Spellfire

by Greenwood, Ed

  “To the temple,” Storm said briskly, “for we’ve much to talk about with Rathan and Eressea. Weddings can all too easily become overblown things.”

  “The young lord and lady to be wed? Gods’ good wishes to ’em! I tell you, Baerth, I saw flames come from her very hand! ‘Spellfire’ they’re calling it—but ’twas no spell like I ever saw cast! No dancing about or chanting; she just frowned a little, like Delmath does when hefting a full barrel, and there ’twas! Aye, you wouldn’t want to be marryin’ that, now would you?”

  Malark, in the shape of an owl on a branch overhead, grinned sourly at the guards’ coarse laughter, and thought again how to slay Shandril.

  All this skulking infuriated him. At every moment, the girl and her mageling were together—and flanked by at least one mage or a Knight armed with powerful wands or rings, with reinforcements close at hand.

  The desolation of Rauglothgor’s lair was not easily forgotten. A mistake in this matter could be his last. Malark turned tired eyes toward the Twisted Tower. She was guarded even now. Especially now.

  The wedding ceremony would be one chance to get at Shandril, but not a good one. Shadowdale’s most powerful protectors would be gathered. Perhaps later … these two had to leave the dale sometime. Malark had the uncomfortable feeling others were watching and waiting for just that to happen, and when Lady Spellfire finally set her dainty feet out into the wider world, he might find himself in the heart of a furious battle. He might even have to fight Oumrath.

  Malark inwardly growled and took flight, heading restlessly south. Soon, Shandril of Highmoon, he thought. You’ll feel my Art soon.…

  The day dawned cool and misty. Shandril and Narm had slept apart as custom demanded, Shandril in the Temple of Tymora with the priestess Eressea, and Narm in the Twisted Tower with the priest Rathan. Both were up before dawn, bathed in holy water, and blessed. By then, folk had begun to gather by the banks of the Ashaba; word spread swiftly in Shadowdale.

  Rathan filled a glass from a crystal decanter and held it high. “To the Lady,” he said, and emptied it into the bath. He looked at Narm. “That’s all the wine I’ll touch this day.”

  Narm rose, dripping. “You’ll miss all the festive tippling?”

  Rathan shrugged. “How else can I mark this a special occasion? Eressea and I will go off together somewhere when ’tis done and share a glass of holy water.” He stared in reverie for a moment and then blinked and said gruffly, “Come on, then—out and dry thyself! If ye’re so heedless as to get the chills, Shandril will be wedding a walking corpse!”

  “Cheery, aren’t you?” Narm observed.

  Rathan unwrapped linens from around fire-heated rocks, grunted, licked his fingers, and held them out to the young mage. “If ’tis a clown ye want, I’ll send for Torm,” Rathan replied. “But don’t blame me if he gets ye so drunk and distracted ye forget to come to thy wedding—or locks ye in a chest so he can marry Shandril himself.”

  “Torm?”

  “Aye. And if he’s busy misbehaving elsewhere, I may take his place myself!”

  Eressea kissed Shandril’s forehead formally, and then hugged her fondly. “We must make haste now. Your lord-to-be awaits you. Shadowdale awaits you, too. So, in the words of Elminster, let us ‘scoot.’ ”

  Shandril rolled her eyes, Eressea laughed, and together they hurried down the stairs.

  From the fire-scorched stones where Syluné’s hut had been, a lone horn blew, the sound echoing down the dale. It was answered immediately from the battlements of the Tower of Ashaba. The bride-to-be and the Preceptress Eressea set forth on the long walk south.

  Behind them as guard of honor paced Storm Silverhand, blade drawn, bareheaded but in full and shining battle-armor. Any hostile eyes could not help noticing the bright glows of Art that hung about her. Storm’s eyes flicked this way and that; she was armed with power and expecting trouble.

  The dalefolk muttered at the display.

  Well ahead of the three women strode Mourngrym, Lord of Shadowdale, also bareheaded but fully armored. The arms of the dale shone bright on his breast, and a great sword hung at his side.

  The guards standing to attention along the way bowed to him but did not sound their horns until Shandril reached them. One by one their calls rang out as the bride drew nearer.

  Two men waited where Syluné’s hut had stood. When he reached them, Mourngrym saluted Narm and stepped aside.

