“He drinks because he is sensitive and prudent-and must, he knows, favor luck more and live in danger. To do so, he steels himself with drink. Because he does not want to become falling-down drunk, he eats like a starving wolf. This makes him fat, as you can plainly see, and in turn makes him able to take in more drink without staggering about and slurring his jests. Do not think him a drunkard, Shandril; he is not. Nor is he a lecher or a fraud, but a true servant of Tymora. I am proud to ride with him.”
“You have given me different eyes to see him by, lady,” Shandril said slowly, looking at Rathan, who was roaring with laughter at a jest of Storm’s.
“Jhess, remember?” Jhessail said softly. “If you will listen to some advice, know that the most valuable thing I have learned from Elminster, in all these years, is to look at all things, and folk, however strange they seem, from all sides.
“Neglect not to act as you must, but try to think as you act. You will see things as others do, as well as the way you are used to thinking. If you walk with the Harpers,” she added, nodding across the noisy room toward Storm, “they will tell you the same thing, dressed up in much grander words.”
The room was filling up around them, as the good folk of Shadowdale and the staff and guardsmen of the tower all crowded in to the large, high-ceilinged hall. There was much laughter and chatter. Narm joined Shandril in the tumult, kissing her.
“They seem to party with a right good will here, I’ll say that,” Shandril greeted him.
“Aye,” Narm agreed. “I swear some of the guards had wine-headaches this morning.”
“No doubt,” Jhessail said to them. “They drink, and love, and laugh, and eat, as if they may be dead tomorrow, for death hangs over them.”
“What?” asked Narm, taken aback.
“Zhentil Keep threatens us daily-their armies could sweep down upon us any morn. Hillsfar has a new ruler, his intentions unknown, and devils walk in Myth Drannor to one side and in Daggerdale on the other. Now you are here, and they know powerful foes may attack at any time, seeking to slay or capture you. Some know a duty to defend you; some merely fear they will be caught in the way when great might is unleashed. They fear you, too, Shandril, no little bit. Your spellfire upon the hilltop is a scene told often, and vividly, in the taproom of the Old Skull.”
The two stared at her, stricken. “We should leave” Shandril whispered. Jhessail caught at her sleeve and smiled.
“No! Stay here. The folk of the dale accept you, and will fight for you as for any guest before their hearth, kin or stranger.
“Who can follow adventure, or even stand up strong in these Realms, without finding foes on all sides, often more than it seems one can handle? You are welcome, truly. Besides, you will upset Elminster terribly if you run off now. He’s not finished with you. But I flap my tongue and jaws worse than the old mage himself! Come, let us dance, you two and Merith and E”
“But-I-”
“We’ve never learned-”
“No matter-Merith shall teach us all a dance of the Elven Court. We shall all be new to it. Try it and you can do courtesy to any elf you meet! Come!” And the long-haired magic-user pulled them out into an open space and let out a birdlike trilling call. At once Merith looked up, smilingly excused himself from two fat farmwives, and joined them.
“Storm!” he called out. “Will you harp for us?”
The bard nodded and smiled, and took up the harp of the hall. It was made of blackwood inlaid with silver, and hung on the wall around the shattered and rusting shields of past, long-dead lords of Shadowdale.
As Jhessail told the couple that the harp had been a gift from the elves of Myth Drannor, Merith reached them.
“You will be wanting to dance, my love?” he asked fondly.
“Of course… one of the gentler tunes, my lord, one that human feet can follow. Narm and Shandril, and you and I… may we?”
Merith bowed. “Of course,” he said, as Storm joined them. “What say you to the frolic that of old we danced on the banks of the Ashaba? Storm, you know the tune…”
It was late, or rather very early. Revelers saw stars glittering coldly in the clear dark sky from each window as they went up the stairs together, footsore and happily sleepy. “Elves must be stronger than I’d thought,” Narm grunted as they mounted the last flight to the level where their bedchamber was. The Twisted Tower was quiet around them. Far below, the revelry continued unabated, but no sound carried this far. The guards stood silent at their posts.
At the head of the stairs, Shandril stripped off her shoes and set her aching feet upon the cold stone. The chill on her bare flesh roused her somewhat from drowsiness. She slipped out of Narm’s grasp and, laughing, ran lightly ahead. Wearily, he grinned, shook his head, and made haste to follow. They were both running when the blow fell.
Shandril heard a dull thud behind her, as if something heavy and made of leather had been dropped. It was followed by a thumping and scrabbling sound, as if someone had fallen. “Narm?” she called, turning as she reached their door. “Narm? Did-”
She saw a grim-faced guard almost upon her and running hard, the mace that had felled Narm raised before him in one mailed fist. Shandril saw the blood upon it and realized she had no time to dodge or fight. She let go the ring of the door and ran.
She fled on bare feet down the long, dimly lit hall, and saw the guard Rold, stationed far ahead under a flickering torch, turn and look at her. A wild rage grew in Shandril out of the shrieking fear for Narm’s life. She looked back through her streaming hair and saw a mailed hand only inches away, reaching. Without thought, she dove sharply to the rugs of the hall and rolled.
There were sharp, numbing blows on her back and flank as armored boots struck her. A startled curse rang out above her as her assailant tripped, landing in a crash of metal as he fell heavily upon his arms. Shandril rolled free and up to her knees even as the guard, who was fast and well-trained, spun about with his legs kicking in the air and drew back his mace to hurl at her.
Their eyes met across too little space, and fire exploded from Shandril’s raging glare. The guard yelled in fear and drove his large and dark mace at her. It smashed aside her hastily raised fingers and struck her hard on one side of the face. Shandril slid into a yellow haze of confusion and down into darkness.
Rold struck Culthar from behind without mercy, war-hammer crashing down upon his helm even as he demanded, “Are you mad? You are sworn to protect her!”
Culthar, slumping limply aside with blood running from nose and mouth, said nothing. He crumpled against the wall and was forgotten as Rold scrambled over him to reach Shandril. He recalled that her touch was said to be death when she hurled spellfire, but his hands did not hesitate as he drew off a gauntlet and gently felt her temple.
He wiped away the blood there, then got up with a curse to fling his gauntlet at the nearest alarm. Wrapping her shoulders in his half-cloak, he held her close and drew a silver disc on a fine chain from his belt.
“Lady Tymora,” he prayed hoarsely as the hollow singing of the gong died away, “if you favor those cursed to be different from most folk, aid this poor lass now. She has done no wrong within these walls, and needs your blessing now most dearly. Hear me, Lady, I beseech you! Turn your bright face upon Shandril. Tymora, Bright Lady, please hear!” And the old soldier held Shandril in his arms and waited for the sound of running feet, and prayed on.
In a turret that curved out from the inner wall of Zhentil Keep, there was a small, circular room without a window, and in that room, Ilthond waited with scant patience. The time was come; Manshoon still did not come back to the city of the Zhentilar. If Ilthond held spellfire in his hands and knew how to wield it, such a return would not have to be feared overmuch.