Spellfire

“Where now?” he asked, as they saw The Old Skull I

“No,” Shandril said, pointing at chain mail flashing upon the backs of men below. “In all the alarm, the archers might well have us both down before they knew us.”

“Or even,” Narm muttered, “because they knew us.”

Shandril slapped him lightly. “Think not such darkness!” she hissed. “Have any who are truly of the dale shown us anything but kindness and aid since we came here? We must be suspicious, aye, or perish-but ungrateful? But as I was about to say, I have little liking for the idea of greeting all the folk of the tower clad as we are.”

Narm chuckled. “Ah, the real reason,” he said, halting their flight over Elminster’s tower. “My apologies, for such black thoughts. Still, it is better to look over one’s shoulder than to die swiftly and surprised.”

“Aye, but let not the looking make you sour,” Shandril told him. “You would come down here?”

“Have we anyplace else?” Narm asked. “I doubt the art that protects Storm’s home will be kind to us now, if we come calling when she is not there.”

“True,” Shandril agreed and took one last look around from their height, looking north over the Old Skull’s stony bulk to the rolling wilderness beyond. The wind slid past them gently now. “Learn this spell yourself, as soon as you can,” she urged as she clung to him. “It is so beautiful.”

“Aye.” Narm’s voice was husky. “It is the least of the beauty I have known this day.”

Shandril’s arms tightened about him, and she and Narm sank gently to the earth in a fierce embrace in front of Elminster’s tower.

Overhead, a falcon waggled its wings to an eagle and veered away to the south. The eagle bobbed in slow salute and wheeled about, sighed audibly, and dove earthward.

“Must ye stand about, naked, kissing and cuddling, and generally inflaming an old man’s passions?” Elminster demanded loudly, inches behind Narm.

Narm and Shandril both jumped, startled, but barely had time to unclasp and turn about before the sage was pushing them roughly toward the door. “In! In, and try your hands at peeling potatoes. Lhaeo can’t feed two extra guts on naught but air, ye know!” Shandril’s fending hands encountered a deep and silky beard.

Elminster came to a dead halt and glared at her. “Pull my beard, will ye? Ridicule a man old enough to be thy great – great – great – great – great – great – and – probably -great-again-grandsire? Are ye mad? Or just tired of life? How would ye like to enjoy the rest of thy life from the mud, as a toad, or a slug, or creeping moss? Aye? Aye? AYE?”

He was pushing them both again, now, step by step to the door. Narm had begun to chuckle uncertainly. Shandril was still white and open-mouthed. The door opened behind them, and Elminster added in sudden calm, “Two guests again, Lhaeo. They’ll be needing clothes first.”

“Aye,” came the dry reply from within. “It is cold in the corners, herein. How are they at peeling potatoes?”

Elminster’s answering chuckle urged them in, and he closed the door with a brief, “I’ll follow, anon… some tasks remain.” They were inside in the flickering dimness with Lhaeo, already moving toward a certain closet.

“We’ve gone through more clothes since you’ve come to Shadowdale,” he said. “You were a head shorter than I, were you not, Shandril?”

“Yes,” Shandril agreed, and she began to laugh. After a moment, Narm joined her. Lhaeo shook his head as he handed clothes backward without looking. Truly they serve most who know when to laugh and when to listen.

The stew warm inside her, Shandril leaned back against the wall on her stool happily. She looked over at Narm, clad in the silk robes of a grand mage of Myth Dra

Lhaeo looked up at him with a quick smile. “Aye, but it is not cooking. Talk, if you would. I have heard little enough speech that is not Elminster’s. Tell me how it is with you.”

“It is wonderful, Lhaeo,” Narm said. “I am as happy now as I have ever been in my life. We are wed this day and henceforth. It is joyous indeed!”

“You, too?” the scribe asked Shandril. She nodded, eyes shining.

Lhaeo smiled. “Both of you/’ he said, “remember how you feel now, when times are darker, and turn not one upon the other, but stand together to face the world’s teeth. But enough. I will not lecture you. You must hear enough of that from other lips, hereabouts.”

They all laughed. Shandril stopped first and asked, “Those men-at the wedding? Who were they, do you know?”

“I was not at your wedding,” Lhaeo said softly. “Forgive me. I abide here to guard-certain things. I did learn something from the Lord Florin of the men who drew swords and would have attacked you, if that’s whom you mean.”

Narm nodded. “Those men, yes.”

The two men held each other’s eyes for a moment, and then Lhaeo said, “There were over forty, we believe. Thirty-seven-perhaps more by now-lie dead. One talked before his life fled. They were all mercenaries hired, for ten pieces of gold each and meals, to grab you both-Shandril alone, if they could take but one of you.

“They were hired in Selgaunt only a few days back and flown up in a ship that sails the skies. Oh, yes, such things exist, though they be rare triumphs of art. They were hired in a tavern by a large, balding, fat man with a wispy beard, who gave his name as Karsagh. They were directed to take you to a hill north of here to be picked up by the skyship.

“They would then be paid in full. Each had received only two pieces of gold. Many died carrying it, still unspent. Who this Karsagh is and why he wants you, we know not. Have you any favorite thoughts as to who he might be?”

Narm and Shandril both shook their heads. “Half the world seems to be looking for us, with swords and spells,” Shandril said bitterly. “Have they all nothing better to do?”

“Evidently not,” Lhaeo replied. “It is not all bad, that. Look who found you, Shandril-this mageling called Narm, and the knights who brought you here.”

“Aye “ she said very quietly, “and it is here we must leave-friends and all-because of this accursed spellfire.” Fire leaped and spat in tiny, crackling threads from one hand to another, as she stared down at her hands in anger.

“Not within these walls, if you please, good lady,” Lhaeo said, eyeing it. “Things sleep herein that should not be so suddenly awakened.” Shandril sighed, shame-faced, and let the fires subside.

“Sorry I am, Lhaeo,” she said sadly. “I have no wish to burn down your house.” The hearthfire let out a crack, then, that startled them all, as a tiny pocket of pitch in a branch blew apart. Narm stared from it to Shandril, a little fear on his face. At his look, Shandril nearly burst into tears.

“Nay, nay,” said Lhaeo, turning to his cutting-board. “I know you do not, nor do I fear it coming to pass. You must not hate your gift, Shandril, for the gods gave it to you without such fury. And did not Tymora bless your union?” The scribe indicated the holy symbol that Shandril had carefully set upon a high table. As if in response to his words, it seemed to glow for a moment as they looked at it.

“Aye,” Narm said, getting up. “So we are helpless in the hands of the gods?” He began to pace. Lhaeo looked up, sharp knife flashing as he cut up the tripes of a sheep.

“No,” he answered, “for where then would be your luck, which is the very essence of holy Tymora? What ‘luck’ can there be, if the gods control your every breath? And how dull for them, too! Would you take any interest at all in the world beneath your powers, if you were a god and if the creatures in it had no freedom to do anything you had not determined beforehand?