmage in his own right. You watch out, now. There are lots of other rats like this one in Sembia, mind, and there's one in Deepingdale, too…"

"Yes," Shandril said. "Korvan."

Rathan nodded. "Aye, that's the name! You've been warned, then? Good. Well, you're doing fine thus far!"

"Fine," said Shandril bitterly, looking at Malark as Torm freed his cord at last and slashed with cruel speed. Her gaze fell next on Narm, who still lay silent in the grass. "Oh, yes. Fine indeed." She burst into tears.

Rathan sighed and went to her. "Look, little one," he said awkwardly, "Faerun can be a cruel place. Men like this have to be slain-or they will kill thee. Nor is there any shame in defeat at his hands-this one could have slain any of us knights, in an open fight. He was an archmage." He enfolded her in a bear hug. "Ye wouldn't be thirsty, perhaps?"

Shandril's shoulders shook helplessly then, as tears were overwhelmed by laughter. She laughed for a long time, and a little wildly, but Rathan held her tight, and when at last she was done, she raised bright eyes and said, "Are you finished, Torm? I think I'd like to wield a little spellfire."

Torm nodded and stepped back, and Shandril raised a hand and lashed the body with flames, pouring out her anger. Oily smoke arose almost immediately, and the horses snorted and hurried off in all directions.

Torm and Rathan let out brief despairing cries and ran after the horses, just as Narm rolled over and groaned, and then asked faintly, "Shandril? Wha-why did you do that? Am I not to kiss you?"

"They could be dead by now!" Sharantyr said angrily. "I ride patrol for a few days and return to find you've put your toes to the behinds of two of the nicest young people I've met! One struggles with half-trained art, and the other bears spellfire that every mage in the Realms would slay her to gain or destroy, and both are mad enough to seek adventure. And but days married, too! Where is your kindness, Knights of Myth Drannor? Where is your good sense?"

Easy, Shar," Florin said gently. "They joined the Harpers and wanted to walk their own road. Would you want to be caged?"

"Caged? Does a mother turn her infant out of the house because it's reached twenty nights of age? Alone, you sent them!" She turned upon Elminster. "What say you, old one? Can they best even a handful of brigands on the road? Brigands who attack by surprise in the night? Speak truth!"

"I have never done aught else," Elminster answered her. "As to the fight ye speak of, I think ye'd be surprised." He drew out his pipe. "Besides," he added, "they're not alone. Not by now. Torm and Rathan rode after them."

Sharantyr snorted. "Sent the brightest lances, didn't you?" She paced, sword bouncing on her hip, and then sighed.

"Well enough. They are not unprotected." She folded her arms and leaned back upon the wall by the hearth. "Gods spit upon my luck," she said more softly. "I wanted to say farewell, not just ride away and never see them again."

"They'll be all right, Shar," Storm said, "and they'll be back again."

"Sharantyr raises a good point, though," Lanseril said from his chair. "The wisdom of sending them alone, with only a rescue squad hurrying along behind, can well be questioned." He raised thoughtful eyes to Mourngrym and Elminster. "I take it you considered their slipping away while we rode a distraction to Hillsfar was a good risk?"

Elminster nodded. "It had to be. Think on that, Sharantyr, and be not so angry, lass."

"They passed the vale without loss or upset," Merith put in, "I heard from one of the people who was watching the road there."

Sharantyr nodded. "Since then?" she prompted. Merith shrugged.

"I scryed Torm and Rathan yestereve," Illistyl spoke up. "They were cutting across country, southeast of Mistledale, and had met with no one then. I'll try them again tonight."

"Soon?"

"Aye… you can watch, if you like. You too, Jhess, if you have no greater game afoot"-she looked meaningfully at Merith, who grinned-"at such an early hour of the evening. We might need your spells if there is danger or alarm."

Jhessail chuckled. "It is a good thing none but the gods look over your shoulders to see all we-and Narm and Shandril, gods smile upon them-get up to. It would make a long, confusing ballad."

Elminster scowled. "Life is seldom as clear-cut, smooth, and as easily ended as a ballad," he said and put his pipe in his mouth with an air of finality. The fire crackled and flared up in the hearth. The sage stared at it thoughtfully. "She's so young to wield spellfire," he murmured.

"He lies within," the acolyte said fearfully, hastening away from the door.

Sememmon thanked him curtly and said, "Open it."

The acolyte stood a moment in silence. Then he glided forward and swung the heavy oak and bronze door wide. Sememmon motioned him to pass through. The acolyte nodded and stepped forward, face impassive. The mage followed, through very thick stone walls, into a vast chamber that glowed a faint and eerie blue.

