Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Eh? Oh, gods, ’tis time already?”

  “It is,” Jhessail said gently. “Elminster awaits!”

  “Gods belch!” Narm growled, rubbing his eyes and flinging back the fur. Just as hastily he pulled it up again. “Ah—my clothes?”

  Shandril laughed helplessly and handed him his robe.

  Illistyl smiled. “We’ll await outside the door. Come when you’re ready.”

  In the passage, she turned and whispered, “Tell no one yet, Jhess, but the Simbul came in by the window and listened, even as I did.”

  Eyebrows lifted. “What did you hear, aside from lovemaking?”

  “The life tale of Narm Tamaraith—full, open, and unadorned. His mother may well have been a Harper,” Illistyl replied. They both had cause to thank that mysterious group of bards and others who served the Realms.

  Jhessail nodded. “He thinks so?”

  Illistyl shook her head. “The thought hasn’t crossed his mind; ’twas his description.”

  The door opened, and the two hastily dressed guests stepped out. Narm looked at the ladies curiously. “I mean no disrespect, but is there a secret way into this room? That chest …”

  “We workers of Art have our secrets,” Illistyl replied crisply. “I dragged it.”

  “Oh,” Narm said, “I see. Uh, sorry.”

  They descended the stairs, nodded to the guards, and went out into the night. It was very warm and still, Selûne shone overhead, and Merith and Lanseril waited with mules. “Well met,” the elf said softly.

  “Where’re we bound?” Shandril asked as he knelt to help her into the saddle.

  “Harpers’ Hill,” Merith replied—a name that meant nothing to either Narm or Shandril—and they set off.

  Save for its heights, cloaked in silver moonlight, Shadowdale lay dark around them. Narm spotted guard posts atop the tower, on the Old Skull tor, by the bridge, and at the crossroads ahead. Silently the guards watched as the small party rode through the dale, east into the trees.

  It was very dark, and the mules slowed to a walk on the narrow forest trail. Someone by the path saluted Merith. As they passed, Shandril saw a grim man in dark leather, a sword ready in his hand.

  “A Harper,” Jhessail explained. “There will be others.”

  The forest changed as they went. The trees became larger, older, and closer together. The dark stillness deepened.

  Thrice more they passed guards, and at last came up a steep slope onto a bare hilltop. On the smooth earth, moonlight lay like a sheet of silver.

  Torm and Rathan waited at the edge of the light. More leather-clad Harpers—men and women, bareheaded with swords drawn—stood beyond.

  The thief and priest greeted Narm and Shandril with quiet smiles and encouraging pats. They took their mules.

  Merith drew Narm to one side, proffering a cloak. “Remove your clothes and leave them here,” he said. “Cover yourself with this.” A little way along the hillside, Jhessail did the same with Shandril. “Boots, too—the ground’s soft.”

  “Will this be … dangerous?” Narm asked Merith.

  The elf shrugged. “Aye, but no more than spending your night any other way. Come, off with it all, lad.”

  The newly robed couple were brought together again. Narm saw Shandril shiver. He doubted it was from cold, and reached for her—but the two Knights stepped smoothly between. Taking their hands, they strode at a brisk pace to the top of Harpers’ Hill.

  Elminster stood in the moonlight at the center of the hill, flanked by Florin and Storm. As Shandril and Narm were brought to them, Elminster scratched his nose and said, “Sorry to get ye from bed for all this mystery and ceremony, but ’tis necessary. I need to know thy powers. Shall we begin, the earlier to be done?”

  The Knights embraced Narm and Shandril, and then left them alone with the Old Mage.

  He drew from his robes a small, battered book and handed it to Shandril. “First, can ye read this?”

  The book was old, but on its brown and crinkled pages, runes sparkled clear and bright. Shandril stared at them, but she recognized nothing. Even as she looked, the runes writhed and crawled, moving as if alive. She shook her head and handed the book back. “No,” she said, rubbing her eyes.

  Elminster nodded, opened the book to a certain page, and extended it to Narm.

  “And ye? Only this page, mind, and at the top only. Tell me the words aloud as fast as ye can make them out.”

  Narm nodded, peered, and said, “Being a Means Both Efficient and Correct for the Creation of—”

  Elminster waved him to silence, took the book back, and selected another page.