  When Syluné lived and was lady of the dale, no temples had stood in Shadowdale; all desiring to be wed had come here to plight troth before her. Now the bare stones would see one more marriage.

  Rathan stood square upon those stones, watching Shandril. On his breast, the disc of Tymora began to glow. He unclipped it from its chain and cupped it in his hands.

  Nearer they came, Shandril and Eressea, and the last trumpeter blew two high notes. A fanfare of all the horns joined him, loud and long and glorious. When its last, thrilling echoes died away, Shandril stood before Rathan.

  The priest smiled and cast the disc of Tymora into the air. It hung a man’s height above their heads, spinning gently, and its glow grew brighter.

  “We’re gathered beneath the bright face of Tymora to join Narm Tamaraith, this man, and Shandril Shessair, this woman, as companions in life. Let their ways run together, say I, a friend. What saith Tymora?”

  Eressea stepped forward and spoke. “I speak for Tymora, and I say, ‘Let their ways run together!’ ”

  Rathan bowed his head. “We stand in Shadowdale. What saith a good woman of the dale?”

  Storm Silverhand took a step forward. “I say, let their ways run together.”

  “We stand in Shadowdale and hear you. What saith a good man of the dale?”

  The mountainous smith Bronn Selgard stood forth from the gathered dalefolk, his great, grim face solemn, his mighty limbs clad in old, carefully patched finery. His deep voice rolled over them all. “I say, let their ways run together.”

  “We stand in Shadowdale and hear you,” Rathan responded. “What saith the lord of the Dale?”

  Mourngrym stood forth. “I say: Let their ways run together.”

  “We stand in Shadowdale and hear you.” Rathan’s voice suddenly rose, loud and deep, in a cry of challenge: “What say the people of the dale? Shall the ways of these two, Narm and Shandril, run together?”

  “Aye!” came the cry from a hundred throats.

  “Aye, we hear ye. We have heard all, save Narm and Shandril. What say ye two? Will ye bleed for each other?”

  “Aye,” said Shandril, speaking first as was the custom.

  “Aye,” Narm said, as quietly.

  “Then let ye be so joined,” Rathan said solemnly, and took their left hands in each of his.

  Mourngrym stepped forward with his dagger drawn.

  In the throng nearby, Jhessail and Elminster tensed. Their protective spells on Mourngrym might be tested by someone seeking magically to compel him to strike the young couple. Rathan’s watching face, too, was tense.

  Gravely the lord of Shadowdale reached out his dagger and pricked the upturned backs of the two hands, Shandril’s first. He wiped the blade on the turf before them, kissed it, put it away, and stepped back in silence.

  Jhessail breathed out, long and silently; Elminster did not.

  Rathan murmured to the couple, “Now, as we told thee,” and stepped back.

  Narm and Shandril brought their bloodied hands to each other’s mouths, and then stepped into each other’s arms and kissed, embracing fiercely. A cheer arose from those watching.

  “Of one blood, joined, are Narm and Shandril,” Rathan pronounced grandly. “Let no being tear asunder this holy union, or face the dark face of Tymora forevermore!”

  Above their heads, the spinning disc flashed with intense light. There were cries of surprise and wonder.

  “See the sign of the goddess!” Rathan shouted, delighted. “Her blessing is upon this union!”

  The disc rose, shining br
ightly. Narm and Shandril stepped back, hands clasped, to watch. From it sprang two shafts of white radiance, with a noise like high, jangling harping. The beams reached down, one to touch Narm and the other Shandril.

  Narm stood motionless, smiling, eyes wide in astonishment. Power rushed through him, cleansing and strengthening him. At the touch of the light, Shandril burst into flames, and she embraced Narm in wild joy. Her spellfire rose above them both in a great teardrop of fire. Their clothes blazed away, but their hair and bodies were unharmed.

  Elminster clucked disapprovingly and wove a spell.

  For a moment, it seemed another lady—a smiling woman with silver hair and a robe of the same hue—stood with Rathan and the bridal couple on the fire-scarred flagstones. The wraithlike figure raised a hand in benediction, and then faded silently away.

  “Syluné!” Jhessail whispered, tears rising.

  As the flames died, robes spun by Elminster’s illusion spell clothed Narm and Shandril.

  Rathan bellowed, “ ’Tis done! Go forth in joy! A feast awaits at the Tower of Ashaba! Dance, all!”