This was the center of The Black Altar, the Inner Chamber of Solitude, where one was said to be closest to the god. The forces of the High Imperceptor had not penetrated this far, although Sememmon felt much hidden satisfaction at the extensive damage he'd already seen. The priesthood would be a while recovering its strength, indeed. Perhaps, Sememmon thought, never, if certain misfortunes befall them now, while they are weak and disorganized.

Sememmon came fully into the chamber, and such thoughts ceased. Vast and dark above him hung a beholder, its great central eye gazing down upon him maliciously. The acolyte had darted back behind Sememmon. He heard the door clang and the crash of a heavy bar falling into place. He was imprisoned. The eye tyrant was not Manxam. Sememmon cursed inwardly even as he strode forward, his cloak about him concealing nervous fingers that had gone straight to the hilt of a useless dagger.

The floor of the chamber was of highly polished marble. In the center of that vast, cold expanse rose a black throne-a throne that the High Imperceptor had not sat at the foot of for many a long year. It was gigantic, a seat for a giant, the seat of a god. It was occupied.

Red silk stood out against the black stone. Fzoul Chembryl lay asleep upon a bed across the seat of the god's throne, recovering after the frantic healing efforts of the priests who served Bane under him. Sememmon gazed at him as he approached, uncomfortably aware without daring to look up that the beholder was moving with him, floating directly overhead with its great unblinking eye staring down.

The mage was no more than a dozen steps from the base of the throne, able to see clearly the rope ladder the priests were wont to ascend by, when a deep, rumbling voice from overhead said, "You have come to find death, Sememmon the Proud, but you have found not Fzoul's death, but your own." As Sememmon looked up and broke into a run, he saw the dark body of the beholder sinking lower and lower. The beholders were making their own bid for leadership of the Zhentarim.

Within a breath the beholder would be close enough to use the eye that dealt death or that turned one to stone. Or it might simply charm him into obedience or pursue him about the chamber like a trapped rat and wound him from afar. In the end, he knew, it would use the eye that destroyed one utterly, and there would not even be dust left of Sememmon.

So Sememmon ran as he had never run before, diving frantically around the edge of the throne where the vast central eye, the one that foiled all magic, could not see. He hastily began the casting of an incendiary cloud. He did not have the right spells for a fight this grave… Buy time and cover, then use a dimension door to teleport directly above the beholder, he told himself. Use paralyzation-or, no, use magic missiles now! Or… ah, gods spit upon it all! Raging, Sememmon applied himself to spellcasting.

He finished, and sprinted along the back of the throne, nearly tripping over a ringbolt on the floor that obviously was a trap-door-if one were very strong or had four or five acolytes to lift it. Sememmon reached the corner, gasping for breath, and steadied himself. To cast a magic missile spell, he must see the target-and if he could see the beholder, its eyes would also be able to see him. He tensed himself to take a rapid peek, and-

There was a flash and a roar, and the very floor heaved up, knocking Sememmon to his knees. Up, get up, he urged himself frantically. But there was a reddish haze of dancing spots before his eyes. He could not seem to grasp which way 'up' was.

"Well met, Sememmon," said a dry, coldly familiar voice. Sememmon looked up into the calm gazes of Sarhthor and Manshoon. The High Lord of Zhentil Keep was robed in his usual black and dark blue, and he looked amused. "You can get up now," he added. "It's gone." He flexed his open hand.

Sememmon found his voice. "You've returned! Lord, we have missed you, indeed-"

"Aye. No doubt. I've watched you and seen the, ah, troubles with Fzoul. Come, now, and slay him not. He is needed." They hurried across the marble floor toward the door Sememmon had come in by. It was blasted and twisted into shards of metal beneath their feet. "Sarhthor," Manshoon explained briefly.

The three mages went out through strangely deserted halls and sought the starlit night outside. Wordlessly they walked out of The Black Altar, past dim piles that had already begun to stink; the bodies of those who had fallen in the battle between Fzoul's forces and those of The High Imperceptor. They walked straight to Sememmon's abode, and the two mages left Sememmon there.

"Cheer up," said Manshoon in parting. "You'll have your chance to fight with the others for all this"-he shrugged his shoulders and looked around at the dark spires that rose all about them-"someday. I can't live forever, you know." With that he turned on his heel and was gone down the cobbled street into the night, Sarhthor at his heels.

Sememmon stared after them in the faint light and tasted fear. When would Manshoon feel that Sememmon had lived long enough? He entered hastily, the little eyeball that Manshoon had sent to spy floating in, unseen, with him, too.

"We just happened to be riding this way," Rathan said gruffly. "It's an open road, is it not?"

"No" Shandril said with a crooked smile. "You came after us to protect us. Did you not trust Tymora to look after us!"

