“Hush, lady,” Elminster said, eyes moist. “Keep it safe. We shall trade them, soon. But not now.”
The tears came. “Ah, old mage,” The Simbul said, sobbing into his chest, “I have been so lonely…”
Lhaeo, who had come up the dark stairs with tea, the pot wrapped in a thick scarf to keep it warm, stopped outside the door and heard them. He set the tray down carefully on a table nearby and went softly downstairs again for a second cup. What is the weight of secrets? he wondered to himself. How many may a man carry? How many more, a woman, or an elf?
It was dark outside, but in the little cottage near the woods candles flickered and the hearthfire blazed merrily. A woman straightened up from the cauldron as they came in. She was no longer young, and the clothes she wore were simple and much patched. She gasped. “My lords! Welcome! But I have nothing ready to feed you. My man’s not to be back from the hunt until morning.”
“Nay, Lhaera,” Rathan said kindly, embracing her. “We cannot stay, but must hasten back to Shadowdale. We have an errand for thy daughter that is urgent, and I would renew Tymora’s bright blessing upon this house.”
Lhaera looked at them in wonderment. “With Imraea? But she’s scarce six-”
Torm nodded. “Old enough that her feet are firmly on the ground.” He was interrupted then by the precipitous arrival of a small, dark-haired whirlwind who fetched up against his legs, laughing. As he reached down to embrace her, she danced back out of his reach and announced solemnly, “Well met, Torm and Rathan, Knights of Myth Drannor. I am pleased to see you.”
Both knights bowed, and Rathan answered solemnly, “We are pleased to see thee, lady. We have come to discharge our duty to ye. Are ye in good health and of high spirits?”
“Aye, of course. But look how beautiful my mother is since you healed her! She grows taller, I think!”
Torm and Rathan regarded the astonished and smiling Lhaera carefully. “Aye, I think you are right. She does grow taller,” Torm said solemnly. “Be sure to send word to us when she grows too tall for the roof, for you will need some help rebuilding then.”
Imraea nodded. “I will do that.” She eyed Torm. “You are making me wait, Sir Knight. Is my patience not well held? Am I not solemn enough?” Then she fairly danced. “Did you bring it?”
“It is not an ‘it.’ It is a ‘he,’ as you are a she,” said Torm severely, drawing open his cloak and letting something soft and furry into her arms. Its fur was silver and black, and it had great, dark, glistening eyes. It let out a small and inquiring meow. Imraea held it in wonder as it stretched its nose out to hers.
“Has it-he-a name?”
Rathan regarded her severely. “Aye, it has a truename, which it keeps hidden, and a kitten name. But you must give it a proper name, the name you can call it. Take care you choose wisely. The kitten will have to live with your choice.”
“Aye,” Imraea agreed seriously. “Tell me, please, its kitten name that I may call it so while I think on such an important choice.” Lhaera smiled broadly.
“Its name,” said Torm with dignity, “is Snuggleguts.” Torm dropped nine pieces of gold into her hand.
“What is this?” Imraea asked in wonder.
“Its life,” Rathan said. “The kitten will need milk, and meat, and fish, as it grows, and it wilt need much care, and to be kept warm. You, or your parents, must buy those things. You must take the mice and rats it will kill, thank your pet without any disgust or sharp words, and bury them. It is your duty. Know you, Imraea, that the gods gather back to themselves cats and dogs and horses even as they do you and me. There is no telling when Snuggleguts may die. So treat it well and enjoy its company, but let your kitten roam free and do as it will. Each time you see your pet may be the last.”
“I will. I thank you both. You are kind, you two knights.”
“We but do the right thing,” Torm replied softly.
“Aye, that you do,” Lhaera said to them. “And there’s few enough, these days, who take the trouble to do that.”
Sunset at The Rising Moon
By night dark dreams bring me much pain -but always comes, after, bright morning again.
Mintiper Moonsilver, bard
Nine Stars Around A Silver Moon
Year of the Highmaritle
“The Wearers of the Purple are met,” Naergoth Bladelord said. “For the glory of the dead dragons!”
“For their dominion,” came the ritual response from sullen throats. Naergoth looked around the chamber.
Malark had not shown his face again. Naergoth was beginning to worry that something ill-and probably final-had befallen him. By the looks others were giving his empty seat, he was not the only one thinking along such lines. Long faces aplenty looked back at him.
“Well enough,” Dargoth said. “What say you, Zannastar? You stand for our mages in the absence of Malark, and the doubt grows in my mind that we shall ever see him alive here again.”
“It is not my place to speak as one of you,” said Zannastar, a balding, bearded man of middle years. “I do not wear the purple.”
His hard face turned to look down the table. “But I do think that the more one listens, the more one learns. Something, whether it’s spellfire or not, is striking down brother after brother, and many of your sacred ones, too- Rauglothgor and Aghazstamn were both of great power. Can the dracolich Shargrailar be any the safer? Its lair is on the other side of the Peaks, true, but still near.”
“Yes,” Zilvreen agreed, “and yet the Sacred Ones can look after themselves far better than we can defend them, if we know not where the blow may fall. Better we go after this Shandril ourselves and destroy her. If we cower in lairs awaiting her attack, we have already conceded the victory.”
“Yes, yes, we have heard this line before and agreed to it,” Naergoth said. “Our absent mage may have died following it.”
“Let this Shandril and the fledgling mage Narm go, then,” Dargoth said. “The cost is too high.”
“Too high already,” agreed the cleric Salvarad in a soft voice that warned of sharp things beneath its purr. The triple lightning bolts of Talcs, worked in silver, gleamed upon his breast. “Yet, brothers, consider the cost if it becomes widely known that a young girl-a young girl who commands an unusual and powerful ability of art-has defied us and destroyed so many of us! Can we afford to let her go-at any price-now? What think you?”
“Oh, aye, for the cost of a loss of reputation, let her go,” Zilvreen said. “What loss is that? A few butcherings and mannings and menaces and that sort of loss is mended, at least among those folk with whom it works at all. But can we afford to pass up our chance of wielding spellfire, when our enemies could end up using it against us? There is the real price, brothers.”
“Yes, we cannot afford to face this spellfire-that we have seen clearly. But we cannot let our foes gain it!” one of the warriors said. The man beside him turned to look in surprise.
“You think your enemies can stand against it? Hah! I’ve heard it whispered that Manshoon of Zhentil Keep was put to flight by this girl! I say we keep our ranks safe and war no more upon this Shandril-unless time and Tymora weaken her so that our chances are improved. Let others go after her and be the weaker for it! We shall reap the reward of their folly as the vulture dines upon the fields of fallen.
“Swords have got us where we are today. Aye, not without art and divine favor, I’ll grant, but swords have kept rulers and bandits at bay. We do not need this spellfire. Waste not our best blood on it!”
“Well said, Guindeen. Yet,” Salvarad responded, “can we afford to let our foes win spellfire to wield against us? We should all then be destroyed.”
“You bring us to the hard choice, indeed,” Naergoth Blade-lord said quietly, “and that brings us to the choice behind it: Who wants to go up against this young maid?” He looked around the table, but the silence that followed grew heavy.