  Harpers in dark leathers stepped from trees, startling the guards. They held harps in their hands, and played The Ride of the Lion. As the ballad rose, the bright light of Tymora leaped to each instrument. The harps shone and glittered.

  Amid the happy tumult that followed, Elminster and Jhessail came forward to join Storm, Mourngrym, and the clerics standing guard about the happy couple.

  “So, ’tis done,” Jhessail said softly, and kissed both Narm and Shandril. “ ’Tis time to give you what was given Merith and me on our wedding day. Foes gather in the woods, and there’ll be battle—mind you fly high, and take no part.”

  Elminster gravely cast a spell of flight upon Shandril, and Jhessail did the same to Narm.

  When they were done, Elminster said gruffly, “Remain aloft no more than ye must—this magic lasts not forever. Go now!” He guided them into another embrace, and patted Shandril’s bare back. “Rise, before the fighting reaches us!”

  “Think ‘up,’ ” Storm and Jhessail murmured in unplanned unison, “and so you’ll go!”

  Thanking everyone a little dazedly, Narm and Shandril ascended slowly, in a tight embrace. Awe kept them silent as they rose through a clearing sky. The bright disc of Tymora rose with them and followed.

  “I do hope Tymora sends back her holy symbol,” Rathan muttered, watching its radiance moving east, over the forest.

  “And I hope,” Storm said as gently, “our two innocents have the sense to steer clear of Myth Drannor.”

  “I’ll see to that, Sister,” came a soft voice from above. A black falcon swooped out of the mists and climbed away, heading east.

  Elminster growled, “The Simbul! Now I suppose I’ll have to keep eyes alight for whatever she might do to seize spellfire!” In a flashing instant, an eagle sprang from where he’d stood, soaring arrow-swift into the sky.

  Those who still stood where Syluné’s hut had been looked at each other, and then at the dalefolk hastening back toward the tower.

  The skirl and clang of battle broke out in the forest. Swords flashed and sang amid the trees. Harpers and guards of the dale clashed with warriors in a motley of leather and rusting, mismatched armor—mercenaries, a lot of them, breathless as if they’d hurried a long way.

  Jhessail sighed. “Well, back to the battle.”

  “Aye,” Storm agreed with a mirthless smile. “As always.”

  The four standing on the stones drew blades, a wand, and two maces, and charged into the fray.

  As always.

  18

  TALK TURNETH NOT DANGER ASIDE

  Open the door, little fools: We wait outside.

  The green dragon Naurglaur

  Sayings of a Wyrm

  Year of the Spitting Cat

  “We should go down,” Shandril whispered into the wind.

  Narm’s arms tightened about her, and they flew for a time in silence, the green expanse of the elven woods unfolding below. “Aye. I’ll not soon forget this!”

  “Nor I. As I should hope not!”

  Narm chuckled at her mild indignation. Bending his will, he turned them northwest over the seemingly endless trees, back toward Shadowdale. “I can’t help feeling we’re being watched.”

  “I’m sure we are—and have been since first we rode with the Knights,” his lady replied. “How else could they protect us?”

  “Well, yes, but I mean now.”

  “I’m sure they’ve seen such things before,” she said serenely. “Elminster’s hundreds of winters old, remember?”

  “Yes,” Narm sighed, peering all around again. “Would that none of this were necessary, and we could walk unafraid!”

  Shandril fixed him with very serious eyes. “I feel so, too, but without spellfire, we’d both be bones by now!” They passed over the bare top of Harpers’ Hill and swiftly left it behind. “Besides, this fire in me is a gift of the gods. Rage as we might, ’tis their will I have it.”

  Narm nodded. “Aye, and it can be handy enough, but does using it harm you?”

  Shandril shrugged. “I know not. I don’t feel amiss or in pain, most times. But I can’t stop it or give it up, even if I wanted to. ’Tis part of me now.”

  She turned in his grasp to look back, and something circular and silver drifted out of the empty sky into her hands. It was smooth, cold and solid, and it tingled in her fingertips.

  “Rathan’s holy symbol!” Narm gasped. “How comes it here?”

  “By the will of Tymora, to answer your doubts!”

  Narm nodded almost sternly, and the fine hairs on his arms stood stiff with fear. Yet he held her as gently and firmly as before.

