Akabar looked up from his books, which he’d been checking for damage. “You had best be cautious with that thing, little one,” he warned.
“Nonsense,” Olive said with a sniff. “There’s no danger as long as you know the right way to deal with these things. All you have to do is hold your hand over your head—” the halfling demonstrated, while Akabar stepped backward and Alias rose to her feet “—and command the ring, Show your power to me.’ If that doesn’t work then there are certain key words you should—”
They never heard the rest of the bard’s lecture. Suddenly the ring’s power did indeed display itself. Akabar’s tome began to glow a soft blue, as did a ring on his finger and the one on Olive’s. Alias’s sigils outshone them all, emitting blue beams crazily about the pine forest.
“Damn!” the swordswoman shouted, tears brimming in her eyes. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her body, though a blue glow peeked out at the hem and neckline.
“What was that?” Olive gasped, her eyes glued to Alias.
“Detect magic, I imagine,” Akabar answered, moving to the swordswoman’s side. “You aren’t in any pain, I trust?”
“I’m fine,” Alias muttered between clenched teeth.
Olive continued to stare at the swordswoman as though she’d grown a second head. “You have a magical arm!”
“Ignore it,” Alias muttered.
“But, it’s really magical! Incredibly magical! More magical than anything I’ve ever seen. I’ll bet you could have sliced Mist into pieces. Maybe we should go back and try it.”
“I said, ignore it!” Alias shouted.
For the next several minutes an embarrassed silence reigned in the camp. Akabar cleaned out the dinner pot and used it to heat water for tea. Olive finished her soup and polished the mutton bone nearly to ivory. Alias clutched her wrapped arm close to her until the sigils’ light began to dim.
Dragonbait laid more wood on the fire, and then stepped outside the campsite to stand in the darkness, facing the hilltop, as though he expected danger from that direction.
“So, tell me, mage,” the halfling piped up, obviously uncomfortable without chatter about her. “Where did you find your familiar?” She indicated Dragonbait by nodding her head in his direction. “I’ve seen nothing like him from the Sword Coast all the way south to magical Halruaa.”
Alias snapped, “Dragonbait is my companion, Ruskettle, not the mage’s familiar. I did not find him. He found me. He has proved more than useful.”
“Aye, I’ve noticed. Especially at pulling halflings out of the fire. I meant no offense, I assure you. It’s just that I’ve never heard of a lizard acting as a manservant before. But then I’ve never heard of a magical arm before either.”
Alias gritted her teeth. If the halfling wasn’t going to give her curiosity a rest, it was time to go on the offensive. “You know, I’ve never heard of a halfling bard before.”
“Well, that’s easily explained,” Olive smiled. “I gained my training in the south; things are very different there.”
“I am from the south as well,” said Akabar. “And now that the lady mentions it, I have never encountered a bard of the halfling race, either.”
“Ah,” replied Olive, staring sadly into her empty bowl. “Well, you are from Turmish, I seem to remember.”
“Yeees,” the mage said, anticipating what was to come.
“Well, I was trained farther south than that.”
“Anywhere near Chondath?” Akabar asked.
“Chondath? Yes, just a wee bit farther south than that.”
“Sespech?”
“Yes, Sespech. There is a barding college there with a fine teacher who taught me all I know.” The halfling flashed Akabar a beaming smile.
“How odd,” drawled the mage, tugging at the edge of his beard. “One of my wives comes from Sespech, on the Vilhon Reach, and while she is quite talkative about the merits of her native land, she has never mentioned halfling bards.”
“Ohhh. No, no, no, no,” corrected Olive. “You’re talking about Sespech between the Vilhon and the Nagawater. I was referring to a place much farther south. How far south have your travels taken you?”
“I’ve traded as far south as Innarlith, on the Lake of Steam,” the mage said. The halfling nodded.
“Our company …” Alias wrinkled her brow, trying to dredge up memories as bright but as liquid as quicksilver. “Our company fought on the Shining Plains. Yes, that’s right, and we traveled through Amn once or twice.”
The halfling looked at Alias a moment, confused by her interruption about places farther to the west and outside the realm of the discussion. She shrugged and continued her far-fetched explanation to the mage. “And in Innarlith there were dwarves from the Great Rift?” she asked.
“Yes, from Eartheart,” Akabar replied.
“Well,” Olive concluded triumphantly, “below the Great Rift, on the Southern Sea, is the land of Luiren. We have a Sespech there, and a Chondath, which are small but bustling towns, the namesakes no doubt of your larger nations. Anyway, in Sespech, the one in Luiren, I was trained, having made a long pilgrimage from Cormyr. I was attempting to return to my homeland when that fool wyrm plucked me from my wagon.”
“Dimswart says you came from across the Dragon Reach,” Alias said, puzzled.
“No, I come from Cormyr. You see, traveling by boat does not agree with me, so I journeyed to Luiren around the western edge of the Inner Sea. Desiring to see even more of the Realms, I returned from Luiren around the eastern edge of the Inner Sea, through many wild and dangerous lands. I made a name for myself in the nations of Aglarond and Impiltur. I had just entered Procampur when I received Master Dimswart’s most generous offer to entertain at his daughter’s wedding. And glad I was to come home, Procampur being a stuffy town, too restrictive for an artiste.”
Alias and Akabar exchanged glances. Akabar looked frustrated, but Alias had to smile at the halfling’s tale. There had to be at least a dozen lies tangled up in her story, but it wasn’t worth the trouble proving it. Olive, like any other halfling, would only invent more lies to cover the originals. Better to wait until she accidentally let the truth slip out.
Alias stood up and stretched. “Going to be a cold night. We need more wood.” She walked toward the clearing where the moonlight revealed fallen limbs.
“So, what’s her story?” Olive whispered to Akabar, jerking her head at Alias’s retreating figure.
“Story?” echoed Akabar. “To what are you referring?”
“She has a magical arm!” Ruskettle’s voice rose half an octave.
Akabar shrugged. He was taking a lot of pleasure in thwarting the woman’s unbearable curiosity.
“Look, mage,” Olive sighed. “I owe her. I want to help.”
Akabar’s feelings softened somewhat. “Not that I believe you for a moment,” he said, “but just in case your words are earnest, I will tell you. The glyphs on the lady’s arm are magical, not the arm itself. Some unknown power carved them into her flesh, but she cannot remember the event. As a matter of fact, she cannot remember the events of several of the past months. In exchange for the meaning of the glyphs, she has agreed to deliver you safely to Master Dimswart. The best service you can do her is to come along peacefully and perform well at this wedding.”
Olive pondered the information for a few minutes, then she speculated aloud, “So anything could have happened during the time she can’t remember. She could have been a slave, or a concubine to a powerful sorcerer, or married to a foreign prince—a princess dripping in jewelry.”
“Or a wandering swordswoman,” added Akabar.
“Or a princess,” Olive repeated to herself, “dripping in jewelry, her lover killed, her kingdom usurped, and her memory lost through the fell magics of her enemies.”