Spellfire

Ed Greenwood

Spellfire

Zhentil Keep

At The Sign on the Rising Moon

Neglect not small things, for all ruling and war and magecraft are naught but small things, one built upon another. Begin then with the small, and look close, and you will see it all.

Seroun of Calimport

Tales of Far Travels

Year of the Rock

It was a good i

It was a hot Flamerule noon. Sweat stood out all over her like oil, making her slim arms slippery and glistening. She wore only her old gray tunic, once Gorstag’s. It stuck to her here and there, but only the cook, Korvan, would see her, and he would slap and pinch even if she were bundled up in furs like some northern princess. She blew, sharply, and the lank blonde hair falling from her forehead parted reluctantly in front of her eyes. Tossing her head to fling her hair aside, Shandril narrowly surveyed the stack beside her and concluded with a sigh that there were at least three hours’ worth of dishes left.

Not enough time. Korvan was starting the roasts in the hearth already. He’d be wanting herbs cut and water brought soon. He was a good cook, Shandril allowed grudgingly, even if he was fat and he stank and his hands were always hot and sticky. Some folk came to The Rising Moon just because of Korvan’s cooking.

Shandril had heard the story about how Korvan- younger and slimmer then-had once been a cook in the Royal Palace of Cormyr, in the fair city of Suzail. There had been some trouble (probably over a girl, Shandril thought darkly, perhaps even one of the princesses of Cormyr), and he’d had to leave Cormyr in some haste, banished there from upon pain of death.

Shandril wondered, as she eyed a soapy platter critically, what would happen if she ever managed to get Korvan drunk senseless or knocked cold with a skillet and somehow could drag him through the Thunder Gap and over the border into Cormyr. Perhaps King Azoun himself would appear out of thin air and say to the Cormyrean border guards, “Here he is!” and without hesitating they’d draw their swords and hack off Korvan’s head. She smiled at the thought. Perhaps he’d plead for mercy or cry in fear.

Shandril snorted. Great chance, indeed, of that ever happening! He was here, now, and too lazy to ever go anywhere-and too fat for most horses to carry him, if it came to that. No, he was trapped here, and she was trapped with him. She scrubbed a fork fiercely until its two tines gleamed in the sunlight. Yes, trapped.

It had been a long time before she’d realized it. She had no parents, no kin-and no one would even admit to knowing where she’d come from. She had always been here, it seemed, doing the dirty work in the old roadside i

There was always work to be done. Each spring she even washed the ceilings of all the bedchambers while tied to a ladder so she wouldn’t fall off. Sharp-eyed old Tezza did the windows, all those tiny panes of mica and a few panels of blown glass from Selgaunt and Hillsfar, which were far too valuable for Shandril to be trusted to wash.

Shandril didn’t mind most of the work, really. She just hated getting extra tired or hurt while the others did little or, like Korvan, bothered her. Besides, if she didn’t work, or she fought with the others-all more necessary to the ru

The owner of The Rising Moon was a broad-shouldered, strong man with gray-white hair, gray eyes, and a craggy, weathered face. He’d broken his nose long ago, perhaps in the days when he had been an adventurer. Gorstag had been all over the world, people said, swinging his axe in important wars. He had made quite a lot of gold before settling down in Deepingdale, in the heart of the forest, and rebuilding his father’s old i

It was also Gorstag who had insisted that she have a last name, when, years ago, the chamber girls had called her “a nameless nobody,” and “a cow too runty to keep, so someone threw it away!” The i

He had led her down to the taproom and said thickly, “I call you Shandril Shessair, for it is your truename. Do not forget, for your name is precious.” Then Shandril had asked him, voice quavering, “Was I so named by my parents?”

Gorstag shook his head slightly and gave her a sad smile. “In the Realms, little one, you can take any name you can carry. Mind you carry it well.”

Yes, Gorstag had been good to her, and The Rising Moon was like him: kind and good, well-worn and bluntly honest, and lots of hard work. Day after day of hard work. It was her cage, Shandril thought fiercely, reaching for another dish while the sweat ran down her back.

With some surprise, she saw that there were no more dishes. In her anger she had washed and scrubbed like a madcap, and now she was done, and it was early yet. Time enough to change to her plain gown and peek into the taproom before cutting the herbs. Before Korvan could come in and give her extra work to do, Shandril vanished, her bare feet dancing lightly over the narrow loft stairs to her trunk.

She washed her face and hands in the basin of cool water she’d left for Lureene, another young woman who waited on the tables and shared the sleeping-loft with Shandril, except on nights when she had a man and Shandril was banished to the cellar for her own safety. She changed her clothing and crept quickly downstairs again along the passage to the deserted taproom. Gorstag would be seeing to the food, she knew, and he would have started the evening fire already. A party of adventurers had come in from Cormyr earlier, and Gorstag would be busy. The flagstones were cool under her feet.

The taproom was warm and smoky. Light blazed up from the crackling hearth and the several sputtering torches mounted on the walls and hooded with grim black iron. Shadows leaped on the walls and the great beams that ran low overhead the length of the taproom, bearing the sleeping chambers of the i