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by Unknown

  The fire followed it, leaving behind only a warmth and a glowing in the air.

  Storm stared at it, and then looked at Elminster, mouth open. "Ye gods," she whispered, "was that-

  spellfire? I thought you'd used fire spells to ignite real wood...,"

  Elminster shrugged. “The little lass isn't the only one alive who can work such tricks. She merely does

  it naturally. Azuth taught me, long ago. It drains me overmuch, mind; I don't do it lightly."

  "But you did it just for me," Storm protested.

  "That was not a light thing," Elminster said, deadpan. He winked at her.

  Storm reached a hand out through the faint glow to clasp the sage's hand. "You are a delight, El. I love

  you, Old Mage."

  "Oh, good," was the dry reply, and she felt him wriggling closer. '"then ye won't mind if I lie beside ye

  here. Being old and shy an' all that, I'll be leaving my clothes on, though."

  "You? Shy?" The bard snorted, and then wrinkled her nose. "I forgot to get our blankets, They're-"

  "On the horses where they should be, keeping the faithful beasts warm," Elininster replied tranquilly.

  "Ye'll find ye won't need blankets-my Art'll keep its as if we were bundled up, but without getting too

  hot or the like, and make the ground beneath gentle to lie upon, as well. Trust me."

  Storm met his eyes and smiled. "I do." They lay side by side in the darkness, holding hands, and looked

  at the silent stars glimmering high overhead. As Selune rose and grew bright, Elminster let the faint

  spell-glow fade until they lay in darkness under the night sky.

  They remained together in silence for a time, watching the stars wheel overhead. Although a stranger

  looking down on them would have placed Storm in her lush late thirties, despite hard muscles and

  white sword-scars aplenty, and Elminster somewhere the gray side of sixty, both bard and archmage

  were hundreds of winters older than that.

  With his fingers, Elminster stroked the hand that he held, and lie thought about the secret he shared

  with the woman who lay beside him in the grass. The secret that had shaped both their lives.

  Both of them carried some of the immortal magefire locked forever inside their bodies, small parts of

  the divine power of Mystra placed in mortals of Faerun to maintain some great and mysterious balance.

  They could be slain, releasing the power of Mystra-as Storm's sister Sylune had been, not long ago-but

  grew old only slowly, aged more by the care of responsibilities and the grief of outliving even elven

  friends than by physical causes. Sometimes, they felt very old.

  Elminster was wise enough to give Storm this time to drift into slumber under the watching stars. It

  would ease her heavy heart. For himself, however, it was enough to have her beside him. Of the sisters

  he'd reared, Storm was the most his friend, even if he loved the Simbul more as mate and companion.

  Elminster smiled up at the stars and was happy.

  "El," the beloved voice beside him came softly, "you know I love riding Faerun with you. .. but tell me;

  where are we bound this time, and why?"

  "We go to meet a certain old enemy of mine, and do a certain thing," Elminster said carefully. "Is that

  enough?" He heard the grin in her voice. "Of course. You phrase nothing so eloquently" With easy

  grace, she rolled up to one elbow and looked down at him. "And the 'why'?" Elminster looked into her

  level gaze and melted. "It is part of an ongoing game I play against-certain folk. A very old and deep

  game, to limit the power of those who watch from shadows in this world. The Malaugrym-aye, ye

  remember them, I know-are after Shandril of Highmoon. Her affair's by no means clear and done yet.

  We'll doubtless meet in Silverymoon, these Shadowmasters and I, to do spell-battle over her. ... What

  we do now will become important then. 'Tis more important that the Shadowmasters have no benefit

  from what I've left undone than that the Harpers or Shandril-or Toril itself-gain strength by what we do,

  if we prevail. . . ."

  Storm laughed softly and kissed him. "I love it, Old Mage, when you're so forthcoming and open." She

  lay down again beside him. "Never change, will you? Promise me that"

  "Ah , lass," he said sadly. 'That's one of the promises none of us can keep."

