Spellfire

“Why is it that my spellfire was turned aside by a wall of force spell you created while testing me, and yet this prismatic sphere-a much more powerful spell, Jhessail tells me-can be destroyed by a mere wisp of spellfire?”

Elminster regarded her thoughtfully. “Like much else about thy spellfire, young lady, I know not. I could tell thee airy theories about the anti-spell nature of the wall and the many-layered and inherently less stable nature of the sphere, which focuses its energies more toward preventing attack from without than from within. Such words, however, would be just that-airy theories.”

Elminster shifted uncomfortably. “The truth is, I know not, nor does any mage ye will ever face in Faerun, unless or until some new lore comes to light or ye are tested further. I do not care to test thee further myself, for such tests are dangerous to the one being tested. I have no desire to assure thy corpse-and Narm-that I have learned the precise limits of thy powers.”

“My thanks for that,” Narm said dryly.

“Many is the mage who would not scruple a moment, lad,” Elminster told him gently. “The pursuit of an edge in art is all, for most. Some who care nothing for glory and battle-strength delight in learning what none have learned before. They’d not hesitate. Consider that, ye who hope to be a master of the art, and govern thyself accordingly.

“I do not want to hear news someday of how ye’ve turned thy bride into a weapon against rival mages, or burned her powers out in striving to further them or win them for thyself. Aye, aye… I know the very idea repels ye. But it is an easy road, step by i

“I hear you,” Mourngrym said wryly, from the great couch where he and Shaerl lay at ease in each other’s arms. “I take it this is a mood that comes often upon you?” Elminster favored him with a look.

Jhessail chuckled. “Admit it, Master,” she said. “Your wisdom is often in short supply.”

“Aye,” the old mage replied, looking around at them all with a raised brow. “Its like is rare indeed in this company.” Torm had lost his sight for a time because of an incautious look at the whirling, shimmering sphere. “Why do we cower here like-like-”

“Like blind men?” Rathan put in helpfully. Torm gave him a sour look. There were chuckles. Elminster rolled his eyes and picked up one of his spellbooks without replying. Jhessail gave Torm a pitying look.

“Listen, little snake-brains,” she said lovingly. “How well could you have fought Manshoon, say, without the light of your eyes to guide you?”

“Aye, but I’m better now” the thief told her. “Why must we sit caged up like this? Time slips away! Armies march, and mages weave! The gods sleep never, and ores-”

“Will do as they always do, aye, and spill the blood of others and beget more ores between bloodlettings-we know the sayings. If there is such a thing as patience in your mind, in some dark and seldom-visited corner, seek it out, and hunt it down, and once you have hold of it, let it not go from your grasp.” Jhessail fixed him with dark eyes. “Use your knot, man. Or I’ll teach you to.” “That might be fun,” Torm said to the tent above him. “I wouldn’t, Torm,” Merith said calmly from where he lay. “I just wouldn’t. It is unwise.”

“Threats, dire warnings, and sinister words he heeded not,” Torm sang lightly, “but rushed in and took the crown for his own.”

“If it’s crowning ye’re looking for,” Rathan grunted, hefting his mace and leaning forward, “I could see my way clear to obliging ye.”

“Why, darling,” Torm said, mocking the tones of a high court Cormyrean lady (Shaerl frowned, and then couldn’t hold it; her severe expression slipped into laughter). “I knew not the depths of your caring. My champion!” (Squeal of excitement, breathy delight.) “My brave warrior! My-”

“-bringer of slumber,” Rathan grumbled, flinging Torm’s half-cloak over the thief’s head and holding it down firmly to muffle his cries. “Silence, now,” he added as the thief struggled, “or I’ll just bounce my mace off this nasty lump here”-he patted Torm’s enshrouded head-“until it goes down.”

“Sleep now, all of ye,” Elminster told them. “Narm and Shandril begin a long journey in the morning.” He darkened the glowing globe that hung by his shoulder. A few halfhearted jests were tossed back and forth by the weary knights, but sleep came swiftly.

Shandril awoke much later in a cold sweat, pursued through the crumbling tu

Jhessail was laughing with Merith over hot minted tea. Sunlight shone warmly all about, for the tent and the sphere were both gone, and the knights, variously clad, were sitting up on their couches or bedrolls, or walking quietly about.

The clear tones of a horn floated up to them from somewhere below, where an unseen player was blowing his delight in a fine morning. Shandril looked around at the old stone walls of the chamber and said aloud to herself, “I’m going to miss this.”

“Yes,” Narm agreed, suddenly beside her. Shandril turned to him in pleased surprise. He gri

Shandril hugged him back. “You’re mine, now!”

“Aye,” Narm managed from within her arms.

“Not for much longer, if you break him like a clay cup,” Torm said dryly. “They’re more useful, you know, when they’re whole… back and arms able to carry, and all…”

Shandril burst out laughing. “You’re utterly ridiculous!”

“It is how I get through each day,” Torm told her earnestly. It was much later when she realized he’d spoken the sober truth.

“Well,” said Florin at last. “Here we part.” He nodded at the weathered stone pillar just ahead. “Yonder is the Standing Stone.” The pillar rose, watchful and defiant, out of the brush, overlooking the fields back to Mistledale and south toward Battledale. Florin pointed. “Down that road lies Essembra. lake rooms at the Green Door. It once had a talking door, but we took a fancy to it, so that door is back at the tower. Somehow,” he gri

The white horse under Shandril snorted and tossed its head. “Easy, Shield,” Florin said to her. “You’ve barely begun, yet.”

There was a sudden lump in Shandril’s throat at his words. She turned in her saddle to look back. Past the pack mules on their reins, past the watchful crossbowmen who rode behind with quarrels at the ready, back to where the knights rode with an ever-grumbling Elminster. She’d miss them all. She felt Narm’s hand clasp hers hard. She held back sudden tears.

“None of that,” Rathan ordered her gruffly. “All this sobbing robs an occasion of its grandeur.”

“Aye,” Lanseril agreed. “You’ll be too busy staying out of trouble to cry, soon. So get in the habit now, and let’s have dry eyes. Remember that Mourngrym serves his best wine at Greengrass. We’ll be looking for you, some year.”

Narm nodded. Shandril was too busy wiping away tears that would not stop. Her shoulders shook in silence.