Spellfire

“It is not all tavern-tales and fond memories. Ten levels beneath us, in the crypts, I know at least three of the knights who sleep forever. It is a price some of them, no doubt, never intended to pay-but pay it they did, most without choice. Think on this before you become an adventurer. The life you choose may well take Narm from you, or cripple one of you beyond art that you can command or hire to put right. Once you have power, though, you have very little choice-you become a foe and a target for many, and must become either an adventurer or a corpse.”

“How did you come to be a knight?” Shandril asked curiously. “You are younger than Florin and Jhessail, and your art is…”

“Lesser? Aye, so it is. There was a lycanthrope here in the dale a few years back-not long ago, though it seems long enough to me now. The knights took a census, so that their art could be used to try and detect the weretiger. It was poor Lune Lyrohar, one of the girls at Mother Tara’s.

“They found that I had powers of the mind, and Jhessail took me to study under her, I lost all my folk in the wars, so I came to live at the tower.” She smiled. “Much of the time thus far has been spent raising Jhessail’s and Merith’s daughter; most of the rest, studying art. One has little choice once it begins.”

“So I fear. Yet it was my choice to leave the i

“Hold to that,” Illistyl said, almost fiercely. “Do not forget that you have felt so. Hard times lie ahead, I fear. Your power, if wielded with deliberate intent, is a menace to all workers of art in this world. Few are stupid enough not to realize that. All who have the inclination will attempt to destroy you or control you as a weapon against others.

“You will see spellcasters enough to sicken you before long, and yours is an endeavor in which no matter how mighty one becomes, there is always someone more powerful. Learn that very quickly. The lesson is usually a fatal one if ignored. It can happen to you, too, Shandril-something of art may well be able to counter spellfire, perhaps something as simple as a cantrip most apprentices know.”

Shandril nodded, soberly. “Sometimes I think I ca

Illistyl nodded. “It is good you see that. It takes much work and patience, mind. Look-how does Jhessail seem? Her character, I mean.”

“Warm, kind, yet strict and proper… understanding. I can say little more; I barely know any of you.”

“Indeed, yet I would say you’ve seen Jhessail well enough. But there is more. Her control is so great that one does not notice that which won her Merith, which underlies her warmth. She is passionate-not just romantically, but spiritually-and strong-willed.

“Jhessail and the cleric Jelde were lovers when I first came to the tower. There was a great fight between Jelde and Merith over Jhessail. Jhessail decided she loved Merith more, so she set out to win him, before all the Elven Court and mindful of her brief span of years. She seeks longevity by her art, always, but she has never thought to outlive even his youth.

“That sort of control is required to master all but the simplest art. It is the sort of control you will need to stand at Narm’s side through all that will come against you both. Hear and heed, Shandril, for I would be your friend for more than a few years, if I can.” The theurgist gri

Shandril shook her head. “No, no, I thank you! I’ve never had someone my age-or close, you know-that I could talk of things to, and not have to curb my words. Even Narm… especially Narm.”

Illistyl nodded. “Yes,” she agreed. “Especially Narm.” She glanced around. “Remember the places I’m going to show you now,” she added, as they got up. “One day you and Narm may be glad of a place to hide away in, together.

“One day soon,” she added warningly, and Shandril could only agree.

Night had fallen, deep and dark, before Rozsarran Dathan rose from his table in the Old Skull’s taproom, waved a wordless good-night to Jhaele, and staggered to the door.

Behind, the plump i

Outside, in the cool night air, Rozsarran reached the same conclusion, albeit slowly and less clearly. Hitching up his swordbelt, he began to walk hastily back toward the tower. An overcast sky made the night very dark, and a brisk walk might make him feel less rock-witted before he reached his bed. Late duty tomorrow, praise Helm. He could use the sleep…

A silent shadow rose out of the night clutching a horse-leather knotted about a fistful of coins. He tipped Rozsarran’s helmet sharply forward to expose the back of his head, and gave sleep to him.

The guard slumped without a sound. Suld caught him under the arms before he reached the ground and heaved him up. Arkuel caught hold of his booted feet, and they hurried him into the trees.

There Malark worked magical darkness and commanded Arkuel to unhood the lamp. In its faint light the cult arch-mage cast a spell of sleep upon the guard and then studied him carefully. “Strip him,” he ordered briefly. When it was done, he studied the mage’s face and hair intently and had his underlings turn the body, seeking birthmarks. None. Right, then. He cast yet another spell, slowly and carefully. His form twisted and dwindled and grew again, and a double of Rozsarran stood where Malark had been moments before. The disguised archmage dressed hastily, ensured that his concealing amulets were still upon him, and said coldly, “Wait here. If I do not return by dawn, withdraw a little way into the woods and hide. Report in Essembra- you know where-if I come not back in four days. Understood?”

“Aye, Lord Mage.”

“Understood, Lord Malark.”

“Well enough. No pilfering, no wenching, and no noise! I don’t plan to be long.” And Malark was gone, adjusting his swordbelt. How did they even lift such blades, let alone swing them about as if they were as light as wands? This one was as heavy as a cold corpse. He felt his way back out of the trees and the magical ring of darkness to the road.

There he found two guardsmen weaving slowly toward the tower. They were half asleep, irritable, and smelled strongly of drink. “Aghh, it’s Roz!” one greeted him loudly, nearly falling. “Bladder feel the better for it, old sword? Fall over any trees?”

“Arrghh,” Malark answered, loudly and sourly, thinking it the safest reply. He deftly ducked and rose up between their linked hands, putting an arm about the shoulder of each. One of the guardsmen gave at the knees and almost fell. Malark winced at the weight dragging at his shoulder.

“It is good you came back,” the collapsing guard rumbled as he hauled himself up Malark’s arm and rocked on his heels a moment before catching his balance again. “I need your shoulder, I fear. Gods, my head!”

“Arrghh,” Malark said again, stifling a grin.

“Urrghh,” the guard on his other arm agreed sagely, and they stumbled on. Ahead, the torchlight at the tower gates grew brighter and closer, step by bobbing step. Elsewhere, Malark might have crept or flown in the shape of a bird or vermin to a window and dispensed with all this dangerous foolishness, but not here. Not with Elminster about, and all these knights who could call on his aid. “Best I ever drank was at The Lonesome Tankard, where the roads meet in Eveningstar… ‘it’s in Cormyr, old sword.”