Spellfire

“Aye, there ye speak truth, I doubt not,” Rathan replied darkly. “Is there no wine about?” He peered into the tents. Illistyl gri

“No,” Torm answered the cleric brightly. “We seem to have left it behind at the tower. A tragedy, I agree.”

“Indeed… well, one of the guards will just have to go back for it,” Rathan concluded. “I can feel my thirst growing already,” he added, squinting at the sun.

“Here, then.” Torm passed him a flask. Rathan unstoppered it and sniffed suspiciously.

“What is it? I smell nothing.”

“Water of the Gods,” Torm replied. “Pale ale. Tymora’s Tipple.”

“Eh?” the cleric frowned at him suspiciously. “Ye blaspheme?”

“No,” said Torm. “I offer you a drink, sot. Your thirst, remember?”

“Aye,” Rathan agreed, mollified, and took a swig. “Aaagh!” he said, spitting most of it out. “It is water!”

“Yes, as I told you,” Torm replied smoothly, and then leaped nimbly out of reach as the cleric reached for him.

The chosen of Tymora pursued his sly tormentor across the rocky hilltop, while Illistyl looked out of the tent and shook her head.

“Playing already, I see,” she remarked, just loudly enough for Torm to hear. He turned and waved at her, gri

The little stone tower rose, leaning slightly, out of a grassy meadow beside a small pond. It was made of old, massive stones, and had no gate or fence or outbuildings. Flagstones led right up to a plain wooden door. It looked small and drab in comparison with the Twisted Tower, which rose large against the sky across the meadow. But it seemed somehow a place of power, too-and more welcoming.

Inside, it was very dark. Dust lay thick upon books and papers that were stacked untidily everywhere. The smell of aging parchment was strong in the air. Out of the forest of paper pillars rose a rickety curving stair, on up to unseen heights. A bag of onions hung over the doorway. Beyond an arch, faint footsteps could be heard.

“Lhaeo,” Elminster called. “Guests!”

An expressionless face appeared in the doorway. “You need not do your simpering act,” the old mage added. At that the face smiled and nodded. It was that of a pleasant, green-eyed man with pale brown hair and delicate features. He was about as tall as the elf Merith, very slim, and wore an old, patched leather apron over plain tunic and hose.

“Welcome,” Lhaeo said then, in a soft, clear voice. “If you’re hungry, there’s stew warm over the fire now. Highsunfeast will be herbed hare cooked in red wine… that Sembian red Mourngrym gave us. I deem it good for little else. I fear I have no dawnfry ready.”

Elminster chuckled. “Ye would have been wasted on a throne, Lhaeo. I’ve eaten no better fare since Myth Dra

“After all these years?” he asked. “You were right to bring them here. Many will rise against such a one.”

“Many already have,” the sage replied dryly. “Narm, Shandril-I make known to thee Lhaeo, my scribe and cartographer. Outside these walls he is counted a lisping man-lover from Baldur’s Gate. He is not, but that is his tale to tell. Come up, now, and I’ll show ye thy bed-I hope ye don’t mind, there is only one-and some old clothes to keep you warm in this place. We two don’t feel the cold, but I know others find it chill.”

“Keep him to one speech,” Lhaeo added as they started up the stairs, which creaked alarmingly, “and I’ll have tea ready when you come down again.”

They went up through a thick stone floor into a circular, open room. Shandril cast an eye over the maps and scrolls littering a large table in the center of the chamber. She looked away quickly as the runes began to crawl upon the parchment. Over the table, a globe hung in midair, a pale ball of radiance that shone like a small, soft moon. By its light, they could see a narrow stair curving up into the darkness overhead. Books and scrolls littered the tops of chests and were piled high upon a tall black wardrobe.

The old, dark wooden bed, with a curved rail at head and foot, looked very solid and cozy. Shandril suddenly felt very tired after the battles and conferences and their long talk in the night outside. She swayed on her feet.

Narm and Elminster both put out a hand to her at once. Shandril waved them away with a sigh. “Thank you both. 1 really have been a burden since I left Deepingdale.”

“Second thoughts?” the sage asked quietly, no censure in his tone. Shandril shook her head.

“No. No, not when I can think clearly. I just could not have lived through it alone.” Then she noticed something, and turned to the sage. “There is only one bed. Where will you sleep?”

“In the kitchen. Lhaeo and I are rarely asleep at the same time; someone has to watch the stew.”

Narm laughed. “The greatest archmage in all Faerun,” he said, “or so I would deem you, and you spend nights watching a pot of stew!”

“Is there a higher calling, really?” Elminster replied. “Oh, speaking of pots, the chamber pot’s by the foot of the bed. Aye, I know it looks odd-it is an upturned wyvern skull, sealed with a paste. I stole it from a Tharchioness’s bedchamber in Thay long ago, in my wilder days.

“Come, have thy tea, and then ye can sleep. Ye will be safe here, if anywhere in the Realms. Do as ye always do together, so long as it does not involve a lot of screaming and yelling. A little noise will not bother us. If ye pry about, be warned that the art here can kill in an instant if ye put an eye or tongue wrong… on your heads be the consequences.”

“Elminster,” Narm said as the old mage started down the stairs again, “our thanks for this. You’ve gone to much trouble over us.”

“If I did not, what sort of greatest archmage in all Faerun would I be then?” was the gruff reply they got over the old mage’s shoulder. “I’m stepping out for a pipe. Mind ye come in haste-Gond alone can guess what Lhaeo’ll put in thy tea if you’re not there to stop him. He thinks every cup should be a new experience.” Below, they heard the door bang.

“By the gods, I’m tired,” Narm said.

“Aye, too tired,” Shandril agreed. “I hope we can sleep.” Her hands, as she held them out to clasp his, were shaking. They went down to tea wearily.

When Elminster finished his pipe, he knocked the ashes from it out on the doorstep and came back in. “All well?” he asked.

Lhaeo came to the door with Narm leaning limply on his shoulder. The scribe’s arms were clasped about the conjurer with casual strength.

“All well. They’ll both sleep till tomorrow morning, with no ill effects, by the dose they had. I mixed it carefully, and they drank it all down.”

“Good. I’ll take his feet. A sound sleep will do them both great good, and I’ll be able to have a look at the lad’s spellcasting when he’s rested and not worried sick about his lady love.”

“How about her?”

“No training needed. She’s already learned much precision. When we fought Manshoon, she was still at the stage of hurling it as a child does a snowball. Now, she can do more with it-uumph, mind this bit; the lad’s heavy!-than many mages ever do with fire magics.”

They laid Narm on the bed and went back for Shandril. “Hmmm… we have much that will fit the lad, but what of this little lady?” Lhaeo asked, as they went carefully up the stairs again.

Elminster looked wise. “I’ve already thought on that,” he said. “Some of the gowns that Shoulree of the Elven Court wore, in the days of Myth Dra