Open the door, little fools: We wait outside.
The green dragon Naurglaur
Sayings of a Wyrm
Year of the Spitting Cat
“We should go down,” Shandril whispered into the wind.
Narm’s arms tightened about her, and they flew for a time in silence, the green expanse of the elven woods unfolding below. “Aye. I’ll not soon forget this!”
“Nor I. As I should hope not!”
Narm chuckled at her mild indignation. Bending his will, he turned them northwest over the seemingly endless trees, back toward Shadowdale. “I can’t help feeling we’re being watched.”
“I’m sure we are—and have been since first we rode with the Knights,” his lady replied. “How else could they protect us?”
“Well, yes, but I mean now.”
“I’m sure they’ve seen such things before,” she said serenely. “Elminster’s hundreds of winters old, remember?”
“Yes,” Narm sighed, peering all around again. “Would that none of this were necessary, and we could walk unafraid!”
Shandril fixed him with very serious eyes. “I feel so, too, but without spellfire, we’d both be bones by now!” They passed over the bare top of Harpers’ Hill and swiftly left it behind. “Besides, this fire in me is a gift of the gods. Rage as we might, ’tis their will I have it.”
Narm nodded. “Aye, and it can be handy enough, but does using it harm you?”
Shandril shrugged. “I know not. I don’t feel amiss or in pain, most times. But I can’t stop it or give it up, even if I wanted to. ’Tis part of me now.”
She turned in his grasp to look back, and something circular and silver drifted out of the empty sky into her hands. It was smooth, cold and solid, and it tingled in her fingertips.
“Rathan’s holy symbol!” Narm gasped. “How comes it here?”
“By the will of Tymora, to answer your doubts!”
Narm nodded almost sternly, and the fine hairs on his arms stood stiff with fear. Yet he held her as gently and firmly as before.
“Whither now?” he asked, as they passed over the Old Skull Inn. “The Twisted Tower?”
“No,” Shandril replied, pointing at chain mail flashing on the backs of men below. “In all the alarm, the archers might shoot us down before they knew us!”
“Or even,” Narm muttered, “because they knew us.”
Shandril slapped him lightly. “Think no such darkness! Have any truly of the dale shown us aught but kindness and aid? We must be suspicious, yes, or perish—but ungrateful? Yet, truly, I’ve little wish to greet 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, ’tis better to look often over one’s shoulder than to die swift and surprised!”
“Aye, but let not the looking make you sour. You would come down here?”
“Have we anyplace else?” Narm asked. “I doubt the Art protecting Storm’s home would be kind to us if we came calling when she wasn’t there.”
“True,” Shandril agreed and took one last look around, glancing north over the Old Skull’s stony bulk to the rolling wilderlands beyond. The wind slid gently past their bare shoulders. “Learn this spell as soon as you can,” she urged, clinging to her husband. “ ’Tis so beautiful.”
“Aye.” Narm replied huskily. “ ’Tis 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 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 dived to earth.
“Must ye stand about naked, kissing and cuddling and inflaming an old man’s passions?” Elminster demanded, inches behind Narm.
The wedded couple jumped, but barely had time to unclasp and turn before the wizard pushed them toward his front 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? Are ye passion-mazed? Or are ye just tired of life?” Shandril shrank back. The Old Mage seemed to loom larger and larger over her as he thrust his bristling beard forward—and followed it, step by menacing step. “How’d ye like to enjoy the rest of thy life in the mud—as a toad? Or a slug? Or mute, creeping, dung-moss? Aye? Aye? AYE?”
He pushed them back, step by step, to the door. Narm had begun to chuckle uncertainly, but Shandril was still white and openmouthed as her bare shoulders brushed old, silver-weathered wood—and the door swung open.
Without pausing for breath, Elminster added in calm tones, “Two guests, Lhaeo. They’ll be needing clothes.”
“Indeed,” came the dry reply. “ ’Tis cold in the corners. How are they at peeling potatoes?”
Elminster’s chuckle ushered the dumbfounded couple in, and he closed the door with a brief, “I’ll follow, anon … some tasks remain!”
Narm and Shandril found themselves in the flickering, dusty dimness with Lhaeo, who was already moving to a certain closet. “We’ve gone through more clothes since you’ve come to the dale,” he murmured. “You were a head shorter than I, were you not, Shandril?”
