Clearing his throat pompously as if beginning a grand tale, Mirt said, “Ye are Shandril of Highmoon, raised by an old friend of mine, Gorstag. Ye recently left his inn to join a company of adventurers and therein met this noble and handsome dwarf”—Delg glowered and snorted—“and this young lad of thine, too. Along the way, ye also met Elminster and the Knights of Myth Drannor, first discovered yer power of spellfire—inherited, methinks—and sent to their graves a dragon and no less than three bone dragons, or ‘dracoliches,’ if ye prefer, as well as the Shadowsil. Ye also sent Manshoon of Zhentil Keep into headlong flight.”
Mirt scratched his nose thoughtfully, fixing eyes that were suddenly very blue on her. “All of this tells me Shandril Shessair is rather more than she appears. Elminster has spoken to Khelben Arunsun of thee in some detail, and the Blackstaff in turn has told me something of thy great power and importance. So have others I know who harp. They tell me ye would meet with a certain sister of Storm to learn more about thy powers, and are on the road to her.”
He chuckled. “Chasing thee, no doubt, are some self-interested mages and brigands who have heard of thy doings by now. Also at thy heels are the Zhentarim, the Cult of the Dragon, and priests of Bane still loyal to the High Imperceptor, all falling over themselves and each other in their hurry to seize thy spellfire. Behind at least two of these groups are darker foes, shapechanging beings of great power who dwell in a world of shadows. They call themselves ‘the Shadowmasters,’ and many wizards of Faerûn have fought them down the centuries. They seek to control Toril and other worlds, deciding who may pass from plane to plane. Here they take care to work through others, for when Elminster can catch them in Faerûn, he destroys them.”
Mirt leaned forward, his face for once serious. “Ye are still alive today, Shandril and Narm, because Elminster and the Simbul have been weaving spells, spying, and setting all manner of things to sprawling chaos in order to keep these Shadowmasters from striking ye down.”
Shandril, face pale, stared at him numbly. Was everyone on all the worlds and planes out looking to kill her? Why had the gods given spellfire to Shandril of Highmoon? She had asked herself this, she reflected ruefully, far more than once before.
“After ye were attacked in Shadowdale,” Mirt went on, “Torm and Illistyl of the knights took yer shapes, and camped on Harpers’ Hill. They were guarded by soldiers, the knight Rathan, and a few Harpers. There was an attack on the hill by things like the one ye fought two nights back—dark horrors, or ‘darkenbeasts’—fearsome things created from dogs, sheep, and the like by cruel magic. That attack was set by the two youngest, most reckless Shadowmasters, and they paid for it with their lives.”
Mirt sighed. “Elminster’s hands have been red with blood, indeed, protecting ye this last tenday; that attack was but one of many. Why, think ye, did he keep ye in a spell-sphere one night?—I hear ye brought it down, too, testing spellfire!—Well, outside the tower, several Harper mages spent much of the night darting all over the sky, trading lightnings—and worse—with these Shadowmasters.”
Delg’s eyes were large and round; Narm was somehow glad that this was as much news to him as to them.
“One of these dark ones died that night, too,” Mirt went on, “when he got past them to strike at ye. Elminster used some sort of spell I’ve never heard of before to snatch the sphere from around all of ye and hurl it about the Shadowmaster, like a tightening fist, until all its prismatic effects were visited on the creature. It was trapped, unable to escape to another plane, and was destroyed.”
Shandril shuddered, and cast a quick look at Narm. His fists were clenched in his lap, and he looked chilled and frightened.
Mirt frowned. “Yer faces say ye’ve not known of this before. Ah, well—perhaps that was for the best. Terrified folk seldom make wise decisions.” He got up with a grunt and added, “Enough talk for now. On, or night’ll come long before we see open land beyond these trees.”
Shandril nodded, her face rather white. “Why has no one ever told us about these ‘Shadowmasters’?” she almost whispered, as they all stood up. “I would rather have known.”
Delg shrugged. “What difference could it have made, lass, save to worry you?”
Mirt nodded. “Aye. One thing more, too. Does one put a sword into a child’s hand and march her out to face the gathered host of the Flaming Fist, just to see her expression? That’s sheer cruelty.”
“While standing her in the mist so she can’t see the army she faces, is merely slaughter—is that it?” Shandril asked softly, eyes steady on his, flames leaping deep within them.
Mirt held her gaze in silence for two long, slow breaths before he reached out one gnarled hand to touch hers. Then, to the astonishment of the others, he knelt before Shandril, as one does before a king. Looking up over her hand, her fingers still in his gentle grasp, he said roughly, “Aye. Ye have the right of it, Lady. That’s why I came here. It’s never nice to die alone.”
“It always takes longer to get out of a forest than it does to get in,” Mirt grumbled as the last of the light failed. Dusk hung heavy around them as they made a hasty camp amid the trees.
Delg seemed upset with their route and everything else; when Narm asked him what was amiss, the dwarf turned dark eyes up at him and said, “I feel ill luck ahead, soon.”
The gloomy dwarf stood first watch, and Mirt was soon snoring like a contented bear on one side of the fire. Shandril and Narm lay together in their blankets and held each other. After Narm fell asleep, Shandril stared into the fire.
It seemed very long ago that they’d flown over Shadowdale together at their wedding—and longer still since she’d left The Rising Moon in search of adventure. And now, folk she hadn’t even heard of plotted her death.
The watching skull was patient. It waited, floating low in the concealing darkness while silent tears fell onto Shandril’s blanket. It waited, motionless, while she settled herself down against Narm, stroking his cheek tenderly.
It waited, as she fell asleep, and waited still, until Delg’s attention was elsewhere. Then, silently, it drifted down to feed.
One bare shoulder had been left exposed as Shandril and Narm lay huddled together. The skull sank down and bit the smooth white flesh. Shandril stirred—and then, with a sort of sigh, relaxed. Spellfire flowed slowly, unseen, out of her.
Delg got up then, as good sentries do, to walk about and check on the safety of those he guarded.
The skull cast a hasty, silent spell to keep Shandril asleep as its fangs withdrew, and then another to quickly heal the wounds it had made.
By the time Delg looked down at Shandril, the skull was gone. Plucky lass. If she’d been a dwarf, now … Not for the first time, Delg wished he’d married. This was the sort of daughter he could be proud of. Tenderly he covered her bare arm and shoulder with an edge of the blanket, then stalked on.
The skull watched him go and made no move back to where it had fed. Its memories went back a thousand years. It had learned patience.
Seven
At the Sign of the Wanton Wyvern
Do ye remember an inn, Tessyrana? Old and dark and rambling, lost in the arms of the wild woods a long day’s ride from anywhere—but warm and firelit within, against the chill winds of the storm. The smoke stung our eyes, and its old and spicy smell enshrouded us as it did everything else in the house. We climbed worn, curving stairs away from the ready laughter and ale, into a candlelit room, a cozy den nestled amid others in the night, carved out of low beams, gentle mutterings and creakings, and uneven floors. And for one night, at least, that plain, tiny, and friendly little room was our home.