  He lay there in silence until she slept, holding her hand tightly. When her slumber was deep, he waved

  his free hand, and a spellbook floated silently out of the night to hang above his nose. Spellfire was but

  one of Elminster's little secrets; another was the fact that he no longer needed to sleep.

  The old, familiar symbols and phrases filled his mind again as they had so many times before, but he

  did not let go of Storm’s hand, even for a moment. Throughout life, one does not miss any chance to

  hold onto the things that are really precious, if one is truly wise.

  A cool wind whipped around the mages and howled off east, along the old and broken rock ridges of

  the Stonelands. It brought faint, far-off howls with it.

  Ramath involuntarily looked over his shoulder, but the black-robed wizard beside him only smiled.

  "Whatever it is would have to travel much of the night. to reach us, mageling, even if it knew we stood

  on this spot. My Art will turn it away if it tries. So stand easy."

  Ramath shook his head. "I've tried, Dread Master but whenever I look where it's dark, I see her."

  "Who?" The question was sharp.

  Ramath swallowed. "A light-haired girl ... shrouded in flames."

  "What? She's here, and moving about, hidden from all but you by magic? Or can you see rocks and

  trees through her; do you see something from your dreams?"

  "A dream image I suppose, Master-yet I'm not asleep. I see her walking amid trees, with a dwarf, a

  wizard of about my age, and a fat man in floppy old boots. They're just walking, not seeing me or

  anything-but they're always heading this way, straight toward us.... 1 walked to the cliff over there-you

  saw me-and it seemed the same; straight toward me. It's-I've never known anything like this before."

  Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr regarded him coldly for a moment, and then said very softly, "Who has

  spoken to you of such a band of travelers?"

  Ramath looked startled. "No one, Dread Master. I've not heard of or seen any of these folk before-I was

  hoping you'd know what spell or ghost was affecting me."

  "I think I do," the Dread Master replied. "Go down to the Zhentilar swordmaster by the fire and tell him

  to come up to me. And pay close heed to these images you see. When you return, I shall want a full and

  detailed account of anything new that you 've seen. Hasten."

  Obediently his apprentice scrambled away along the path. Stroking his sharp-pointed chin thoughtfully,

  Ghaubhan Szaurr watched him go.

  The wind flung the wizard's cloak out behind him like a black sail. Ghaubhan stood on the rocky height

  feeling its tug and listening to it flapping as excitement rose within him: Ramath had some sort of

  magesight, the gift of Mystra or Bane or some other dark power-and Shandril of Highmoon was

  coming this way.

  Spellfire would be his soon; Ghaubhan could almost taste it. He thought how best to place the warriors-

  stupid brutes all, but useful against the maiden's companions for the battle to come. It was even more

  crucial to use his magelings so they stood no chance of tricking or turning on their Dread Master. Best

  if they all died at the maid's hands-men turned to ashes by spellfire could tell no tales to see
king magic,

  and could not whisper against him. If one ashen corpse wore Ghaubhan's cloak and ring, in fact, they d

  think Ghaubhan Szaurr fallen.

  And given time to master spellfire while in hiding, this lowly tutor of magelings would become a

  Dread Master indeed! Then the high lords of the Keep had best look to their Art, for the Zhentarim

  would soon have a new master. . . . If that book he'd found in old Asklannan's spell library spoke truth,

  any man whose blood joined with one who wielded spellfire stood a chance of gaining it himself. that

  joining, moreover, would be a pleasure...

  Ghaubhan grinned wolfishly in the dark, and waited for the hurrying steps of Ramath to announce the

  magelings return. He'd bear watching, that one ... such sight does not come from empty air; how came

  he by it? Fzoul and his upperpriests thought Ghaubhan Szaurr served the Cult of the Dragon; Only

  Manshoon and a few senior wizards knew lie in truth worked for the Zhentarim. . . . Was this Ramath a

  spy for Fzoul, then? Was he sent by someone in the Cult who'd become suspicious of Ghaubhan's

  loyalty? What fell and mysterious power moved the young fool? None known to a lowly Dread Master,

  for sure....

