Spellfire

Shandril looked at him fearfully. Would Narm’s tongue lead them into Storm’s anger, losing any chance of aid-or welcome-from the Harpers?

Storm laughed merrily, dispelling the spellfire-maid’s fear. “You have chosen well, Shandril,” the bard said. “Unafraid, and yet polite. Inquiring, not hostile and opinionated. Well said, mage-to-be.” She got up, drew on her soft, battered old boots, and rose to pace thoughtfully.

“The answer to your question is no. All in the Realms hold and guard knowledge as they see fit. That, too, we have no right to change, even if we had the art to alter every creature’s mind. Much should be secret, and much revealed only to those who have the right or ability to handle it. If that sounds too simple, think on this: Harpers seek not to reveal the truth to all, but to preserve writings, art, and music for later years and beings. We work against things that threaten the survival of such culture, or erode its quality by influencing it with unchallenged falsehood.

“Harper bards always sing true tales of kings, as far as truth is known. They do not, for any reward, sing falsely of the grand deeds of an usurper, or falsely portray as bad the nature and deeds of his vanquished predecessor. Even if such would make good tales and songs, a Harper cleaves to the truth. The truth-a thing slightly different for everyone-must be the rocks that the castle of knowledge and achievement is built upon.

“Strong words, eh? I feel strongly. If you come to do so, too, you will truly be Harpers. If one falls out of such belief, they should leave the struggle and our ranks. They will do themselves, us, and our cause ill.

“I hope only that whether you walk with us or no, or join and then leave us thereafter, that you walk always together, and take joy in each other’s company. It is through such love -or longing, when in lack of it-that much learning and celebration comes about. It adds to the culture that we strive to save and nurture. More than that, whether you be Harpers or not, I would be your friend.”

Shandril and Narm looked at each other, and then at the bard, and spoke together. “We would be Harpers.”

“If you will have us,” Shandril added awkwardly. Storm looked at them both with a smile and then stepped forward and gathered them into her arms.

“ ‘If you will have us,’ “ she repeated softly. “We would be proud and pleased to have you. You, Shandril and Narm, not your art and your spellfire. You need not stay here-indeed, I agree with Elminster, for we have spoken of this. You should not stay here. You should walk far and see much, and grow in your own counsel and powers. As you go, if you work against evil, you will be Harpers, whether you bear our badge or no. Fight not always with blade or spell. The slower ways are the surer-aid freely given, and friendships and trust built. These evil ca

“Where then should we go?” Narm asked, as they stood together there in the wood in each other’s arms. They leaned together, and all three took comfort from the embrace. Storm spoke softly, words almost hidden among the sounds of the water.

“Go you by way of Thunder Gap. Watch for Dragon cult agents. They are thick in Sembia, and there is one in Highmoon. His name is Korvan-” Shandril stiffened. “Go to Silverymoon itself. Seek out Alustriel, High Lady of that city, and say that you come from her sister Storm and would be Harpers.

“With Alustriel, too, is a good place to be if you intend to have a child by then.” The bard looked meaningfully at Shandril, who blushed. “Well, you’re not quite the first couple to make that mistake.” She looked at Narm. “If your lady feels too sick to eat,” she said, “feed her lots of stew. In the evenings, she’ll feel more like dining.”

Narm looked at her. “Pray, lady, let me get used to discovering I’m going to be a father, first,” he said plaintively. Storm chuckled again.

“Think well, both of you, on the names your offspring must carry through life. I was born in a storm, and was named because I came out of it. It is an ear-catching name, I’m told, but I fought many larger and stronger lads and lasses when I was small because of it.” She freed herself from them and undid her robe.

After a startled look, Narm politely turned his back. Unconcerned, the bard drew on her clothes. Shandril saw that her arms, back, and flanks were covered with faint white, twisting sword-scars. She looked up at Shandril’s wondering eyes and winked. “I’ve walked many roads. Some roads leave little maps.” She traced one scar with a long finger and tied her halter,

“You can turn about, Narm,” Storm said dryly. “I’ll soon grow tired of talking to your shoulders.” Narm obediently turned about, gri

“These, too, I’ll write for you, on a bandage. I’ll need you to prick your finger and bleed on it afterwards. It must look well-stained and disgusting if you don’t want it to be looked at too closely, if someone searches or robs you. But these I’ll tell you about, in case you get separated, or lose your list. If you lose the list of runes, stay clear of all such that you see. “First, in Cormyr…”

After a long time, Storm rose, belted her horn at her waist, and led them back up the path to her back door.

“What if someone-by art, I mean-heard all this?” Narm asked, looking at the trees all around. Storm shook her head.

“I have art of my own to cloak this little, hidden place. Manshoon himself could not hear us unless he sat with us.” She went in and set the men-at-arms to cutting cheese and apples for all, while she prepared the bandages.

Storm vanished up a stair half-hidden in the shadows of the old stone kitchen, taking Shandril’s hand and drawing her up, too. When they reappeared there was no sign of the promised bandage. Shandril’s eyes told Narm readily enough that it was hidden upon her somewhere. The bard now wore black fighting leathers and a sword.

“To the temple, then,” Storm said briskly, “for we have much to talk about with Rathan and Eressea.”

West of the tower, over the bridge that spa

“To take our chances,” Storm replied formally, “and to speak with the Lady’s servant, Eressea Ambergyles, and with the faithful Rathan Thentraver if he is within.”

“Yes, lady,” said the acolyte with respect. “He is, and you are welcome. Enter, if you will.” He opened the doors and stepped within to signal another to take his post as he escorted the visitors into the temple.

In a moment, he reappeared and beckoned wordlessly, leading them into a large circular chamber whose pillars held up a domed ceiling high overhead. He led them up a broad stair without haste, past a watchful priest who sat at the head of the stairs with plain brass rings gleaming upon his fingers and a bare mace laid across his knees. The mace glowed faintly.