Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  “Yes! But what of the Harpers?”

  “Well …”

  Outside in the night, Torm strained to hear, but slipped. He breathed a curse upon fickle Tymora as his splayed, iron-strong fingers slid slowly down the wet slates. He soon ran out of roof and fell over the edge.

  Desperately, with his last instant of grip, he swung himself inward—and then he was falling, mind racing coolly. Now!

  His fingers closed on a window ledge. With a jerk that nearly wrenched his arms from their sockets he brought himself to a halt, to hang grimly. It was then that he noticed his left hand had come down hard on a nesting dove and crushed its frail body.

  “Ugghh,” he said, suppressing an urge to snatch his hand away.

  “I’d put it even more strongly than that!” said the crumpled bird, opening one eye to glare at him.

  At that, Torm did fall.

  The bird sighed, became Elminster, and murmured a word. Strands of sticky web raced from his fingertips, stabbing like lances at the grounds below—and enveloping Torm on the way.

  The thief came to a slow, rubbery halt mere feet from the ground and hung helplessly. He began to struggle.

  “Serves ye right,” Elminster muttered darkly, and became a bird again.

  Above the two eavesdroppers, Shandril and Narm had decided to join the Harpers. “After all,” as Narm put it, “if we don’t like it, we can back out!”

  “Shall we tell them now?”

  “No. Sleep on it, Elminster said.”

  Outside, Elminster smiled quietly, though one couldn’t see it for the beak.

  “And so to bed again, you and I,” Narm said, “and this time I’ll neither hear nor proffer any life story.”

  Shandril’s answering laugh was low and delighted.

  Outside, on the window ledge, the bird that was Elminster rolled its eyes and looked at the stars glimmering above Selûne. The Silent Sword had ascended above the trees; the night was half done.

  The dove’s beak dwindled and became a human mouth—which softly sang a snatch of a ballad that had been old when Myth Drannor fell:

  … and in the wind and the water

  the storm-king’s fire-eyed daughter

  came a-rolling home across the sea

  leaving none on the wreck alive but me.…

  17

  HARPS AND BRIGHT HOPE

  ’Tis the greatest happiness of all to find a worthy, steadfast partner to share life with. The gods grant a rare few a consort loyal, skilled, and loving who becomes our closest friend. But thus the gods entertain themselves, by granting rather less—someone suitable during the good times, but whom we could cheerfully murder on some mornings.

  Jerenneth Ghaluin of Neverwinter

  Tavern Dancing My Way to Wizardly Might

  Year of the Bridle

  The morning sun rose hot over Shadowdale, glinting on helms and spear points atop the Old Skull. Mist rolled down the Ashaba in a swift, silent storm.

  Narm and Shandril rose early and set out for a brisk morning walk, accompanied by six watchful guards. The constant flash and gleam of bright armor reminded the two lovers of danger lurking near—and of the spellfire that lured it.

  Despite a good dawnfry of fried bread and goose eggs at the tower, they still felt hungry, and stopped at the Old Skull Inn for bowls of hot stew. Jhaele Silvermane bid them fair morning as she served them, waved away their coins, and asked when the wedding would be.

  Shandril blushed, but Narm said proudly, “As soon as can be arranged—or sooner.”

  The guards chuckled, and developed sudden thirsts for ale, which made Shandril shudder at the early hour. All soon set forth up the road toward Storm Silverhand’s farm.

  The dale was quiet despite the morning vigor of workers in the fields. All Faerûn seemed at peace, under a cloudless sky. Striding happily, his arm linked through Shandril’s, Narm realized they had only a vague idea where Storm Silverhand’s farm was. He turned to the nearest guard, a scarred, mustachioed veteran who bore a spear lightly in his hairy hand. “Good sir,” Narm asked, “could you guide us to the dwelling of Storm Silverhand?”

  “It lies before you, Lord—from this cedar stump here up to the line of bluewood yonder.”

  Narm nodded and said his thanks. Shandril had already hurried ahead. The others trotted to catch up to her.

  The farm lay hidden behind a high, crown-hedged bank. Over the hedge appeared the upper leaves of growing things. All was lush and green. Bees danced among the blossoms of a creeper that coiled along the hedge. The guards walked watchfully, weapons ready, but Shandril couldn’t believe any swift danger could lurk in such a place, on such a morning.