“Yes,” Shandril agreed, and began to laugh uncontrollably.
After a moment, Narm joined her.
Lhaeo shook his head as he handed clothes backward. Truly they serve most who know when to laugh … and when to listen.
Stew warm inside her and heart full, Shandril happily leaned her stool against the wall and smiled at Narm. He was resplendent in the silken robes of some grand, long-dead mage of Myth Drannor. The hearth glowed as Lhaeo moved softly back and forth before it, stirring, tasting, and adding pinches of spice. Pheasant hung from the rafters above, and a plump gorscraw lay waiting to be plucked and dressed.
Narm sipped herbsimmer tea and regarded Lhaeo’s deft movements over his stewpots. “Is there aught we can do to help?”
Lhaeo looked up with a quick smile. “Aye, but ’tis not cooking. Talk, if you would. I’ve heard little enough speech that’s not Elminster’s. Tell me how ’tis with you.”
“Wonderful,” Narm told him. “I’m as happy now as I’ve ever been in my life. We’re wed this day—and henceforth!”
Shandril nodded, eyes shining.
Lhaeo smiled. “Both of you: Remember how you feel now, when times are darker. Turn not on each other, but stand together to face the world’s teeth. But enough; I’ll not lecture you—you hear enough of that from other lips hereabouts!”
They all laughed.
Shandril asked, “Lhaeo … the battle at our wedding? Who was trying to reach us?”
“I was not there. Forgive me; I abide here to guard … certain things, but Lord Florin has told me of the men who struck with swords from the woods.”
“Yes?” Narm asked quickly.
The scribe looked up, and the two men held each other’s eyes. “There were over forty, we believe. Thirty-seven—perhaps more, now—lie dead. One talked ere his life fled. They were mercenaries, hired for ten pieces of gold each and meals, to snatch you both—Shandril alone, if they could take but one of you.”
Shandril swallowed. “Take me … where?”
The scribe spread his hands helplessly. “They were hired in Selgaunt only a few days back and flown here 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. Their orders were to take you to a hill north of here to be picked up by the sky ship.”
Lhaeo idly tasted a ladle of stew as if they’d been discussing the weather. “They would then be paid in full. Each had received only two coins; many died still carrying them. 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 shook their heads.
“Half the world is looking for us with swords and spells,” Shandril said bitterly. “Have they nothing better to do?”
“Evidently not,” Lhaeo replied, “ ’Tis not all bad, this seeking. Look who did find you, Shandril: this mageling called Narm, and the Knights who brought you here!”
“Aye,” she replied, her voice shaking, “and ’tis here we must leave—friends and all—because of this accursed spellfire.” She stared down at her hands, and angry spellfire leaped and spat in tiny, crackling threads from one palm to another.
“Not within these walls, good lady,” Lhaeo murmured. “Some things sleep herein that should not be awakened.”
Shandril sighed, shamefaced, and let the fires subside. “Sorry, Lhaeo. I’ve no wish to burn down your house!”
“I know,” said Lhaeo gently, turning to his cutting board. “Nor do I fear its coming to pass. You must not hate your gift, Lady, for the gods gave it to you in no such fury. And did not Tymora bless your union?” The scribe indicated the consecrated silver disc that Shandril had carefully set on a high table. It seemed to glow for a moment as they looked at it.
“Aye,” Narm said, getting up. “So we’re helpless in the hands of the gods?” He began to pace.
Lhaeo looked up, a knife flashing in his hand. “No, for where then would be your luck—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 in a world if all the creatures in it had no freedom to do anything you’d not determined beforehand? The gods don’t fate men to act thus-and-so, despite the many tales—even those told by the great bards.”
“So we walk freely, and do as we will, and live or die by that,” Shandril agreed. “So where should we walk? You know maps, Lhaeo. Where in Faerûn should we go?”
Lhaeo shrugged. “Where your hearts lead is the easy answer, and the best. But you really ask me where you should run to, just now, with half Faerûn at your heels.” He paced alongside Narm for a few strides, and added, “I’d go south, quick and quiet, then through the Thunder Gap into Cormyr. There, keep to smaller places and try to join a caravan or pilgrims of Tempus seeking the great battlefields of the Sword Coast. Go where there are elves, for they know what ’tis to be hounded, and may well defend you with fierce anger.”
