Spellfire

Elminster looked at Narm and Shandril, smote his forehead suddenly and muttered, “Gods, I must be getting old!” and swept off his cloak to cast it about Shandril’s shoulders. As he did, the stone he held suddenly twisted from his grasp and grew. In an instant he was facing a strange-eyed woman in dark, tattered robes, whose long silvery hair strayed wildly about her shoulders. All around, approaching Harpers reached for their blades.

“Well met” Elminster said calmly and turned to Shandril. “Shandril Shessair,” he said formally, “I present to thee The Simbul, Queen of Aglarond.” There was a murmur from those who approached, and then silence, as all waited for the infamous archmage to speak. Shandril gently freed herself from Narm, and bowed solemnly in greeting. The Simbul almost smiled.

“Impressive, young lady,” she said, “but dangerous- perhaps too dangerous. Elminster… all of you… have you thought on this? Here stands a power you may have to silence. She may have to be destroyed.” There was a babble of talk and then a hush. Shandril stared, white-faced, at the archmage, but it was Elminster who moved forward to stand between them and speak.

“No,” said the old mage. He glared around at all on the hilltop with very old, sad eyes. “Ye,” he said to The Simbul, “I, and all gathered here now, are dangerous. Should we then be destroyed out of hand because of what we might do? Nay! It is the right and the doom of all creatures who walk Faerun to do as they will; it is why we of the art frown so at those who charm often, or in frivolous cause.

“Not even the gods took unto themselves the power to control ye or me so tightly that we ca

“Aye. Well said,” Florin agreed grimly, in quiet, deliberate challenge of the woman in black who stood among them. No other spoke. They waited in silence for the reaction of The Simbul.

The witch-queen stood in their midst, alone and terrible. They had heard of the awesome art she commanded, that held even the Red Wizards of Thay at bay, and hurled back their armies time and time again to preserve her kingdom. They knew the tales whispered of her temper and cruel humor and mighty power. Narm could smell their fear, there on the hilltop. Not a drawn sword moved.

The Simbul nodded, slowly. “Aye, great one,” she said to Elminster, “you truly have the wisdom lore grants you in these lands. I agree. If others had not also agreed so, many winters gone, I would not have lived to stand here upon Harpers’ Hill now.” She stepped around Elminster, and he did not bar her way.

Narm, however, moved protectively in front of Shandril even as The Simbul advanced. She came to a halt and stood facing him. “I have trusted,” she whispered. Her eyes were very proud. “Will you not also trust me?” Narm stared at her for a long, tense breath, and then nodded slowly and stepped aside. The Simbul glided up to Shandril and said, “My forgiveness, if you will take it. I wish you well.”

Shandril nodded, swallowed, and said softly, “I-I hold nothing against you, great lady.” She smiled, tentatively.

The Simbul smiled, too, and added, “A gift for you.” Her hand went to the broad black belt about her waist and drew from it a plain brass ring. She leaned close until Shandril could smell a faint, strange, stirring perfume at her throat. Shandril had never seen eyes so steel gray, stern, and sad all at once. “Use this only when all else is lost,” The Simbul whispered. “It will take you, and anyone whose flesh touches yours directly when you use it, to a refuge of mine. It will work only once, mind, and only one way. The word of command is on the inside of the band, invisible except when you heat the ring. Do not speak it aloud until you intend to use it. Your spellfire will not harm this ring.” Cold hands touched Shandril’s and pressed the ring, strangely warm, into her palm.

“One last thing” said The Simbul. “Walk your own way, Shandril; let no one control you. Beware of those who stand in shadows.” She smiled again and kissed the wondering Shandril gently on the cheek. Then she patted Elminster’s arm wordlessly and turned in sudden haste. Her form writhed and rose, until a black falcon soared up among the stars and was gone.

Eyes watched in silence until she could be seen no more, and then everyone spoke at once. Amid the hubbub, Elminster said, “My thanks, Shandril. The test is at an end. Narm, take thy lady home, and sleep. Keep the spellfire that remains within thee until ye have need of it. It will not harm thee to carry it, I know now. Guard well thy ring. A gift from The Simbul is rare indeed.” Behind them, Florin was quietly arranging a ring of guards to be about the couple as they returned to the tower.

“Think on this, and let us know when ye have decided,” Elminster said as they went down from the hilltop. “Jhessail and Illistyl will train thee, Narm, if ye wish, and I shall show thee what I can of working together spellfire and spells. The cloak is thine to keep. It will protect thee in battle. It is old, and its magic is not strong, so beware not to drain its magic without intention. It is easy enough to do.” The sage coughed. “Go now,” he said, “and get thee to bed-where these old bones would be, if I had any sense. After all, you could be needed to save Faerun tomorrow, after highsun sometime, I suppose.”

Shandril nodded, suddenly exhausted. “Thank you, lord,” she said-Elminster winced at the title-”I must sleep soon, or fall down where I stand.”

“Thanks, Elminster” Narm said with sudden boldness. “Good fortune this night and hereafter. After I get our clothes back from the knights, we shall go and think on your lords for a breath or maybe two before falling asleep.”

They chuckled together, and then the young couple went down the hill, the guards closing in around them. Florin and Merith flew watchfully above, leaving the sage behind with Jhessail and Illistyl.

“Satisfied?” the sorceress of Shadowdale asked her sometime master.

Elminster looked at the scorched marks on the rock at his feet. “I thought so,” he said softly. “The power to unleash spellfire. Her mother had it.” Both lady knights looked at him, startled, but Elminster merely smiled that distant smile that warned he would give no answer, and asked, “So what did ye hear of interest, Illistyl? Ye may edit such things as ye feel mine aged ears should not hear, out of consideration for my vulnerable heart.”

“Well, then” Illistyl said, with an impish grin, “there is precious little to tell.”

The mist was still streaming through the trees when Korvan from The Rising Moon, arrived at the butcher’s shop. “Morning;1 said a stooped man the cook had never seen before. The stranger leaned upon the yard fence by the door, the mud of much travel on his boots and breeches.

“Morning,” Korvan replied sourly. He had come for meat, not a lot of talk. Since that little brat Shandril had run off, he’d had to get his meat earlier, at a time of the day when he’d rather be abed yawning and dozing.

“Buying lamb? I’ve thirty good tails in the pen there, just down from Battledale.” The sheepherder jerked his head at the muddy yards behind him.

“Lamb? Well, I’ll look… if I can find two good hand-counts among them, I might do business with you,” Korvan said grudgingly. The herder stared at him.

“Two hand-counts? Have you a large family?”

“No, no,” Korvan said sourly as they went in. “I buy for the i

“Do you? Why, there’s a tale I have for you, then!” the herder said, with sudden interest. “It’s about that young girl who worked at the i