Afterward, the greatest victories always look like the work of brilliant warcaptains. In the midst of the fray, they’re just as much cursing and slipping and tangles of death and disaster as the greatest defeats. The trick is to wind up among those who survive such battles relatively unmaimed.
The gods reward those who die gloriously in their service. The rest of us have to reward ourselves.
Raulavan Emmertide of Suzail
Swordlord and Survivor:
Forty Summers Under the Purple Dragon
Yearof the Bright Blade
“Of course she’ll live, if ye get out of my way for a breath or two!” Rathan roared. “Lanseril, stay and heal! Rold, ye saved her; ye stay too. Florin, bring Narm over here … be he awake yet? All others, get hence! Downstairs, the lot of ye! Mourngrym, ye and Shaerl may stay, of course. The rest—clear out! Get gone!”
“Narm stirs,” Jhessail reported tersely. “We’ll take this guardsman, if Rold hasn’t quite slain him, and learn the whys of this. All others—back to your posts. Our thanks for your haste in coming.” The guards saluted her and left.
Florin laid Narm gently on a sleeping fur, letting his bruised head down with care. “How is she?” Florin asked, looking at Shandril’s still face.
“Well enough,” Rathan replied, “considering the blow she took. I only hope it hasn’t somehow harmed her ability to wield spellfire, now that half Faerûn will attack her to gain it.”
“Why would just one guard attack?” Mourngrym muttered, frowning.
“One seemed to do well enough,” Shaerl remarked, gesturing at the two still forms.
“No, love—I meant I’d expect to find other attackers near at hand. Rold, I want this tower searched forthwith, this floor first. Jhessail, will you rouse Illistyl and stand guard over our two guests? I’ll remain also.” Mourngrym drew his slim, jeweled sword, set it point-down before him, and leaned on it.
Shaerl nodded and knelt by Narm, who had begun to moan faintly.
Florin was ready with strong, sure arms when the young mage suddenly surged up, arms flailing. “Where’s—? Shandril! Danger! Beware! Danger!”
“Aye … aye,” Florin agreed gently, holding him. “Danger ’twas, indeed. Stay still now, and we can see to your lady.”
“Shan—how is she? Sh—”
“Quiet and still, please. She lies behind you. Rathan and Lanseril tend her.”
“I—yes.” Narm sank back, as pale as snow, wincing as his head came to rest on the furs.
“Narm, lie quiet and still, as you were bid,” Lady Shaerl said.
Narm grimaced, and then he heard Shandril say softly, “I thank you. Narm was hurt; have you seen to him?” His heart knew peace, and he sank into the warm, waiting darkness … and was asleep, not even hearing Rathan’s reply.
It was dark and close in the blanket room. The smells of pomander and moth mix were strong. Ilthond stifled a sneeze, nodded in satisfaction at his accurate journeying, and listened.
He could hear nothing. Well enough. To work, then.
The mage worked invisibility on himself and eased the door open. The passage beyond seemed empty. He stole forth and looked about.
Better and better, he thought. Muttering a spell of flight, Ilthond rose to drift unseen along the corridor. No guards … why? Was Shadowdale truly so lax? No, there must be some strife or alarm.…
Around the corner came a dozen guards with drawn swords and forbidding glares.
Ilthond floated over and past them in careful silence. Where might the young maid be? The tower’s mortar was mixed with substances to prevent scrying, but all he needed to do was find enough grim guards gathered before a closed door, and she’d be beyond.
She might be above, in the plainer but more secure rooms, or below, as befitted a guest of importance. The greater risk lay downward—but so, too, did all chance of learning who was where. Ah well—a short, risky road leads fastest to the top, they say.…
Ilthond reached a stair and headed down, keeping near the sloping stone ceiling. Carefully and quietly he went, nosing through rooms and along halls like a silent shadow, flitting swiftly, yet taking care not to be brushed against.
After a time, his search brought him to a long hall where torches burned every twenty paces. At its far end, humans in rich garb stood or knelt near two more who lay on the floor. Ilthond drifted slowly and silently closer, straining to hear.
