Spellfire

“It certainly won’t, if we do nothing,” Commarth agreed in dry tones. “Have you any plans in mind, brothers?” Naergoth and Zilvreen shrugged.

“You first, brother,” Zilvreen prompted.

Naergoth nodded and spoke. “The price of getting our hands on this spellfire seems far too high, and others-the Zhentarim, and the priests of Bane outside Zhentil Keep, for two-are known to seek it. Yet it is we who have already paid a price, and I am loath to turn away empty-handed. The price may seem too high to you… and yet we ca

“Let the mages win it for us” said Zilvreen smoothly. “Waste no more swords-and especially no more of your bone dragons-on this.”

“Well enough,” Dargoth agreed. “But spellfire or no, we must not let this girl, or the knights, go unpunished for what they have done. We must never forget that we have lost much treasure, two dracoliches, and The Shadowsil over this. The girl must pay. Even if she becomes an ally, she must die after we have gained her secrets and her power. This must ride over all.”

“Well said, brother;1 Naergoth agreed. There was a murmur of agreement around the table. “We are agreed, then- for now, we let your brother mages handle this affair?”

“Aye, it is his field,” came one reply.

“Aye, it would be folly to do otherwise,” said another.

“Aye-and if he comes not back, we can always raise other mages to the Purple.”

“Aye to that, too!”

“Aye,” the others all put in, in their turn. So it was agreed, and they all rose and left that place.

It was late in Shadowdale, and in the Twisted lower the candles burned low. In an i

“We must leave,” Shandril said, close to tears.

“Leave? Of course… how can you know yourselves and become strong if you are always in the midst of our hurly-burly?” Florin agreed. “But come back one day to see us, mind,” he added softly.

“Have you a place in mind?” Jhessail asked, as she leaned drowsily upon Merith’s shoulder. The elf s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. Tonight he had said little and listened much.

Narm shrugged. “We go to seek our fortune. The Harpers said to seek High Lady Alustriel in Silverymoon.”

“Would you have some of us ride with you?” Lanseril asked. “There are greater evils in this world by far than those you have fought.”

“With all respect, lord,” Shandril answered him, “no. Too long you have watched over us and spilled much blood on our account. We must make our own way in the world and fight our own battles-or in the end, we will have done nothing.”

“ ‘Nothing,’ she says,” Torm said to Illistyl. “Two dracoliches and a mountaintop and a good piece of Manshoon of Zhentil Keep, yet, and ‘nothing; she calls it! It’s scary. What if she tries ‘something’?”

“Hush you,” Illistyl said, stopping his mouth with a kiss. “You’re a worse windbag than the old mage himself.”

“Why, thank ye,” said a familiar voice wryly from the far darkness of the room. Narm saw the battered old hat first, perched atop the staff that Elminster bore, as the sage’s bearded old face came forward into the light and regarded them all. He looked last at Narm and Shandril.

“Ye might,” he said dryly, “go to The Rising Moon for a night, at least. It would be a kindness to Gorstag. He has been worried about ye.”

Shandril met his gaze in silence, and a breath had passed before Narm realized that she was crying. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. He turned to her and took her in his arms, but her tears still fell.

“Don’t cry, beloved,” Narm soothed her. “You’re among-”

“Shush her not,” Merith said gently. “It is no shame to weep. Only one who cares not, cries not. I have seen what happens to those-Florin and Torm, at this table-who cry inside and try to hide it from others. It sears the soul”

Jhessail nodded. “Merith is right,” she said. “Tears don’t upset us, only the reasons for them “

“Cry here, lord,” murmured Shaeril in her sleep, patting her own shoulder. “It is soft and listens to you.” Mourngrym looked faintly embarrassed. Torm gri

“You see?” he said to Illistyl “You could do that for me… You have the shoulders for it.” She slapped him fondly.

Shaeril stirred and frowned. “Oh, it is that game tonight, is it?” she murmured. “Well, my lord, you’ll have to catch me first, I assure you.” Chuckles arose from around the room. Mourngrym leaned forward and lifted his lady gently from the chair. Sleepily she clung to his neck and drew her legs up across his chest, settling herself with murmurs of contentment.

Mourngrym turned to them all with Shaeril cradled in his arms. “Good even, all,” he said with a smile. “Shaeril should be in bed-and so should all of us.”

“Now where were we?” Elminster asked, settling himself into a chair that looked as old, shabby, and well-worn as he did. “Oh, aye… your plans for the future, Narm and Shandril.” Groans, silence, and faint snores answered him from elsewhere, as the newly healed knights lay sleeping upon couches and blankets. Jhessail looked at him and smiled ruefully, but she said nothing. Narm also kept silence, but the slow, disbelieving shake of his head was eloquent.

Shandril fixed the sage with her own tired eyes. “I suppose you’ll tell us to steer clear of fights, or we’ll be dead within a day, eh?”

“Nay.” Very clear blue eyes looked deep into hers. “You two will be given no such choice. You must fight or die. But think: one mistake is enough when you’re dealing with those who wield art. Remember that.” His gaze shifted to Narm. “Ye too, Lion of Mystra.”

Elminster cleared his throat, then continued. “If ye find thyself facing a mage, stand not to trade spells with him. Throw rocks, and run right at him unless he’s much too far away to reach. Then run away and find a place to hide where ye can grab rocks to throw. Simple, eh? Recall how thy lady first struck down Symgharyl Maruel before ye laugh.” “Five hundred-odd winters, eh?” was all Narm said.

The sun rose again over a very quiet tower of Ashaba. The Lord and Lady of Shadowdale, in the company of the sage Elminster, the young married lad and lass, and the knights all remained on an upper floor within a great, blinding sphere of shimmering colors, a prismatic sphere cast by Elminster. Bold warned everyone not to approach.

Several times the prismatic sphere melted away and was replaced by the art of the old mage. During one cessation of the sphere, a simpering Lhaeo was waiting. With the aid of several strong guards, he brought tea, a great cauldron of hot stew, bowls and a monstrous ladle, and two fat spellbooks for the old mage. The scribe then went away again and advised everyone else except the guards to do the same.

The envoys waited in their guest chambers, and the merchants went away from the forecourt again, for the lord and lady and all in the sphere rested that day and into the night. Once, in the dark hours, Elminster used a sending spell to deliver a message to a certain eye tyrant in a certain cold stone city, a message that left the tyrant black and seething with anger. But then, Elminster had five hundred years-worth of impudence saved up. He sat humming to himself in the tent he and Florin (who were both immune to the sphere’s blinding effects) had erected to shield the eyes of their companions from the sphere’s swirling colors.

“Elminster/’ Shandril asked hesitantly, “may I ask you something?”

“Aye,” Elminster prompted her, waving a cooling hand over his bowl of stew. “Ask, then.”