“But he did manage to round up six men-at-arms,” Narm protested.
Baergasra chuckled. “Those were his ‘fist,’ his own little band of bully-boys. They’re never far away from him, and tonight three of them were enjoying a quiet evening’s entertainment here with several of the local night girls.”
“What’s that?” Mirt asked, alert. “Shouldn’t we—?”
The Harper chuckled again. “No fears there. The girls aren’t Zhentarim; two, in fact, like to …”
“Harp?” Delg offered, back on his stool again.
“Indeed they do, Sir Dwarf.” Her voice changed again. “But there’s darker news than that.” She coughed briefly and went on. The real reason I want to see Narm safely back on his feet myself, in fact, is that all across the Realms, these last three rides or so, spells have been going wrong. Going wild, sometimes.”
She paused, but no one said anything. Narm stared at the curtain in growing horror. If that was true, what in the name of all the gods was he going to defend Shandril with? And what, a small voice whispered chillingly inside him, will befall if Shandril’s spellfire itself becomes unreliable?
“Magic is no longer the sure thing it once was,” Baergasra said quietly. “A—A certain friend of mine reminded me of Alaundo the Seer, and his prophecies. Something about ‘chaos of Art.’ Remember, Mirt?”
“Aye. Aye.” The old merchant’s voice was rough. “That’s part of the one about the gods walking the world and making war, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Baergasra said in a near whisper from behind the curtain. She was silent for a long time, and then added, “I knew you’d remember, Old Wolf. It’s good to see you again, if Realmsdoom is really upon us. That’s another reason I’d like to stay until morn.”
Mirt nodded and rose quietly, wheezing only a little. He walked around the curtain and replied, “It’s good to see ye again too, Baera. Hmmm—the rags did add a certain something, didn’t theeeeaaHHH!”
He reeled back into view again, doubled over. Mirt, sometimes the Merciless, had ducked too slowly. The soap bucket looked most fetching on his head.
Delg convulsed in silent laughter. Narm and Shandril could not keep so quiet. The dwarf rose amid their mirth and solemnly handed Mirt the brush, pointing meaningfully at the curtain.
Mirt removed the bucket slowly and winced, but took the brush. “I’ll save it for later,” he muttered, and sat down again. “Thanks, Delg.”
“No quarrels,” said the dwarf, finding his stool. “You were impressive indeed, downstairs.”
Mirt grinned. “So it’s my turn to be the giddy-goat here and now, hey?”
“Something like that,” Delg agreed, and they laughed.
“You’ve certainly assembled a band of giggling idiots this time, Mirt,” came the sharp voice from the other side of the curtain.
Mirt raised an eyebrow. “What d’ye mean, ‘this time’?”
Storm took off her second boot and stretched, catlike. On the other side of their leaping fire, Elminster sat sucking his pipe into life in a cloud of drifting, snapping white sparks and curling green smoke.
“The wards, El?” the silver-haired bard asked.
Elminster nodded. “Set as strong as my Art can make them in these troubled times. None can see us or reach us, short of the gods. Ye can lay blades aside, take thy ease, and undress—if that’s what ye’re asking.”
Storm grinned at him and began unbuckling and unlacing. Then she frowned. “What do you mean, ‘in these troubled times’?”
Elminster puffed on his pipe; a small inferno went up. “Magic’s not the sure thing it was a winter ago,” he said. “It’s going wild now sometimes, and not even Mystra herself will answer me over it.”
Storm met his eyes for a long breath of silence, then shivered. “Alaundo,” she whispered, and he nodded. Storm stared at him a moment longer and then sighed, shrugged, and went on disrobing. Silver hair curled free about her shoulders and down her back; she removed dagger sheaths and safe-pouches from where they were strapped next to her skin, and with obvious pleasure rubbed away the marks they left behind.
The old man across the fire had seen her do this many a time before, since the days when he himself had changed her, when she was only a babe. He sat and smoked companionably, directing discarded apparel away with magic that spun unseen from one lazy finger. Clothing floated silently through the air in his direction; more than once Storm smiled her thanks at him. When she was done, he said merely, “Ye still look magnificent, lass.”
“It’s a good thing ye’re the great age ye are, isn’t it?” Storm teased him, mimicking his own voice and manner before he could utter the same sentence. Elminster chuckled and wiggled his eyebrows. Obediently his pipe extinguished, rose up into the darkness overhead, and vanished.
The fire followed it, leaving behind only a warmth and a glowing in the air.
Storm stared at it, and then looked at Elminster, mouth open. “Ye gods,” she whispered, “was that—spellfire? I thought you’d used fire spells to ignite real wood ….”
Elminster shrugged. “The little lass isn’t the only one alive who can work such tricks. She merely does it naturally. Azuth taught me, long ago. It drains me overmuch, mind; I don’t do it lightly.”
“But you did it just for me,” Storm protested.
“That was not a light thing,” Elminster said, deadpan. He winked at her.
Storm reached a hand out through the faint glow to clasp the sage’s hand. “You are a delight, El. I love you, Old Mage.”
“Oh, good,” was the dry reply, and she felt him wriggling closer. “Then ye won’t mind if I lie beside ye here. Being old and shy an’ all that, I’ll be leaving my clothes on, though.”
“You? Shy?” The bard snorted, and then wrinkled her nose. “I forgot to get our blankets. They’re—”
“On the horses where they should be, keeping the faithful beasts warm,” Elminster replied tranquilly. “Ye’ll find ye won’t need blankets—my Art’ll keep us as if we were bundled up, but without getting too hot or the like, and make the ground beneath gentle to lie upon, as well. Trust me.”
Storm met his eyes and smiled. “I do.” They lay side by side in the darkness, holding hands, and looked at the silent stars glimmering high overhead. As Selûne rose and grew bright, Elminster let the faint spell-glow fade until they lay in darkness under the night sky.
They remained together in silence for a time, watching the stars wheel overhead. Although a stranger looking down on them would have placed Storm in her lush late thirties, despite hard muscles and white sword-scars aplenty, and Elminster somewhere the gray side of sixty, both bard and archmage were hundreds of winters older than that.
With his fingers, Elminster stroked the hand that he held, and he thought about the secret he shared with the woman who lay beside him in the grass. The secret that had shaped both their lives.
Both of them carried some of the immortal magefire locked forever inside their bodies, small parts of the divine power of Mystra placed in mortals of Faerûn to maintain some great and mysterious balance. They could be slain, releasing the power of Mystra—as Storm’s sister Syluné had been, not long ago—but grew old only slowly, aged more by the care of responsibilities and the grief of outliving even elven friends than by physical causes. Sometimes, they felt very old.