  Narm looked longer this time, forehead furrowed. “I—I … ‘A Means to Confound,’ I think it says here,” Narm said at last, “but I can’t be sure, nor is a word more clear to me anywhere on this page.”

  Elminster nodded. “Enough, and well enough!” He turned to Shandril. “How do ye feel?”

  Shandril looked at him with a little frown. “Well in head and body, or at least nothing amiss, but there is a … stirring … a tingling.…”

  Elminster nodded as if unsurprised and looked to Narm. “Have ye any spells or cantrips in thy head?”

  Narm shook his head. “No. I’ve scarce had time to study, since …” His voice trailed off under Elminster’s grin.

  “Aye, and good!” the wizard told him. From somewhere else in his robes, he drew forth a scroll and handed it to Narm. “Read this and cast it at thy lady. ’Tis but a light spell; have no fears of harming her.” He stepped back to watch.

  Narm glanced around the bare, moonlit hilltop, feeling the watching eyes amid the trees. He took a deep breath, and then carefully cast the spell. He centered the Art on Shandril, who stood waiting.

  Light flared around her—but instantly died away.

  Elminster strode close to peer at Shandril. Nodding at the fire in her eyes, he handed another scroll to Narm. “As before.”

  Narm cast another light spell. Again it was absorbed.

  Shandril’s eyes glowed brighter. A third scroll, a third casting, and Shandril’s body took it in.

  The Old Mage waved at Narm to back away and went to Shandril. She reached out in welcome, but he stepped back so as not to touch her. “Lady, see yon boulder? Shatter it with spellfire, if ye will.”

  Shandril looked at him, trembling. Fire leapt in her eyes. “Yes!”

  Fire coiled and raced within her, roiling in her veins. She bore down on it with her will and thrust it into one arm. It built to a soundless thunder.

  Spellfire burst from her hand in a long, rolling gout. The boulder was enveloped in orange flame that built to a blinding white inferno. Watchers felt heat on their faces. An instant later, the rock shattered with a sharp crack, spraying shards across the hillside.

  Shandril let her flames die away, and silence fell. It stretched for a long time.

  Elminster turned to Narm and growled warningly, “Stand back—over beneath that tree.”

  The young mage hastened to obey. Beside him, Merith gave a tight smile, but his eyes scarcely left the hilltop. Narm stared back into the moonlight, too—in time to see the white-bearded old wizard cast a light spell of his own at Shandril.

  It, too, was absorbed.

  Elminster cast two more light spells, using no scrolls, and Shandril’s body drank them. Her eyes flamed like burning coals.

  The Old Mage wove a more complex spell, creating a shimmering, translucent wall in the air—what mages called a wall of force. Elminster nodded to it.

  Shandril obligingly raised her hands and hurled spellfire.

  The flames clawed at the wall and raged, becoming blinding as Shandril bent her full will upon the barrier. At last she gave up and let her flame die, shrugging. The wall still stood.

  Elminster asked, “How do ye feel?”

  Shandril shrugged. “A little scared, but not hurt.” She pushed with her will, letting flames leap from her palms and then wink out in a little spurt. “I ho
ld more yet.”

  The old wizard’s response was swift. “I’ll raise a wall of fire there, before thee. When I nod, kneel before it and hurl spellfire through it, angling into the sky so as not to harm the forest. Only a little, mind. Cast it for the length of a long breath, then cease.”

  Shandril smiled, flames dancing in her eyes. “As you will … a short but steady burst.”

  No sooner had Elminster raised the wall of flames than Shandril knelt and sent spellfire roaring through it. Fire snarled into the night air, drawing the mage’s flames with it.

  When the burst ended, curling away with a rippling and tearing of air, the wall was gone. Tendrils dimmed and vanished in the starlit sky.

  Shandril rose from her knees and sighed.

  “Are ye well?” Elminster asked, his voice alert. Shandril nodded, and the Old Mage added, “Right, then,” raised his hands, and without warning hurled a bolt of lightning at her.

  It crackled and struck, and Shandril reeled.

  Narm cried out involuntarily, but already his lady was standing upright again, and the lightning was gone. The sharp smell of the bolt hung in the air. She turned, bleeding a little where she’d bitten her lip, and smiled reassuringly at Narm.