  They turned off the road where a broad track cut through the hedge, following it along twisted oaks to a large, rambling fieldstone house. Its thatched roof was thick with velvety moss and alive with birds. Vines on tripods and pole-frames stretched away in rows, like hallways amid the green, rustling walls of a great castle. Far down one they saw Storm Silverhand at work, her long silver hair tied back with a ragged scrap of cloth.

  The bard wore torn leather breeches and a halter, both shiny with age. Swinging a hoe with strength and care, Storm was covered with a glistening sheen of sweat. Stray leaves stuck to her here and there. She waved. Laying down the hoe, she hastened toward them, wiping her hands on her thighs. “Well met!”

  “I’m going to hate leaving here,” Shandril said in a small, husky voice.

  Narm squeezed her hand. “I am, too, but we can come back when we are stronger. We will come back.”

  Surprised at the iron in his tone, Shandril smiled in agreement.

  Storm reached them. The pleasant smell of the bard’s sweat—like warm bread, sprinkled with spices—hung around her. Narm and Shandril both stared. Storm smiled. “Am I purple, perhaps? Grotesque?”

  Narm said hastily, “Pray pardon, Lady! We did not mean to stare!”

  “None needed, Narm, and no ‘Lady,’ please … we’re friends. Come in and share sweetwater, then let us talk. Few enough come to see me.” Leading them toward the house, she asked, “So what’s so strange about me?”

  Shandril giggled. “Such brawn.” She pointed at the bard’s flat, tanned midriff. Corded muscles rippled on Storm’s flanks and arms as she walked.

  The bard shook her head. “It’s just me.” She led them through a stout wooden door that swung open by itself into cool dimness. “Sit here by the east window and tell me what brings you here on such a fine morn. Most seek Storm in fouler weather.”

  “Urrhh,” Narm winced. “Jests as bad as Elminster.”

  Storm grinned and handed him a long, curving drinking-horn of blown glass, shaped like a bird.

  He held it in awe. “It’s really glass!”

  “Aye,” the bard replied, filling another. “From Theymarsh in the south, where such things are common. It breaks easily.”

  Shandril held hers apprehensively, too.

  A guard backed away when offered one. “Ah, no, Lady. Just a cup, if you have one. I’d feel dark the rest of my days if I broke such as that.”

  Shandril murmured agreement.

  The bard smiled, hands on hips, and spoke softly to the guardsmen. “We must be alone, these two and I, to talk. Bide here, if you will. The beer is in that cask; ’tis not good to drink more sweetwater so soon. Bread, garlic butter, and sausage is in the cold-pantry—eat hearty, but come with speed if you hear my horn.” She took down a silver horn from a beam near her head, and turned to Narm and Shandril. “Drink up. There’s much to talk about.” She went to the back of her kitchen and swung open a little arched door, letting in the sunlight. “Follow this path into the trees, and you’ll find me,” she said, and vanished down it.

  The visitors looked around the low-ceilinged kitchen. Herbs hung from its dark wooden beams, and all was cozy and friendly—but not the wild showplace of Art and lore one might expect of a bard’s home. A small harp stood half-hidden in the shadows near the pantry door. N
arm almost dropped his glass when suddenly, and all alone, it began to play.

  They all stared as the strings plucked themselves.

  One guard rose, clapping hand to blade, but a veteran turned on him. “Peace, Berost! ’Tis Art, aye, but no Art to harm us!”

  The harp played an unfamiliar tune that rose and fell gently ere it climbed and died away on a high, chiming cluster of notes.

  “Sounds elven,” Narm said quietly.

  “Let’s ask,” Shandril said, standing her empty glass carefully on the table. “I’m done.”

  Narm drained his with a last tilting swallow and set it beside hers.

  They nodded to the guards and went out the little door. The path twisted down a little ravine, beneath overhanging trees. They followed it through dappled sunlight and deepening shade, to emerge by a small pool where a stream widened.

