He opened his heart to her and prayed that the two young folk beside him-aye, and Torm, too, hang him-would see only her bright face until they had at least reached Silvery-moon and befriended Alustriel. Everyone needs at least one safe journey-and these two, more than most, because of the spellfire, he told himself.
Rathan looked across the twisted blankets to Shandril’s sleeping face and thought about her weeping spellfire and lashing out angrily with spellfire and tearing open her tunic to pour spellfire out the faster upon a foe. He would not want to carry such power for all the gold in the Realms…
He sighed. If they’d ridden a bit slower, that snake of a mage might have had her yestereve. So close, he’d been. A matter of breaths. Yet one couldn’t nursemaid one who could blast apart mountaintops!
They’d be running into trouble soon enough, these two, and they’d need someone. Rathan sighed. Ah, well, some things ye must leave to Tymora. He got up and began to make tea. Soon they’d be wanting morningfeast, too.
He looked at all the sleepers, and a smile touched his lips. Why wake them? The younglings needed a good, long sleep when they were guarded and could relax. Let ‘em sleep, then. He peered south to see if he could glimpse the River Ashaba, but it was too far away yet. Ah, well. We’ll ride with them until they’re up at dawn tomorrow, and then turn back. If Elminster is half the archmage he pretends to be, surely he can hold Shadowdale together that long.
Scratching under his armor, Rathan opened his food supply pack. Ah, well… another day, another dragon slain.
“Will ye never be done all that scratching and scribbling?” Elminster demanded, “you’re not writing an epic, ye know!”
Lhaeo turned calm eyes upon him. “Stir the stew, will you?” Elminster snorted, shifted his unlit pipe from hand to mouth, and began to stir.
“You miss those two, don’t you?” the scribe asked him softly without turning.
The old mage stared at Lhaeo’s back angrily for a long breath and then muttered, “Aye,” around his pipe, set the ladle back in its place, and sat down upon the squat cross-section of a large tree that served as a seat next to the tiny kitchen table. “ Tis not every day one sees spellfire destroy one’s own prismatic sphere without delay or a lot of effort. Or see the high-and-mighty Manshoon put to flight by a young girl who’s never cast a spell in her life.”
“A thief, she said she was-or at least, she joined the Company of the Bright Spear as a thief.”
Elminster snorted again. “Thief? She’s as much a thief as you are. If we had a few more thieves like that girl, the Realms would be so safe we’d not need locks! Swords, aye, but no more locks. Which reminds me… locks, and locked-away books, that is-Candlekeep-Alaundo. What did old Alaundo say about spellfire? We must be getting fairly close to that prophecy now, too, so it’s no doubt Shandril he’s talking about.”
Lhaeo smiled. “As it happens, I looked up the words and sayings of Alaundo the last night they spent here. To your left, under the jam jar, on the uppermost scrap of paper, I’ve copied the relevant saying. If a certain ‘war among wizards’ has already begun in Faerun, it is next to be fulfilled.”
Elminster halted his flailing about in the vicinity of the jam-jar to fix Lhaeo with a hard glance, but the scribe went on with his writing.
“What’re you doing?” Elminster demanded. “There you sit, scribbling, while the stew thickens and burns. What is it?”
Lhaeo smiled again. “Stir the stew, will you?” he asked innocently. Then, before the old mage’s fury could erupt beyond a rising growl, he said, “I’m noting down the limits of Shandril’s power, as observed by you and the knights. The information may prove useful some day,” he added very quietly, “if she must ever be stopped.”
Elminster stared at him a moment and then nodded, looking very old. “Aye, aye, you have the right of it, as usual.” He sighed. “But not that little girl. Not Shandril. Why, she’s but a little wisp of a thing, all laughter and kindness and bright eyes-”
“Aye. Like Lansharra,” Lhaeo answered simply. Elminster nodded, very slowly, and said nothing. There was silence for a long time. Lhaeo finished his work, blew upon the page, and got up. The sage sat like a statue, his eyes on the fire. Lhaeo reached over him, slid a scrap of paper from under the jam-jar, and laid it before Elminster. He turned away to see to food, without a word. Perhaps four breaths later, he heard the old mage’s voice behind him, and he smiled to himself. Put a recipe for fried sand snake in front of Elminster and he’d be reading it in a trice.
“ ‘Spellfire will rise, and a sword of power, to cleave shadow and evil and master art.’ “ Elminster read it as though it was a curious bard’s rhyme or a bad attempt at a joke. Lhaeo waited. Elminster spoke again. “ ‘Master art? What did Alaundo mean by that? She’s to become a mage? She has not the slightest aptitude for it-and I’m not completely new to teaching art, ye know!”
“I have found that Alaundo’s sayings make perfect sense after they have happened, for the most part,” Lhaeo said, “but they help precious little beforehand.”
“Ahhh… stir the stew!” Elminster grunted. “I’m going out for a pipe.” The door banged behind him. Lhaeo grinned.
The stairs creaked as Storm came down them barefoot, silver hair shining in the firelight.
“Leave the stew,” she said softly to Lhaeo. “It’s probably been thrashed into soup by now, between the both of you.”
Lhaeo smiled and put strong arms around her. “Let us go back upstairs,” he said gently, “before he returns for a flame to light his pipe. Haste, now!”
The bed creaked as they sat upon it, a scant instant before the door, below, banged open again. Outside, Elminster chuckled and then hummed his favorite of the tunes Storm had devised. One didn’t get to be five hundred winters old without noticing a thing or two.
They rode steadily south all that day on a road busy with wagons rumbling north out of Sembia. Hawk-eyed outriders and shrewd, watchful merchants looked them over often, and the scrutiny always made Narm and Shandril uncomfortable.
Torm had acquired a moustache from somewhere about his person, as well as some brown powder of the sort used as cosmetics in the Inner Sea lands. Skillfully he rubbed it about his eyes and jaw and cheekbones, until his face seemed subtly different. He rode in silence for the most part-a mercy upon his companions-and affected a soft, growling voice when he did speak. He remained to the rear as they rode.
Looking back, Narm could see the glistening whites of his eyes darting this way and that in the shadowy gloom of a cap that hid his face. The conjurer gathered that Torm was a little too well known in Sembia or nearby to ride openly on the high road this far south without his fellow knights around him.
Rathan, however, paid such cautions no mind. He rode easily before Shandril, speaking loudly of the kindnesses and spectacular cruelties of the Great Lady Tymora, and occasionally pointing out a far-off landmark or the approaching colors of a merchant house or company of the Inner Sea lands. But he seemed to be addressing her as Lady Nelchave, and occasionally comparing things to ‘your hold, Roaringcrest.’ Shandril answered him with vague murmurs, trying to sound bored. In fact, she was enjoying riding in the comfortable security of Rathan and Torm’s presence, with a guided tour of the countryside.
Torm and Rathan preferred to lunch in the saddle without halting, Shandril found it fascinating to watch them fill nosebags with skins of water and lean forward to hang them carefully about the necks of their mounts and mules, after first letting each animal taste and smell the contents of such a bag. They deftly passed bread, cheese, and small chased metal flasks of wine about. Torm even produced four large, iced sugar rolls (probably pilfered from some passing cart or other) from somewhere about his person. Shandril began to wonder if he had endless pockets, like those of Longfingers the Magician in the bards’ tales.