Narm and Shandril traded glances
“We’ve heard such directions before, yes,” Narm said, “almost word for word. If the best way’s so obvious as all that, will those who hunt us be waiting?”
“Aye, most probably,” Lhaeo agreed, with the ghost of a smile. “So you must take care not to get caught.”
Shandril surprised herself by laughing. “Well enough,” she said, saluting him with a flourish. “We’ll try to follow your advice, good Lhaeo. Know you ways of avoiding Shandril-hunters?”
Lhaeo lifted his eyebrows. “You both work with Art and walk with those mighty in Art, and you ask me? If you’d learn the ways of stealth and disguise without Art, ask Torm. I’ve escaped my hunters thus far, true, but I was truly cloaked in the Lady’s Luck.”
He turned to Narm. “If you must pace like a great cat in a cage, could you slice potatoes while doing it?”
Elsewhere, things were not so peaceful. In Zhentil Keep, two men faced each other across a table.
“Lord Marsh,” asked the mage Sememmon carefully, “does it seem to you that the priests of the Black Altar have fallen into confusion and disarray too great for us to leave the city? All reports agree that the beholder Manxam holds sway in the temple … where the sprawled corpses of many hundred clergy have begun to stink!”
“I’ve heard those same reports,” Lord Marsh Belwintle agreed smoothly, “and am forced to the same conclusions. This matter of one girl who can create fire will simply have to wait. If she shows up at our gates, I’m confident the power and skill of the gathered mages would defeat her—so long as they’ve not all been destroyed or weakened in the fulfillment of missions commanded by one who had transparent reasons for wishing them out of the city.”
“Exactly. I’d thought to discuss with you the advisability of setting just one of our mages of power—Sarhthor, perhaps—to observing this maiden’s doings, so her seizure by any foes could be noted or countered. Prudence seems to indicate some such vigilance.”
“An excellent thought,” Lord Marsh agreed, reaching for his glass of bloodwine. “An eye must serve where a claw might be cut off, if we’re not to be taken unawares. Yet you will send some magelings forth to impress their fellows and my warriors with our alacrity and attention to this matter?”
“Of course,” Sememmon replied, not quite allowing a smile to reach his lips. “The ambition of our younger spell weavers remains legendary. I was planning to send four rivals forth.”
“Excellent.” Marsh rose. “My own younger blades seem so busy just now, disposing of priests regrettably driven mad by this latest outrage of the eye tyrants. Untrustworthy allies, as I’ve said before. Order must be maintained; duty presses—so, for now, oloré to you.”
“Oloré to you.” Sememmon walked away.
An eye that neither of them saw under the table watched Sememmon go, and then winked out.
“The Wearers of the Purple are met. For the glory of the dead dragons!” Naergoth Bladelord intoned. The leader of the Cult of the Dragon was, as always, coldly calm.
“For their dominion,” came the ritual reply in unison.
Naergoth surveyed the large, plain underground chamber. Everyone of the ruling council of the Cult was present save the mage Malark. To work, then—all the sooner to feast in some fine festhall of Ordulin, far above.
“Brothers, we’re gathered to hear of a matter that’s set all mages into eager uproar: spellfire. Brother Zilvreen, what say you?”
“Brothers,” the master thief Zilvreen said with his soft, sinister grace, “I’ve learned little of the fates of the dracolich Rauglothgor and the mage Maruel. It seems likely, though, that Rauglothgor, its treasure, the she-mage, and even the sacred night dragon Aghazstamn have all been destroyed.”
There was a rumble of surprise and dismay, but Zilvreen’s next words cut it off like a sword stroke. “Destroyed by the accursed archmage of Shadowdale, Elminster, his pet brigands the Knights of Myth Drannor, and by this Shandril Shessair … with her spellfire!”
“All?” rumbled Dargoth, of the Perlar merchant fleet. “I can scarce believe they all have been destroyed. Such slaughter would require an army large enough that we’d all see its whelming over many days!”
“No such swords’ve been raised,” added Commarth, the bearded general of the Sembian border forces.
“Men sent back by Malark describe the site of Rauglothgor’s lair as a pit of fresh-strewn rubble,” Zilvreen replied. “Draw your own conclusions.”
Dargoth shook his head in disbelief. “So just what is this spellfire, that it can destroy mighty mages and great wyrms alike?”
