Spellfire

“Look,” she breathed, grasping Narm’s hand and pointing with a nod of her head.

“Yes. I see” he replied, and turned to Lanseril, who stood near at hand talking to a burly, bearded man in amber and russet. The druid wore a simple brown woolen robe. Narm touched his hand. “Pray excuse my interruption, friend Lanseril.”

“No excuse needed, Narm-it’s what everyone does. My life is a series of interruptions,” Lanseril replied with a warm smile. He bent his head near. “What is it?”

“The Lord Florin-is the Lady Storm his-ah, handfast to him, or-?”

Lanseril chuckled. “Florin is married to Storm’s sister, the ranger Dove, who is soon to bear his child, and is for her safety presently elsewhere. Storm’s man, Maxam, was killed this past summer. She does not speak of that, mind. Florin and Storm are friends who keep each other from being too lonely at dance and at table. Despite what Torm may slyly hint, they are no more than that.”

The druid turned and touched the sleeve of the man he had been speaking with.

“May I introduce Thurbal, Captain-of-Arms and Warden of Shadowdale?” he asked politely. Thurbal, a man of weatherbeaten and plain features whose eyes were at once shrewd and kindly, bowed to them both.

“Lady Shandril and Lord Narm,” he said, “I bid you my own welcome. Have you enjoyed the feast thus far?”

“I-I, yes, greatly,” Narm replied, noting the great plain-scabbarded broadsword Thurbal wore at his side, despite his high-booted finery.

“It’s the first feast I’ve ever been invited to, Lord,” Shandril replied. “M am no high lady, I fear.”

Thurbal frowned slightly. “My pardon,” he said, “I assumed-ah, but no harm done if you will forgive me, for I am no lord, either. Lord Lanseril told me something of your importance. I hope you will not take offence if I seem to watch you closely while you’re here; it seems my brawn is on the block, so to speak, if you are endangered when I might have prevented it.”

“Endangered?” Narm asked, as Shandril paled. “Here?”

Thurbal spread broad, heavy hands. “We live in a world of magic, Lord. There are no safe defenses. AD the might I can muster to hold steel to your lady’s defense and your own ca

“But we have enemies?” Narm asked soberly.

Lanseril shrugged and replied, “Shandril, or the two of you together, can create and hurl spellfire, something known only in the histories of art; something very powerful indeed. Many would like to be the only one to control and wield it. You must watch the shadows, and expect trouble, even here.”

“And get used to being ‘lord’ and ‘lady’,” Thurbal said with a grin. “All of the knights hold that title, and you stand with them until you declare and choose otherwise. My men will obey and aid you the better if they continue to think you are Lord and Lady of the Dale.” He paused, and then added, “By the way, Lady Shandril. I have heard from the Lord Florin and the Lady Jhessail of how you put Manshoon of Zhentil Keep to flight. I bow to you. Even with art that the rest of us lack, that is no light thing to have done.”

“Have you enemies, indeed?” Lanseril added. “Manshoon is no little one-I don’t doubt that he yet lives.” Shandril shuddered, and he patted her shoulder immediately. “But think no more of this. Enjoy this night, and let tomorrow look to tomorrow’s problems.”

“Hmmph-easy enough to say” Narm told him. “Not so easy to school one’s mind not to think of something.”

Lanseril nodded. “True, and I’m sorry I brought both your thoughts to this now. On the other hand-and think on this, mind; it is the most important training you can have for magecraft. You must be able to control your thoughts as an acrobat controls hands if you are to survive spell against spell. If you ever meet Manshoon to speak to at leisure, you will find him as cold and controlled as Elminster seems whimsical-but is not, underneath. If one is not controlled, one does not live to reach such power, unless one’s art is never challenged.” And then he smiled. “But enough. I must watch over these fools, while you speak with the more sober upstairs.”

“You?” Shandril asked in surprise.

Lanseril looked at her. “Of course. Are these”-he spread both hands to indicate the revelers all around-”not creatures under my care here in the dale, even as the chipmunks and the farmwives’ cats are?”

He left Shandril staring thoughtfully after him and strode over to where Torm stood laughing, each arm around a local beauty. Narm shook his head. “I don’t know these people, really, yet,” he said in her ear, “but they are good people-as good as any I’ve ever known.”

“I know,” Shandril whispered back. “That’s why I’m so afraid we’ll bring death upon them by being here.”

Narm looked at her somberly for a long time. At last he said in a low voice, “We have to, Shandril. We will die without their protection-you know that.”

Shandril nodded. “Yes. So I am here.” Her eyes sought out Mourngrym and saw him walking slowly with Storm and Florin toward the doors. “We should follow on-they are going up now, I think.”

Narm nodded amid the dancing and the deafening talk and laughter. Shandril noticed that Thurbal moved quietly to follow them, staying distant, eyes moving constantly.

Torchlight filled the hallway outside with light, reflecting off flagons and goblets all around. Many richly clad men and women, drinks in hand, leaned against the walls laughing and talking. Shandril heard a snatch of one story that was. considered old even in The Rising Moon as she passed, on Narm’s arm. They followed a regal lady in shimmering blue-green who wore a twinkling diadem up the stairs. When she turned at the top, they saw that it was Jhessail. She smiled.

“Such long faces,” she said tenderly. “Do you like feasts so little?”

“No, it’s not that,” Shandril whispered back. “We fear to bring danger upon you all.”

Jhessail shook her head as they walked on together. “Is that all? Do you not know that we here stand in danger at all times? Zhentil Keep attacks us every summer, at the least. The Cult of the Dragon and the dark elves beneath us are constant menaces… Myth Dra

She traded glances with the young couple. “I could be slain tomorrow… should I therefore be miserable today? Why not make the best of it?” She took Narm’s free hand, and drew them both into the bower. “Come, let us talk of other things.” Behind them, Thurbal came watchfully up the stairs.

Within, it was much quieter than below. Florin greeted them both with a firm armclasp, as one warrior to another. Storm smiled and kissed them both, saying, “It is seldom these days that I see two who have entered Myth Dra

Beyond her stood another lovely lady with long, silky hair who wore a gown of rich blue that left flanks and back bare, and had slit sleeves. It had been a long road from the taproom of The Rising Moon, and it took a moment before either Narm or Shandril recognized her.

“Sharantyr!” Shandril said when she did, and found herself in a warm embrace. At the same time, Narm was introduced to Mourngrym’s wife, Lady Shaeril, by Illistyl-and then a sudden silence fell.

Atop a table that had been bare a moment before stood Elminster. Thurbal was coming in the door with sword half-drawn before he saw who it was and halted, shaking his head. But the sage had eyes only for Narm and Shandril.