He stared into nothingness for a moment, and Shandril laid her hand upon his. His face was sad, but it was wistful, more than upset. “They are both dead, of course,” he added calmly. “Slain in a sorcerous duel in Baldur’s Gate when 1 was eleven-burned up in flames when the ferryboat they were on was struck by a fireball flung at the mage Algarzel Halfcloak by a Calishite archmage, Kluennh Tzarr. Algarzel flew out of the way; the ferry could not. All aboard who had no part in the dispute perished. Algarzel was slain later, or escaped into another plane, some in the city said. Whatever, he has not been seen since.
“Kluennh Tzarr left for his citadel in triumph. It is said that dragons serve him, and that he has many slaves. One day, if another does not get there first, I will be his death.” His soft, cold tone chilled Shandril as he walked slowly around the chamber, arms swinging easily, eyes remote. Under the bed, the cats nodded approvingly.
“To defeat an archmage I needed magic-or at least, needed to know its ways. I knew not, then, that one cannot hope to separate them. So I tried to become an apprentice.” He laughed, a little bitterly, at the memory.
“Imagine it, love-a ragged, barely lettered boy, alone and with no wealth to buy a mage’s time or trouble, in Baldur’s Gate where there are a dozen homeless boys on every street in the docks, pestering every mage that passes! I only escaped being turned into a toad-or just burned to ashes- by Mystra’s will… nothing else can explain it.
“One day, two years after I started, a mage said yes. A pompous, sour mage-Marimmar, my master His pride weakened him. He never worked to strengthen his art where he lacked spells or technique, in those places where he couldn’t-or wouldn’t-see that he was weak. But I learned much from him, perhaps more than from a smooth and masterful worker of the art. He had a temper, yes, and little patience-and he was perhaps the laziest man I have ever met, so he needed an apprentice to do all the drudge-work. You know the drudge-work;’ Narm added with a sudden smile. Shandril matched it ruefully.
“Marimmar disliked conflict, so he never fought mages to gain their spells-and he was obviously shining-proud that no mage ever challenged him. Those of real power saw him as a posturing know-nothing, with no spells worth seizing. Those of lesser power feared always that he must have something up his sleeve, he seemed so confident and fearless. His confidence killed him, in the end. He nearly took me with him.
“He saw the elves’ abandonment of the Elven Court and Myth Drannor within it as his chance to become a great mage by seizing all the magic that he thought-as most mages seem to think-is just lying around in the ruins. I doubt there’s much to be easily found. Anything that was has been seized already by the priests of Bane, or whoever it really was that summoned all the devils there.
“The devils slew Marimmar, and almost killed me, too. Lanseril and Illistyl of the knights rescued me-they are so kind, Shandril, I can scarce believe it, after all the swaggering heroes I’ve seen prancing down city streets-and here I am. I went back to Myth Drannor because… because I knew not where to go, really, and because I-I felt I owed it to the crusty old windbag, and because I could not sleep for fear of devils until I had faced them again. But by some miracle of Mystra, or the whim of Tymora or another, I was not slain, and I saw you. The rest you know.” Narm turned thoughtful eyes upon her. “Forgive me if I have talked too long, my lady, or spoken bluntly or harshly of those now dead. It was not my intent to be rude or to upset you. I said what you asked, and now am done.”
Shandril shook her head. “I am not upset, but much relieved, I had to know, you see.” She rose and turned back the bed. “And now, my lord, if you will be so good as to drag that chest over in front of the door, we’ll to bed.” She smiled slyly. “The testing is to be late; I must have sleep first. Will you see me to sleep?”
Narm nodded. “Aye, willingly.” One cat rolled its eyes again, and became a rat, and flashed over to the wall before Illistyl could even stretch. It dwindled and twisted and was a centipede again, and gained the sill while Narm was still heaving the chest toward the door, with many a grunt, and Shandril was hanging her robe upon a hook on one post of the canopy. An interested Illistyl saw a raven suddenly appear outside the window and fly soundlessly away. She nodded and curled up for a nap. Eavesdropping was one thing, but there were limits…
Narm finished with the chest, straightened up slowly, and caught sight of Shandril in the mirror. Two bounds and he was on the bed. Few delights come, it is said, to he who tarries.
Spells to Deist
High magic is strange and savage and splendid for its own sake, whether one’s spells change the Realms about or no. A craefter who by dint of luck, work, skill, and the mercy of the Great Lady Mystra comes to some strength in art is like a thirsty drunk in a wine cellar-he or she can never leave it alone. And who can blame such a one? It is not given to all to feel the kiss of such power.
Alustriel, High Lady of Silverymoon
A Harper’s Song
Year of the Dying Stars
Jhessail slipped softly into the bedchamber. Illistyl straightened up from where she had dragged the chest aside, and they shared a smile. “Worth hearing?” Jhessail asked softly, and Illistyl nodded.
I’ll tell you later?’ the young theurgist replied quietly as together they went to the bed. Narm and Shandril lay asleep in each other’s arms among the twisted covers. The two spellcasters gently laid one of the bed furs over the sleeping couple before Jhessail leaned close to Shandril and said, “It is time. Rise, hurler of spellfire. Elminster awaits.”
Shandril shivered in her sleep and clutched Narm more tightly. “Oh, Narm,” she murmured. “How it burns…”
The two spellcasters exchanged glances, and Jhessail carefully laid a hand on Shandril’s shoulder. There came a swift tingling into her fingertips.
“She holds yet more power;’ Jhessail whispered, “and this cannot be of the balhiir, not after so long a time and so much hurled forth. It’s as Elminster suspected.” She bent again to Shandril’s ear. “Awaken, Shandril! We await you.” The eyelashes below her flickered.
“Narm,” Shandril said in a sleepy murmur, gaining strength. “Narm, we are called… ah… ohh. Where-?” Shandril raised her head and looked around. In the soft, leaping glow of the lamp Illistyl had just lit she saw the two ladies of art standing over her. She tensed involuntarily to hurl forth the spellfire within, then relaxed. “My pardon, Lady Jhessail, Lady Illistyl. I did not know you.”
She shook her head as if to clear it and turned to Narm. “Up, love; arise.”
“Eh? Oh. Gods, is it time already?”
“It is,” Jhessail said gently. “Elminster awaits you.”
“Oh, gods belch!” Narm said, rubbing his eyes and flinging back the fur. Hastily he pulled it up again. “Ah-my clothes?”
Shandril burst into weak, helpless laughter, and handed him his robe.
Illistyl smiled. “Jhessail and I will wait in the hall. Come when you are ready.”
In the hallway, the theurgist said to Jhessail, “Tell no one yet, Jhess, but The Simbul came in by the window and listened, even as I did.”
Eyebrows lifted, and then lowered again. “What did you both hear, aside from lovemaking?” Jhessail asked, lips twisted in amusement.
“The life-tale of Narm Tamaraith, full and open and unadorned. His mother, at least, may well have been a Harper?’ Illistyl replied, referring to the mysterious group of bards and warriors that served the cause of good in the Realms.
Jhessail nodded. “He thinks so?” Illistyl shook her head.
“The thought has not crossed his mind,” she said. “It was the description.”
Jhessail nodded again as the door opened, and the two hastily dressed guests of the dale stepped out. Narm looked at the two ladies curiously. “I mean no disrespect,” he said slowly, “but is there a secret way into that room? I mean… that chest…”