Naergoth shrugged. “A fire that can be hurled as a mage casts lightning,” he said, “to burn spells and enchanted things as readily as wood and flesh. More than that, we know not—wherefore we sent Malark.”
“What of him?” Commarth asked. “Has he spoken to any Follower?”
Naergoth shook his head. “Nothing from him. He’s in Shadowdale, as far as we know, seeking his chance to get at the girl.”
“Shessair,” another of the council mused. “Wasn’t that the name of the mage our brothers-of-Art slew at the Bridge of Fallen Men years back, in the battle that bought them their deaths?”
“It was,” Naergoth replied, “but no connection’s yet apparent. Look you: We’ve at least three eyes in Sword Coast cities who share the last name of Suld … and none are related.”
Naergoth nodded. “The price of getting this spellfire seems far too high. Others—the Zhentarim and other priests of Bane—avidly seek it. Yet ’tis we who’ve already paid a price, and I’m loath to turn away empty-handed. We can’t afford not to take spellfire for our own. No one can. I expect much bloodshed yet.” He looked around the table. “How we go about getting it I leave to you, Brothers!”
“Let the mages win it for us,” said Zilvreen smoothly. “Waste no more swords—and especially no more sacred bone dragons—on this.”
“Well enough,” Dargoth agreed. “But spellfire or no, we cannot let this girl or the Knights go unpunished for what they’ve done. We’ve lost much treasure, two dracoliches, and the Shadowsil over this. The girl must pay. Even if we win her as an ally, she must die after we have gained her secrets and her power. This must ride over all.”
“Well said, Brother,” Naergoth responded. There was a murmur of agreement around the table. “We’re agreed, then—for now, we let our Brother mage handle this affair?”
“Aye, ’tis his field,” came one reply.
“Aye, ’twould 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 put in, in their turn.
So it was agreed, and they rose and left that place.
The hour was late; all through the Twisted Tower, candles burned low. In an inner room of Lord Mourngrym’s chambers, there was much discussion over the remains of dinner—in low tones, as Lady Shaerl slept in her chair at one end of the table, and Rathan Thentraver dozed over one arm of his seat.
“Have you a place in mind?” Jhessail asked as she leaned drowsily upon Merith’s shoulder, their eyes gleaming together in the candlelight.
Narm shrugged. “ ‘We hunt our fortune, where’er,’ as the saying goes. The Harpers said to seek High Lady Alustriel in Silverymoon.”
“Would you have some of us ride with you?” Lanseril asked. “There’re greater evils in this world than those you’ve fought.”
“With all respect, Lord,” Shandril said softly, “no. Too long have you 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’ll have done nothing.”
“ ‘Nothing,’ she says,” Torm sighed to Illistyl, rolling his eyes. “Two dracoliches, a mountaintop, and a good piece of Manshoon of Zhentil Keep—and ‘nothing,’ she calls it! 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,” came a wry and familiar voice from the room’s far darkness. Narm saw the battered old hat first, perched atop the staff that Elminster wore. As the wizard’s bearded face came into the light to regard them all, the smallest of smiles played about his lips. He looked last at Narm and Shandril. “Ye might go to the Rising Moon for a night, at least. ’Twould be a kindness to Gorstag. He’s been worried over ye.”
Shandril met Elminster’s gaze, and silent tears rolled down her cheeks.
Narm took her in his arms, but her tears still fell. “Don’t cry, beloved. You’re among—”
“Hush her not,” Merith said gently. “ ’Tis no shame to weep. Only one who cares not, cries not. I’ve seen what befalls those—Florin and Torm, at this table—who cry inside, to hide it from others. It sears the soul.”
Jhessail nodded. “Merith’s right. Tears don’t upset us, only the reasons for them.”
“Cry here, Lord,” murmured Shaerl in her sleep, patting her own shoulder. “ ’Tis soft, and listens to you.”
Mourngrym looked faintly embarrassed.
Torm grinned. “You see?” he said to Illistyl. “You could do that for me … you’ve the shoulders for it!”
Shaerl stirred and frowned. “Oh, ’tis that game this night? Well, my lord, you’ll have to catch me first, I assure you.”
Chuckles rose around the room. Mourngrym leaned over and lifted his lady gently from the chair. Still lost in slumber, she clung to his neck and drew her legs up across his chest, settling herself with murmurs of contentment.