The burly cleric grinned. "Of course Tymora watches over ye… Am I not an instrument of Tymora's will?"

"Is that why you moved a sleeping man and left all the fighting and dirty work to me?" Torm said. "Not a copper's worth of value in the pockets of his robe, too."

"Dirty work, is it? Who took off his boots, I'd like to know!" Rathan teased him.

"I thank you both," Narm said, "despite your feeble attempts at humor. Again my lady and I owe you our lives. And our horses', too, it seems. Your spell even took away the pain in my head."

Rathan grinned. "If ye want it back, I can lend thee Torm for a few breaths." Torm favored him with a sour look.

Shandril giggled. "I don't think that will be quite necessary, Rathan. I have a man to drive me beyond endurance, now." Narm gave her a hurt look, to which she replied with a wink, but Torm looked delighted.

"Oh, you can leave him with Rathan, to learn how to ride and fight and worship and all," he said, "and I'll ride with you. I'm witty, agile, clean, quick, and experienced. I know lots of jokes, and I'm an excellent cook, so long as you're partial to meat, tomatoes, cheese, and noodles all cooked together. I'm fully conversant with the laws of six kingdoms and many smaller, independent cities, and I'm an excellent gambler," He batted his eyelashes at her. "What do you say? Hmmm?"

Shandril gave him a look that would have melted glass. "Is there nothing you can do about him?" she asked Rathan.

"Oh, aye," Rathan agreed. "Ye can give him first watch, so we can all get some sleep. Narm and I'll sleep on either side, close against ye, and ye won't have to worry about him getting cold and wanting to snuggle up."

"Ah, hah," Shandril agreed dubiously. She rolled her eyes and flopped down into the bed of folded tent without replying. Rathan grunted and lowered himself slowly to a lying position, rolling his cloak up as a pillow. He lay on the grass fully clad, without bedding or blanket, grasping his mace. He nodded then, as if satisfied, and within a few breaths he was snoring. His booted feet twitched now and then.

Torm winked at Narm and reached out to pinch one of them. His fingers were still inches away from their goal when Rathan rolled open one eye and said, "Ye can forget pinching, stroking, and tickling honest folk-or even us-who're asleep in the arms of the gods. Just see that the fire stays high."

Narm fell asleep chuckling.

The soft morning sun breaking over the rolling hills and fields of Battledale and northern Sembia lit up the sky to the east, and found Rathan Thentraver thoughtfully warming water for tea over the dying fire.

He looked around at his sleeping companions, got to his feet with a slow grunt of effort, and clambered up the bank to look at the land about. It was bare of all but grass, rolling and very empty. He nodded in satisfaction, tucked his mace under his arm, and sat down again and cleared his thoughts of all but Tymora, as he tried to do every morning.

He opened his heart to her and prayed that the two young folk beside him-aye, and Torm, too, hang him-would see only her bright face until they had at least reached Silverymoon and befriended Alustriel. Everyone needs at least one safe journey-and these two, more than most, because of the spellfire, he told himself.

Rathan looked across the twisted blankets to Shandril's sleeping face and thought about her weeping spellfire and lashing out angrily with spellfire and tearing open her tunic to pour spellfire out the faster upon a foe. He would not want to carry such power for all the gold in the Realms…

He sighed. If they'd ridden a bit slower, that snake of a mage might have had her yestereve. So close, he'd been. A matter of breaths. Yet one couldn't nursemaid one who could blast apart mountaintops!

They'd be running into trouble soon enough, these two, and they'd need someone. Rathan sighed. Ah, well, some things ye must leave to Tymora. He got up and began to make tea. Soon they'd be wanting morningfeast, too.

He looked at all the sleepers, and a smile touched his lips. Why wake them? The younglings needed a good, long sleep when they were guarded and could relax. Let 'em sleep, then. He peered south to see if he could glimpse the River Ashaba, but it was too far away yet. Ah, well. We'll ride with them until they're up at dawn tomorrow, and then turn back. If Elminster is half the archmage he pretends to be, surely he can hold Shadowdale together that long.

Scratching under his armor, Rathan opened his food supply pack. Ah, well… another day, another dragon slain.

"Will ye never be done all that scratching and scribbling?" Elminster demanded, "You're not writing an epic, ye know!"

Lhaeo turned calm eyes upon him. "Stir the stew, will you?" Elminster snorted, shifted his unlit pipe from hand to mouth, and began to stir.

"You miss those two, don't you?" the scribe asked him softly without turning.