  Elminster took a step closer. “How fare ye now?”

  “Well enough.” She wore the ghost of a smile. “I feel weary, but not sick or strange.”

  “Good,” the Old Mage said gently. “I shall cast more lightning at thee. Gather and hold it as long as ye can. If it starts to hurt thee or ye feel it trying to burst out and cannot stop it, let it flow into yon boulder. Release it not until then, so that I may learn thy capacity. We have healing means near at hand. Be not afraid.”

  Shandril nodded and stood waiting, hands at her sides. She flinched when the next lightning struck her, but then stood quiet. Elminster hurled bolt after bolt at—no, into—her. The very air crackled.

  Narm twisted his hands but could not look away.

  The Old Mage poured more bolts into Shandril. She stood silent and unmoving. Lightning arced over Harpers’ Hill. At last she bent at the waist with a sob, threw her arms wide, and burst into a pillar of coiling flame.

  “Mother Mystra!” Narm gasped in horror.

  Merith laid hands on him quickly, to prevent his running to a fiery death. Narm screamed his beloved’s name, wrenching and twisting in vain. Through sheer fury he dragged the silent elf forward until Florin set his strength against the young mage’s. Narm struggled in their combined grip.

  On the hilltop, a pillar of living flame writhed where Shandril had stood.

  Abruptly, flames shot from it, lancing to strike the boulder. There was a flash, and everyone who stood watching ducked. Small, red-hot shards of stone showered down through the leaves around them.

  Jhessail hastily worked a wall of force from a scroll she held ready. Lanseril used muttered magic to quench many little fires.

  A smoking scar was all that remained of the boulder. On the summit, a pillar of flame roared, higher than the Twisted Tower, as if to touch the glimmering stars.

  Elminster watched it calmly, a fragment of stone cooling in his hands.

  Slowly the roaring flames died, faded to an angry red, and winked out. Shandril stood nude in the moonlight, sniffing at the stench of her own scorched hair. Its ends were burned, but she was otherwise untouched; her cloak had burned to nothing, but the flames hadn’t marked her.

  Narm burst free of Merith and Florin and ran across the hot stone, heedless of the pain in his bare feet.

  Elminster moved to intercept him, and Shandril backed away. “Keep back, love!” she warned, sharply. “My touch may slay just now.” Narm came to a halt barely a pace away. “I’m well,” she added gently. Her long hair rippled and stirred in the calm air as if with a life of its own.

  Narm stared at her, terror and worry warring on his face. When she smiled again, he whirled to face Elminster, “And what now?”

  “I’ll touch thy lady myself, to end the test,” the Old Mage replied firmly. “I’m protected by potent spells, where ye are not. A moment longer, lad, if ye can contain yourself. If ye cannot, expect not to live long or rise far in the Art.” He strode forward and took Shandril’s hand in his own.

  “Well met, sir,” Shandril said, greeting him with grave courtesy.

  “At thy service, fair lady,” Elminster replied, bowing. His face was expressionless, but his eyes twinkled.

  Narm shook his fists in impatience. “Is she safe?”

  The Old Mage nodded—and was fairly bowled over by Narm’s rush to embrace his lady.

  Elminster stepped back with a wry smile and waved at the trees. Harpers, Knights, and guardsmen of the dale appeared from all sides at a swift trot.

  Elminster looked almost fondly at Narm and Shandril, then smote his forehead. “Gods, I must be getting old!” He swept his cloak about Shandril’s shoulders.

  As he did, the stone he held twisted from his grasp, landing with a thump rather than a clatter. In an instant, it grew into a strange-eyed woman in tattered robes. Her long silvery hair strayed wildly about her shoulders.

  Approaching Harpers reached for their blades.

  “Well met,” Elminster greeted her calmly. “Shandril Shessair, I present to thee the Simbul, Queen of Aglarond!”

  A murmur broke over Harpers’ Hill, followed by silence. Everyone waited for the infamous archmage to speak.

  Shandril gently freed herself from Narm and bowed solemnly.

  The Simbul almost smiled. “Impressive, young lady, but dangerous—perhaps too dangerous. Elminster … all of you … have you thought on this? Here stands a power you might need to silence. She may have to be destroyed.”