“How d’ye feel?” Rathan growled. “Better, I trust?”
Shandril nodded slowly. “My head still aches. My thanks indeed, good Rathan. Again I’m in your debt for healing me.”
“Not in my debt,” Rathan corrected. “The Lady ’tis whom ye owe!” With the middle finger of his right hand, he traced a circle about the disc on his breast.
“Yes. I’ll not forget the Lady’s favor,” Shandril replied. “How fares Narm?”
Rathan looked over at Narm. “He sleeps. Best to let him sleep on. But ye must try thy spellfire.”
Shandril had risen onto her elbows. Drawing her legs under her, she extended an unsteady hand. From her spread fingers spellfire spat down the hall in a long tongue of flame. It died away, curling into air. “As before, I can still—”
A pain-racked groan came out of empty air down the hall.
Florin and Mourngrym drew steel and stepped in front of Shandril. Shaerl drew her dagger and rapped the nearest gong with its pommel.
A robed man with hawkish features and glossy black hair faded into view in midair. His face was twisted in pain, his robe smoldered, and his shoulder and breast were burned bare. Glaring, he hissed a word that unleashed the power of the wand in his hand.
Forked lightning crackled down the hall, striking both Florin and Mourngrym. The lord of Shadowdale staggered and fell heavily, blade clattering. Shaerl cried out and ran to him. Florin was driven to his knees by the bolt, but struggled up into a slow, weak charge, face black with pain.
Shandril stood, furious and heartsick, and lashed out with spellfire. “Wherever I go! Always beset, always friends and companions hurt! You seek spellfire? Well, then—have it!”
Spellfire roared out of her in a tumbling inferno that lasted for but a breath—but raged down the hall. It swept over the flying mage like a wave over rocks.
The lightning had shaken Narm into dazed wakefulness. Gasping in pain, he struggled to his knees to work Art and protect his lady from this new menace. His hands froze as he saw the blackened, crippled thing that the spellfire left on the scorched rugs of the hall.
The man moved weakly and twisted cooked lips in words of Art. Shandril raised a hand again but did not unleash her flames. His head sank down between smoking shoulders that shook with pain—and the mage vanished, gone as if he had never been.
“Wherever we go,” Shandril said wearily, turning to Rathan, “your healing services are needed. I hope you’ll not grow tired of it all before this comes to an end!”
“Lady,” Rathan replied, as he hastened to where Mourngrym lay. “This never ends, I fear. Worry not about my patience—’tis what I walk these Realms for.” He knelt by the lord of Shadowdale and looked back at her over one shoulder. “Ye do impressive work, I must say.”
Jhessail arrived, robes held high as she sprinted along in the forefront of a large group of guards. “Shandril? Florin? Mourngrym?” Merith was at her side, blade out.
“We need healing,” Rathan called. “The time for blasting and all that is past! Send four guardsmen for Eressea at the temple.… I’ve no more power to heal, and Mourngrym needs it.”
Jhessail relayed his orders and then asked, “What happened?”
“Another mage,” Rathan snapped, “flying about and invisible. Shandril touched him with spellfire purely by chance when I asked her to test her powers. He struck Florin and Mourngrym with lightning from a wand. Shandril burned but did not slay him. He teleported away.”
Jhessail looked at Shandril. “You slew him not?”
Shandril nodded. “I could not. ’Twas … horrible.”
“I can’t fault you,” Jhessail said slowly. “Yet when you fight, Art to Art, seek to slay—and finish the job. A foe who escapes will return for revenge!”
“Aye,” said Shaerl, eyes hot. “A man who struck down my lord lives! I blame you not, Shandril. It must be terrible to hold such death within you, always knowing you can slay. Yet, if that man were within my grasp right now, I’d not hesitate to strike and slay. One who’d harm my Mourngrym does not deserve to live.”
Sounds of running feet came. A guardsman reached the head of the stairs, shouting, “Lord Mourngrym! Lady Shaerl!”
Shaerl turned. “Say on.”
“My lady, the prisoner is gone! We had him in the cell, and his hands were bound—yet he vanished before our eyes.”
