It had become part of a large and rambling mansion in her lost years, the abode of a fat, shambling man who at first horrified and disgusted her. Then, ever so slowly, her feelings toward this Mirt had changed. It had begun after she became able to vocalize and show herself and seek to scare him as a "haunting," knowing what she'd become. She succeeded only in amusing him, then in awakening his pity. He sought to chat with her on long, lonely nights, and when she dared converse, he flirted with her, tried to befriend her, and asked what he could do to make her welcome and happy.
"Ye could get out of my house!" she'd shrieked at him that first time, centuries of rage and grief overwhelming her. She had been taken with shame when he pursued her weeping and sought to learn of her life. So had his lady, the impish Asper, who even invited her into their shared bed, betimes sought to play games with her, and seldom forgot to tell her gossip and unfolding news upon her every return to what now even Ieiridauna was pleased to call "Mirt's Mansion."
Other buildings, even in Waterdeep, had watchghosts, but Ieiridauna doubted many of them felt as happy as she.
Now, upon the heels of that unpleasant Athkatlan's visit, something dark and unseen had come into the house. Lurking near the Master and the Mistress and their friend, so subtle among the shielding magics that she'd not sensed it until it reached out, so silent and sinister…
With a shriek of rage and fear that her happiness was to be snatched away from her once more, Ieiridauna hurled herself from the forehall up the stairs to the office, whelming the protective magics of the house around her like a cloak of magic, armor and weapon both against this dark intruder.
He-somehow she knew it was a "he"-sought to drink spells, to gorge himself on the magic she'd freed to empower herself, but Ieiridauna spun bright fire out of the energies surging through her, feeding it to him, then calling it back to her like savage claws to rake him and shred him. It took but a few whirling, shrieking seconds to drive him howling away…
Moaning and whimpering to himself in spinning silence, Evaereol Rathrane drifted torn and ravaged across Water-deep, helpless once more and hurting. Below him magic winked and flared, a field of glittering flames to his gaze. He gasped and let himself fall toward this well of so many magics, warring and flashing or slumbering on all sides. None of them so bright as the two ladies of the Weave, but one thing, at least, hadn't changed since nis aimry rem^niu^eu days in Jethaere: If you came too close, bright flames still burned you.
Before whatever it was had attacked him, slashing at him with too much power to master in so short a time, the Laeral-she had spoken with others about "real power," and the word "spellfire" had been uttered. Now, that was something to seek, surely. An amount of power that the Laeral-she spoke of with respect must be great indeed… and just what he needed.
Yet his approach must be cautious, lest bright flames burn him once more.
The shadowy thing that had been Rathrane of Jethaere sank into the glittering carpet of small magics that was Waterdeep's Castle Ward, dreaming of spellfire… and greatness.
Death and Dark Surprises
Life holds moments of joy and glee and glory. Try to brand them into your memories, to take out and clutch close and comfort in when life serves up its far more abundant harvests: of fear, cold, loneliness, rage, death and dark surprises.
The wagons were rolling along the Trade Way into the bright morning of another day. Arauntar and the other guards spurred their horses up and down the rumbling line with renewed vigor after an uneventful night. The Black-rocks looked as wild and windswept and empty of beasts as ever on all sides of Voldovan's caravan, as Narm sat on the wagon-perch beside Shandril and gave her his four hundred and sixth anxious sidelong look since awakening.
This time, Shandril looked back at him and snapped, "Are you going to do that all the way to Waterdeep? Tis me! Shan, not some crawling, shiny-scaled monster!"
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly, by way of reply.
Shandril abruptly looked away, saying nothing, and they sat side by side in silence for a time as the wagon bounced and rumbled on.
There came an especially violent crash and lurch, and Narm flung his arm around his lady as he always did. This time Shandril clung to him when the rocking of the wagon subsided and murmured into his chest, "The spellfire: I'm starting to dream of it, now, just blazing away endlessly. It boils up in me, making me hot, and drives me awake… and when I waken, I find it leaking out of my fingers, as little flames."
"I know," Narm replied, even more quietly. "That's why yon blanket was wet this morn. It started to smolder and woke me. I dunked it in the fire-bucket."
"Without waking me? The bucket must've been right beside you!"
"That's where it's been these last few nights… ever since you scorched me."
Shandril gasped and stared up into his face. "I-you never told me!"
Narm gave her a thin smile. "Why? To keep you awake worrying about it, or have you insist on sleeping outside the wagon or somewhere else where I couldn't touch you or guard you? How would that help either of us?"
They stared at each other for what seemed like a very long time, as the wagon rocked and rumbled, before Shandril asked pleadingly, "Narm, what am I going to do?”
Narm opened his mouth twice, then closed it again before uttering a word. They both knew he had no answer to give her.
"Patience," Korthauvar Hammantle murmured, leaning forward over a crystal ball that mirrored the whirling glow of his still-forming farscrying spell. "The Cult warriors lie in wait, and the caravan has almost reached them. Whatever. befalls, our tarrying is almost at an end. It won't be long now."
Hlael Toraunt threw up his hands with a loud sigh. "Cult warriors!" he echoed. "Swordheads who serve the Dragon-worshipers, not us! Drauthtar's not going to like this!"
"Pray let me be the judge of what Drauthtar does and does not like," a voice said crisply and coldly out of the tall, half-empty decanter hard by Korthauvar's elbow. The two Zhentarim wizards stiffened in unison, knowing all too well who they were hearing.
"D-drauthtar?" Hlael asked faintly. "You-you approve, then? Or desire us to act differently?"
"I've desired the two of you to act differently for years," was the curt reply, "but I entertain similar desires for most lesser mages of the Brotherhood. I see far too much wild, ruthless ambition and far too little obedience to orders and diligence to decreed strategies-too much treachery and too little teamwork. Yet my patience outstrips Korthauvar's as the sun outshines a candle. Manshoon himself-dragonriding, no less-went boldly after spellfire and was forced into flight. Many, many more Brotherhood mages after him made their own reckless snatches at spellfire and paid with their lives. If you have more success than they did, I'll overlook the time you took."
"And if we don't?" Hlael managed to ask through a very dry throat.
"The time for overlooking will then be past," the decanter replied. "Both on the part of your superiors in the Brotherhood and of this Shandril who hurls spellfire at annoying mages."
Hlael Toraunt started to tremble so violently that the decanter rattled on its tray, but the voice came no more. Even after Korthauvar let his spell collapse to snatch up the decanter and hurl it into bursting shards and wet-spraying wine against the nearest wall, neither mage felt any the less watched.