  “Whither now?” he asked, as they passed over the Old Skull Inn. “The Twisted Tower?”

  “No,” Shandril replied, pointing at chain mail flashing on the backs of men below. “In all the alarm, the archers might shoot us down before they knew us!”

  “Or even,” Narm muttered, “because they knew us.”

  Shandril slapped him lightly. “Think no such darkness! Have any truly of the dale shown us aught but kindness and aid? We must be suspicious, yes, or perish—but ungrateful? Yet, truly, I’ve little wish to greet the folk of the tower clad as we are!”

  Narm chuckled. “Ah, the real reason,” he said, halting their flight over Elminster’s tower. “My apologies for such black thoughts. Still, ’tis better to look often over one’s shoulder than to die swift and surprised!”

  “Aye, but let not the looking make you sour. You would come down here?”

  “Have we anyplace else?” Narm asked. “I doubt the Art protecting Storm’s home would be kind to us if we came calling when she wasn’t there.”

  “True,” Shandril agreed and took one last look around, glancing north over the Old Skull’s stony bulk to the rolling wilderlands beyond. The wind slid gently past their bare shoulders. “Learn this spell as soon as you can,” she urged, clinging to her husband. “ ’Tis so beautiful.”

  “Aye.” Narm replied huskily. “ ’Tis the least of the beauty I have known this day.”

  Shandril’s arms tightened about him … and she and Narm sank gently to the earth in front of Elminster’s tower.

  Overhead, a falcon waggled its wings to an eagle and veered away to the south. The eagle bobbed in slow salute and wheeled about, sighed audibly, and dived to earth.

  “Must ye stand about naked, kissing and cuddling and inflaming an old man’s passions?” Elminster demanded, inches behind Narm.

  The wedded couple jumped, but barely had time to unclasp and turn before the wizard pushed them toward his front door.

  “In! In, and try your hands at peeling potatoes. Lhaeo can’t feed two extra guts on naught but air, ye know!” Shandril’s fending hands encountered a deep and silky beard. Elminster came to a dead halt and glared at her. “Pull my beard, will ye? Ridicule a man old enough to be thy great-great-great-great-great-great-and-probably-gr
eat-again-grandsire? Are ye mad? Are ye passion-mazed? Or are ye just tired of life?” Shandril shrank back. The Old Mage seemed to loom larger and larger over her as he thrust his bristling beard forward—and followed it, step by menacing step. “How’d ye like to enjoy the rest of thy life in the mud—as a toad? Or a slug? Or mute, creeping, dung-moss? Aye? Aye? AYE?”

  He pushed them back, step by step, to the door. Narm had begun to chuckle uncertainly, but Shandril was still white and openmouthed as her bare shoulders brushed old, silver-weathered wood—and the door swung open.

  Without pausing for breath, Elminster added in calm tones, “Two guests, Lhaeo. They’ll be needing clothes.”

  “Indeed,” came the dry reply. “ ’Tis cold in the corners. How are they at peeling potatoes?”

  Elminster’s chuckle ushered the dumbfounded couple in, and he closed the door with a brief, “I’ll follow, anon … some tasks remain!”

  Narm and Shandril found themselves in the flickering, dusty dimness with Lhaeo, who was already moving to a certain closet. “We’ve gone through more clothes since you’ve come to the dale,” he murmured. “You were a head shorter than I, were you not, Shandril?”

  “Yes,” Shandril agreed, and began to laugh uncontrollably.

  After a moment, Narm joined her.

  Lhaeo shook his head as he handed clothes backward. Truly they serve most who know when to laugh … and when to listen.

  Stew warm inside her and heart full, Shandril happily leaned her stool against the wall and smiled at Narm. He was resplendent in the silken robes of some grand, long-dead mage of Myth Drannor. The hearth glowed as Lhaeo moved softly back and forth before it, stirring, tasting, and adding pinches of spice. Pheasant hung from the rafters above, and a plump gorscraw lay waiting to be plucked and dressed.

  Narm sipped herbsimmer tea and regarded Lhaeo’s deft movements over his stewpots. “Is there aught we can do to help?”

  Lhaeo looked up with a quick smile. “Aye, but ’tis not cooking. Talk, if you would. I’ve heard little enough speech that’s not Elminster’s. Tell me how ’tis with you.”