“The man Culthar?” Shaerl asked. “How could this happen?” She turned to Jhessail. The lady mage nodded calmly, and Shaerl sighed and turned back to the guard. “I hold you and all the guard blameless. Bid a search be mounted for Culthar, and return to your post with our thanks.”
The guard nodded, bowed, and hurried off.
Jhessail shrugged. “A teleport ring, perhaps, a rogue stone, or another way of Art I don’t know. All would require outside aid. The Zhentarim, perhaps, or the priests of Bane. Culthar was someone’s eyes here in the tower.” She spread her hands in futility with a ghost of a smile. “The ravens are gathering.”
Shaerl sighed. “Aye, and I’m growing tired of it.”
Rathan looked up. “Ye grow tired of it! What of we who heal?”
“Ah, but you enjoy divine aid,” said Mourngrym weakly from beneath the priest’s hands. “Mind you see to Florin, too. I need him healthy and alert.”
The man who’d once declined the lordship of Shadowdale, and led the Knights from their early days, was leaning against a wall in pain-racked silence.
“Florin?” Jhessail asked hesitantly. “Are you badly hurt?”
“As usual.” Florin’s voice was rueful, and he lowered it so only she could hear. “I’m growing too old for constant battle, Jhess. ’Tis not the thrill it used to be!”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” Jhessail said briskly, putting a slim arm about his great shoulders. “Not now. We need you.” She drew him down until he sat against the wall. “You’ll feel much better once you’ve been healed.”
Merith joined them.
Florin nodded gratefully to them both and quietly fainted.
Jhessail let his head rest on her shoulder and said to her husband, “My lord, please run to our strongbox for a potion. He’s hurt worse than I thought!”
Shandril turned her face to the wall and leaned her forehead on her arm. “I—I—we must leave you. Again and again you’re hurt for our sake, one attack after another. You’re my friends! I must not do this to you, day after day!” She burst into tears.
“Must we have all this weeping?” Rathan complained. “ ’Tis as bad as the fighting. Nay, worse—ye can stop the fighting by slaying thy foe!”
Narm rose to defend his lady, but Rathan pushed him down again with but two stout fingers. “Don’t start! Ye’re not fully healed. I’m not having ye rush around getting hurt and crying all about the place. D’ye hear? Just lie down and wait. We’ll see if there’s time to listen to such foolishness.”
Merith went to Shandril and tickled her gently under the ribs until she turned from the wall. He swept her into his arms and kissed away her tears. “Nay, nay, little one, you needn’t be ashamed or upset on our account. ’Tis a hard road you walk, an adventurer’s road. Would you not walk it with us? ’Tis not so lonely or hard, with friends!”
“Oh, Merith,” Shandril said, and sobbed into his shoulder.
Merith carried her to Florin and Jhessail and sat her down on his own lap.
“Cry not so,” Jhessail bade. “Does the hawk weep because it has wings? Does the wolf howl because it has teeth? We do what we can with our Art or skill-at-arms. Is your spellfire so different? Use it, and hold yourself not to blame for the attacks others make on you or this place. We do not blame you.” She patted Shandril’s knee. “Let’s all go to the great hall as soon as Eressea has done her healing and see if there’s aught to eat or drink. Violence always makes me hungry!”
In a turret on the inner walls of Zhentil Keep, in a small, circular chamber, Ilthond sprawled on a familiar floor. He lay on the painted circle he’d practiced teleporting to, and he groaned in pain.
None were there to see or hear; he was alone behind three locked and hidden doors. Pain crashed over him in waves of red agony, as if he struggled seaward through the breakers on a beach. Ilthond crawled forward between waves, seeking the cabinet where he kept his potions.
He wondered dully if he’d reach it.
“That’s quite enough foolishness,” Elminster said peevishly. “I leave ye, and within half a dozen breaths ye’re scorching another mage! Well then, I’ll not leave ye.… Ye’ll stay in my tower, ye two, with my scribe Lhaeo and myself. To draw off all who’re hunting spellfire, Illistyl and Torm will impersonate ye, in a tent with Rathan upon Harpers’ Hill. Merith, ye and Lanseril will keep watch on them. Now pass that wine ye’re curled so lovingly about, Rathan, and let’s have no argument; the matter’s settled.”