  Storm stood beside it in a robe, her hair a wet silver cascade. She sat on a rock at the pool’s edge and beckoned them to adjacent rocks. Near her head, the silver horn hung from a branch.

  “Come and bathe, or sit and dabble your toes; ’tis soothing.” Storm’s eyes were dark and serious. “And tell me what hangs on your hearts.”

  “The harp that played by itself,” Narm asked, “was that an elven tune?”

  “Aye, an air of the Elven Court that Merith taught me. Is that all that troubles you?” she teased, shaking water from her hair.

  “Lady,” Shandril said hesitantly, “we think we’d like to join the Harpers. We’ve heard only good of Those Who Harp—yet we’ve heard only little. Before we set foot on a new road we may follow most of our lives—and that may lead us to life’s end sooner than not—we would know more from you of what it is to be a Harper, if your offer still stands. Lady, does—”

  Storm held up her hand. “Hold! No more queries until we’ve seen these clear between us. I’ll try to be brief.” She drew her bare feet up beneath her, glanced at the woods, and nodded, as if reaching a decision.

  “A Harper is one of a vast, scattered company who share similar interests—a fellowship of men, elves, and half-elves, more women than men. Most bards and many rangers in the North are Harpers. We’ve no ranks, only varying degrees of personal influence. Our badge is a silver moon and a silver harp, upon a black or royal blue field. Many lady mages and most druids are our allies, and we are generally accounted ‘good.’ A Harper tolerates many faiths and deeds, but works against warfare, slavery, and wanton destruction of the plants and creatures of the land. We oppose those who’d build empires by the sword or spilled blood, or work Art heedless of consequences.”

  Silver hair stirred around Storm’s shoulders as she spoke, flowing and coiling with a life of its own. “We see the arts and lore of Myth Drannor as a high point in the history of all races. We work to preserve history, crafts, and knowledge, and seek to regain what made Myth Drannor great: the happy sharing of life’s good things among all races. We work against and often fight the Zhentarim, the Cult of the Dragon, the slavers of Thay, those who plunder or destroy tombs and libraries—and all who’d overturn peace and unleash war to raise their own thrones.”

  She raised one empty hand, cupped as if she held something precious. “We guard folk against such perils. We also guard books and lore, precious instruments and music, and Art and its good works. All these things serve hands and hearts yet unborn, who’ll come after us.”

  Storm’s hair was quite dry now; it still curled and wavered about her shoulders. “We seek to keep kingdoms small and busy with trade and the problems of their people. Any ruler who grows too strong and seeks to wrest knowledge and power from others is a threat. More precious knowledge is risked when his empire falls, as fall it must.”

  She smiled a little sadly. “Only in tavern-tales are humans wholly evil or shiningly good. We do what we can for everyone, and stand in the way of all who threaten knowledge. Who are we to decide who shall know or not know lore? The gods have given us the freedom and the power to strive among ourselves. They’ve not laid down a strict order that compels us to do thus and so. Who knows better than the gods what knowledge is good or bad, and who shall have it?”

  Narm regarded her thoughtfully. “Does that mean, good lady, intending no disrespect, that there should be no secrets, and wild-willed six-year-olds should be tutored in destroying spells, because knowledge should be denied to none?”

  Shandril looked at him fearfully. Would Narm’s tongue lose any chance of aid—or welcome—from the Harpers?

  Storm laughed merrily. “You’ve chosen well, Shandril. Unafraid, and yet polite. Inquiring, not hostile and opinionated. Well said, archmage-to-be!” She got up, drew on her soft, battered old boots, and rose to pace thoughtfully.

  “My answer is ‘no.’ All in the Realms hold and guard knowledge as they see fit. That, too, we’ve no right to change. Much should be secret, revealed only to those who’ve the right or ability to handle it. Harpers seek not to reveal the truth to all, but to preserve writings, Art, and music for later years and beings. We work against things that threaten the survival of such culture or erode its quality by tainting it with unchallenged falsehood.”

