The bunny turned a cartwheel in the air and thudded back to earth, where it lay still.
“Rose of Moander!” Islif gasped, growing a broad grin. “You did it!”
Jhessail’s answering cry was lost in a sudden chorus of barks and bays. Over the shoulder of the meadow came an all-too-familiar torrent of teeth and loping legs and burr-bedecked, flea-ridden coats. Hearing their voices, though they weren’t on Estle land, Belkur Estle had loosed his dogs.
Islif growled her annoyance and ran for her cudgel.
Jhessail took an uncertain step back-then stepped forward again, looking determined. She had but the one missile, but if she could down Old One-Eye, their leader, the others might well draw off in confusion.
Or so she hoped.
Islif waded into briars, cursing, but turned as One-Eye’s rising growl of menace suddenly turned into a yelp-and just as suddenly fell silent, as if cut off by a knife.
Or a spell.
The lead dog of Estle’s pack, it seemed, would never be a belligerent terror in the Esparran fields again.
The others were barking furiously at Jhessail-but they were doing so stiff-legged, leaping back and forth in a line of not-daring that confronted her, their headlong charge broken.
Islif laid hands on her cudgel and burst out of the briars in a roaring charge of her own.
To the dogs, she was a familiar foe, and they had bruises and stiffnesses of broken ribs a-plenty to remind them of her prowess. Their barkings rose higher and more fearful, marking their hasty retreat.
“Well done!” Doust called in cheerful greeting, as he and Semoor came out of Rorth Urtree’s woodlot together.
“Ah, the two holy men. Arriving just too late to be useful, as usual,” Islif replied. “Saw you the spells?”
“Of course. We’re foolish, not blind. Shall we start a fire to cook the bunny, or did Jhess’s spell cook it for us?”
Islif reached for her belt knife. “We’ll have to find out. Yet, look you, we can be true adventurers now: We have our wizard!”
“True adventurers,” Jhessail echoed thoughtfully as they gathered around her. “I wonder where Florin is?”
“Mother Mielikki, that feels better!” Florin said, stretching. Water pattered on leaves as he clambered onto the boulder. His rippling muscles were magnificent, and he gave Narantha a bright smile as he joined her.
She broke off staring at him and looked away quickly, blushing.
“Your turn,” he announced, and when she looked up at him again, she discovered he’d assumed a hero’s pose: exact mimicry of the balled fists and sternly lifted chin of the famous statue of King Dhalmass Surveying The Realm. Oh, yes, there was supposed to be a copy of it on Espar’s village green, wasn’t there?
The effect was hilarious, and she had to bite her lip to keep from giggling. Florin moved one eye sidelong to give her a wink, and she looked away again, knowing he could see her suppressing her mirth.
When she looked back at him this time, their gazes met, and she blushed a deep scarlet, but kept her eyes on his and asked curiously, “That scar on your hand; how came you by it?”
“Dragon breath. Back when I was young, I was foolish-rather than the wise elder of the realm I am now. A caravan merchant had a pet red dragon he was taking to sell in Sembia, where the real fools live. It was about the size of a large dog-a wolfhound-and I made the mistake of trying to pet it.”
“What?”
“You’re terribly fond of that word. What merchant? What dragon? What happened next? Or d’you mean ‘I can’t believe you’?”
Narantha stared at him. “I… I guess I really mean ‘I don’t believe it.’ No one-no one’s ever talked to me as you do.”
Florin dropped his pose and stood casually facing her. “And are you going to have me horsewhipped for it, when we reach Espar?”
“No.” She looked at the ground, and said almost petulantly, “You must think I’m some sort of dragon. I-” Almost reluctantly, she looked up again. “No, of cour-no, I’m not.”
“Well, that’s a relief. Your turn in the Dathyl; ’tis not exactly warm, but it’ll be colder later on.”
Narantha looked at the forester thoughtfully, as if judging him, then blurted out, “Don’t stop doing it. Even when I scream at you. Please. You’re like the older brother I’ve never had.”
Florin smiled. “Have my thanks, Narantha. Those words are… nice to hear.” He reached out to pat her shoulder, and said not a word when she flinched away from him.
Swallowing, she deliberately stepped forward again to meet his hand.
“So,” Florin asked lightly, unhooking the catch of her weathercloak, “will you let your older brother help wash your hair?”
Horaundoon frowned over his scrying orb. The hargaunt belled questioningly.
Without taking his eyes off the glowing orb, the Zhentarim replied, “Echoes. I’ve never felt echoes before. I wonder…”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “They could just be wards, or detection spells responding to my magic… or they could be something more dangerous.”
Horaundoon went on staring into the orb. The hargaunt trilled and chimed again, but he made no reply.
“He knows,” Horaundoon said suddenly, one of his hands closing into a fist. “The elf knows my magic is drifting into his mantle. He keeps looking over… ah, there it is. A scepter of some sort, probably his strongest battle-magic. Yet he casts nothing, makes no adjustments to his mantle at all. Restless, though, as if he wants to. Yes, he’s itching to. So why the echoes, if he’s not-?”
His eyes narrowed, and he scratched at his jaw as if at an agonizing itch. “Once my spell conquers the focal gem and the spellstealing begins, the link back to me is strong. Yet if I hold back from the gem, and trace all spells linked to it, I should be able to see if our elf mage has some waiting friends.”
Horaundoon closed his eyes and let his hands fall to his sides, concentrating hard. “Yes,” he whispered, after a long moment. “Yes, there’s a second link… and a third. Tracing spells. Nigh a dozen.”
He opened his eyes as he ended his spell, letting it collapse and take the distant elf away from him. “And other mages at the end of every one of them! A band of wizards waiting to spring their trap on the mysterious Eater-of-Mantles. Not a mantle among them, but I daresay they’ll have minds brimming with murderous spells and eagerness to use them.”
The hargaunt spoke, and the Zhentarim smiled a wolflike smile. “Not ended, just halted for a time, until I can craft a spell to plunder mages’ minds when they’re not wearing a mantle. In the meantime, I can attend more revels and learn about a few more magical baubles in the collections of old and foolheaded Cormyrean nobles. While their house wizards probe at me in vain, finding minor cosmetic spells but not the shapeshifting magics they’re expecting. Thanks to you. ”
He grinned at the hargaunt almost fondly, and its chiming reply was intricate and enthusiastic.
The Lady Narantha Crownsilver came out into the glade and stopped in wonder. Florin strode on in his nigh-soundless way, but seemed to sense she wasn’t right behind him. He whirled around, saw that nothing menaced her, and came back to join her, moving as quietly as ever.
Narantha no longer felt sticky and dirty, and for the first time her boots felt familiar and almost painless. The sun was bright and warm, birds were calling in the trees around, and looking down the length of the glade she could see the land ahead rising in a great shoulder of pines and duskwoods, to a rocky ridge. Beyond, purple in the distance, great mountains rose like so many eternal fangs against the cloudless blue sky: the Storm Horns… and somewhere at their forefront, probably hidden behind the nearby ridge, rose the bright fang that was the great castle of High Horn.