Mourngrym turned to them, Shaerl cradled in his arms. “Good even, all. Shaerl should be in bed—and so should we all.”
“Now, where were we?” Elminster asked moments later, settling himself into a chair that looked as old, shabby, and worn as he. “Oh, aye … thy plans for the future!”
The slow, disbelieving shake of Narm’s head was eloquent.
Shandril fixed the wizard with tired eyes. “I suppose you’ll tell us to steer clear of battles, or we’ll be dead in a day.”
“Nay.” Very clear blue eyes looked deep into hers. “Ye two’ll be given no such choice. Ye must fight or die. But think: One mistake is enough when disputing with those who wield Art. Remember that!” His gaze shifted to Narm. “Ye too, Lion of Mystra. If ye find thyself facing a mage, stand not to trade spells with him. Throw rocks and run right at him—unless he’s too far away to reach. Then run away and find a place to hide—where ye can grab more rocks. Simple, eh? Before ye laugh, recall how thy lady first struck down Symgharyl Maruel.”
“Hundreds of winters, eh?” was all Narm said.
Shandril awakened, in a cold sweat from being pursued through a ruined city by a black-winged devil. It had cornered her at last and reached for her, leering with Symgharyl Maruel’s cruel, smiling face! She sat bolt upright, gasping.
Florin sat nearby with Elminster, talking in low tones through the blue haze of the wizard’s pipe. He leaned over, concern on his ruggedly handsome face, and laid a soothing hand on her arm.
She smiled gratefully and held to his arm as she sank back down beside Narm, who slept on, peacefully.
Florin gently wiped the sweat from her forehead and jaw.
Shandril drifted off to sleep while still smiling her thanks. The next thing she knew, morning had come.
Jhessail was laughing with Merith over hot minted tea. Sunlight shone down warmly. The Knights, variously clad, lounged on couches or walked quietly about. The clear tones of a horn floated up from somewhere below, where an unseen guard blew his delight at a fine morning.
Shandril looked around at the old stone walls of the chamber and said both fiercely and mournfully, “I’m going to miss this.”
“Yes,” Narm agreed, hugging her. “You seemed ready to sleep forever!”
Shandril hugged him back. “You’re mine, now!”
“A-aye,” Narm managed, 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!”
“ ’Tis 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. “Here we part.” He nodded at the weathered stone pillar just ahead. “Yonder’s the Standing Stone.”
The stone rose watchful and defiant out of the brush, overlooking the fields to Mistledale and south toward Battledale. Florin pointed. “Down that road lies Essembra. Take rooms at the Green Door. It once had a talking door, but we took a fancy to it, so now it swings at the tower.” He grinned. “In all the excitement, we forgot to show it to you.”
The white horse under Shandril snorted and tossed its head.
“Easy, Shield,” Florin soothed. “You’ve barely begun!”
His words made a sudden lump rise in Shandril’s throat. She turned in her saddle to look back. Past the pack mules on their reins, past the watchful guards who rode with crossbows 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, and fought down tears.
“None of that,” Rathan ordered her gruffly. “All this sobbin’ robs an occasion of its due grandeur.”
“Aye,” Lanseril agreed. “ ‘Soon you’ll be too busy staying out of trouble to cry, so acquire the habit now. Remember: Mourngrym serves his best wine at Greengrass; we’ll be looking for you, some year.”
Narm nodded. Shandril was too busy sniffing.
“Go, now,” Torm said gruffly, over his shoulder, “or we’ll be all day a-weeping and a-saying farewells.”
Rathan urged his large bay forward and took the hands of Narm and Shandril. “Tymora ride with ye and watch over ye. Think of us when downcast or cold—for happy memories can warm and hearten.”
Torm stared at his friend. “Such bardic soft and high glory. You’ve not been drinking, have you?”
“Get on with ye, snaketongue, to the nearest mud and fall into it,” Rathan told him kindly, “and mind thy mouth drinks deep.”
“Peace, both of you,” Jhessail chided. “Narm and Shandril should be well away before highsun, if they’re to make Essembra even two nights hence!” She turned to the young couple. “Stay on the road. The Elven Court’s not the safest place in Faerûn.”
“Let not fear or pity stay your hand, either,” Florin said gravely. “If you’re menaced on the road, let fly with spellfire before hands are upon you. Too close a swinging sword can’t be stopped by spell or spellfire.”