  "'Fell and mysterious power!' I like that," Gathlarue said softly in the night-gloom. "It has a certain

  ring.. . ." "It does," Mairara agreed. "This Dread Master is an engaging half-wit all around. Such

  twisted cruelty ... such lame deceits."

  "Lame they may be," Gathlarue said, "but it is my hope he does gain the spellfire. Not only will he be

  straw in our hands, but it will be entertaining to the utmost, watching him destroying most of the

  Brotherhood as he seeks to master it."

  "Fun watching, to be sure," came the reply, "so long as he holds the Zhentarim together long enough to

  destroy Elminster of Shadowdale first. If we feed this Ramath visions for long enough, our ambitious

  Dread Master will not dare to start the foolishness too early. I would see Elminster perish soon, and the

  Brotherhood is the only blade we can wield that seems strong enough to slay him."

  'There are others," Gathlarue said softly. "If we could turn the one called the Simbul against him..."

  "They love each other strongly now."

  "Precisely," Gathlarue said. The slow smile that stole onto her face then made Mairara shiver despite

  herself. "Precisely. ... "

  Nine

  DEATH BEHIND THEE, ITS CLAWS UPON THY SHOULDER

  Time is the thief that knows no locks.

  Faeranduil of Neverwinter

  Sage Sayings of the North

  Year of Sunset Smoke

  "Fare thee well, too, Baera," Mirt said roughly, and then his arms were tightly wrapped around her,

  squeezing as though by mere strength he could hold onto some part of her afterwards. The fat Harper,

  looking somehow sleek and striking this morning after her bath, gripped him back just as hard, and

  they stood locked like two wrestling bears for a long moment.

  "Go, then," Baergasra said finally and pushed him away. Her voice was suddenly husky, and her eyes

  glimmered like the morning dew. "I fear I'll not see you again, Old Wolf." She waved him away sadly.

  "So go-quickly, all of you; I hate tears. Let me be lonely again."

  "Well," Delg said gruffly, "if you took a bath more often, mayhap you'd be lonely less often...."

  He ducked under her wild and immediate grab and came running back to his companions, grinning

  from ear to ear.

  "Next time, little man," Baergasra called after him, hands on hips, "I'll have a cake of soap ready for a

  certain dwarf. Begone, the lot of you!" She snorted, and then waved farewell.

  Mirt, shaking his head at Delg, led them over a hill that hid the Wyvern from view behind them, and

  hid Baergasra with it.

  The fat old merchant's shaggy head swung to and fro as they walked on. They all went slowly under the

  weight of much new-bought food as Mirt peered watchfully at every tree and rise around them. At

  length his gaze came to rest on Narm. striding along beside Shandril in his customary silence. "Are you

  well enough?" lie rumbled anxiously. "Any pain?"

  Narm grinned. "I'm. .. well, it seems. Worry not! It's in the past and done."

  "As you were nearly in the past and done yestereve," Delg added meaningfully.

  Narm sighed, then raised an eyebrow carefully. "Are you always this cheerful," he asked the dwarf, "or

  is this sonic sort of special occasion?"

  The dwarf shrugged. "I-something's amiss; I feel it in my bones. I’m a little ... bladesharp, this morn."

  He shook himself as a dog shakes off water when climbing out of a pond, and went on down the road.

  Mirt rolled his eyes and shook his head but said nothing.

  Narm and Shandril exchanged glances. "I have a bad feeling about that," Shandril said softly. “When

  Delg senses something amiss, he's usually all too right-something goes amiss before the clay is out. So

  please, Narm ... be careful; watch always for danger."

  Narin nodded wryly. "What else do I ever watch for since we first met?" He wrapped an arm about her

  to show he meant no complaint, and added, "I fear you're right, though. I'll keep wary eyes, as best I

  can."

  "If you two can find the will to leave off cuddling for a breath or two," Delg said sourly from ahead,

  “your mouths -and brains to guide them, too-are needed in a little dispute."

