Spellfire

“Walks she yet?” Lhaeo asked, as they laid Shandril gently on the bed beside Narm, and drew off her boots.

Elminster looked thoughtful. “I doubt she does… but perhaps some of the Elven Court who joined the long sleep years ago stir now. That would explain why the devils in Myth Dra

“I know it is wisest and safest,” Shandril said, “but I grow so bored, Lhaeo. Is there nothing I can do? I know I shouldn’t pry about in the spellbooks; I’ll only get hurt or changed into some ugly creature or other. I ca

Lhaeo looked at her with his usual expressionless face. “Do you cook?” he asked. Shandril turned.

“Of course! Why, at The Rising Moon-” She stopped, eyes alight, and smiled. “May I cook with you?” she asked, delighted. Lhaeo bowed.

“Please,” he said. “It is seldom I get to talk to others who spend much time in a kitchen. Few want to talk to someone who speaks thus,” and his last words were spoken in a mincing lisp.

Shandril looked at him. “Why do you pretend to be- Elminster’s companion?” she asked. Lhaeo looked at her soberly.

“My lady,” he said, “I am in hiding. I will tell you who I am only if you never tell anyone-except Narm,” he replied.

“I promise,” Shandril said solemnly. “By whatever oaths you wish.” Lhaeo shook his head.

“tour promise is enough,” he said. “Come into the kitchen.” The room, warmed by a small fire in the hearth, smelled deliciously of herbs and simmering stew and onion soup.

“Are you a lost prince?” Shandril prompted him as he waved her to a stool and went to inspect the huge pot of stew upon the fire.

“I suppose,” Lhaeo said slowly, stirring the stew with a long-handled ladle, “you could say that. I am the last of the royal house of Tethyr. In happier times, I was so far from the throne that I never thought of myself as a prince or even as one of the court. But there have been so many deaths that I am, so far as Elminster and I can tell, the last left alive of royal blood.

“Why do you hide? You have no army to take back your kingdom. Why would anyone want to kill you?”

Lhaeo shrugged. “Because all who have seized power expect others to do as they would. Anyone of royal blood must want to wear the crown, they think. I live because they don’t know that I still live. I fear that’s all there is to tell. Not so impressive, is it? But it is a secret that must be kept, for my life hangs upon it.”

“I shall not tell it,” Shandril said. “What can I help you with, here?”

Lhaeo looked at her. “Cook what you like, and teach me as you go,” he said. “Please?” They smiled at each other across a bag of onions. “And my thanks,” he added.

“For keeping your secret?”

“Aye. It may not seem much, but each secret you carry has a weight all its own. They add up, secrets, to a burden you must carry all your days.”

Shandril looked up from selecting onions, knife in hand. “You carry many?”

“Aye. But my load is nothing to Elminster’s.”

Shandril nodded, then looked down. “Whose gown is it that I wear?” she asked quietly. Lhaeo smiled.

“That is one of the secrets,” he said. “I would tell you, but it is his to tell, not mine.”

“Well enough. Do you have an old apron I might wear to cover it?”

“Aye, behind you, on the peg. Tell me of The Rising Moon.”

She did. They serve others most who ask the right question, and then listen. The day passed, and they marked not the time.

The day passed, and Narm grew weary. He had grown used to the clear and careful teaching of Jhessail, and the practical tutelage of Illistyl. Elminster’s methods were a rude shock, indeed.

The old mage badgered and derided and made testily impatient comments. The simplest query of him on this or that small detail of casting brought a scholarly flood of information in reply-a voluminous barrage that never seemed to include a direct answer. Elminster had worked on Narm’s new spell, the flaming sphere, until Narm could have screamed.

Weary hours of study to impress the difficult runes upon Narm’s mind, and then a sharp lecture on precisely how to cast the spell in view of the obvious shortcomings he had displayed last time were the grinding irritants. They were followed by a few moments of spellcasting, a ball of scorching flame rushing away-a thrill the first few times, but now Narm saw each one as a failure even before Elminster spoke-and then Elminster’s scathing critique. The clumsiness or slowness of the casting, the lazy and inattentive formation of the sphere, and worst of all, the lack of precision in its direction, once formed, were all regular topics.

“Have ye not seen your lady hurl spellfire?” Elminster demanded, in acid tones. “Have ye not noticed how she can shape the flames-a broad fan or a thin, dexterous tongue-bend it around corners, pulse short spurts of flame to avoid setting her surroundings ablaze? I suppose ye couldn’t tell me now the hue of her eyes, either!”

“ Ahh, they’re…” Narm hastened to reply, and found to his horror that an image of Shandril wouldn’t come to his mind at the moment. Confused and badgered, he hurled fire angrily before Elminster hid him, tossing the ball of flames twenty feet before it landed and rolled.

“Temper, boy,” Elminster admonished, watching it. “Too easily it can be thy death. Mages ca

“Ye can be a great mage, Narm, if ye develop just two things: precision in control of spell effects and imagination in applying your art. The latter ye will need more later on, when ye reach past most mages with whom ye would wish to associate in both experience and knowledge. The precision ye must master now, else thine every spell will have some waste about it. Thy art will lack that edge of shrewd phrasing and maximum effect that may mean the difference between defeat and victory, some day.

“As ye advance, ye will become a target for those who gain spells by preying upon other mages. If ye lack precision in a duel of art, ye will be utterly destroyed-then it will be too late for my lessons.”

“But I ca

“Perhaps. Yet, know ye, a mage can do more with a few simple spells he knows back-to-front, and can use shrewdly, than with an arsenal hastily memorized and poorly understood from any spellbook he may look at. Do ye follow me?”

Narm nodded, slowly. “Good, then” the sage said. “I shall leave ye to thyself, if ye promise me to study and cast your flaming sphere at least four times more, here in this field, before ye rest for the day. Think on moving the sphere just where ye want it, and making it form in just the place ye choose. Think too on how ye can use such a weapon against, say, a ru

“Don’t forget that only foolish and arrogant mages stand still after they have cast to admire the view. Move, or a simple arrow will soon make ye a dead mage, no matter how impressive ye were in life. Oh, and worry not about the stubble; ye’re doing the farmer who owns this a favor by burning it off. Try not to take the fencing with it. It is harder to term that ‘friendly help.’ Do I have thy promise?”