“I’m glad of that,” Florin said dryly. “Have you no task for Jhessail or me?”
“Eh? Gods look down, man! Someone has to watch over the dale and shatter the armies of Zhentil Keep if they come calling. Ye two ought to be able to manage that!”
There were dry chuckles, and then a yawn. Shandril’s eyes were nearly closed.
“Love,” Narm said gently, shaking her. “Are you sleepy?”
“Of course,” she replied faintly. “We were going to bed when this uproar started, remember?”
“To bed, then!” Elminster said gruffly. “We’ll all prance yonder to my tower together—and then mind the lot of ye return here, except our two innocents. I don’t want to be falling over a lot of snoring Knights in the morning!”
“At this rate,” Lanseril replied, “you’re safe on that score. You’ll be falling over snoring Knights at highsun, instead.”
Amid chuckles, they went out into the night.
“Keeping you awake, Rold?” one of his fellows grunted jovially at dawnfry that morning. The guardroom was strewn with gloves, helms, and scabbarded blades, as their owners lingered over the last fried bread, tomatoes, and bacon.
The old veteran yawned again. “Glad I am, indeed, that the young lord and lady are out of the tower. No offense to them. It’s just that I’ll be more likely to sleep when I’m off duty.”
“Fewer sinister mages and night slayers skulking in every hall and peeking through every window,” agreed another, sharp-voiced guard, buckling on his sword.
“Aye, Kelan. Less Art we can’t fight and less treachery within.” A little silence fell at Rold’s words.
Kelan said softly, “Who d’you think got to Culthar? What did they offer him to chance such a reckless grab at one who could cook him to the bones?”
“Who can know another man’s price?” Rold replied. Several guards nodded. “I doubt he needed much persuading. Belike he was already loyal to someone outside the dale, someone who told him to do this thing.”
“What ‘someone’?”
Rold shrugged. “That, I know not, or I’d be at Lord Mourngrym to let me go after him. Don’t laugh! ’Tis easier on one’s temper to be moving and attacking instead of growing cold and weary at a guard post, never knowing when attack will come.”
“Where did they go?” asked a young guard, a late riser, still heavy about the eyes, dawnfry on a plate in his hand.
Rold chuckled. “Mind you aren’t late for your own funeral some morn, Raeth. The young lord and lady’ll be camping out by Harpers’ Hill with Rathan Thentraver. Practicing hurling this spellfire where Lord Mourngrym’s fine rugs won’t be scorched. Most of the Knights will be off about the dales at Elminster’s bidding!”
“Ah, things’ll get a mite quieter for a few days,” Raeth said with satisfaction. The older guards chuckled.
“Think you so?” Kelan asked. “ ’Tis a long run through the forest, in full armor, to Harpers’ Hill!”
Rold was still chuckling as the bell rang and they hastened to their posts. Raeth, his mouth full of bacon, wasn’t.
“This is a fool’s plan,” Rathan grunted. “One only Elminster could have come up with.” The Mighty of Tymora surveyed the tents sourly. “Lady, aid me. I’m surely going to need thy help.”
“Cheerful, aren’t you?” Torm answered. “I’m enjoying this.”
“Ye have weird enthusiasms,” Rathan grunted. “Ye can’t even enjoy thy lady when she must wear the shape of Shandril every instant.”
Torm grinned. “Oh? That’s going to hamper me? How so?” He raised dark eyebrows. “Besides, I look like Narm for the present.”
“Shameless philanderer,” Rathan growled. He looked at the trees around. “I wonder when the first attack will come?”
“While you’re standing there,” Torm replied, “if you keep yapping about Elminster’s wisdom and the danger you’ve so foolishly plunged headlong into. Go in and pray to the Lady for healing Art. No doubt we’ll need it soon enough.”
“Aye, there ye speak truth,” Rathan replied darkly. “Is there no wine about?” He peered into the tents. Illistyl smiled back at him out of one, looking like Shandril. She moved with smooth innocence, abandoning her own defiant strut.
