“Where then should we go?” Narm asked, as they stood together there in the wood in each other’s arms. They leaned together, and all three took comfort from the embrace. Storm spoke softly, words almost hidden among the sounds of the water.
“Go you by way of Thunder Gap. Watch for Dragon cult agents. They are thick in Sembia, and there is one in Highmoon. His name is Korvan-” Shandril stiffened. “Go to Silverymoon itself. Seek out Alustriel, High Lady of that city, and say that you come from her sister Storm and would be Harpers.
“With Alustriel, too, is a good place to be if you intend to have a child by then.” The bard looked meaningfully at Shandril, who blushed. “Well, you’re not quite the first couple to make that mistake.” She looked at Narm. “If your lady feels too sick to eat,” she said, “feed her lots of stew. In the evenings, she’ll feel more like dining.”
Narm looked at her. “Pray, lady, let me get used to discovering I’m going to be a father, first,” he said plaintively. Storm chuckled again.
“Think well, both of you, on the names your offspring must carry through life. I was born in a storm, and was named because I came out of it. It is an ear-catching name, I’m told, but I fought many larger and stronger lads and lasses when I was small because of it.” She freed herself from them and undid her robe.
After a startled look, Narm politely turned his back. Unconcerned, the bard drew on her clothes. Shandril saw that her arms, back, and flanks were covered with faint white, twisting sword-scars. She looked up at Shandril’s wondering eyes and winked. “I’ve walked many roads. Some roads leave little maps.” She traced one scar with a long finger and tied her halter,
“You can turn about, Narm,” Storm said dryly. “I’ll soon grow tired of talking to your shoulders.” Narm obediently turned about, grinning. “Now,” Storm continued, “I’ll tell you a few things about the journey ahead of you. First: trail marks. You’ll see a few runes scratched or burned on rocks, trees, or in the dirt as you go.” Storm picked up a stick and then shrugged. “Nay… I’ll draw them for you in the house. It is Elminster’s way to expect one to remember half a hundred things in a morning; I’ll not do that. I will tell you the names of Harper agents along your way. Look to them for aid if you need it.
“These, too, I’ll write for you, on a bandage. I’ll need you to prick your finger and bleed on it afterwards. It must look well-stained and disgusting if you don’t want it to be looked at too closely, if someone searches or robs you. But these I’ll tell you about, in case you get separated, or lose your list. If you lose the list of runes, stay clear of all such that you see. “First, in Cormyr…”
After a long time, Storm rose, belted her horn at her waist, and led them back up the path to her back door.
“What if someone-by art, I mean-heard all this?” Narm asked, looking at the trees all around. Storm shook her head.
“I have art of my own to cloak this little, hidden place. Manshoon himself could not hear us unless he sat with us.” She went in and set the men-at-arms to cutting cheese and apples for all, while she prepared the bandages.
Storm vanished up a stair half-hidden in the shadows of the old stone kitchen, taking Shandril’s hand and drawing her up, too. When they reappeared there was no sign of the promised bandage. Shandril’s eyes told Narm readily enough that it was hidden upon her somewhere. The bard now wore black fighting leathers and a sword.
“To the temple, then,” Storm said briskly, “for we have much to talk about with Rathan and Eressea.”
West of the tower, over the bridge that spanned the river Ashaba, rose the solid stone temple of Tymora without ditch or palisade. Its open gates stood in tall green grass without any wall, so that anyone could easily walk around. Storm led them between the gate-pillars and along a wide flagstone path to the temple. The path led to circular, arched double doors of gleaming metal, fashioned to resemble the disc symbol of Tymora. An acolyte stood guard before them, manning a polished circular alarm-gong. He was young and pimply and very earnest. “Why come you to this house of honor to the Lady?” he inquired, in the words of the ritual.
“To take our chances,” Storm replied formally, “and to speak with the Lady’s servant, Eressea Ambergyles, and with the faithful Rathan Thentraver if he is within.”
“Yes, lady,” said the acolyte with respect. “He is, and you are welcome. Enter, if you will.” He opened the doors and stepped within to signal another to take his post as he escorted the visitors into the temple.
In a moment, he reappeared and beckoned wordlessly, leading them into a large circular chamber whose pillars held up a domed ceiling high overhead. He led them up a broad stair without haste, past a watchful priest who sat at the head of the stairs with plain brass rings gleaming upon his fingers and a bare mace laid across his knees. The mace glowed faintly.
Beyond the priest a gallery opened out to the right and left, running around the inside of the dome, past many closed doors. Their escort knocked upon a door straight ahead, and it swung open. Rathan and Eressea, both clad in plainspun robes, were seated at a small round table in a room with large windows. On the table between Rathan and the tiny, stern-faced Preceptress were six dice.
Storm nodded to them. “Well met, both of you. Games of chance?”
“What else in the service of Tymora?” Eressea replied. “It is sacrilege, mind you, to work upon odds, or cheat, or otherwise affect pure chance.”
Storm nodded. “You know why we’ve come, Rathan?”
“Aye,” he said, and rose. “Ye may go down to the doors, for we must now discuss holy things,” he said simply to the men-at-arms. After a moment, they turned away with nods and murmurs and salutes. Rathan gestured to the acolyte to follow them, but left the door open. He turned to Narm and Shandril. “Ye wish to be wed before the bright face of Tymora,” he said simply. “When?”
“As soon as possible, by your leave,” Shandril said hesitantly.
“The day after tomorrow,” Storm insisted. “I shall sponsor/’
“Nay, lady,” Rathan said with a grin. “The Lord Mourngrym hath already claimed that honor. All has been made ready, but for the asking of Her Grace, Eressea.”
He turned to Eressea, who had risen. Her stern face was alight. She smiled happily, and said, “I will give Tymora’s blessing with pleasure. Is it to be here, or in the tower, or-?”
“Outdoors, Preceptress,” Storm said softly, surprising them all. “Upon the site of my sister Sylune’s hut, which is burned and gone now.” There was a little silence. Shandril realized that Eressea was looking to her for her approval.
“Agreed,” she said simply, unaware of what she should say. But Narm quietly echoed her, and made it somehow formal by doing so. Then Rathan spoke.
“Agreed,” was all he said, and Eressea bowed.
“After dawnfry, then, the day after tomorrow,” the Perceptress said. “Let the word go out.” Rathan bowed, and went out and down the stairs before them.
“The young lord and lady to be wed? Gods’ good wishes to them! I tell you, Baerth, I saw flames come from her very hand! ‘Spellfire’ they’re calling it-but it was no spell like I ever saw cast! No dancing about or chanting, she just frowned a little, like Delmath does before he lifts a full barrel, and there it was! Aye, you wouldn’t want to be marryin’ that, now would you?”
Malark, in the shape of an owl on a branch overhead, grinned sourly to himself amid the coarse laughter, and thought on how to slay Shandril. All this skulking infuriated him. At every moment, the girl and her mageling were together, and at every moment, they were flanked by at least one accomplished in art, or one of the knights armed with powerful items of art-with others close at hand.