Spellfire

Shandril shook her head. “I am not upset, but much relieved, I had to know, you see.” She rose and turned back the bed. “And now, my lord, if you will be so good as to drag that chest over in front of the door, we’ll to bed.” She smiled slyly. “The testing is to be late; I must have sleep first. Will you see me to sleep?”

Narm nodded. “Aye, willingly.” One cat rolled its eyes again, and became a rat, and flashed over to the wall before Illistyl could even stretch. It dwindled and twisted and was a centipede again, and gained the sill while Narm was still heaving the chest toward the door, with many a grunt, and Shandril was hanging her robe upon a hook on one post of the canopy. An interested Illistyl saw a raven suddenly appear outside the window and fly soundlessly away. She nodded and curled up for a nap. Eavesdropping was one thing, but there were limits…

Narm finished with the chest, straightened up slowly, and caught sight of Shandril in the mirror. Two bounds and he was on the bed. Few delights come, it is said, to he who tarries.

Spells to Deist

High magic is strange and savage and splendid for its own sake, whether one’s spells change the Realms about or no. A craefter who by dint of luck, work, skill, and the mercy of the Great Lady Mystra comes to some strength in art is like a thirsty drunk in a wine cellar-he or she can never leave it alone. And who can blame such a one? It is not given to all to feel the kiss of such power.

Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon

A Harper’s Song

Year of the Dying Stars

Jhessail slipped softly into the bedchamber. Illistyl straightened up from where she had dragged the chest aside, and they shared a smile. “Worth hearing?” Jhessail asked softly, and Illistyl nodded.

I’ll tell you later?’ the young theurgist replied quietly as together they went to the bed. Narm and Shandril lay asleep in each other’s arms among the twisted covers. The two spellcasters gently laid one of the bed furs over the sleeping couple before Jhessail leaned close to Shandril and said, “It is time. Rise, hurler of spellfire. Elminster awaits.”

Shandril shivered in her sleep and clutched Narm more tightly. “Oh, Narm,” she murmured. “How it burns…”

The two spellcasters exchanged glances, and Jhessail carefully laid a hand on Shandril’s shoulder. There came a swift tingling into her fingertips.

“She holds yet more power;’ Jhessail whispered, “and this ca

“Narm,” Shandril said in a sleepy murmur, gaining strength. “Narm, we are called… ah… ohh. Where-?” Shandril raised her head and looked around. In the soft, leaping glow of the lamp Illistyl had just lit she saw the two ladies of art standing over her. She tensed involuntarily to hurl forth the spellfire within, then relaxed. “My pardon, Lady Jhessail, Lady Illistyl. I did not know you.”

She shook her head as if to clear it and turned to Narm. “Up, love; arise.”

“Eh? Oh. Gods, is it time already?”

“It is,” Jhessail said gently. “Elminster awaits you.”

“Oh, gods belch!” Narm said, rubbing his eyes and flinging back the fur. Hastily he pulled it up again. “Ah-my clothes?”

Shandril burst into weak, helpless laughter, and handed him his robe.

Illistyl smiled. “Jhessail and I will wait in the hall. Come when you are ready.”

In the hallway, the theurgist said to Jhessail, “Tell no one yet, Jhess, but The Simbul came in by the window and listened, even as I did.”

Eyebrows lifted, and then lowered again. “What did you both hear, aside from lovemaking?” Jhessail asked, lips twisted in amusement.

“The life-tale of Narm Tamaraith, full and open and unadorned. His mother, at least, may well have been a Harper?’ Illistyl replied, referring to the mysterious group of bards and warriors that served the cause of good in the Realms.

Jhessail nodded. “He thinks so?” Illistyl shook her head.

“The thought has not crossed his mind,” she said. “It was the description.”

Jhessail nodded again as the door opened, and the two hastily dressed guests of the dale stepped out. Narm looked at the two ladies curiously. “I mean no disrespect,” he said slowly, “but is there a secret way into that room? I mean… that chest…”

“We workers of art have our dark secrets,” said Illistyl crisply. “I dragged it.”

“Oh,” Narm said, surprised. “I see. Uh, sorry.” They went down the stairs, nodded to the guards and went out into the night. It was very warm and still. Selune shone brightly overhead. Merith and Lanseril waited with mules. “Well met,” the elf said softly.

“Where are we bound?” Shandril asked quietly, as he knelt to help her into the saddle.

“Harpers’ Hill,” Merith replied, and they set off. Shadow-dale lay dark around them. Looking about, Narm could see the watchful guardposts atop the tower and the Old Skull Tor behind them and upon the bridge and at the crossroads ahead. Silently the guards watched as the small party rode at ease through the dale and into the trees.

It was very dark, and the mules slowed to a walk on the narrow forest trail. Someone saluted Merith quietly. As they passed, Shandril saw a grim man in dark leather, with a drawn sword. “A Harper,” Jhessail said simply. “There will be others.”

The forest changed as they traveled on. The trees became larger and older, growing closer together. The darkness of their foliage, which now blocked the moonlight, became deeper and somehow quieter. Thrice more they passed guards, and at last came up a steep slope into a clear space. Torm and Rathan waited there, with others standing beyond. The thief and the cleric greeted them with quiet smiles and encouraging pats, and took their mules.

Merith drew Narm to one side, proffering a cloak. “Remove your clothes and leave them here,” he said. “Cover yourself with this.” Away along the bare hilltop, Jhessail was doing the same with Shandril. “Boots, too-the ground is soft.”

“Will this be… dangerous?” Narm asked Merith.

The elf shrugged. “Aye, but no more so than spending your night any other way, if it’s death you fear. Come, now.”

Elminster stood in the moonlight at the center of the hilltop with Florin and Storm. As Shandril and Narm were brought to them, Elminster scratched his nose and said, “ Sorry to get ye from bed for all this mystery and ceremony, but tis necessary. I need to know thy powers for certain. Shall we begin, the earlier to be done?”

The knights embraced Narm and Shandril, and then left them alone on the hilltop with the old sage. He drew from his robes a small, battered book and handed it to Shandril.

“First,” he said, “can you read this?”

The book was old, but upon its brown and crinkled pages were runes sparkling as clear and bright as if they’d only just been set down. Shandril stared at them, but she recognized nothing. Even as she looked, the runes began to writhe and crawl, moving on the page before her as if they were alive. She shook her head and handed the book back. “No,” she said, rubbing her eyes. Elminster nodded, opened the book to a certain page, and extended it to Narm.

“And you? Only this page, mind-at the top; tell me the words aloud as ye can make them out.” Narm nodded and peered in his turn.

‘“Being A Means Both Efficient And Correct For The Creation Of-’“ he began. Elminster waved him to silence, took the book back, and selected another page. Narm looked longer this time, forehead furrowed in concentration.

“I-I… ‘A Means To Confound; I think it says here,” Narm said at last, “but I ca