Spellfire

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

“It does,” Jhessail said gravely, “although if you mind it not, it will follow twenty paces or so behind-and if you leave it where it ca

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

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

Mourngrym laughed. “Indeed,” he said, handing her down onto a stool one of the guards had just whirled into place. “No doubt you can tell from what you’ve known of them already how wild the tales of our adventures are.” Merith clapped him on the shoulder in passing. Mourngrym gri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Well enough,” he warned, “but the more you eat, the longer you can drink. When none of these here can eat a crumb more, you will find that they can yet find room to drink. It’s a mystery to me why some who come to my table say they are come to a ‘feast,1 when what they do is eat a few bites and then hoist flagons all the night through.”

“I-I should be sick if I tried, Lord” Shandril said simply. Mourngrym smiled again.

“Good, then. I am similarly affected. If the two of you can spare us a few words before retiring, my Lady Shaeril and I would be very happy to have your company in the bower upstairs. I believe you have met Storm Silverhand and Sharantyr. We will have other guests: Jhessail and Elminster, and possibly Illistyl. Go up when you ca

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

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

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

Many of the diners were standing, now, and a few had begun to dance. Far across the room Narm caught sight of the commanding height and broad shoulders of Florin, looking every inch a king. Beside him stood a lady Narm had last seen on a forest trail near Myth Dra