“No,” Torm answered brightly. “We’ve left it behind at the tower. A tragedy, I agree.”
“Indeed … well, one of the guards will just have to go back for it,” Rathan concluded, squinting at the sun. “My thirst grows.”
“Here, then.” Torm passed him a flask.
Rathan unstopped it and sniffed suspiciously. “What is it? I smell naught—”
“Water of the gods,” Torm replied. “Pale ale. Tymora’s Tipple!”
“Eh?” The priest frowned. “Ye blaspheme?”
“No, I offer you a drink, sot. Your thirst, remember?”
“Aye,” Rathan agreed, mollified, and took a swig. “Aaagh!” he said, spitting most of it out. “It is water!”
“Aye, as I told you,” Torm replied smoothly, leaping nimbly out of the way as the priest reached for him.
The Mighty of Tymora pursued his sly tormentor across the rocky hilltop, while Illistyl watched from the tent, shaking her head.
“Playing already, I see,” she remarked, just loudly enough for Torm to hear. He turned and waved at her, grinning—and promptly fell over a stone, with Rathan on top of him. Illistyl burst into laughter before she realized she couldn’t recall what Shandril’s laugh sounded like.
The leaning stone tower rose out of a grassy meadow beside a small pond. It was built of old, massive stones, without gate or fence or outbuildings. Flagstones led up to a plain wooden door. It looked small and drab in comparison with the Twisted Tower, rising against the sky across the meadow. But it seemed somehow a place of power, too—and more welcoming.
Inside, it was very dark. Dust lay thick on books and papers stacked untidily everywhere. The smell of aging parchment filled the air. Out of the colonnade of paper pillars rose a rickety curving stair, ascending to unseen heights. A bag of onions hung over the doorway. Beyond an arch, faint footfalls sounded.
“Lhaeo,” Elminster called. “Guests!”
An expressionless face appeared in the doorway.
“There’s no need for thy simpering act,” the Old Mage added.
The face smiled and nodded—a pleasant, green-eyed face with pale brown hair and delicate features. Its owner was about as tall as Merith, very slim, and wore an old, patched leather apron over plain tunic and hose.
“Welcome,” Lhaeo greeted them, in a soft, clear voice. “If you’re hungry, there’s stew warm over the fire. Highsunfeast will be herbed hare cooked in red wine … that Sembian red Mourngrym gave us. I deem it good for little else. I fear I’ve no dawnfry ready.”
Elminster chuckled. “Ye’d have been wasted on a throne, Lhaeo. I’ve eaten no better fare since Myth Drannor fell than what ye cook. But I forget my manners, such as they are … Lhaeo, these be Narm Tamaraith, a mage who flourishes these passing days under the tutelage of Jhessail and Illistyl, and his betrothed, Shandril Shessair, who can wield spellfire!”
Lhaeo’s eyes opened wide. “After all these years? You were right to bring them here. Many will rise against her.”
“Many already have,” the white-bearded wizard replied dryly. “Narm, Shandril—I make known to thee Lhaeo, my scribe and cartographer. Outside these walls he’s counted a lisping man-lover from Baldur’s Gate. He’s not, but that’s his tale. Come up, now, and I’ll show ye thy bed—I hope ye don’t mind there’s only one—and some old clothes to keep ye warm. We don’t feel the cold, but I know others find it chill.”
“Keep him to one speech,” Lhaeo added as they started up the stairs, which creaked alarmingly, “and I’ll have tea ready when you come down again!”
They went up through a thick stone floor into a circular room. Shandril cast an eye over the maps and scrolls cluttering a large table—but looked away quickly as runes crawled on the parchment.
Over the table, a globe hung in midair, a pale sphere of radiance like a small moon. Its light showed a narrower stair curving up into the darkness. Books and scrolls littered the chests and lay piled atop a tall black wardrobe. The old wooden bed, with a curved rail at head and foot, looked solid and cozy. Shandril felt tired after the battles and conferences. She swayed on her feet.
Narm and Elminster both put out a hand to her. Shandril waved them away. “Thank you both. I’ve been a burden to many since I left Deepingdale!”