The old mage stared at Lhaeo's back angrily for a long breath and then muttered, "Aye," around his pipe, set the ladle back in its place, and sat down upon the squat cross-section of a large tree that served as a seat next to the tiny kitchen table. "'Tis not every day one sees spellfire destroy one's own prismatic sphere without delay or a lot of effort. Or see the high-and-mighty Manshoon put to flight by a young girl who's never cast a spell in her life."

"A thief, she said she was-or at least, she joined the Company of the Bright Spear as a thief."

Elminster snorted again. "Thief? She's as much a thief as you are. If we had a few more thieves like that girl, the Realms would be so safe we'd not need locks! Swords, aye, but no more locks. Which reminds me… locks, and locked-away books, that is-Candlekeep-Alaundo. What did old Alaundo say about spellfire? We must be getting fairly close to that prophecy now, too, so it's no doubt Shandril he's talking about."

Lhaeo smiled. "As it happens, I looked up the words and sayings of Alaundo the last night they spent here. To your left, under the jam jar, on the uppermost scrap of paper, I've copied the relevant saying. If a certain 'war among wizards' has already begun in Faerun, it is next to be fulfilled."

Elminster halted his flailing about in the vicinity of the jam-jar to fix Lhaeo with a hard glance, but the scribe went on with his writing.

"What're you doing?" Elminster demanded. "There you sit, scribbling, while the stew thickens and burns. What is it?"

Lhaeo smiled again. "Stir the stew, will you?" he asked innocently. Then, before the old mage's fury could erupt beyond a rising growl, he said, "I'm noting down the limits of Shandril's power, as observed by you and the knights. The information may prove useful some day," he added very quietly, "if she must ever be stopped."

Elminster stared at him a moment and then nodded, looking very old. "Aye, aye, you have the right of it, as usual." He sighed. "But not that little girl. Not Shandril. Why, she's but a little wisp of a thing, all laughter and kindness and bright eyes-"

"Aye. Like Lansharra," Lhaeo answered simply. Elminster nodded, very slowly, and said nothing. There was silence for a long time. Lhaeo finished his work, blew upon the page, and got up. The sage sat like a statue, his eyes on the fire. Lhaeo reached over him, slid a scrap of paper from under the jam-jar, and laid it before Elminster. He turned away to see to food, without a word. Perhaps four breaths later, he heard the old mage's voice behind him, and he smiled to himself. Put a recipe for fried sand snake in front of Elminster and he'd be reading it in a trice.

"'Spellfire will rise, and a sword of power, to cleave shadow and evil and master art.'" Elminster read it as though it was a curious bard's rhyme or a bad attempt at a joke. Lhaeo waited. Elminster spoke again. "'Master art'? What did Alaundo mean by that? She's to become a mage? She has not the slightest aptitude for it-and I'm not completely new to teaching art, ye know!"

"I have found that Alaundo's sayings make perfect sense after they have happened, for the most part," Lhaeo said, "but they help precious little beforehand."

"Ahhh… stir the stew!" Elminster grunted. "I'm going out for a pipe." The door banged behind him. Lhaeo grinned.

The stairs creaked as Storm came down them barefoot, silver hair shining in the firelight.

"Leave the stew," she said softly to Lhaeo. "It's probably been thrashed into soup by now, between the both of you."

Lhaeo smiled and put strong arms around her. "Let us go back upstairs," he said gently, "before he returns for a flame to light his pipe. Haste, now!"

The bed creaked as they sat upon it, a scant instant before the door, below, banged open again. Outside, Elminster chuckled and then hummed his favorite of the tunes Storm had devised. One didn't get to be five hundred winters old without noticing a thing or two.

They rode steadily south all that day on a road busy with wagons rumbling north out of Sembia. Hawk-eyed outriders and shrewd, watchful merchants looked them over often, and the scrutiny always made Narm and Shandril uncomfortable.

Torm had acquired a moustache from somewhere about his person, as well as some brown powder of the sort used as cosmetics in the Inner Sea lands. Skillfully he rubbed it about his eyes and jaw and cheekbones, until his face seemed subtly different. He rode in silence for the most part-a mercy upon his companions-and affected a soft, growling voice when he did speak. He remained to the rear as they rode.

Looking back, Narm could see the glistening whites of his eyes darting this way and that in the shadowy gloom of a cap that hid his face. The conjurer gathered that Torm was a little too well known in Sembia or nearby to ride openly on the high road this far south without his fellow knights around him.

Rathan, however, paid such cautions no mind. He rode easily before Shandril, speaking loudly of the kindnesses and spectacular cruelties of the Great Lady Tymora, and occasionally pointing out a far-off landmark or the approaching colors of a merchant house or company of the Inner Sea lands. But he seemed to be addressing her as Lady Nelchave, and occasionally comparing things to 'your hold, Roaringcrest.' Shandril answered him with vague murmurs, trying to sound bored. In fact, she was enjoying riding in the comfortable security of Rathan and Torm's presence, with a guided tour of the countryside.