“Oh, aye … one last thing,” Elminster said. “This illusion will make ye look older, and a trifle different save to each other’s eyes. ’Twill wear off in a day or so, or ye can end it anytime, each of ye affecting only thyself, by uttering the word ‘gultho’—nay, repeat it not now, lumpheads, or ye’ll ruin the magic. Let me see.…” He drew back his sleeves, sat back on his placid donkey, and worked magic upon Narm and Shandril.
The Knights drew their horses around in a respectful circle. When it was done, they edged closer for careful, critical looks.
Narm and Shandril failed to see the slightest difference in each other’s appearance, but it was clear they looked different to the eyes of others.
“Go now,” Elminster said gently, “or ye’ll be seen. We shall ride north toward Hillsfar with illusions of ye for a time to confuse any who seek ye, but those who pursue ye are not weak-minded. Go now, swiftly. Our love and regard go with ye.” His clear blue eyes met theirs fondly as they turned their horses and with a wave, spurred away.
Looking back as they thundered south along the road, tears stinging their eyes, Narm and Shandril saw the Knights sitting their saddles, watching. Florin raised to his lips something that flashed silver in the sun. They rode over the first rise and lost sight of the Knights, but the clear notes of his war horn rang out in farewell. He was playing the Salute to Victorious Warriors. At the inn, Shandril had heard bards perform it to crown their performances and leave everyone awed, but never had she dreamed it might be played for her!
“Will we ever see them again?” Narm asked softly, as they slowed.
“Yes,” Shandril answered, with eyes and voice of steel, “we shall. Whatever stands in the way.” She brushed hair out of her eyes. “Now, we must look after ourselves. If I must slay with spellfire every jack and lass so eager to take it, so be it. If all Faerûn expects ‘Lady Spellfire,’ I shall be Lady Spellfire.”
Shandril spread her hands. “I’m afraid I can’t laugh at devils and dracoliches and mages and men with swords the way Torm does. They just make me angry and afraid. So I’ll strike back. I hope you won’t be hurt … but I fear much battle lies ahead.”
“I hope you won’t be hurt, my lady,” Narm answered, as they rode on. “You’re the one they’ll be after.”
“I know,” Shandril said softly. “But ’tis I who’ll have spellfire ready when they find me.”
The road was lightly traveled that day. Narm and Shandril saw no one else heading south, and only a few merchants bound north, who rode ready-armed but nodded and passed without incident or ill looks.
Great old trees of the Elven Court rose on both sides of the road. Between them and the road itself, a forest of stumps rose from the ditch like the gray fingers of buried giants; the remnants of saplings cut by travelers as staves and litter poles and firewood. Narm watched these narrowly as they rode, half-expecting brigands to rise from them.
No such attack came. The hours and rolling hills passed. They rode mostly in silence until the sun glimmered low and the trees laid dark shadows across the road.
“We should find a place to sleep, love,” Narm said at last.
Shandril nodded. “Yes, and soon … we’re almost at the Vale. A cursed place. Let’s stop here—at that height, ahead—and hope none find us.”
When they reined to a halt, and Narm swung down, the aches in his thighs made him groan and stagger. “Tymora watch over us!” His horse swung its head around to see what was the matter. He patted it reassuringly as he looked around and listened.
“Water, down there,” he said after a moment, pointing.
Shandril swung down into his arms. “Good, then,” she said lightly, kissing his nose as he set her down. “You fetch some while I tie the horses, O mighty mage.”
Narm growled in the manner of Rathan and unhooked the nosebags from their saddles.
Somewhere nearby a wolf howled. Overhead, as daylight faded and moonlight began, a black falcon came silently to a branch above Shandril and perched there, watching.
They awoke in each other’s arms on the hard bed of their canvas tent laid on mossy ground. Birds called in the brightening morning, but it was still damp and misty among the trees. A beautiful place, but somehow … unwelcoming.
Sitting up, Narm thought he glimpsed through the tent flap elven eyes far off in the tree gloom, regarding him steadily. When he blinked, they were gone. Hmm. The elven kingdom might have gone from these woods, but the hand of man hadn’t tamed what was left behind—yet.