  There was another brief babble, and another hush.

  Shandril stared white-faced at the archmage, but Elminster stepped between her and the Witch-Queen.

  “No,” he said simply. He swept everyone on the hilltop with eyes that were sad and wise and very, very old. “Ye,” he said to the Simbul, “I, and all gathered here are ‘dangerous.’ Should we then be destroyed out of hand, forthwith, because of what we might do? Nay! ’Tis the right and the doom of all creatures who walk Faerûn to do as they will; this is why we of the Art frown at those who cast charms.”

  Elminster drew himself up and seemed to gather brightness until he glowed. “Not even the gods took unto themselves the power to control ye or me so tightly that we cannot walk or speak or breathe save at another’s bidding! ’Tis their will that we be free to do as we may. Slay a foe, sure, or defend thyself against a raider—but to strike down one who may someday menace thee? That’s as monstrous as the act of the usurper who slays all babies in a land for fear of a rightful heir!”

  “Aye, well said,” Florin agreed in grim, deliberate challenge to the woman in black.

  No other of the gathering spoke, but waited in breathless silence.

  The Witch-Queen stood in their midst, alone and terrible. They’d all heard of the awesome Art she commanded that held Red Wizards at bay and hurled back their armies time and again. They knew the tales of her temper and cruel humor. The hilltop smelled of fear. Not a sword moved.

  The Simbul nodded, slowly. “Aye, Great One, you truly have the wisdom lore grants you. I agree. If others had not thought likewise, many winters gone, I would not have lived to stand here on Harpers’ Hill now.” She stepped around Elminster, and he did not bar her way.

  Narm moved protectively in front of Shandril. The Simbul came to a halt facing him.

  “I have trusted,” she whispered, her eyes very proud. “Will you not also trust me?”

  Narm stared back at her for a long, tense breath, and stepped aside.

  The Simbul bowed her head and glided up to Shandril. “My forgiveness, if you’ll take it. I wish you well.”

  Shandril nodded, swallowing, and managed a tentative smile. “I—I hold nothing against you, great lady.”

  The Simbul smiled back. Her hand went to the broad black belt ab
out her waist and drew from it a plain brass ring. “A gift for you!” She leaned close until Shandril could smell a faint, strange perfume at her throat. Shandril had never seen eyes so steel gray, stern, and sad.

  “Use this only when all else is lost,” the Simbul whispered. “It will take you, and anyone whose flesh touches yours, to a refuge of mine. It works only once, for the going, and not a return journey. Its word of command is on the inside of the band, invisible save when you heat the ring. Reveal it as often as you like—but speak it not aloud until you intend to use it. Your spellfire will not harm this.” Cold fingers touched Shandril’s, pressing the ring—strangely warm—into her palm.

  “One last thing,” the Simbul added. “Walk your own way, Shandril; let no one control you. Beware those who stand in shadows.” She smiled again and kissed the wondering girl gently on the cheek. Her lips were like both fire and ice.

  As Shandril stared at her, lips trembling into another smile, the queen of Aglarond winked, patted Elminster’s arm, and whirled away in writhing black cloth that seemed smoke. The brief tumult sprang up in the moonlight and became a black falcon; it soared among the stars and was gone.

  Everyone spoke at once.

  Amid the hubbub, Elminster said firmly, “The test is at an end. Narm, take thy lady home, and sleep. My thanks, Shandril. Keep thy spellfire quiet, within, until ye’ve need of it. I know now ’twill not harm thee to carry it. Guard well that ring—a gift from the Simbul is rare indeed!”

  Behind them, Florin quietly arranged a ring of guards to escort the couple back to the Tower.

  “Think on this, and let us know what ye decide,” Elminster added, as they went down into the trees. “Jhessail and Illistyl will train thee, Narm, if ye wish, and I’ll show thee what I can of working together spellfire and spells. The cloak is thine to keep. It will protect thee in battle—I’ll say more on the morrow. ’Tis old, its Art no longer strong, so take care not to drain its magic without intention.” The wizard coughed. “Go now and get to bed—where these old bones would be if I’d any sense. After all, ye could be needed to save Faerûn tomorrow.”