“No, Gorstag;” Shandril said. “I’ve had nothing but good from you, as the gods witness all, and I blame you not. But tell me the tale of my parents, please. I’ve waited many a year for such news.”
“Aye. Well, then. Enough of dates, and all. We can puzzle that out later. Here’s the backbone of the tale. Garthond, your father, was an apprentice of the mage Jhavanter.
“Jhavanter, and Garthond with him, fought several times against the Cult of the Dragon in Sembia hereabouts. Jhavanter held an old tower on the eastern flanks of the Thunder Peaks, which he called the Tower Tranquil. Garthond dwelt there with Jhavanter until mages of the cult destroyed Jhavanter in a fight. After that, Garthond continued his studies-and his feud with the cult.
“At every turn he would work against them, destroy their lesser mages, and terrorize any among them not protected by art. He grew in power, Garthond did, and survived many attempts on his life by the cult. Eventually he rescued the incantatrix Dammasae from cult captivity-they had her drugged, bound, and gagged, in a caravan heading to one of their strongholds.
“Dammasae had adventured with me and others before this. She had become known for a natural power she had-a power she wanted to develop, by practice and experiment. She could absorb spells and use their force of art as raw energy, held within her. She could use her power to heal, or to harm in the form of fiery blasts. The cult took her to learn the secrets of spellfire for their own use, or at least control her use of it to further their own schemes. No doubt, if they seek you now, it is for the same reasons.”
“That,” Shandril agreed softly, “or my destruction. But please, Gorstag, say on!” To know her life at last! Her eyes were moist as Narm put his arms around her shoulders comfortingly.
Gorstag took down his axe from behind the bar and lowered himself into a chair facing hers, laying the axe near at hand on a table beside him. He turned his chair so as to better see the front door. Outside, moon-dappled mist drifted past the windows.
“Well,” the innkeeper continued, “Garthond rescued Dammasae and protected her and worked magic with her… and they came to love each other. They traveled much, seeking adventure as many of we fools do, and pledged their troth before the altar of Mystra in Baldur’s Gate.
“Here I must leave what I know occurred and relate to you some guesswork-of my own, of the sage Elminster, and of some others. We believe that a cult mage, one Erimmator- none know where his bones lie now to question him-cursed Garthond in an earlier battle of art. The curse bound a strange creature called a balhiir from another plane of existence”-Shandril gasped, and Narm nodded grimly-”in symbiosis with Garthond. Perhaps it was a cult experiment to find the possible powers of any offspring of a spellfire wielding incantatrix’s union with a mage ‘ridden’ by a balhiir.”
“I fear so,” Narm replied. “But your tale, Gorstag… what happened after they were wed?”
“Why, the usual thing betwixt man and maid,” Gorstag said gruffly. “In Elturel they dwelt, then, in quiet. In due time a babe-a girl, one Shandril Shessair-was born. They did not return to the Tower Tranquil and the dales, where the cult waited in strength and the danger to their babe was greater, until she was old enough to travel. Eight months, that wait was.”
Gorstag shifted in his chair, eyes distant, seeing things long ago. “They rode with me. East, overland, we went, and the cult was waiting for us, indeed.” The innkeeper sighed. “Somehow-by art, likely-they knew, and saw through our disguises. They attacked us at the Bridge of Fallen Men on the road west of Cormyr.
“Garthond was thrown down and utterly destroyed, but he won victory for his wife and daughter, and for me. That day he took nine mages of the cult with him, and another three swordsmen. He did not die cheaply.
“He was something splendid to see that day, Shan. I’ve not seen a mage work art so well and so long, from that day to this, nor ever expect to. He shone before he fell.” The old warrior’s eyes were wet again, as he stared into dim night and saw memories the others could not.
“Dammasae and I were wounded-I the worse, but she could bear hurt less well. She carried less meat to lose and twice the grief and worry, for she feared most, Shan, for you. The cultists were all slain or fled from that place, and we rode as fast as we could to High Horn for healing. We made it there, and Dammasae had some doctoring. She needed the hands and wisdom of Sylune, though, and we could not reach Shadowdale in time.
“Your mother is buried west of the dale, on a little knoll on the north side of the road, the first one close to the road west of Toad Knoll. A place holy to Mystra, for she appeared there to a magister once, long ago.”
Gorstag looked down at the flagstones before his chair. “I could not save her?’ he added simply, old anguish raw in his voice. Shandril leaned toward him, but she said nothing.
“But I could save you,” the warrior added with iron determination. “I did that.” He caught up his axe and hefted it.
“I took you on my back and went by way of the woods from Shadowdale south to Deepingdale. It was in my mind to leave you with elves I knew and try to get into the Tower Tranquil to get something of Garthond’s art and writings for you, but I was still on my way south when elves I met brought word that the cult had broken into the tower and plundered it, blasting their way into its cellars. Then they used the great caverns they’d created as a lair for a dracolich-Raugkrthgor the Proud- whose hoard had outgrown his own lair.
“So I counted on my obscurity in the eyes of the cult-that few who had seen me riding with Dammasae and Garthond yet lived to tell the tale-and came openly to Deepingdale, where I used some gems Td amassed on my travels to buy a run-down inn and retire.
“I was getting too old for rough nights spent on cold ground, anyway. Few of my former companions-at-arms were alive and hale, and an old warrior who must join or gather a new band of younger blades is but asking for a dagger in the ribs at first argument.
“I brought you up as a servant here, Shan, for I dared not attract attention to you. Folk talk if an old retired warrior lives alone with a beautiful girl-child, you know. 1 had to hide your lineage-and, as long as I could, your last name- for I knew the cult would be after you if they guessed.
“That fight at the bridge, you see-they could have slain us all by art from afar without exposing themselves to our blades and spells for anything near so high a cost, if all they’d wanted was us dead. No, they wanted you, girl, you or your mother. I let them have neither! It was the greatest feat I ever managed, down all those years of acting and watching my tongue and yet trying to see you brought up proper. “For they’ve kept nosing, all these years, the cult and others. I suspected your Marimmar, Narm, of being yet another spying mage-who knows, now? Some, I think, were fairly sure, but they did not want to fight rivals for you unless you were the prize, so they watched closely to see if you’d show some of your mother’s powers. I dreaded the day you would. If it were too public a show, I might not have time to get you to the elves or the Harpers or Elminster.
“I was more wary of the old mage, for it is great mages who fear and want spellfire the most and will do the greatest ill to get it. Even if I had the time to run, then, I might not have the time to get Lureene and the others safe away. The cult might well burn this house to the ground and slay all within, if they came to take and found me gone.”
He shook his head, remembering. “Some days, I was like a skulking miser, looking for those coming to plunder under every stone in the yard and behind every tree of the woods and in the face of every guest.”