Narm felt more comfortable once his hand was on the hilt of his drawn dagger, beneath the cloak that covered their shoulders and throats. He turned to Shandril, who smiled through tousled hair, sleepy and vulnerable.
“Good morn, my lady,” he greeted softly, rolling over to draw her close.
“And to you, my love. ’Tis nice to be alone for once, without strangers attacking and guards watching over us always, and Elminster fussing about … I love you, Narm.”
“I love you, too,” Narm said quietly. “How lucky I’ve been to see you in the inn and then be parted—only to find you deep in ruined Myth Drannor. I would have come back to the Rising Moon someday when I was free of Marimmar, only to find you long gone!”
“Aye,” Shandril whispered against his chest. “Long gone and probably dead. Oh, Narm …”
They lay in each other’s arms for a long time, warm and safe, unwilling to rise and end this feeling of peace.
From the road, a dull thudding of hooves came up through the trees, followed by the creak of harness leather.
Shandril sighed and rolled free of Narm. “I suppose we must get up.” Long hair tangled about her shoulders as she rose to her knees, pulling the cloak about her against the chill. “If we stop in Essembra only to buy feed for us and the horses and hasten on, eating as we ride, we could camp on the southern edge of the forest this night. I want to be away west of the Thunder Peaks before the Cult of the Dragon and Zhentil Keep and anyone else know we’ve left the Knights. Come, now—you can kiss me more later!”
Narm nodded a bit mournfully and glanced out the tent flap. Mist drifted through the trees, and the horses patiently chewed leaves. Narm scrambled up to dress. Every step made him wince; his thighs were raw from yesterday’s ride.
Tugging on his belt, he emerged, and then stopped abruptly to listen. He could have sworn he’d heard a chuckle, but there was no one to be seen. All was quiet from the road, too.
He shrugged and went to the horses, glancing back often at his lady. He never saw the black falcon winging low among the trees, heading east for the long flight home.
In falcon shape, the Simbul chuckled and shook her head.
They were good folk … children, still, but not for much longer.
She had other concerns, too long neglected, to see to now. Perhaps they’d be killed—but then again, it was entirely possible they’d do the killing, no matter who of Faerûn quarreled with them.
Farewell, you two. Fare you very well.
The lonely queen of Aglarond flicked raven-black wings and rose into a brightening sky.
They made good time across the Vale of Lost Voices, a strangely still valley of huge, dark, soaring trees. It was sacred to the elves. Men whispered that something unseen and terrible guarded it … something that destroyed axe-wielders and great mages alike, and left no trace. The elves of Cormanthyr had buried their fallen among these trees—and folk who dared to dig for treasure interred with them vanished in the mists and were not seen again.
Narm and Shandril and travelers who passed them said not a word while crossing the Vale. It was choked with the largest trees they had ever seen, some as big around as Elminster’s tower. In the gloom under their lofty leaves, where boughs met high above the road, the light was eerily blue. In the forest distances, mists coiled slowly, and faint glowing lights drifted and danced. No one strayed from the road while traversing the Vale.
They left it at last, Shandril shivering in relief as they crested the steep rise of its southern edge.
“The Lost Dale, they call it in Cormyr,” Narm said in a low voice. “Forever lost to men.”
Shandril looked at him. “They say in the dales that every elf of the Elven Court would have to be dead before one tree of the Vale could be safely cut.”
“But I heard from more than one trader that all the elves are gone now.”
Shandril shook her head. “No. I saw one in the woods as we came down to Storm Silverhand’s pool. She waved to Storm and slipped away.” She peered back into the dark Vale, and then into the smaller, sun-dappled trees around them now.
“That’s far from here,” Narm protested.
“Think you so?” asked Shandril very softly. “Look there, then.”
Narm followed her gaze. Ahead, on the mighty branch of a shadowtop that towered above the road, a motionless figure in mottled green-gray stood. It was an elf, leaning easily on a bow that must have been a head taller than Narm. He watched them expressionlessly. His eyes were blue and gold-flecked flames, proud and serene.
Shandril bowed her head to him, smiled, and spread empty hands. A little uncertainly, Narm did the same. A slow nod was their only answer.
The horses carried them past. Neither Narm or Shandril looked back. It was some time before she murmured, “A moon elf, like Merith.”
“A possible enemy, unlike Merith,” Narm said grimly. “We must watch our every step.” He peered ahead. “The trees thin. We must be nearing Essembra. I can see fields.”
