“I see. Know ye that the present Lord of Highmoon is the half-elven hero of battles Theremen Ulath, just so ye don’t say the wrong thing.” The burly cleric rose and pulled on his helm. “Now eat. The day grows old.”
They ate, and soon the time came when all was ready, and Rathan sighed and said heavily, “Well, the time has borne. We must leave ye.”
He turned on his heel to look southwest. “One day’s ride should take ye to the west end of Tasseldale, in the Dun Hills. That’s one camp. Keep a watch-sleeping together for indoors. Peace, Torm, no jests now. Another day’s careful riding west-just keep Arch Wood to the left of ye, whatever else ye come upon-will bring thee to Deepingdale. Ye can press on after dark once ye’ve found the road, and make The Rising Moon before morning. All right?”
They nodded, hearts full.
“Good then,” Rathan went on in gruff haste, “and none of that weeping, now.” He held out a wineskin to Narm. “For thy saddle.” He fumbled at the large pouch at his hip and brought out a disc of shining silver upon a fine chain and hung it about Shandril’s neck, kissing her on the forehead. “Tymora’s good luck go with thee” he said.
Torm stepped forward next. “Take this,” he said, “and bear it most carefully. It is dangerous.” He held out a cheap, gaudy medallion of brass, set askew with glued-in cut glass stones on a brass chain of mottled hue that did not match the medallion. He put it about Narm’s neck.
“What is it?” Narm asked.
“Look at it now,” Torm said, “lake care how you touch it.” Narm looked. About his neck was no cheap medallion, but a finely detailed, twist-linked chain of heavy work. Upon it hung two small, golden globes, with a larger one between them. “This is magical,” Torm said, “and keep it clear of spellfire or any fiery art, or it may slay you. We call it a necklace of missiles. You, and only you, can twist off one of these globes and hurl it. When it strikes, it bursts as a mage’s fireball does; mind you are not too close. The larger globe is of greater power than the other two. It needs no ritual or words of command to work. Keep it safe; you’ll need it, some day… probably sooner than you think.” He patted Narm’s elbow awkwardly. “Fare you both well,” he said.
The knights mounted, saluted them with bared blades, tossed two small flasks of water, wheeled their mounts, and galloped away. Hooves thudded briefly upon the earth and then died away and were gone.
Narm and Shandril looked at each other, eyes bright and cheeks wet, and slowly embraced. “We really are alone now, my love,” Narm said softly. “We have only each other.”
“Yes,” said Shandril softly. “And that will do.” She kissed him long and deeply before she spun away, leaped into her saddle, and said briskly, “Come on! The sun waits not, and we must ride!”
Narm grinned at her and ran to his own saddle.” Spitfire!” he called as he swung himself up.
Shandril raised her eyebrows and spat fire, obediently, in a long rolling plume that winked out just in front of him. The horses snorted in alarm, and she grinned. “Ah yes,” she agreed, “but thy lady.” She looked west then and tossed her hair from her eyes. “Now,” she commanded, lifting her chin, “let us away!”
Away they sped from that place, leaving only trampled grass and silent, unseen spectral warriors.
The stars were clear and cold outside, but Elminster saw them not. He gazed into a twinkling sphere of crystal on the table before him in the upper room of his tower. Within the crystal he saw a rich, red-carpeted chamber with tapestries of red and silver and gold, a fine, roaring fire, and a lady in a black, tattered gown sitting at a table, gazing back at him.
“Well met, sage, and welcome,” she said with the faintest of smiles.
“Well met, lady queen and mage. Thank ye for allowing this intrusion.”
“Few enough call upon me, old mage, and fewer still do so without some plan to harm or hamper me. I thank you.”
Elminster inclined his head politely. “I have further thanks for thee this night, lady. Thank ye for protecting Narm and Shandril on several occasions-possibly more- these past few days. I am most grateful.”
The Simbul gave him a rare smile. “My pleasure, again.” There was the briefest of silences, and then the old mage asked a careful question.
“Why did ye aid them so, when the maid is such a threat to thy magic, and with it, the survival of Aglarond-and of thee?”
The Simbul smiled. “I know the prophecy of Alaundo and what it may mean. I like Shandril.” She looked away for a moment, and then back at the old mage. “I have a question for you, Elminster. Answer not if you would not. Is Shandril the child of Garthond Shessair and the incantratrix Dammasae?”
Elminster nodded. “I am not certain, lady, but it is very likely.”
An eyebrow lifted. “Not certain? Did you not hide the girl and shelter her as she grew?”
Elminster shook his head very slowly. “Nay. Not I.”
“Who, then?”
“Again, I am not sure. I believe it was the warrior Gorstag, of Highmoon.”
The Simbul nodded. “So I have come to suspect these last few days. I thank you for trusting me so, to answer me openly. I promise you, old mage, that I shall not betray your trust. The girl Shandril is safe from my power-unless the passing years change her as they did Lansharra and she becomes too dangerous to leave unopposed.”
“That is my present burden,” Elminster said heavily. “Such a fall must not happen again.”
“What, if I may ask you without offense, will you do differently this time?” The Simbul was watching him closely, her eyes very dark.
“Leave her be,” Elminster replied. “She will choose her own path in the end. Her choice may be the clearer and happier for her-if not easier in the making-if I do not sit upon her every act and speak upon her every thought.” Elminster met The Simbul’s gaze thoughtfully. “The Harpers can protect her nearly as well as I could, without locking her in my tower and thus keeping her under my eye… and I could not do that without ruining her choice, even had I the cruel heart to do it.”
The Simbul nodded. “That is the right road for you to ride, I think. It is good, indeed, that I needn’t force you to take that route.” Elminster smiled, a little sadly. “A good thing, indeed,” he said very softly, “for such an attempt would likely have destroyed ye.”
The Simbul regarded him soberly. “I know.” She nodded slowly and then almost whispered, “I have never doubted or belittled your power, Elminster. You take the quiet way and play the befuddled old fool, even as I take beast-shape and hide often. But I have seen what your art has wrought. If ever I should have to stand against it, I expect to fall.”
“I did not disturb ye this night to threaten ye.”
“I know,” The Simbul said, rising slowly. “Will you allow me to teleport to you now?”
“Of course, lady,” Elminster said. “But why?”
The Simbul’s eyes were very dark as she let fall her tattered gown. Beneath it, she wore a garment of thin, black silk strands that reached from her throat to cuffs at her wrists and a broad cummerbund belt. The outfit covered little. Set with many small, twinkling gems that winked out when she did, her garment shone the more brilliantly when The Simbul reappeared beside Elminster. Unsmiling, she stood almost timidly amid the dark room’s clutter of papers and books. Elminster gaped at her and then deliberately composed himself and smiled.
“But, lady, I have seen some five hundred winters,” Elminster said gently. “Am I not too old for this?”
She stopped his lips with slim white fingers. “All those years will give us something to talk about, you and I” she said, “instead of art.” She was slim and very light as she sat in his lap, and her skin as she leaned forward to embrace him was smooth and soft. “I would tell you something,” she whispered, as Elminster’s arms went gently around her. “My name, my truename, is-”