Torm and Rathan preferred to lunch in the saddle without halting, Shandril found it fascinating to watch them fill nosebags with skins of water and lean forward to hang them carefully about the necks of their mounts and mules, after first letting each animal taste and smell the contents of such a bag. They deftly passed bread, cheese, and small chased metal flasks of wine about. Torm even produced four large, iced sugar rolls (probably pilfered from some passing cart or other) from somewhere about his person. Shandril began to wonder if he had endless pockets, like those of Longfingers the Magician in the bards' tales.

A light rain squall came out of the west in the afternoon and lashed them briefly as it passed overhead. Torm nearly lost his moustache, but he regained his high, sly spirits. He danced about on his dripping horse, firing jests, rolling his eyes, and mimicking the absent knights.

The day passed and the road fell away steadily behind them, until in high eventide they came to Blackfeather Bridge, where the road between the Standing Stone and Sembia crosses the River Ashaba. There Sembia maintained a small guardpost of bored-looking, hardened men armed with ready crossbows and long pikes bearing the Raven and Silver banner of Sembia.

The guards looked long and coldly at the four travelers. Narm noticed a cleric of Tempus and a silent man in robes standing off to one side with two veteran warriors, watching them steadily. His throat went dry, but he tried to keep his face unconcerned and impassive. Dragon Cult and Zhentarim agents could be anywhere-and everywhere. Narm was certain Rathan was recognized, but nothing was said and no one barred their way.

Two hills later, as the sun sank lower, Narm looked back, but he could not see any pursuit. An uneasy feeling persisted, however, and he was not surprised when at sunset Rathan led them wordlessly westward, well off the road, until it grew too dim to ride safely on.

"This seems as good a place as any," Rathan said gruffly, waiting for Torm's soft-spoken assent. "Ready watch tonight," the cleric added. "If you must go off to relieve yourself, Shandril," he added, "go not alone."

The knights seemed to share Narm's feeling of trouble ahead. Narm and Torm had barely drifted off to sleep, long after an exhausted Shandril, when there was a thudding noise, as someone tripped amid the webwork of black silk cords Torm had strung in an arc behind where Rathan sat watch. Rathan lifted the mace from his knees as he whirled and let out a warning bellow.

The attacker was already coming to his feet, cursing softly, sword drawn-and there were others behind. Narm rolled upright with frightened speed. Torm was up and away into the night like a vengeful shadow before he could even draw breath.

"Defend thy lady, lad!" Rathan bellowed back over one shoulder, as his mace struck aside attacking steel with a shrill clatter. Two faced him, with a third rushing up.

Narm saw a man fall as he looked all around for danger on his way to stand over Shandril, who was rolling over drowsily. More men with blades were coming out of the night. Narm saw another fall, and this time he saw the glint of steel as Torm leaped onward to deal death again. Then a man rushed right at Narm, steel gleaming in the firelight.

Coolly, Narm cast a magic missile spell. Then he drew his dagger and braced himself. The glowing pulses of his art swooped and struck. The man, who wore dark leathers and wielded a hooked sabre, staggered and fell. Narm set his teeth and leaned over to finish the job. Blood wet his fingers, and he felt sick as he looked up and around again for new dangers approaching.

There were none. Torm dispatched another from behind-Narm saw the man stiffen and groan-and Rathan was chatting jovially to those he slew.

"Do you not realize what moral pain-nay, spiritual agony-striking thee down causes me? Hast no consideration for my feelings?" The heavy mace fell again, crushing. "More than this, aye, ye-uhh! — grrh! — wound me. Instead, of challenging me in-ahhhh-the bright light of day, before men of worth to bear witness, with a stated-hahhh! — grievance, ye seek to do the dishonor upon my poor holy bones in the dark of the night! At a time when all good and-ahhh! — lucky men are abed, with better-unghh! — things to be doing than cracking skulls asunder! Don't ye agree-ahh! — now?" Rathan's last opponent fell, twitching, jaw shattered and bloody.

Torm looked up. "The horses don't like this. We'd best move them, and us, in case there are others lurking. Narm, is your lady awake?"

Shandril answered him herself. "Yes." She shuddered involuntarily at the sight of his bloody dagger. "Must you enjoy it so much?"

Torm looked at her in silence for a time. "I do not enjoy it at all," he said quietly. "But I prefer it to getting a knife in the ribs myself." He bent down and wiped his blade on something that Shandril mercifully couldn't see in the darkness, but he did not sheathe it. "Shall we ride?"

