Storm put a hand on his arm. “I know. It’s a long walk back from Harpers’ Hill. That’s why I came.”
In silence one old, long-fingered hand closed over hers and squeezed his thanks, and together they went down the twisting trail through the trees.
“Ready? We’d best be off, then. Even with spellfire to fell our foes, it’s a long way to Silverymoon, an’ we’re not out of the Zhents’ reach yet.” As he spoke, Delg hoisted a pack that bulged with food, pots, and pans onto his shoulders.
Shandril put on her own pack, but said softly as she came up beside the dwarf. “No … we haven’t any spellfire to fell our foes. I’m not going to use it again.”
Delg’s head jerked around to look up at her, but it was Narm who spoke, astonished. “Shan? Are you—crazed? What—why?”
His lady’s eyes were moist when she looked up at him, but her voice was flat with determination.
“I’m not going to go through my life killing people. Even Zhents and others who wish me ill. It’s … not right. What would the Realms be like if Elminster walked around just blasting anyone he chose to?”
“Very much as it is now for you—if everyone he met tried to kill or capture him,” Narm said with sudden heat. “Folk have more sense than to attack the mightiest archmage in all the Heartlands.”
“But not enough to leave alone one maid who happens to have spellfire—‘the gift of the gods.’” Shandril’s tone made a cruel mockery of that quotation. She looked away into the distance. “I … hate—all this. Having folk hate me … fear me … and always feeling the fire surging inside ….”
“You’re not the first maid who’s been afraid of things, you know,” Delg said.
Shandril’s head snapped up. “Afraid?”
“Aye, afraid,” the dwarf said softly. “You’re afraid of what you wield. Afraid of how good it feels to use it, I should say … and of what you might do with it—and become in the doing.”
“No!” Shandril said, shaking her head violently. “That’s not it at all!” She raised blazing eyes to glare into his own. “How can you know what I feel?”
The dwarf shrugged. “I’ve seen your face when you’re hurling spellfire. One look is enough.”
Shandril stared at him for a moment, open-mouthed, and then buried her face in her hands. The small, twisted sound of a despairing sob escaped between her fingers, and they saw her shoulders shake.
Then Narm’s arms were around her. “Shan, love,” he said soothingly, trying to calm her. “Shan—easy, now. Easy. We … both love you. Delg’s telling truth, as he sees it … and truth’s never an easy thing to hear. Shan?”
His lady said nothing, but her sobs had died away, and Narm knew she was listening. He kissed the top of her head, stroked her shoulders soothingly, and said, “I know how you feel. We both do … and we … know well how hard it is for you to use spellfire. But our lives depend on it. We’ll both die if you refuse to wield it—or hang back from using it until too late. Our foes won’t wait for you to wrestle with any decisions.” He stroked the hair back from her temples, and then added quietly, “And I’d hate to die because you chose a Zhentarim over me.”
Shandril stiffened in his embrace. Narm caught Delg’s eyes, saw the dwarf’s expressionless nod of approval, and went on firmly, “That’s what you’ll be doing, you see, if you don’t use spellfire as fast as Delg draws his axe or I work a spell—you’ll be choosing the life of a Zhent wizard over ours.” He smoothed her hair, and added softly, “And then you’ll be alone before you die.”
“Which won’t be long after, if I know Zhents,” the dwarf grunted. He lumbered forward and dealt Shandril’s rear a gentle blow. “Come on, lovejays. You can cry while you walk, lass: we haven’t time for you to stand here and find all the wrinkles in your soul. Zhents are after us—and the gods alone know who else—so we must be on our way. Unless, of course, you’re really fond of this particular spot … as the site of your grave.”
Shandril raised stony eyes to glare at him, tears glistening on her cheeks. Delg nodded approvingly. “That’s right, lass—hate me, just so long as you do it while you’re moving. On!”
“My spells and my love are yours,” Narm said quietly. “Use them as you will … all I ask is that you use spellfire when we need it.”
Unspeaking, Shandril looked at him and nodded. Narm smiled. His lady reached out, took hold of his chin, pulled it close, and kissed him firmly. Then she sighed, turned, and set off in the direction Delg had been heading. The man and the dwarf exchanged silent glances, then followed.
Elminster was still melancholy when he reached his tower. A handful of days ago he’d watched Shandril Shessair and her half-trained lad Narm set out from the dale, heading for Silverymoon in the North … and, the Old Mage feared, for their deaths. Even with all the Knights of Myth Drannor misdirecting agents of the Cult, the Brotherhood, Thay, and the gods alone knew who else—Narm and Shandril were probably doomed.
Aye, doomed. Elminster of Shadowdale might have commanded the experience great age brings, as well as magics powerful enough to tear apart castle keeps and dragons alike—but such things did not give him any right to tell young folk what to do or to shape their lives for them. Even though the girl commanded spellfire with power enough to rival Elminster, he could not directly intercede. Perhaps his hands were tied especially because she held such power.
The choice had been their own, the trail theirs to take, the consequences their tutors … and the chances of their making it alive to Silverymoon slim. Very slim … even if a certain Old Mage raised a hand to aid them from time to time. Aid them, but not dictate their fate. That would hurt, too, when in the end he heard whatever doom had claimed them.
This sort of dilemma had come up too many times over too many years. It grew no easier to take. Not for the first time, Elminster felt the weight of Mystra’s burden and wished he could just grow old as other folk did, laying aside all cares as he sank into gray, endless twilight. Or perhaps he could call out one of his mightiest foes and go down fighting, hurling spells linked to spells and sealed with his own life energy in one last magnificent spell-battle that would reshape the Realms anew; it would give folk such as Shandril a new morning to walk into, fearless and happy, a new world before them.
Maudlin fool. The death such a spellstorm would cause! Entire realms shattered—folk and trees alike twisted for years to come … no. Get out and have a pipe and think more useful thoughts.
As always, Elminster’s feet led him to the rocks beside his pool. Their familiar ledges, smoothed by his backside over many hours of sitting, were solid and reassuring beneath him as he looked out across the still waters and made smoke.
Blue-green and thick, it coiled up out of his pipe, sparks swirling in its heart as they sought the sun high above. Elminster watched them leap and spiral; his eyes saw Shandril hurling spellfire instead, and he wondered how far she’d gotten by now, and if worse foes than bumbling Zhentilar had found her.
Two stones at his feet clicked together, a tiny enchantment that told him someone was coming up the path to his tower. Elminster did not turn to look—not even when they clicked again to tell him his visitor had turned down the short run of flagstones that led to the pool. He merely let the pipe float out of his mouth, and said calmly, “Fair morning.”
“Oh. Ah, aye. That it is.” The voice was high and uncertain. Elminster looked into eyes that were very blue; they belonged to a young boy he’d never seen before, a lad in a nondescript tunic and gray hose. He came hopping down to the edge of the pool and kicked at a half-submerged stone at the water’s edge. He looked back over his shoulder at the Old Mage, and asked, “You’re Elminster, aren’t you?”