Out of those fields, a caravan rumbled toward them: a dozen wagons pulled by oxen and surrounded by hard-eyed outriders with crossbows at their saddles. The wagons bore no merchant banner and passed without incident.
Well behind the caravan rode a family on heavily laden draft horses, leading strings of pack mules. They were led by a single excited youth whose halberd dipped and swung alarmingly as he rode to challenge them. “Way, there! Way, if you be not foes! Declare yourselves!”
Narm stared at him in silence.
The halberd lowered menacingly. “Declare yourselves, or defend yourselves!”
“Ride on in peace,” Narm replied, “or I’ll turn your halberd into a viper to bite the hand that holds it!”
The boy recoiled, his horse dancing uncertainly as its rider tried to draw his blade wrong-handed. “If you be a mage,” he said shrilly, backing away as Narm and Shandril rode steadily on, “give your name, or face swift death!”
Beyond, Narm saw hand crossbows raised ready, and calm, wary eyes above them. He dared not hesitate.
Narm drew himself up in his saddle. “I am Marimmar the Magnificent, Mage Most Mighty. I and my apprentice here would pass you in peace—but offer us death, and it shall be yours!”
Beside him, Shandril burst into muffled giggles. With an effort, Narm kept his composure as the boy cast him a frightened look—and hastened by. Narm nodded pleasantly and stared straight ahead as he passed the family and their mule train, almost managing to hide a smile that kept creeping onto one side of his face.
“Sarhthor?” Sememmon peered into the crystal ball. Its magic was always difficult to focus at first. In its depths he saw an expressionless, elegantly bearded face.
Sarhthor looked back fearlessly, and effortlessly forced the link between them into clarity.
Sememmon tried to hide his irritation at the other mage’s easy mastery of Art.
“Well met,” Sarhthor purred. “I’ve searched the dale; Elminster and the Knights have just returned, riding south from Voonlar. The girl with spellfire and her consort mageling are no longer in Shadowdale, so far as I can determine.”
“Not in Shadowdale?”
“Not. They may be here in hiding, but I doubt it. No Knight nor any Harper has gone anywhere out of the ordinary. The folk of the tower know only that ‘Lady Spellfire’ left two nights ago.”
“Two nights?” Sememmon almost screamed. “They could be almost anywhere!”
Precisely why I’m returning to you, as soon as possible, Sarhthor thought flatly, letting the crystal carry his mental message. “Who’s that with you?”
“With me?” Sememmon frowned. “I’m alone!”
“You are indeed—now. A moment ago, an eye floated above your left shoulder—the ocular construction of a wizard eye spell. A spy. Guard yourself, Sememmon.”
Sememmon turned angrily from the crystal to stare wildly about the chamber. “Show yourself!” he thundered, casting a quick spell. Dweomers—the auras of familiar objects imbued with Art—glowed all around. The faint traceries of spells, too, shone in his field of revealed magic … but all were spells he knew about. There was no sign of any intruder.
Sememmon turned back to the crystal ball, but it was dark. No one waited at the matching globe any longer. Sememmon cursed the shadows, but they did not answer.
The sun sank low in the west as Shandril and Narm passed a skin of hot spiced tea between them. They rode contentedly, bellies full of warm roast phledge, the plump ground-partridge of the woods, smoky-tasting and delightful in a thick pea gravy. No one had seemed suspicious of them at the inn Florin had recommended.
“How do you feel, Shan?” Narm asked, not meeting her eyes. “About the spellfire, I mean. Does it … change one?”
A little startled, Shandril looked at him with something like pity. “Yes … but not in the larger sense. I’m still the Shandril you rescued from Rauglothgor.” She hesitated. “I’m still the Shandril you love.”
There was a little silence as they regarded each other.
Then the attack came.
Shandril sensed something was wrong an instant before the boulder struck Narm’s shoulder and his head flew back. The jarring made her bite her lip. Narm whirled about, his arm striking her head solidly as he spun, toppled, and fell.
Stunned, Shandril stared at the huge, mossy boulder as it sank slowly past her to hang in the air above Narm’s head.
He lay crumpled, unmoving. The boulder was large and dark—and over it, behind the grassy bank, stood a man in robes. He grinned at her without humor, his eyes glittering black and deadly.
Wild fear rose and choked her.