There was a little silence, and then the reply came, soft as a falling feather. I will, Old Mage. Remember that I love thee. That was all, and she was gone.
Elminster sat alone again in the night, waiting for moonrise.
He could not see the silent tears the lady in the tattered black gown shed then. Far away, in the highest room in a night-cloaked tower in Aglarond, the Simbul wept for her doomed lord. She hated to break their link together-now, when he needed her most-but she couldn't hide her pity any longer. That last pride she would not take from him, whatever befell. It was nearly all he had left.
Sitting alone in the soft darkness, Elminster watched the stars slowly wheel overhead.
"I wonder," he said at last, aloud, "if every mage who strives with Art to change the world were swept away tomorrow, if it would make one breath of difference to the Realms."
"I know not," came a quiet reply from out of the night, "but it's never stopped any of us from trying."
Elminster nearly jumped right into the air. Heart racing, beard bristling, he contented himself with jerking around toward the voice as he flung away pipe and wineglass.
Delicate eyebrows arched. "I know I haven't done anything to my hair since this morning," Jhessail Silvertree asked calmly, "but do I really look that bad?"
"Mystra's mercies, lass! Must ye creep up on an old, enfeebled man like that?" Elminster sputtered, peering at his onetime pupil. Instead of her customary man's tunic and breeches, the Knight of Myth Drannor wore a dark, splendid gown. Her long hair, unbound, curled about her shoulders. Her eyes were very dark.
The lady Knight leaned close enough in the dimness for him to see her smile. "It certainly seemed effective," she agreed. "How are you tonight, Old Mage?"
Elminster sat very still. Then he said simply, "Not good."
"I know," Jhessail said softly, sitting down and wrapping smooth, strong arms around him. "It's why I've come."
"Ye know?" Elminster asked dully. Realizing how very much he needed the friendly warmth of arms about him just now, he slowly relaxed in her embrace.
Jhessail nodded, her hair brushing his cheek. "Storm sent me. Worry not; no others in this dale know." She snuggled closer. "Storm has two guests-Harpers-this night and thought you needed someone to hold you."
"Well," Elminster said dryly, "there's always Lhaeo."
"He's busy," Jhessail said, "getting out all your old clothes and wands and traveling boots, and cooking up a storm just in case."
"In case, good lady, of what?" Elminster asked rather testily.
"He knows how restless you are," Jhessail said gently. "Even if you're so shaken right now that I could walk right past you to the tower and back again without your noticing."
"Shaken?" Elminster suddenly found himself shouting, trembling in a red fury. He drew back a hand and hit out hard. "Have a care, wench!" he snarled. "I've-"
When he realized what he'd done, ice clutched at his spine, and the anger was suddenly gone. He was alone in black despair, sinking, and without magic. "Oh, gods, lass," he whispered roughly. "I'm sorry."
There was silence. She did not move.
"J-Jhessail?" the Old Mage asked almost frantically, "Have I hurt thee? I-Smite me with Art, I deserve it! I am most sorry, but I cannot undo what I've done. I deserve to make amends."
There was a soft chuckle in the darkness, a chuckle with a catch in it. Then Jhessail's arms went around him again. Elminster couldn't help noticing what a shockingly firm and heaving bosom pressed against him as warm lips kissed his cheek.
"Just had to catch my breath. You've a mean right arm, for all your years, Old Mage," Jhessail said happily into his chest. "I'm glad, not angry. It seems you'll be all right, after all."
"No," Elminster said miserably, "that's just what I won't be, lass. Without magic, I won't be all right ever again."
Jhessail kissed him full on the mouth, stopping his bitter words. "Ever notice," she said, a long breath later, "how some wizards think the sun rises and sets on their shoulders, and their feet hold the Realms together as they walk on it?"
Elminster, still reeling from the kiss, asked roughly, "What d'ye-? Are ye implying-?"
"No," Jhessail replied sweetly, "I'm saying it straight out. And more. I'm telling you to get up, help me find the glass and pipe you threw my way a little while ago, and go in and have dinner. Lhaeo's worried about you. I'm worried about you. And when I get home and Merith sees this magnificent bruise on my ribs, he's going to be worried about you."
"I didn't-I'm sorry, lass!" Elminster protested wretchedly, but firm hands lifted him from his seat and propelled him into the night. He heard her chuckle again, and in anger and despair cried out, "Jhessail! My Art's gone, I tell thee!"
"Yes, yes," Jhessail said quickly, "and now the whole dale knows, too!" Her voice broke then, but she rushed on. "Gods, Old Mage, don't make this any harder for me than it is already. I'm scared sick at what might happen to you, and to this dale without your protection. I'm trying to cheer you up, but it's cursed hard work, and-and-" Tears came then, and she reached for him in the darkness and embraced him again.
"If you're quite finished with the first act of this little love play," Lhaeo's dry voice came out of the darkness a few breaths later, "a late feast-late indeed, by now-is laid ready in the kitchen. There's enough for three."
2
Storm was laughing in a flying web of steel, her flashing blade holding off two others in a deadly dance. It was the bright height of the day of Lord Aumry's Feast, and no clouds marred the circle of blue sky above her as she ducked and pivoted. The two men she fought had no spare breath to do more than grunt and gasp.
The Bard of Shadowdale was training two Harpers at sword work, showing them how with skill she could force their blades and bodies continually nearer each other, driving them into each other's way as they circled about the moss-carpeted glade. More than once the two men in leathers had stumbled into each other, muttered apologies and oaths, and leapt hastily out of the way of the weaving blade that stung them, teased them, flirted with their own steel, and slid past their sword hilts to touch them again and again.
It was a rare chance to cross blades with Storm Silverhand. Among Harpers she was as famous as Mintiper or Sharanralee, veteran adventurers of whom many songs had been sung and tavern tales told. Semiretired now, she dwelt in the green fastness of Shadowdale and trained Harpers in the ways of music and battle. Many came, some skeptical that one woman could really be so special. They left amazed and changed, and spoke of their meetings with her in awe and with fondness.
Storm Silverhand was really that special. An impish humor danced in her eyes as she faced them now, long hair bound back out of her face, her leathers creaking with the strain as she twisted and leapt and danced as lightly as a child at play.
Belkram and Itharr, rangers and Harpers both, wore faces as delighted and eager as boys at a favorite sport.
They had come almost as much to see if the legends were true as to hone their sword skills. Both had seen many deaths and much battle, and thought few could teach them more than a trick or two with a blade.
Now they knew they faced a true master. Thrice, five times, a dozen more the lady bard could have slain them, had that been her goal. Her slim but very long silvery sword leapt again and again through their guards to kiss shoulder, breast, forearm, or flank. Yet so skilled was she that she pulled back ere steel tasted flesh, time and again, even when blades met so hard that winking sparks flew, and the fray moved so fast that the two men were scrambling and all three panted like winded dogs.