Spellfire

There was a little scream from behind him-a girl’s cry! Gorstag whirled as if he was a warrior half his age, snake-quick and expecting trouble. Then he relaxed, slowly. “Lureene?” he asked quietly. He couldn’t go-they needed him here, all these folk… oh, gods, bring her safe back!

His waitress saw the anguished set of his face in the firelight and came up to him quietly, her blanket about her shoulders. “Master?” she asked softly. “Gorstag? You miss her, don’t you?”

The axe trembled. Abruptly it was swept up and hung in the crook of the old i

He sat down again where he’d been, and Lureene came on silent bare feet to sit beside him as he worked, turning the axe in his fingers as if it weighed no more than an empty mug. After a long minute of silence, he pushed the tankard toward her. “Drink something, Lureene. It’s good… you will be the better for it.”

Lureene sampled it, made a face, and then took another swallow. She set the tankard down, two-handed, and pushed it back. “Perhaps if I live to be your age,” she said dryly, “I’ll learn a taste for it. Perhaps.”

Gorstag chuckled. The metal of the axe flashed in his hands as he turned it again. Firelight glimmered down its edge for an instant. Lureene watched, then asked softly, “Where do you think she is now?”

The strong hands faltered and then stopped. “I know not.” Gorstag reached for the brass oil-flask and stoppered it. “I know not,” he said again. “That’s the worst of it!” Abruptly he clenched his hand; the flask in his grasp was crushed out of shape. “I want to be out there looking for her, doing something!” he whispered fiercely, and Lureene put her arm about him impulsively. She could tell Gorstag was on the edge of tears. He spoke in a tone she’d never heard from him before. “Why did she go?” he asked. “What did I do wrong that she hated it here so much?”

Lureene had no answer, so she kissed his rough cheek, and when he turned his head, startled, stilled his sobs with her lips. When at last she withdrew to breathe, he protested weakly, “Lureene! What-?”

“You can be scandalized in the morning,” she said softly and kissed him again.

(…)

The hawk circles and circles, and waits. Against most prey he will have but one strike. He waits therefore for the best chance. Be as the hawk. Watch and wait, and strike true. The People ca

Aermhar of the Tangletrees

Advice before the Council in the Elven Court

Year of the Hooded Falcon

“I-I am too tired, lady,” Narm said apologetically. “I ca

“I know you are. That is why you must. How else will you build the strength of your will to something sharper and harder than a warrior’s steel, as the old mages say?”

Jhessail’s smile was wry. “You will find, even if you never adventure from this day forth, that you will almost never have quiet, comfort, good light, or space enough to study as you are taught to do. You will always be struggling to fix spells in memory while over-tired, or sick, or wounded and in pain, or in the midst of snoring, groaning, talking, or even crying. Learn now, and you will be glad of it, then.”

“My thanks in advance, then, good lady” Narm returned as wryly. Jhessail gri

“You learn, you learn,” she said. “Well… why are you not staring at the pages before you? The spells will not remember themselves, you know.”

Narm shook his head, a half-smile of frustration on his face, as he said, “I simply can’t! It’s not possible!”

“So says the warrior when told to learn spells and become a great mage,” Jhessail countered, sitting suddenly in a smooth swirl of silver-gray robes. “So, too, the thief. But you already cast spells! I have seen you… the smallest cantrip you work says you can. ‘Can’t’ died when you read your first runes, lad! You sit there and lie to me with open face and open spellbooks both? You can do better than that!”

“Aarghh!” Narm answered in frustration, striking the table with his fist. “I ca

“Died in an instant because his foolishness was far greater than his art,” Jhessail replied. “I expect more of you than that, Narm. Moreover, you must expect different ways of mastering art whenever you seek a different tutor. Question neither the methods nor the opinions freely given, even if they make you flame within, and do not belittle the knowledge imparted. It will shut off, as one shuts off a tap, and you will get no more for all your pleading and coins. You would be a mage, and know not what sort of pride you will have to deal with, yet? I know well-I’m dealing with your pride, right now!”

“I-my apologies, Jhess-Lady Jhessail. I have no wish to offend you. I-”

“-can avoid such offense by looking to your pages and trying to study through my jabber, and not wasting my time! I am older than you by a good start, lad. I have less left to me than you do, by far, if you have the wits enough to live to full growth-an increasingly doubtful prospect, it is true, but one that I will cling to nonetheless.”

Narm tossed up his hands in wordless despair and bent his head to the spellbook open in front of him. Jhessail gri

“Aye, I-I’ll try. One question of you if I may, lady, before I do.” Narm looked up at her. Jhessail smiled and nodded. “Elminster spoke so to you? Why?”

“Because he considered it necessary, as I do, at this stage in the training of one who wields the art. Your Marimmar obviously never knew such discipline. Illistyl, who wields far less powerful spells than he did, has known it, and is the better for it. Elminster considered his tutoring remiss if a mage did not know such frustration.

“The art is a thing of beauty in itself, and it can also be helpful and creative. Too many spellcasters neglect such facets of art in their haste to gain wealth, and influence- and enemies-by mastering fire and lightning. Remember that, Narm. In years to come, if you forget everything else I taught you, remember that. You saw The Shadowsil’s death. Elminster trained her for a long time. You saw what a fascination with power, and power only, can do.”

“Aye… but why else become a mage?”

“Why? Why!? Why become anything other than a farmer, a hunter, or a warrior? Those three professions the world forces upon any born here, if they try to scratch out a living for themselves in the wilderness. All else-carpentry, painting, weaving, smith-work-one does because one has the aptitude and the desire.

“If power is all you want, become a warrior-but mind you always strike at the weak and unprotected. Your arm may grow weary with all the slaying, but power you’ll have and power you’ll use over others-until, of course, you fall before the greater power of another. Keep up questions of this ilk, Narm, and you’ll find I can keep up the testy temper of Elminster! Why aren’t you looking at your books?”

“I-aye. Sorry, Lady Jhessail.” It was Jhessail who threw up her hands in despair this time.