“Certain fell powers undoubtedly already know of her abilities, and will act soon, if they have not begun already. There is much more to be said, but-hem-ye asked for the short version.” The old archmage sat down again and reached for his pipe.
“So you are saying, then, that war will come to the dale again, because the source of spellfire is here?” the Lady Shaerl asked.
“Aye,” Elminster replied, “and we must be ready. To arms and alert! We must defend Shandril’s person with our swords, and raise the art at our command to defend against the many mages who will come for Shandril’s spellfire. She cannot be everywhere to battle all of them, were she the most willing slayer in the world. Our spells we must also cast to Shandril, to feed her spellfire-it is this her man Narm does best. Days of blood, I fear, are upon us.”
Mourngrym spoke then in challenge, rising to look at all there assembled, and said, “It is hardly fair, you powerful and experienced adventurers, to drag these young folks into a battle that will almost certainly mean their deaths, just to use them as weapons against those who come here.”
“They are in such a battle as we breathe now,” Elminster said sharply. “We delivered them out of it once, as a knight drags a weary fellow out of the fray for a time to catch his breath, quell his pain, and set to again. It is the price of adventuring, such conflict. And don’t tell me that they are not adventurers. One ran off with a chartered company of adventurers, while the other willingly returned to Myth Drannor, alone and unarmed, to ‘seek his fortune’ after the death of his master at the hands of the devils. We do not, lord, intend to ‘use them as weapons,’ but to see they know their powers fully.”
The old sage glanced around at the knights, and added, “Why invite such peril? Why see a young maid become a threat to one’s own powers? Why build her strength, and that of her consort, to make them an even greater menace? Because… because, after all these years, it still feels good to have helped someone, and accomplished something. This first fight, it is part of that, and we cannot avoid it. When it is done, it is our duty to let them go where they will, and not compel them or make their choices for them.”
A large green glass bottle that stood upon the table, full of wine and as yet unopened, like many of its fellows, began to change shape. As all watched in astonishment, it grew and became The Simbul, kneeling atop the table with proud and lonely eyes. The witch-queen nodded to Narm and Shandril, and then looked to Elminster.
“You will let these two walk freely?” she asked. “Truly?”
The archmage nodded. “Aye. I will. We all here will.”
“Then you have my blessing,” she added softly. She turned into a bird and, with a whir of wings, she darted up the chimney and was gone.
The knights relaxed, visibly. “One day I suppose I’ll be used to that,” Torm remarked. “Old mage, can’t you tell by art when she’s near?”
Elminster shook his head. “Unless she actively uses art of her own, nay. Her cloak-of-art is as good as any greater archmage’s-which is to say, well nigh perfect.”
“Such as yours, perhaps?” Torm pressed him. Elminster smiled broadly, and suddenly he wasn’t there. His chair was empty, without flash or sound. Only the faint smell of his pipe smoke hung in the air to say he had been present at all. Jhessail sighed and cast a spell to detect magic. She looked all about, keenly, and then shook her head.
“Faint magic, all about,” she said, “and those things I know to be enchanted that we carry. But no sage.”
“You see?” Elminster said, appearing at her elbow and kissing her swiftly on the cheek. “It is not as easy as it might seem, but it works.”
“Now that’s a trick I’d give much to learn,” Torm said delightedly.
“Much it will cost ye,” Elminster replied. “But enough of such tricks. Be thankful, all of ye, that The Simbul favors our desires in this matter. If she did not, ad of my time would be spent thwarting her and my art would be lost to you. Who knows what foes we may yet face in this matter? Ye may have need of me.”
“We always need you, old mage,” Moumgrym answered, a twinkle in his eye. “Is there anyone else who would now speak on this? Narm and Shandril, you need not make speeches if you do not desire to do so, nor are you expected to answer any queries put to you.” There was a brief silence.
“I would speak, Lord of the Dale,” said Storm Silverhand softly. She rose, silver hair swirling gently about the dark leather that clad her shoulders. She looked directly at Narm and Shandril. “We who harp are interested in you,” she said. “Think on whether you might want to walk our way.”
Eyebrows lifted in silence all around the table. Rathan looked all about, then asked noisily, “Is all the formal tongue-work done, then? Can we enjoy ourselves now, and let all the others back in? Lord?”
Mourngrym grinned. “I think you have cut to the heart of the boar, chosen of Tymora. Open the doors! Let us feast! Elminster, do not go, I pray you!”
The old sage had already risen. “I am old for all the babbling and flirting that goes on at your feasts. I keep looking down at all the comely lasses, and see only the faces of those I met at feasts long ago, in cities now dust-truly, Mourngrym, I enjoy it not. Besides, I have work to do. My art stands not still, and more things unfold under the eyes of Selune than just this matter of spellfire, ye know. Fare ye well, all.” He strode forward and crouched before the fire. Suddenly Elminster became a great, gray-feathered eagle, and was gone up the chimney, as The Simbul had gone.
“Show-off,” Jhessail said affectionately, watching him go.
Shandril looked at Rathan, who held a bottle in either hand, as she leaned across the board to speak to Jhessail. Her tutor bent her head obligingly, hair falling almost into a dish of cheese-filled mushroom caps.
“Lady,” Shandril said in a low voice. “Wh-”
“Call me Jhess!” Jhessail responded fiercely. “This ‘lady’ business keeps me thinking there’s some noble matron behind me, disapproving of my every move!”
“Jhess, then; forgive me. Why does Rathan drink so much? He never seems to get drunk, at least that I have seen, but…”
“But he drinks a goodly lot?” Jhessail agreed. “Yes… you should know. It was what our companion Doust Sulwood gave up his lordship of this dale for1.’
“Rathan’s drinking?”
“No, no-I meant, they both faced the same problem. A good priest of Tymora must continually take risks-reckless ones, in the eyes of most others. Worshipping Tymora truly and trusting in the Lady’s luck causes a problem if you are also sensitive to what your recklessness does to others, or are by nature cautious or considerate. The life of trusting to hick does not sit well with the life of contemplating the consequences of one’s actions, or wishing for the security and comfort of routine and prudence. You see that?”
“Yes.” Shandril nodded. “But how-?”
“Ah. Well, Doust as lord of this dale had to make decisions that affected the lives of the dalefolk. Concern for their safety was his duty, if you will. He could not do well by them and serve the Lady of Luck well. In the end, his calling proved the stronger, and he gave up the dale rather than rule poorly. I wish that more who fought such a battle within themselves between office and belief recognized their dilemma, and reached the right choice.”
Jhessail looked fondly across the room at Merith. “As my lord, too, has done-but that is another story.” She looked at Rathan. “As for that buffoon, his jesting is but an act. He is very sensitive and romantic, easily moved to tears. He hides it, and overcomes the barbs of his closest friend, Torm, with his ‘drunken sot’ act.