“Second thoughts?” the Old Mage asked quietly, no censure in his tone.
“No. No, not when I can think clearly. I just couldn’t have lived through it alone!” She turned to the wizard. “There’s only one bed. Where will you sleep?”
“In the kitchen. Lhaeo and I are rarely asleep at the same time; someone has to watch the stew.”
Narm laughed. “The greatest archmage in all Faerûn, and you spend nights watching a pot of stew!”
“Is there a higher calling?” Elminster replied. “Oh, speaking of pots, the chamber pot’s by the foot of the bed, yon. Aye, I know it looks odd—’tis an upturned wyvern skull, sealed with paste. I stole it from the bedchamber of a Tharchioness in Thay, in my wilder days.”
He made a quick gesture. Various pipes and tobacco pouches rose and darted away down the stairs like hurrying wasps.
“Come and have thy tea, and then ye can sleep. Ye’ll be safe here, if anywhere in the Realms. Do as ye always do together, so long as it does not involve a lot of screaming. A little noise will not bother us. If ye pry about, be warned: the Art here can kill in an instant!”
“Elminster,” Narm said, as the wizard started downstairs, “our thanks. You’ve gone to much trouble!”
“And if I did not, what sort of greatest archmage in all Faerûn would I be?” came the gruff reply over the Old Mage’s shoulder. “I’m stepping out for a pipe. Mind ye come in haste—Gond alone knows what Lhaeo’ll put in thy tea if you’re not there. He thinks every cup should be a new experience.” Below, the door banged.
“By the gods, I’m tired,” Narm said.
“Aye, too tired,” Shandril agreed, “I hope we can sleep.” Her hands, as she reached to him, were shaking. They wearily went down to tea.
When Elminster finished his pipe, he knocked its ashes out on the doorstep and came back in. “All well?”
Lhaeo came to the door, Narm leaning limply on his shoulder. The scribe held him up with casual strength. “All well. They’ll sleep until morn. I mixed the dose carefully, and they drank it all down.”
“Good. I’ll take his feet. A sound sleep’ll do them good. When he’s rested and not worried sick about his ladylove, I’ll get a look at the lad’s castings.”
“How about her?”
“No training needed. She’s already learned much precision. When we fought Manshoon, she was still a child hurling a snowball. Now, she can do more with it—mind this bit; the lad’s heavy!—than most mages ever do with fire magics.”
They laid Narm on the bed and went back for Shandril. Lhaeo frowned as they carefully ascended the stair. “We’ve much that will fit the lad, but what of this little lady?”
Elminster looked wise. “I’ve already thought on that,” he replied. “Some of the gowns Shoulree Talaeth wore when Myth Drannor was bright. They’re in the chest near the stairs. She, too, could wield spellfire. She won’t mind.”
“Walks she yet?” Lhaeo asked, as they laid Shandril gently beside Narm and drew off her boots.
Elminster looked thoughtful. “I doubt she does … but perhaps some who joined the Long Sleep years ago stir now. That’d explain why the devils in Myth Drannor have not troubled us more. Something to look into.” His face grew a wry grin. “In my copious free time.…”
“I know this is wisest and safest,” Shandril said, “but I grow so bored, Lhaeo! Is there nothing I can do? I can’t pry into spellbooks—I’d only get hurt or changed into some beast. I can’t tidy for the same reason!”
“Do you cook?” Lhaeo asked expressionlessly.
“Of course! Why, at the Rising Moon—” She stopped, eyes alight. “May I cook with you?”
Lhaeo bowed and smiled. “Please. ’Tis seldom I can converse with another who spends time in a kitchen. Who wants to talk to someone who speaks thus?” he asked with a mincing lisp.
“Why do you pretend to be … Elminster’s companion?”
Lhaeo looked at her soberly. “My lady, I’m in hiding. I’ll tell you who I am only if you never tell anyone, beyond Narm.”
“I promise, by whatever oaths you wish.”
Lhaeo shook his head. “Your word is enough. Come into the kitchen.”
Warmed by a small hearth fire, Lhaeo’s lair smelled deliciously of herbs, simmering stew, and onion soup.