  Mirt stood at the roadside. He was looking down at the dwarf rather like a bull wearily regards a small,

  loud dog. as something not yet worth kicking, but that may soon become so if it continues to annoy.

  "We leave the road here," he said patiently, "and go across the fields. Trust me: I know this land well."

  "As do I," the dwarf replied, unmoved. "The more northerly we tend, the closer we get to the Zhentarim

  and the lawlessness of the Stonelands where for all we know this Dragon Cult rides freely, too. Short of

  turning back into the teeth that follow us, this is the worst way we could tread."

  Mirt sighed. "Aye, so it may seem. But look ye. Sir Dwarf, and heed-in Suzail, or any port on the Inner

  Sea, the Zhents and the Cult could have a dozen's dozen of agents waiting, an' we'd never know until

  their blades were in us. More than that; they've hired eyes aplenty watching for the walking source of

  spellfire, and those known to guard her, in all those places. Moreover they expect Shandril to come that

  way, and by the roads. These be all good reasons, by my blade, to turn aside and seek the secret way I

  know."

  Delg snorted. "The Stonelands are bandit country, and worse-they hold fearsome beasts and Zhent evil.

  Enough of both, even you must admit, that the Purple Dragons have never been able to hold Azoun's

  word as law north of the road that links Arabel with High Horn, let alone to Desert's Edge, where

  earlier kings of Cormyr always claimed to rule. A land of outlaws, breakneck gullies, little hidden

  cliff's and thornbushes; it crawls with monsters by night and creeps with them by day. Do you think us

  a band of sword-swinging heroes, bedecked with magic blades and fancy armor? Or have you such a

  band up your sleeve-or hidden in that capacious belly of yours?"

  Mirt sighed again and spoke with exaggerated gentleness. "I have no quarrel with thy glowing

  description of the land, nor do I have any swordarms to protect us-save the two that come visibly

  attached to this belly ye're so impressed with. Yet, look ye, I know of a way not known to those who

&
nbsp; chase at our heels. A way to save Shandril nearly a season of travel-time on her long way to the North,

  a way to avoid the roads and inns of Cormyr-and the trackless wastes of the Backlands on the western

  edge of Anauroch, too, where every second merchant could well be a Zhent agent, or someone else

  who'd just as soon stick a dagger between yer shoulder blades the moment ye turn yer back."

  "So what is this magical way, that I've never heard of it?" the dwarf asked suspiciously, brows bristling.

  "That's it precisely," Mirt said, lowering his voice. "Magic. That's all I prefer to say."

  Delg snorted. "Trust me, then, you're telling us: trust me to lead you into a land of death because I've

  left some handy, oh-so-reliable magic there, which’ll whisk us away from all danger and leave all our

  foes and cares behind."

  Mirt smiled thinly. "I couldn't have put it much better than that-are ye sure ye don't do a rich trade in

  dealing horses somewhere in Faerun?" Then he sighed and looked to Narm and Shandril. "Ye've heard

  Delg, and my words too, about the paths before us. Choose then, whether ye'll follow me. I will say

  only two things more: first, that the way through Cormyr's roads and cities is almost certain death,

  where my way offers death not so sure by a long measure; second, that whate'er yet choice, it must be

  made speedily, for if we stand here debating in the open all day, death will come up behind us and lay

  claws on our shoulders while yet we speak."

  Shandril stared at him and at Delg, and then looked to Narm, who said, "The decision must be yours,

  love." They gazed into each other's eyes for a moment, and then Shandril turned back and said very

  quietly, "I'm sorry, Delg. Storm and Elminster and the Knights told me some things about gates, and

  this sounds like one-am I right, Lord Mirt?"

  Mirt nodded. "The gate, aye; but not this talk of 'Lord’; ye're no subject to me."

  Shandril waved away his words. "I would walk where Mirt leads us now, Delg. Will you come with us?

  Please?" Delg growled, looked away, and then spat into the dust slowly and carefully. "Of course I’ll