“You all know that something wild and uncontrolled has crept into the Art of late. This chaos may or may not be linked with spellfire—but it prevents us from surrounding the maid and overwhelming her with spells. We can, however, take her deep in the wilderlands, where we can act unobserved, and the unintended effects of such a confrontation can be curbed without much loss or concern.
“All knowledge of her powers and anything you learn or take from her will be placed entirely at the disposal of the Brotherhood. Hold nothing back. Those who fail to exhibit such probity will earn an immediate and permanent reward. Those who merely fail against the girl Shandril will have as many chances as they feel they need to impress us. We will be watching. As always.” His eyes smiled merrily at them as he devoured the head of an eel, touched the bowl casually, and vanished with it in a flickering instant.
The end of the table was utterly empty again. Only faint wisps of spiced steam remained behind, curling in slow silence.
The magelings stirred, shoulders visibly relaxing here and there down the table. Heads turned, throats were cleared—but these stirrings came to a hushed halt an instant later as Sarhthor’s purring voice came again from the near-darkness at the other end of the table.
“So who here volunteers to seize or destroy spellfire for us? Yield me your names, or”—he smiled faintly—“recall urgent business elsewhere and take your leave of this place … and also, I fear, of the Lord Manshoon’s favor.” He looked around, meeting the wary eyes of several wizards too brave or foolish to look away. “Your patience we have seen this night. We have also taught you to be decisive; show me the result of that teaching now.”
In the clamor that followed, a smile slowly appeared and crawled across Sarhthor’s face like an old and very lazy snake. But as each man there volunteered, Sarhthor’s eyes met theirs briefly and bleakly, like a sudden, icy lance-thrust in a night ambush. In his dark gaze, the magelings saw that he expected them to die in this task. Sarhthor felt he owed them at least that honesty.
“What’s wrong with you, then?” Delg asked, drawing himself up as much as his four battered feet of height allowed. The dwarf stood over Shandril, beard bristling as he squinted down at her. A pan of fried onions, mushrooms, and sausages sizzled in his hand. “Or don’t you like an honest panfry?”
Shandril smiled wanly up at him from the bed of cloaks and furs she’d shared with Narm, and she raised a warding hand.
“I—I’m seldom hungry these mornings.” Her slim face was as white as the snowcaps of the Thunder Peaks behind her. She shuddered and looked away from Delg’s steaming pan, wondering if she’d ever arrive at far-off Silverymoon. To reach it, they still had to cross half of Faerûn. The ruined village of Thundarlun was only a day behind them, and even draining the fallen war wizard’s wand had not fully restored the spellfire that smoldered within her.
On the other hand, twenty more Zhentilar would ride and slay no more; she’d left them twisted bones clad in ashes. Shandril shivered as she heard the screams again. Then Delg brought the pan so close to her nose that its sizzle jolted her back to the chilly morning. She pulled away from the smell, biting her lip to keep from gagging. She clutched the furs closer around herself.
“Well, why?” the dwarf demanded, frowning fiercely. “Are you ill?”
“No,” Narm said gently from behind him, “she’s with child.”
The dwarf almost fell as he lurched and tottered about speedily to face the young mage. “She’s what?” he demanded. “Did you have anything to do with this?”
Shandril giggled. “We are married, Delg,” she added sweetly.
“Aye. But—but—what of the babe, with you hurling spellfire about, an’ all?”
“I—” Shandril began, then fell silent, spreading her hands in a gesture of helplessness. The dwarf saw something almost desperate in her eyes, and he whirled about again to face Narm. The young wizard also spread his hands anxiously but said nothing. Then he shrugged.
“You don’t know,” said the dwarf heavily. “You truly don’t know what you’ll give birth to after all this hurling fire and collapsing and hurling fire again ….” Delg let his words trail away as he looked at them both challengingly, but the two young humans were silent.
The dwarf sighed heavily and tossed up his arms in resignation. Mushrooms and sausages left the pan to soar into the air, still steaming.
Narm leapt forward but missed catching one. Most of the others landed on Delg’s head or back in the pan. The dwarf stood a moment more, looking down at Shandril and shaking his head. Sausages shifted in his tousled hair. “Ah, well,” he said, rather sadly. “Ah, well …”
Narm brushed off the sausage he had picked up. “Delg Hammerhand,” he asked softly between bites, “have you been so lucky—sorry, favored of Clanggedin—as to have gone your entire life through always knowing exactly what you’re doing and what the right thing to do is and what everything means and the consequences of all?”
Delg glared at him, beard bristling. “D’you mock me, lad? Of course not!”
“Well, then,” Narm said mildly, “you will understand how we feel, doing our best with what the gods have given us, beset by foes and wandering lost in the wilderness, far from aid and wise advice. Uh, save yours.”
Shandril laughed helplessly. Delg turned back to look at her, sighed theatrically, rolled his eyes for good measure, and said, “Right. I stand corrected. Thy panfry awaits, great lord.” He bowed to Narm, waving with the pan at a nearby rock. “If you’ll be seated, herewith we two can sate our hunger and discuss how best to feed your lady without having her spewing it all back at us.”
The morning sun shone down bright and clear through the trees of Shadowdale, leaf-shadows dappling the rocks on the rising flanks of Harpers’ Hill. Storm’s blade flashed back its brightness as she slid the steel edge along the whetting stone. The Bard of Shadowdale sat thoughtfully under a tree, putting a better edge on her old and battered long sword. She kept silent, for that was the way Elminster seemed to want it, this morn.
The Old Mage stood looking east, whence a cool breeze was rising. His eyes flashed as blue as the sky as he raised the plain wooden staff he bore, and the staff seemed to glow for a moment in answer. The wind rose, and the wizard’s long white beard and mane stirred with the rustle and dance of the leaves all around. Elminster was muttering things under his breath, using his old and deep voice, and Storm knew that her sister, on her throne in far-off Aglarond, heard them and was whispering words back. None other was meant to hear them. Storm took care that she did not, for that was the way she was.
Elminster stopped speaking and smiled. The wind died away again, and birds rose from the trees around, twittering. The Old Mage stared eastward, unmoving. Storm watched him, frowning a little. She knew him well enough to see the sadness hidden behind his eyes. The Old Mage stood silent and motionless for long minutes.
When Storm began to grow stiff and the edge on her sword threatened to become brittle and over-sharp, she slid her shining blade softly into its sheath and went to him.
Elminster turned to her thoughtfully. “I thought,” he said slowly, his eyes very blue, “I’d put such love behind me, long ago. Why do I keep finding it again? It makes the times apart from her”—he turned away to stare into the green shadows under the trees—“lonely indeed.”