“Are you a lost prince?” Shandril prompted jokingly.
He waved her to a stool and went to inspect the huge stewpot. “I suppose you could say that,” Lhaeo said, stirring with a long-handled ladle. “I’m the last of the royal house of Tethyr.”
Shandril’s mouth fell open.
Lhaeo smiled and waved his ladle. “In happier times I was so far from the throne that I never thought of myself as a prince. But there’ve been so many deaths that I am, so far as Elminster and I can tell, the last alive of royal blood.”
“Why do you hide?”
Lhaeo shrugged. “All who seize power expect others to do as they would. Anyone of royal blood must want to wear the crown, they think. I live because they don’t know I live. That’s all there is to tell. Not so impressive, is it? But ’tis a secret that must be kept, for my life hangs upon it.”
“I’ll not tell it,” Shandril said firmly. “What can I help with, here?”
Lhaeo looked at her. “Cook what you like and teach me as you go, please?” They smiled at each other across a bag of onions. “And, my thanks.”
“For keeping your secret?”
“Aye. Each secret has a weight all its own. They add up, secrets, to a burden you carry all your days!”
Shandril looked up from selecting onions. “You carry many?”
“Aye. But my load is nothing to Elminster’s.”
Shandril looked down. “Whose gown is it that I wear?”
“That’s a secret. I’d tell, but ’tis his to unfold, not mine.”
“Well enough. Have you an old apron I can wear?”
“Aye, hanging behind you. Tell me of the Rising Moon.”
She did. They serve others most who ask the right question, and then listen. The day passed, and they marked not the time.
The day passed, and Narm grew weary. He was used to the clear and careful teaching of Jhessail and Illistyl. Elminster’s methods were a rude shock.
The Old Mage badgered and derided and made testy comments. The simplest query on a small detail of casting brought a scholarly flood of information—a voluminous barrage that never included a direct answer. Elminster had worked over Narm’s newest spell, the Sphere of Flame, until Narm could have screamed.
Weary hours of study to impress the difficult runes on Narm’s mind, and then a sharp lecture on precisely how to cast the spell in view of his obvious shortcomings became grinding irritants. Then came a moment of casting, a ball of scorching flame, and a thrill the first few times. Now, though, Narm saw each as a failure even before Elminster spoke in scathing critique. Clumsy, slow, lazy, inattentive, imprecise, off-target …
“Have ye not seen your lady hurl spellfire?” Elminster demanded in acid tones. “She can shape the flame—a broad fan or a thin, dexterous tongue—bend it around comers, or pulse short spurts to avoid setting her surroundings ablaze. I suppose ye couldn’t tell me the hue of her eyes, either!”
“Hey! They’re …” Narm angrily replied—but Shandril’s face wouldn’t come to mind. Confused and badgered, he hurled fire angrily, tossing the ball of flames twenty feet before it landed and rolled.
“Temper, boy,” Elminster admonished, watching it. “Too easily it can be thy death. Mages cannot afford it—not if it affects the precision of their casting. Here ye are, furious with me, and we’ve spent merely a morning together. Not good! Oh, I’ll grant ye that’s good enough for lesser talents, who swagger about throwing fireballs and bullying honest farm folk. I’d hoped ye’d look for something more in the service of Mystra.”
Their gazes met—the one sorrowful, the other glowering.
“Ye can be a great mage, Narm, if ye develop just two things: precision in spell effects and imagination in Art. The latter ye’ll need later, when ye reach past most mages. The precision ye must master now, else thy every spell will have some waste about it. Thy Art will lack that edge of shrewd phrasing and maximum effect that may mean the difference between defeat and victory.”
Narm opened his mouth to speak, but Elminster continued, “As ye advance, ye’ll become a target for those who gain spells by preying on other mages. If ye lack precision in a duel of Art, ye’ll be utterly destroyed—then ’twill be too late for my lessons. Such a waste of my time that would be.”
“But I can’t hope to win a duel now! How will spending all day throwing balls of flame about make any difference to that? If I win a duel, surely it will be because I have stronger spells and more of them!”