"Walk, pigeon-brain," Rathan rumbled, "and lead the horses. Who knows what we'll stumble over or down into if we try to ride in this? See to these, will ye? I want none alive to tell thy names and route, and this mace is not as sure as a blade."

"At once, Exalted One," Torm said with sarcastic sweetness. "Mind you don't forget any of your baggage. I'll see if our late friends were carrying anything of value with them."

Rathan nodded in the light of the dying fire. "Mind more don't come upon thee while ye're slavering and giggling over the gold. See to the campfire, will ye?"

In quiet haste, they gathered their gear and led their mounts and mules into the night. Westward Narm and Shandril followed Rathan, pace by careful pace, over rolling ground.

Torm caught them up before long. "The fire's scattered and out. I can find no one else following, but listen sharp everyone."

"It seems I'll be doing that the rest of my life," Shandril said in a bitter whisper.

Torm put his head close to hers. The faint light of Selune caught his teeth as he grinned. "You might even get used to it. Who knows?"

"Who indeed," she replied, pulling a reluctant Shield up an uneven slope in the dark.

"Not much farther now" Rathan said soothingly from up ahead. Loose stones clacked underfoot, and then Rathan said in quiet satisfaction, "Here. This place will do."

Shandril fell into sleep as if it were a great black pit, and she never stopped falling. She awoke with the smell of frying boar in her nostrils. Narm had just kissed her. Shandril murmured contentment and embraced him sleepily as she stretched. He smelled good.

Close at hand, a merry voice said, "Works like a charm, it does. Can I try it? Shandril, will you go back to sleep for a moment?"

Shandril sighed. "Torm, do you never stop?"

"Not until I'm dead, good lady. Irritating I may be, but I'm never dull."

"Aye," Rathan rumbled. "Thou art many things, but never dull."

"Fair morning to you both," Shandril laughed.

"Well met, lady," Rathan answered her. "Thy dawnfry awaits thee… simple fare, I fear, but enough to ride on. We were not bothered again in the night, but ye had best watch sharp today. It will not be long before those bodies are found."

Narm looked around at the grassy hills. "Where exactly are we?"

"West of the road, in the hills west of Featherdale," Rathan supplied. "Turn about. Do ye see that gray shadow-like smoke-on the horizon? That is Arch Wood. Between here and there lies an old, broad valley with no river to speak of anymore. That's Tasseldale. I would not go down into the valley. Though it's a pleasant place, indeed, with many fine shops and friendly folk, it is also full of people ye want to avoid. Nay, keep to the heights along the valley's northern edge.

"There, ye'll meet with no more than a shepherd or two and perhaps a Mairshar patrol. Tell them-they police the dale and always ride twelve strong-that ye're from Highmoon, going home, Shandril, with this mage ye met in Hillsfar. Call thyself 'Gothal,' or something, Narm. Stick to the truth about Gorstag and the inn, lady, and ye'll fare the better. Give no information to any others until ye meet with the elves of Deepingdale."

"Elves?" Shandril asked, astonished.

"Aye, elves. Don't ye know anything of Deepingdale, where ye grew up?" Rathan's voice was incredulous.

"No," Shandril told him. "Only the inn. I saw half-elven, under arms, when I left with the company, but no elves."

"I see. Know ye that the present Lord of Highmoon is the half-elven hero of battles Theremen Ulath, just so ye don't say the wrong thing." The burly cleric rose and pulled on his helm. "Now eat. The day grows old."

They ate, and soon the time came when all was ready, and Rathan sighed and said heavily, "Well, the time has borne. We must leave ye."

He turned on his heel to look southwest. "One day's ride should take ye to the west end of Tasseldale, in the Dun Hills. That's one camp. Keep a watch-sleeping together's for indoors. Peace, Torm, no jests now. Another day's careful riding west-just keep Arch Wood to the left of ye, whatever else ye come upon-will bring thee to Deepingdale. Ye can press on after dark once ye've found the road, and make The Rising Moon before morning. All right?"

They nodded, hearts full.

"Good then," Rathan went on in gruff haste, "and none of that weeping, now." He held out a wineskin to Narm. "For thy saddle." He fumbled at the large pouch at his hip and brought out a disc of shining silver upon a fine chain and hung it about Shandril's neck, kissing her on the forehead. "Tymora's good luck go with thee" he said.

Torm stepped forward next. "Take this," he said, "and bear it most carefully. It is dangerous." He held out a cheap, gaudy medallion of brass, set askew with glued-in cut glass stones on a brass chain of mottled hue that did not match the medallion. He put it about Narm's neck.

"What is it?" Narm asked.