  A soft radiance grew about Storm as her voice rose. “Harper bards always sing true tales of kings, so far as truth is known. They do not sing falsely of the grand deeds of a usurper, or falsely portray as bad the nature and deeds of his predecessor. Even if such would make good tales and songs, a Harper cleaves to the truth. The truth—though slightly different for everyone—must be the rock the castle of knowledge is built on.” Her smile flashed brightly. “Strong words, eh? I feel strongly. If you come to do so, too, you’ll truly be Harpers. If one falls out of such belief, he or she should leave our ranks before doing all of us, and our cause, ill.

  “I hope only that whether you walk with us or no, or join and then leave, you walk together and take joy in each other’s company. ’Tis through such love—and longing—that much learning and celebration comes, adding to the lore we nurture and save. More than that, whether you be Harpers or not, I would be your friend!”

  Shandril and Narm looked at each other, and then at the bard. “We would be Harpers!” Shandril added awkwardly, “If you’ll have us.”

  Storm gathered them both into her arms. “If you will have us, we’ll be proud and pleased to have you. You, Shandril and Narm, not your spellfire or your Art. Walk far and see much, and grow in your own counsel and powers. If you work against evil, you’ll be Harpers whether you bear our badge or no. Fight not always with blade or spell. The slower ways are the surer: aid freely given and friendships and trust built. These, evil cannot abide. It shrinks from what it cannot destroy.”

  In the warm strength of the bard’s embrace, evil seemed a long way off. Narm leaned into the comfort of Storm’s arms and asked, “Where then should we go?”

  Storm’s reply was soft and low, her words almost lost in the gentle chuckle of the water. “Go by way of Thunder Gap. Watch for Dragon Cult agents. They’re thick in Sembia, and there’s one in Highmoon. His name is Korvan.”

  Shandril stiffened.

  “Go to Silverymoon. Seek out Alustriel, High Lady of that city, and say you come from her sister Storm, and would be Harpers. With Alustriel is a good place to be if you intend to have a child.” The bard looked meaningfully at Shandril, who blushed. “Well, you’re not quite the first couple to make that mistake.” She looked at Narm. “If your lady feels too sick to eat, feed her lots of stew. In the evenings, she’ll feel more like dining.”

  Narm looked at her, dazed. “Pray, lady, let me get used to discovering I’m going to be a father, first.”

  Storm chuckled. “Think well on the names your offspring must carry through life. I was born in a storm and won the name because of it—an ear-catching name, I’m told, but when I was small I fought many larger lads and lasses because of it.” Freeing herself from the shared embrace, she undid her robe.

  After a startled look, Narm politely turned his back. Unconcerned,
the bard drew on her clothes. Shandril saw that her arms, back, and flanks were covered with faint white sword scars.

  The bard winked. “I’ve walked many roads. Some leave little maps behind.” She traced one long scar with a finger and tied her halter. “You can turn around now, Narm. I grow tired of talking to your shoulders!”

  Narm obediently turned.

  “Now, a few things about the journey ahead of you. First, trail marks. You’ll see a few runes scratched or burned on rocks, trees, or in the dirt.” She picked up a stick—and then shrugged. “Nay … I’ll draw them in the house. ’Tis Elminster’s way to expect one to remember half a hundred things in a morning. I’ll not do that. I will tell you the names of Harper agents along your way; look to them for aid if you need it. These, too, I’ll write on a bandage. I’ll need you to prick your finger and bleed on it. It must look stained and disgusting if you don’t want it to be looked at too closely, if someone searches or robs you. But I’ll tell you the roster, in case you get separated or lose the list. If you lose your list of runes, stay clear of all that you see!”

  The Bard of Shadowdale held up her fingers to count, as a small child does. “Now first, in Cormyr …”

  After a long time, Storm rose, belted her horn at her waist, and led them back up the path to her back door.

  “What if someone—by Art, I mean—heard all this?” Narm asked, looking at the trees.

  Storm shook her head. “I’ve Art of my own to cloak this little hidden place. Manshoon himself could not hear us unless he sat with us.”

  She went in and set the guards to cutting cheese and apples for all, while she prepared the bandage. Soon she took Shandril’s hand, and they vanished up a stair half-hidden in the shadows of the old stone kitchen. When they reappeared, there was no sign of the bandage, but Shandril’s eyes told Narm it was hidden on her somewhere.

  The guards looked at Storm with interest; the bard now wore black fighting leathers and a sword.