Malark would not soon forget the desolation of Rauglothgor’s lair. A mistake in this matter could be his last. He turned tired eyes toward the Twisted Tower. She was guarded even now. Especially now.
The wedding ceremony would be one chance to get at Shandril-of-the-Spellfire, but not a good one. All of the most powerful protectors of Shadowdale would be gathered there. Perhaps later… these two had to leave the dale sometime. Malark had the uncomfortable feeling that others were waiting for just that to happen, and he might have to battle rival bids for spellfire, perhaps even Oumrath.
Malark growled to himself, and took flight restlessly, heading south across the road. Soon, Shandril of Highmoon, he thought. You’ll feel my art soon…
The day dawned cool and misty. Shandril and Narm had stept apart as custom demanded, Shandril in the Temple of Tymora with Eressea, and Narm in the Twisted Tower with Rathan. Both were up and awake before dawn to be bathed in holy water and blessed. Word had spread throughout the dale, and folk began to gather early by the banks of the Ashaba.
Rathan filled a glass from a crystal decanter and held it high. “To the Lady,” he said, and emptied it into the bath. Then he turned his head to look down at Narm and grinned. “That’s all the wine I’ll touch this day.”
Narm rose, dripping. “You mean you’ll miss all the festive tippling, later?”
Rathan shrugged. “How else can I make this a special occasion? Eressea and I will go off together somewhere after it’s all done and share a glass of holy water!’ He stared off into reverie for a moment and then blinked and said gruffly, “Come on, then. Out and dry yourself! If ye are so heedless as to get the chills, Shandril may wed a walking corpse!”
“Cheery, aren’t you?” Narm observed, as Rathan unwrapped heated linens from hot rocks, grunting and licking his fingers, and held the linen out for Narm to take.
“If it’s a clown ye want, I’ll send for Torm straightaway” Rathan replied. “But don’t blame me if he gets thee so drunk and distracted that ye forget to come to thy wedding-or if he locks thee in a chest somewhere so that he can have the pleasure of marrying your Shandril himself!”
“Torm?”
“Aye. And if he’s busy misbehaving elsewhere, I may take his place in such adventures myself.”
Eressea was kissing Shandril’s forehead formally, and then hugging her fondly. “We must make haste now,” she said. “Your lord-to-be awaits you. Shadowdale gathered awaits you, too. So let us ‘scoot,’ as Elminster says.” Shandril rolled her eyes, and together they hurried down the stairs.
A lone horn rang out from where Sylune’s Hut had been and echoed in the dale, to signal that Nann waited with Rathan. It was answered immediately from the battlements of the tower of Ashaba, as the bride-to-be and the Preceptress Eressea set forth on the long walk south.
Storm Silverhand walked behind them, blade drawn, as the guard of honor. Any hostile eyes watching and planning an attack on the maid who commanded spellfire could not help but notice the many bright glows of art that hung about the bard’s person. She was armed with power and expecting trouble. There were not a few gasps and mutters among the dalefolk at the display.
Well ahead of them walked Mourngrym, Lord of Shadow-dale, bareheaded but fully armored, the arms of the dale upon his breast, and a great sword at his side.
The trumpeters along the route bowed to him but did not sound their horns until Shandril reached them. One by one their calls rang out as the bride drew nearer.
Mourngrym saluted Narm and then stepped aside. A few bare stone flags among still-scorched grass marked the spot where Sylune’s hut had stood. When she lived and was Lady of the Dale, no temples had stood in Shadowdale. All had come here to be wed before her. Now at least one more couple would be wed here.
Rathan stood square upon the stones, looking for Shandril. The disc of Tymora upon his breast began to glow as he cupped it in his hands.
Nearer they came, Shandril and Eressea, and the last trumpeter blew two high notes. A fanfare of all the trumpets joined him, loud and long and glorious. When the last, thrilling echoes had died away, Shandril stood before Rathan.
The priest smiled at her and cast the disc of Tymora, which he had taken off its chain, into the air. It hung a man’s height above their heads, spinning gently, and its glow grew brighter.
“Beneath the bright face of Tymora, we are gathered here to join together Narm Tamaraith, this man, and Shandril Shessair, this woman, as companions in life. Let their ways run together, say I, a friend. What saith Tymora?”
Eressea stepped forward and spoke. “I speak for Tymora, and I say, let their ways run together” Rathan bowed his head at her words.
“We stand in Shadowdale,” he said then. “What saith a good woman of the dale?”
Storm Silverhand took a step forward and spoke. “I say, let their ways run together.”
“We stand in Shadowdale, and hear you. What saith a good man of the dale?”
The smith Bronn Selgard stood forth from the gathered Dalefolk then, his great grim face solemn, his mighty limbs clad in old, carefully patched finery. His deep voice rolled over them all. “I say, let their ways run together.”
“We stand in Shadowdale, and hear you,” Rathan said in response. “What saith the Lord of the Dale?”
Mourngrym stood forth. “I say, let their ways run together”
“We stand in Shadowdale, and hear you,” came Rathan’s voice, and it suddenly rose into a deep challenge. “What say the people of the dale? Shall the ways of these two, Narm and Shandril, run together?”
“Aye!” came the cry from a hundred throats.
“Aye, we have heard ye. We have heard all, save Narm and Shandril. What say ye two? Will ye bleed for each other?”
“Aye,” said Shandril, first as was the custom. Suddenly she was dry-throated.
“Aye,” Narm said, as quietly.
“Then let ye be so joined,” Rathan said solemnly, and took their left hands in each of his. Mourngrym stepped forward with his dagger drawn.
In the throng nearby, Jhessail and Elminster tensed. Now their protection on Mourngrym might be tested by someone seeking to compel him to strike at the young couple. Rathan’s face, too, was tense as he watched.
Gravely the Lord of Shadowdale reached out his dagger and carefully pricked the upturned backs of the two hands, Shandril’s first. Then he wiped the blade upon the turf before them, kissed it, and put it away. He stepped back in silence.
“Now, as we told thee,” Rathan whispered to them, and stepped back.
Narm and Shandril brought their bloodied hands to each other’s mouths, and then stepped into each other’s arms and kissed, embracing fiercely. A cheer arose from those watching.
“Of one blood, joined, are Narm and Shandril,” Rathan said. “Let no being tear asunder this holy union, or face the dark face of Tymora forevermore.” Above their heads, the spinning disc flashed with sudden, intense light. There were cries of surprise and wonder.
“See the sign of the goddess!” Rathan shouted. “Her blessing is upon this union!”
The disc rose, shining brightly, as Narm and Shandril stepped back, hands clasped, to watch. From it sprang two shafts of white radiance, with a noise like high, jangling harping. They stretched down, one to touch Narm and the other Shandril.
Narm stood motionless, smiling, eyes wide in astonishment as he felt power rushing through him, cleansing and strengthening him. At the touch of the light, Shandril burst into flames, and as she moved to embrace Narm in wild joy, her spellfire rose above them both in a great teardrop of rising flame. Their clothes blazed and were gone, but their hair and bodies were unharmed.
Elminster clucked disapprovingly and began to move his hands in the gestures of a weaving of art, muttering spell phrases unheard by those around him. The Harpers stepped from trees all about, then, to play The Ride of the Lion on many harps that shone and glittered in the bright light of Tymora.