"Look at it now," Torm said. "Take care how you touch it." Narm looked. About his neck was no cheap medallion, but a finely detailed, twist-linked chain of heavy work. Upon it hung two small, golden globes, with a larger one between them. "This is magical," Torm said, "and keep it clear of spellfire or any fiery art, or it may slay you. We call it a necklace of missiles. You, and only you, can twist off one of these globes and hurl it. When it strikes, it bursts as a mage's fireball does; mind you are not too close. The larger globe is of greater power than the other two. It needs no ritual or words of command to work. Keep it safe; you'll need it, some day… probably sooner than you think." He patted Narm's elbow awkwardly. "Fare you both well," he said.

The knights mounted, saluted them with bared blades, tossed two small flasks of water, wheeled their mounts, and galloped away. Hooves thudded briefly upon the earth and then died away and were gone.

Narm and Shandril looked at each other, eyes bright and cheeks wet, and slowly embraced. "We really are alone now, my love," Narm said softly. "We have only each other;

"Yes," said Shandril softly. "And that will do." She kissed him long and deeply before she spun away, leaped into her saddle, and said briskly, "Come onl The sun waits not, and we must ride!"

Narm grinned at her and ran to his own saddle. "Spitfire!" he called as he swung himself up.

Shandril raised her eyebrows and spat fire, obediently, in a long rolling plume that winked out just in front of him. The horses snorted in alarm, and she grinned. "Ah yes," she agreed, "but thy lady." She looked west then and tossed her hair from her eyes. "Now," she commanded, lifting her chin, "let us away!"

Away they sped from that place, leaving only trampled grass and silent, unseen spectral warriors.

The stars were clear and cold outside, but Elminster saw them not. He gazed into a twinkling sphere of crystal on the table before him in the upper room of his tower. Within the crystal he saw a rich, red-carpeted chamber with tapestries of red and silver and gold, a fine, roaring fire, and a lady in a black, tattered gown sitting at a table, gazing back at him.

"Well met, sage, and welcome," she said with the faintest of smiles.

"Well met, lady queen and mage. Thank ye for allowing this intrusion."

"Few enough call upon me, old mage, and fewer still do so without some plan to harm or hamper me. I thank you."

Elminster inclined his head politely. "I have further thanks for thee this night, lady. Thank ye for protecting Narm and Shandril on several occasions-possibly more-these past few days. I am most grateful."

The Simbul gave him a rare smile. "My pleasure, again." There was the briefest of silences, and then the old mage asked a careful question.

"Why did ye aid them so, when the maid is such a threat to thy magic, and with it, the survival of Aglarond-and of thee?"

The Simbul smiled. "I know the prophecy of Alaundo and what it may mean. I like Shandril." She looked away for a moment, and then back at the old mage. "I have a question for you, Elminster. Answer not if you would not. Is Shandril the child of Garthond Shessair and the incantratrix Dammasae?"

Elminster nodded. "I am not certain, lady, but it is very likely."

An eyebrow lifted. "Not certain? Did you not hide the girl and shelter her as she grew?"

Elminster shook his head very slowly. "Nay. Not I."

"Who, then?"

"Again, I am not sure. I believe it was the warrior Gorstag, of Highmoon."

The Simbul nodded. "So I have come to suspect these last few days. I thank you for trusting me so, to answer me openly. I promise you, old mage, that I shall not betray your trust. The girl Shandril is safe from my power-unless the passing years change her as they did Lansharra and she becomes too dangerous to leave unopposed."

"That is my present burden," Elminster said heavily. "Such a fall must not happen again."

"What, if I may ask you without offense, will you do differently this time?" The Simbul was watching him closely, her eyes very dark.

"Leave her be," Elminster replied. "She will choose her own path in the end. Her choice may be the clearer and happier for her-if not easier in the making-if I do not sit upon her every act and speak upon her every thought." Elminster met The Simbul's gaze thoughtfully. "The Harpers can protect her nearly as well as I could, without locking her in my tower and thus keeping her under my eye… and I could not do that without ruining her choice, even had I the cruel heart to do it."

The Simbul nodded. "That is the right road for you to ride, I think. It is good, indeed, that I needn't force you to take that route."

Elminster smiled, a little sadly. "A good thing, indeed," he said very softly, "for such an attempt would likely have destroyed ye."

The Simbul regarded him soberly. "I know." She nodded slowly and then almost whispered, "I have never doubted or belittled your power, Elminster. You take the quiet way and play the befuddled old fool, even as I take beast-shape and hide often. But I have seen what your art has wrought. If ever I should have to stand against it, I expect to fall."

"I did not disturb ye this night to threaten ye."