“Perhaps. Yet, know ye, a mage can do more with a few simple spells he knows back-to-front, and can use shrewdly, than with an arsenal hastily memorized and poorly understood. D’ye follow?”
“Good,” the Old Mage said briskly. “I’ll leave ye to thyself, if ye promise to study and cast your flaming sphere at least four times more, here in this field, before ye rest for the day. Move the sphere just where ye want it and form it precisely in the place ye choose. Think on how ye can use such a weapon against, say, a group of goblins who scatter in all directions when they see it coming—but try to get past it toward ye.” He started to trudge away. “Only foolish, arrogant mages stand still after they’ve cast. Move, or a simple arrow will make ye a dead wizard, no matter how impressive ye were in life. Oh, and worry not about the stubble; ye’re doing the farmer a favor by burning it off. Try not to take the fencing with it—’tis harder to term that ‘friendly help.’ Have I thy promise?”
“Yes, and my thanks.”
“Thanks? ’Tis impatient ye are again, Narm! The task’s not done. Save thy thanks till ye master this spell. Then thank thyself first. I can talk all day and only waste breath if ye fail to heed, work, and master the Art.”
Narm grinned. “You do.”
Elminster’s grin lit his face only an instant, but the twinkle in his eye remained as he became a falcon and flew away.
Narm stood in the field and watched him go, sighed, and reached for his spellbook. The sun was bright on the Old Skull. He bent his head to the book.
Much later, when he stood to cast his first flaming sphere, Narm drew a deep breath of satisfaction. At least he was alone and could work Art without watching eyes and sharp comments. He turned to look at the stubble, choosing what he could burn.
A small boy had appeared from somewhere and hung on the fence rails, watching.
“Go away!” Narm said crossly.
“This your field?” the boy asked laconically.
“You could get hurt! I’m casting spells.”
“Aye. I’ve been watching. But I won’t be hurt unless you cast spells at me. You won’t; there’re no evil wizards in Shadowdale. Ma says Elminster won’t allow it.”
“I see,” Narm snapped, his jaw set. He turned and hurled fire.
The boy watched fire roll away and stayed glued to the fence. All day long he stayed, as Narm hurled fire, sat down to study, got up and threw fire, and went back to his books. Narm was weary and thirsty when he went to the gate at evening.
The boy climbed down from the fence and fell into step beside him. “I wish I could be a great mage, like you.”
Narm laughed. “I wish I could be a great mage. I know so little. I feel so useless.”
“You?” The boy shook his head. “I saw you cast balls of fire. You point them where to go, and they move at your bidding! You must be mighty!”
“Being a mage is a lot more than hurling fireballs.”
The boy nodded thoughtfully, waved a sudden farewell, ducked through a gap in the hedge, and was gone.
Narm shrugged and walked on. Ahead he could see a patrol of guards on horseback, trotting with lances raised. It must be nice to call a place like this home.
When Narm came up the path, Elminster sat smoking on a boulder near his front step. “Well? Can ye put a sphere where ye want to?”
Narm nodded.
“So are ye a mage?”
Narm shrugged. “I’ve a long road to go before I’m strong in Art. But I can stand in most company, now, and know my Art will serve me.” He added proudly, “There’ll always be others more powerful, but I’ve truly mastered what I do know.”
“Oh?” Elminster asked. “Think ye so?” His features blurred and shifted beneath the battered hat, flowing and changing. Narm suddenly faced the young boy who had watched his spell practice from the fence. The little face grinned; its mouth opened, and in a perfect imitation of Narm’s own voice, said solemnly, “Being a mage is a lot more than hurling fireballs.”
Narm stared in anger, then resignation, and then sheepish amusement. “Elminster won’t allow it, indeed. I’ll have to rise early in the day to get ahead of you!”
“I’ve several hundred years’ start on ye. Come. Evenfeast’s ready. Ye’ve chosen wisely; thy lady’s a cook of rare skill. See that ye serve her as well, boy.” He knocked his pipe out on the doorstep and went in.
Narm looked once at the stars beginning to sparkle in the darkening sky, and followed him inside.