Spellfire

“We always need you, old mage,” Moumgrym answered, a twinkle in his eye. “Is there anyone else who would now speak on this? Narm and Shandril, you need not make speeches if you do not desire to do so, nor are you expected to answer any queries put to you.” There was a brief silence.

“I would speak, Lord of the Dale,” said Storm Silverhand softly. She rose, silver hair swirling gently about the dark leather that clad her shoulders. She looked directly at Narm and Shandril. “We who harp are interested in you,” she said. “Think on whether you might want to walk our way.”

Eyebrows lifted in silence all around the table. Rathan looked all about, then asked noisily, “Is all the formal tongue-work done, then? Can we enjoy ourselves now, and let all the others back in? Lord?”

Mourngrym gri

The old sage had already risen. “I am old for all the babbling and flirting that goes on at your feasts. I keep looking down at all the comely lasses, and see only the faces of those I met at feasts long ago, in cities now dust-truly, Mourngrym, I enjoy it not. Besides, I have work to do. My art stands not still, and more things unfold under the eyes of Selune than just this matter of spellfire, ye know. Fare ye well, all.” He strode forward and crouched before the fire. Suddenly Elminster became a great, gray-feathered eagle, and was gone up the chimney, as The Simbul had gone.

“Show-off,” Jhessail said affectionately, watching him go.

Shandril looked at Rathan, who held a bottle in either hand, as she leaned across the board to speak to Jhessail. Her tutor bent her head obligingly, hair falling almost into a dish of cheese-filled mushroom caps.

“Lady,” Shandril said in a low voice. “Wh-”

“Call me Jhess!” Jhessail responded fiercely. “This ‘lady’ business keeps me thinking there’s some noble matron behind me, disapproving of my every move!”

“Jhess, then; forgive me. Why does Rathan drink so much? He never seems to get drunk, at least that I have seen, but…”

“But he drinks a goodly lot?” Jhessail agreed. “Yes… you should know. It was what our companion Doust Sulwood gave up his lordship of this dale for1.’

“Rathan’s drinking?”

“No, no-I meant, they both faced the same problem. A good priest of Tymora must continually take risks-reckless ones, in the eyes of most others. Worshipping Tymora truly and trusting in the Lady’s luck causes a problem if you are also sensitive to what your recklessness does to others, or are by nature cautious or considerate. The life of trusting to hick does not sit well with the life of contemplating the consequences of one’s actions, or wishing for the security and comfort of routine and prudence. You see that?”

“Yes.” Shandril nodded. “But how-?”

“Ah. Well, Doust as lord of this dale had to make decisions that affected the lives of the dalefolk. Concern for their safety was his duty, if you will. He could not do well by them and serve the Lady of Luck well. In the end, his calling proved the stronger, and he gave up the dale rather than rule poorly. I wish that more who fought such a battle within themselves between office and belief recognized their dilemma, and reached the right choice.”

Jhessail looked fondly across the room at Merith. “As my lord, too, has done-but that is another story.” She looked at Rathan. “As for that buffoon, his jesting is but an act. He is very sensitive and romantic, easily moved to tears. He hides it, and overcomes the barbs of his closest friend, Torm, with his ‘drunken sot’ act.

“He drinks because he is sensitive and prudent-and must, he knows, favor luck more and live in danger. To do so, he steels himself with drink. Because he does not want to become falling-down drunk, he eats like a starving wolf. This makes him fat, as you can plainly see, and in turn makes him able to take in more drink without staggering about and slurring his jests. Do not think him a drunkard, Shandril; he is not. Nor is he a lecher or a fraud, but a true servant of Tymora. I am proud to ride with him.”

“You have given me different eyes to see him by, lady,” Shandril said slowly, looking at Rathan, who was roaring with laughter at a jest of Storm’s.

“Jhess, remember?” Jhessail said softly. “If you will listen to some advice, know that the most valuable thing I have learned from Elminster, in all these years, is to look at all things, and folk, however strange they seem, from all sides.

“Neglect not to act as you must, but try to think as you act. You will see things as others do, as well as the way you are used to thinking. If you walk with the Harpers,” she added, nodding across the noisy room toward Storm, “they will tell you the same thing, dressed up in much grander words.”

The room was filling up around them, as the good folk of Shadowdale and the staff and guardsmen of the tower all crowded in to the large, high-ceilinged hall. There was much laughter and chatter. Narm joined Shandril in the tumult, kissing her.

“They seem to party with a right good will here, I’ll say that,” Shandril greeted him.

“Aye,” Narm agreed. “I swear some of the guards had wine-headaches this morning.”

“No doubt,” Jhessail said to them. “They drink, and love, and laugh, and eat, as if they may be dead tomorrow, for death hangs over them.”

“What?” asked Narm, taken aback.

“Zhentil Keep threatens us daily-their armies could sweep down upon us any morn. Hillsfar has a new ruler, his intentions unknown, and devils walk in Myth Dra

The two stared at her, stricken. “We should leave” Shandril whispered. Jhessail caught at her sleeve and smiled.

“No! Stay here. The folk of the dale accept you, and will fight for you as for any guest before their hearth, kin or stranger.

“Who can follow adventure, or even stand up strong in these Realms, without finding foes on all sides, often more than it seems one can handle? You are welcome, truly. Besides, you will upset Elminster terribly if you run off now. He’s not finished with you. But I flap my tongue and jaws worse than the old mage himself! Come, let us dance, you two and Merith and E”

“But-I-”

“We’ve never learned-”

“No matter-Merith shall teach us all a dance of the Elven Court. We shall all be new to it. Try it and you can do courtesy to any elf you meet! Come!” And the long-haired magic-user pulled them out into an open space and let out a birdlike trilling call. At once Merith looked up, smilingly excused himself from two fat farmwives, and joined them.

“Storm!” he called out. “Will you harp for us?”

The bard nodded and smiled, and took up the harp of the hall. It was made of blackwood inlaid with silver, and hung on the wall around the shattered and rusting shields of past, long-dead lords of Shadowdale.

As Jhessail told the couple that the harp had been a gift from the elves of Myth Dra

“You will be wanting to dance, my love?” he asked fondly.

“Of course… one of the gentler tunes, my lord, one that human feet can follow. Narm and Shandril, and you and I… may we?”

Merith bowed. “Of course,” he said, as Storm joined them. “What say you to the frolic that of old we danced on the banks of the Ashaba? Storm, you know the tune…”

It was late, or rather very early. Revelers saw stars glittering coldly in the clear dark sky from each window as they went up the stairs together, footsore and happily sleepy. “Elves must be stronger than I’d thought,” Narm grunted as they mounted the last flight to the level where their bedchamber was. The Twisted Tower was quiet around them. Far below, the revelry continued unabated, but no sound carried this far. The guards stood silent at their posts.