"I know," The Simbul said, rising slowly. "Will you allow me to teleport to you now?"

"Of course, lady," Elminster said. "But why?"

The Simbul's eyes were very dark as she let fall her tattered gown. Beneath it, she wore a garment of thin, black silk strands that reached from her throat to cuffs at her wrists and a broad cummerbund belt. The outfit covered little. Set with many small, twinkling gems that winked out when she did, her garment shone the more brilliantly when The Simbul reappeared beside Elminster. Unsmiling, she stood almost timidly amid the dark room's clutter of papers and books. Elminster gaped at her and then deliberately composed himself and smiled.

"But, lady, I have seen some five hundred winters," Elminster said gently. "Am I not too old for this?"

She stopped his lips with slim white fingers. "All those years will give us something to talk about, you and I," she said, "instead of art." She was slim and very light as she sat in his lap, and her skin as she leaned forward to embrace him was smooth and soft. "I would tell you something," she whispered, as Elminster's arms went gently around her. "My name, my truename, is-"

"Hush, lady," Elminster said, eyes moist. "Keep it safe. We shall trade them, soon. But not now."

The tears came. "Ah, old mage," The Simbul said, sobbing into his chest, "I have been so lonely…"

Lhaeo, who had come up the dark stairs with tea, the pot wrapped in a thick scarf to keep it warm, stopped outside the door and heard them. He set the tray down carefully on a table nearby and went softly downstairs again for a second cup. What is the weight of secrets? he wondered to himself. How many may a man carry? How many more, a woman, or an elf?

It was dark outside, but in the little cottage near the woods candles flickered and the hearthfire blazed merrily. A woman straightened up from the cauldron as they came in. She was no longer young, and the clothes she wore were simple and much patched. She gasped. "My lords! Welcome! But I have nothing ready to feed you. My man's not to be back from the hunt until morning."

"Nay, Lhaera," Rathan said kindly, embracing her. "We cannot stay, but must hasten back to Shadowdale. We have an errand for thy daughter that is urgent, and I would renew Tymora's bright blessing upon this house."

Lhaera looked at them in wonderment. "With Imraea? But she's scarce six-"

Torm nodded. "Old enough that her feet are firmly on the ground." He was interrupted then by the precipitous arrival of a small, dark-haired whirlwind who fetched up against his legs, laughing. As he reached down to embrace her, she danced back out of his reach and announced solemnly, "Well met, Torm and Rathan, Knights of Myth Drannor. I am pleased to see you."

Both knights bowed, and Rathan answered solemnly, "We are pleased to see thee, lady. We have come to discharge our duty to ye. Are ye in good health and of high spirits?"

"Aye, of course. But look how beautiful my mother is since you healed her! She grows taller, I think!"

Torm and Rathan regarded the astonished and smiling Lhaera carefully. "Aye, I think you are right. She does grow taller," Torm said solemnly. "Be sure to send word to us when she grows too tall for the roof, for you will need some help rebuilding then."

Imraea nodded. "I will do that." She eyed Torm. "You are making me wait, Sir Knight. Is my patience not well held? Am I not solemn enough?" Then she fairly danced. "Did you bring it?"

"It is not an 'it.' It is a 'he,' as you are a she," said Torm severely, drawing open his cloak and letting something soft and furry into her arms. Its fur was silver and black, and it had great, dark, glistening eyes. It let out a small and inquiring meow. Imraea held it in wonder as it stretched its nose out to hers.

"Has it-he-a name?"

Rathan regarded her severely. "Aye, it has a truename, which it keeps hidden, and a kitten name. But you must give it a proper name, the name you can call it. Take care you choose wisely. The kitten will have to live with your choice."

"Aye," Imraea agreed seriously. "Tell me, please, its kitten name that I may call it so while I think on such an important choice." Lhaera smiled broadly.

"Its name," said Torm with dignity, "is Snuggleguts." Torm dropped nine pieces of gold into her hand.

"What is this?" Imraea asked in wonder.

"Its life," Rathan said. "The kitten will need milk, and meat, and fish, as it grows, and it wilt need much care, and to be kept warm. You, or your parents, must buy those things. You must take the mice and rats it will kill, thank your pet without any disgust or sharp words, and bury them. It is your duty. Know you, Imraea, that the gods gather back to themselves cats and dogs and horses even as they do you and me. There is no telling when Snuggleguts may die. So treat it well and enjoy its company, but let your kitten roam free and do as it will. Each time you see your pet may be the last."

"I will. I thank you both. You are kind, you two knights."

"We but do the right thing," Torm replied softly.

"Aye, that you do," Lhaera said to them. "And there's few enough, these days, who take the trouble to do that."