Hand of Fire

"What trouble would they be looking out for?"

"Ores, brigands, and the occasional disguised spellfire-hurler," Tessaril replied with a teasing grin. "Now, stop worrying yourself and get going. I haven't got all day, you know."

"Yes, Vangerdahast said the king was on his way. You'll be needing your sleep," Narm said sarcastically.

Tessaril gave him a look. "That was unworthy of a priestess of Chauntea-and overly daring for a young mage of no particular allegiance, too. Azoun is… Azoun. I love Filfaeril, and she loves me, no less because of what the king and I share. 'Tis not as if I'm the only one."

"Is he as good as they say?" Narm asked teasingly.

"Thaerla, enough," Tessaril growled, and then gave him a sudden, girlish grin and whispered, "Yes. Oh, yes, and better!"

Shandril was still gaping in astonishment at the Lady Lord of Eveningstar when Tessaril turned smoothly, swept the maid of Highmoon into her arms, hugged her fiercely, and said, "Go on to happiness, Shan, and the peace you seek. My thoughts walk with you."

"Lady Tess," Narm asked a little hesitantly as Shandril and Tessaril rocked gently in each other's arms, "are these hills… dangerous?"

"Most of the time, no, but 'tis best to always beware brigands. You do have packs on your backs, and although folk of Chauntea rarely carry anything more interesting than a trowel and some seeds, brigands always want to look-just to be sure. We made you ugly enough that looking will suit them better than, ah, rummaging."

"Thanks," Narm said feelingly, as Tessaril embraced him. She was slim and curvaceous in her leathers and surprisingly strong. She gave him a fierce kiss and growled, "Yours is the harder road-mind you stick to it, right by your lady's side!"

The Lady Lord of Eveningstar whirled out of the young mage's arms and away to stand looking back at Narm and Shandril with the tip of her lifted sword glowing blue and the empty air before her growing a line of matching blue radiance.

"Fare you both well," she said, and before they could reply added briskly, "I go," and stepped forward. Her sword seemed to cut a gap in the air before her, a gash that leaked blue flame. She stepped through it and was gone, blue fire and mists vanishing in her wake.

Narm and Shandril looked at each other.. – -

"Well," the kitchenmaid from Highmoon said brightly, after a moment of silence, "It's just the two of us, again. Well met, Thaerla of Chauntea."

"Fair day and fair harvest, Olarla of Chauntea," Narm replied.

Shandril winced and shook her head. "You sound like Narm," she told him. "Like a male. Try to squeak a little more… or growl and be surly."

After two attempts at squeaking that left Shandril doubled up in helpless laughter, Narm practiced growling and being surly as they peered around the hilltop.

Old, shattered tombs stood on all sides, overgrown by tall grasses. Here and there the grass had been trampled by feet that had been here before them, but there were no gnawed bones or stink of death-and thankfully, no yawning graves or cracks opening into fell darkness. However, someone had painted "Beware: The Dead Walk" on one tall, leaning marker-stone. Thaerla and Olarla of Chauntea looked at that recent message, exchanged glances, and with one silent accord strode together down off the hilltop, following the brook Tessaril had suggested.

Shandril looked sidelong at Narm as they went, trying to see her husband in the fat, trudging priestess-his quick grin, the glossy wave of his shoulder-length dark brown hair, his slender good looks. No, there was none of that in these jowls and thick lips and amiable cheeks. She was looking at a kindly, fat, and already wheezing woman, stumbling along as-she looked down-she must be, herself. Well, they were two, and no doubt those who could see the glows of spells would know they were disguised-but they did not look like a graceful little imp of a scullery lass with a long, unruly mane of curling blonde hair, and her slim young mage of a mate.

"So Arauntar and Beldimarr in Orthil's guard are Harpers," Narm muttered, "and will be watching for us.

What about this Orthil himself? Did Tess say-?"

"She called him a good man," Shandril said thoughtfully. "She did not say he was a Harper or knew anything about us-or that he could be trusted with… our secret."

She glanced around and back behind them, knowing that Narm had already done so but wanting to be sure for herself. The little valley opened up before them, and it might have snakes or even something as large as a fox skulking in its grasses… but of ores or brigands or stalking dead tomb-things there was no sign.

The maid of Highmoon gazed at the hills ahead and the glorious deep blue sky above, flecked with just a few lazily drifting wisps of white cloud, and sighed.

"Tired of all this ru

Narm nodded grimly and said nothing, but his hand went out to hers and squeezed it comfortingly. Shandril sighed again. "Zhentarim, a few Red Wizards of Thay, Dragon Cultists, the odd ambitious wizard, these shape shifters, too-is there no end to folk who want to snatch my spellfire, and me with it?" she asked bitterly.

"We could stay priestesses of Chauntea for the rest of our days," Narm said quietly. "I'd do that without a moment's regret, if you'd be happy. We could find a farm somewhere____________________

"

"Yes, and die there the moment our disguises slipped or someone took a good look at us," Shandril said wearily. "No, I want to get to Silverymoon, hear whatever wise counsel High Lady Alustriel sees fit to impart to us… and join the Harpers. Join because I've earned it, and they want me, and my-powers-can be of use to them. I can't hide from myself any better than I can hide from all the spellfire hunters."

She kicked at a stone, which rolled over obligingly to reveal nothing of interest, and added, "Fm in a cage, and my death- or the deaths of all who seek spellfire-are the only doors out."

Narm sighed. "Shan, don't talk like that," he pleaded. "I'll be here for you, I'll fix things somehow…"

Shandril's eyes were swimming as she looked back at him and shook her head, ever so slightly. "Don't think I don't love you or want you with me, Narm. You're all I have to cling to-but you're not Elminster or the Simbul or dread Larloch, and you never will be. It might take all of them together to smash down every last seeker-after-spellfire, even if such folk could be known on sight and obligingly thrust forward to be seen and struck down. And what if Elminster or the Simbul or Larloch suddenly decides that they want spellfire?"

She drew in a deep breath and added in a small voice, "I'm not going to live very long, Narm, so if I want something, please give it to me or get for me. It may be the only chance 111 have to enjoy it, ever."

"Shan," Narm said roughly, taking her by the shoulders and swinging her around to face him, "please! Don't talk like that! Doom doesn't stand so close!"

"Oh?" Shandril asked him, in a voice that trembled on the edge of tears. "How so? Can you answer me this: Is there anywhere in all Faerun for someone who wields spellfire to hide?"