"Nnnmumph," he protested.
"I agree completely," Rathan replied earnestly, patting the thief's hand (the one without the dagger). "Thy every word is as a pearl of wisdom, glistening among the dull pebbles of other oratory!"
"Oh, please" Illistyl said. "You're as bad as he is!"
Rathan gave her a hard look. "I prefer to say 'as good as,' young miss-'tis more charitable, far."
"If the free entertainment could subside for a moment," Merith said patiently, "perhaps we can hear the rest of Storm's plans."
Storm grinned at him. "We'll send two patrols equipped for long forays. The Knights will ride to Daggerdale; the Rangers Three with Sylune will circle Voonlar, the woods near Myth Drannor, and Mistledale. Both bands should make sure the Zhents haven't rallied anyone else in the south and deal with any trouble before it reaches our battle-riven dale. The dalefolk are too exhausted to deal with even sneak thieves."
"Fine, sounds sensible. Let's be doing it," Illistyl said, rising from the table. "I weary of talk. Merith, have you found me a horse?"
"What's wrong with your palfrey?" Mourngrym asked.
"Killed in the battle," Storm informed him curtly. Illistyl nodded, her eyes bright with sudden tears, but said nothing.
Across the table, Torm was in full flight again, leaning around Belkram to smile at Sharantyr.
"Good, my lady," the thief said with a leer, his eyes bright, "I could see my way clear to ably guard so beautiful a flower of the dale! Wouldst thou permit me to accompany thee on patrol?"
Sharantyr almost smiled. "I've grown used to Belkram and Itharr, thanks," she said crisply, taking the arms of the two Harper rangers seated on either side of her.
"I did not mean merely myself, Lady," Torm said, his manner suddenly serious. "Three blades and a disembodied voice isn't enough battle might for what you might well run into."
"I'll be going with them, Torm," Storm said quietly.
Heads turned in surprise all around the table, but the Bard of Shadowdale was looking at the three rangers. "If you'll have me?" she asked quietly.
"Right gladly, Lady," Belkram said, glancing quickly at his companions for confirmation, and receiving it.
A frown had come onto Mourngrym's face, "Torm may have a point about strength of arms. I was thinking of sending you Knights out on the first patrol east; there's word of a Zhent mageling rallying forty or more Zhentilar in the woods."
"I'll look forward to meeting them," Storm said in silken tones. More than one person around that council table shivered at the sound of the bard's voice.
"Are we agreed?" Mourngrym asked, standing up and looking down the table. There was a general affirmative chorus, and he said briskly, "Good-now get gone, all of you, so I can bathe and get dressed and have some food that clever Knights don't snatch off my plate!"
Chuckles and mocking salutes answered him.
Mourngrym made for his bedchamber, shook his head, and reflected-not for the first time-how untenable a position he held, the junior member of a band of adventurers who handed him the lordship of a dale after they were finished with it, but stayed around to drive him witless!
Growling faintly at the thought, he pushed back through the curtains, Shaerl in his wake.
The morning room cleared quickly. When it was quite empty, something moved under the table-something that looked like old and dark wood, but flowed downward to the floor, peeling itself free of the table's underside. It stretched like a hungry snake, slithered out from under the furniture, and rose swiftly, taking on the shape and appearance of one of the tower servants.
The Malaugrym glanced quickly around, but no one was in sight. The servant who was not a servant paused for a long moment to survey the table admiringly. Ahorga had always liked maps. Elven Court woods, Flamerule 22
The embers crackled and glowed ruby red. The two women sat with their backs to it, facing outward on watch, listening to the faint scuttlings and hootings that mark any forest by night. They were in the Elven Court woods, well south of Voonlar, most of the way through their first night on patrol.
Itharr and Belkram had turned over watch duties to them not long ago, and were well and truly asleep, snoring faintly into their cloaks.
"How many nights have you spent thus?" Sharantyr asked quietly.
Behind her, Storm laughed softly. "Hundreds."
The ghostly tresses of Sylune turned, from where her disembodied head floated at Sharantyr's shoulder. "Thousands, Sister," she corrected.
"That's right-emphasize how old we are," Storm said, amused. "I try not to make people feel uncomfortable or lessened in any way."
"I was the Witch of Shadowdale, remember? Making people wary of me was the best way to hold power over them without ever harming anyone," Sylune replied.
Sharantyr sighed. "You seem so carefree," she said, shifting the naked long sword that lay across her thighs so that moonlight caught it at one end, and a faint red glow from the fire touched the other. She flicked it idly, watching the play of light on the steel. "Is it because you've both seen it all before?"
"Partly, Shar," Storm replied, "and partly because we've learned to try to enjoy everything, from being whipped in chains as a slave to being wooed by well-endowed princes."
"To clinging to the spar of a ship breaking apart in a storm," Sylune put in, sounding amused. "To lying paralyzed under the probes of a drow mage trying to determine if your powers lie in organs he can remove, or if you'll have to be bred to drow to give them your abilities."
Sharantyr shivered. "Don't speak of drow, please…"
"My apologies, Shar," the ghostly head beside her said quickly. "We both spoke of moments from our own experiences-I forgot that you'd been a captive of the drow, too."
Sharantyr turned her head. "You were a slave?"
"For years," the Bard of Shadowdale told her. "Not entirely bad years, either… though I never did develop any enjoyment for being whipped."
"What do you mean, 'not entirely bad years'?" Shar asked incredulously. "How can you enjoy anything about being a slave?"
"That's what we were trying to say, you see," Sylune said softly. "It's not what the gods hand you in life that matters so much, nor what your strivings achieve or fail in the attempt. Whatever befalls, the best way to view life is to savor every moment of it, no matter how sordid or unpleasant… for one thing, the gods give us all only a certain span of time, and time wasted-in misery, despair, drunkenness, or casual inattention-is time gone forever."
"I see what you're saying," Sharantyr said slowly, "but you'll forgive me if I take some time getting to enjoy fighting in great battles, or falling into cesspits, or listening to Torm."
Trying not to laugh aloud, Storm shook with deep, bubbling laughter for a long time before she found breath enough to speak again. "Well said," were her first words. "Do you feel like talking about what befell in the Castle of Shadows?"
Shar chuckled helplessly. "I–I suppose so. What do you want to know?"
"Do you recall Elminster's burning the bodies of the Malaugrym you slew, back at the ruined manor in Daggerdale?" Sylune asked.
Shar nodded, but realized they couldn't see the gesture in the dark, and said cautiously, "Yes."
"He wasn't simply being tidy," the ghostly figure told her. "He was using a spell that destroys the bodies of the recently dead even as it yields up their last few moments of thought. In one of the Malaugrym was a strong desire to slay you-because another Malaugrym, who did not enter Faerun at the time, wanted you as his mate. Another of the dead Malaugrym was reluctant to attack you for the same reason; the Malaugrym who favored you was his ally."
Sharantyr drew a deep, shuddering breath. "I see. You're wondering if I pine after some Malaugrym lord, or perhaps even carry a little shapeshifter-to-be within."