Gently he took the broken body under the shoulders and turned it until The Shadowsil lay face-up in his lap. Florin and Merith watched in astonishment, the elf s blade still wavering uneasily in his hand.
Florin drew off his gauntlets as he squatted, facing Elminster across the body of the foe who had sought to slay them all but a breath or two ago. “Elminster;’ he asked gravely, “what are you about?”
Symgharyl Maruel opened her eyes at the sound of Florin’s voice and stared dully up at them, as one who has traveled a very long way. She spat blood weakly, and her eyes found Elminster. “Master,” she hissed, blood bubbling horribly in her throat. “I-hurt.” The last word was almost a sob. “Little flower,” Elminster whispered gently as she drew a shuddering breath, “I am here.” At his words, she coughed blood and began to cry weakly, the tears running down her cheeks as the knights gathered about in astonished silence. “If ye lie quiet,” the sage murmured, “I shall see if I can find art enough yet in my tower to heal thee.” He clasped her hand gently and began to slide out from beneath her. One feeble hand plucked at his sleeve, and the mage the knights had all hated or feared mastered her tears.
“No,” she told him firmly, eyes burning upon his, “promise me you shall not bring me back… I am too set to change now. I cannot learn this ‘good’ you stand for.” The Shadowsil’s eyes closed; her head fell back wearily. Then her eyes flickered. “Promise,” she hissed, hands trembling on his.
“Aye, Symgharyl Maruel, I promise thee,” Elminster told her gravely, stroking her shoulder almost absently with one old hand. Symgharyl Maruel smiled.
“Good, then,” she said, voice trailing away. ‘“Ware my belt… it has a poisoned buckle. One more thing,” she added, voice a hissing ruin now. Elminster leaned close to the bloody lips to hear, and the failing hands gripped his robes until they grew as white as The Shadowsil’s face.
The mage raised herself, her body shaking with the effort. Dark eyes shone defiantly once at them all, and then her head reached Elminster’s shoulder. She clung there, shaking like a leaf in a gale, and then leaned forward to kiss his cheek, softly and yet fiercely. “I love you. I wish I could have had you.” And The Shadowsil turned her head against his chest, smiled, then died.
There was silence for the space of many breaths while the old mage sat motionless, cradling the still body in his arms. The slim hands loosened their hold on him, but Elminster held her. No one moved or spoke. All stood waiting. From Elminster there came no sound.
After a time, the sage looked up, laid his burden gently upon the stones beneath, and slowly rose to his feet. Symgharyl Maruel’s bone-white face was still smiling, but it was wet with the old man’s tears. Elminster stepped back and waved the knights and Narm away from him, gesturing at them to draw far back. He then started to sing. The old mage’s voice began scratchy and hollow from disuse, but gained in strength as he sang the leavetaking, until the last lines rolled out deep and clear.
The sun comes up and the sun goes down Winters pass swiftly and leaves turn brown Watching each day and at last it has found Another dream to lay under the ground
Another name lost to the wind wailing away north past ears offland. And all she has been crumbles away
Of all that great spirit, can nothing stay?
Mystra, Mother, take your own Skill and power now dust on bone Good or bad, what matters now? Her song is done, her last bow
Mother of art, I pray now to thee, Take back her truename in mercy And as her body is lost to flame Greet your own Lansharra again.
Elminster’s hands moved, he spoke a few quiet words, and fire burst from his hands to strike the still form of The Shadowsil. Flames burst straight upward in a many-hued pillar. Narm watched the old man, who stood staring into the greedy flames. Hesitantly, the evoker approached. When he stood behind Elminster’s shoulder, he spoke.
“She called you ‘Master’“ The flames roared and crackled before them.
“Aye,” said Elminster. He smiled slowly, and there were tears in his eyes again. He turned and looked out over the waters of the Sember, far below, but he didn’t see them. He saw things long ago and in another place.
“You knew her?” Narm asked quietly.
“I once trained her and rode with her.” The mage’s lips moved roughly, almost reluctantly. Then his white beard jutted defiantly. “I was much younger then.”
Narm felt a rush of sympathy and turned to look at Shandril, lying so still upon his cloak. His heart nearly broke. “Does one often see friends die if one is a mage of power?”
“Aye,” Elminster replied, almost whispering. Then he seemed to rouse himself and caught Narm’s eye in a gruff, more familiar look. “That is why even one’s enemies are to be honored. If it falls within thy power, no creature must die alone.”
Narm stared at him for a long breath, lips white, and then nodded slowly. Then he rushed forward and caught the old wizard in a fierce embrace, and tears came. A startled Elminster held him awkwardly and patted his head and said gruffly, “There, there, boy. Shandril lives. It’s not so bad as all that.” The sobs under the young apprentice’s encircling arms died slowly and the strong young grip lessened. The muffled voice, when it came, was hesitant.
“Lansharra… did you love her very much?”
“Yes” the sage said simply. “She was like a daughter. Had I been several lifetimes younger and she not quite so quick to cruelty…” His voice trailed away and, abruptly, he spun about and stood facing the dying pyre. His voice rolled out, rich and imperious. “Look all of ye!”
He raised his hands and gestured. It seemed that above the thinning smoke that rose there a form came slowly into being-the form of a young and slim woman, with long glossy hair and almost chalk-white skin. She was very beautiful and wore a simple robe of white and gold bound with a blue sash. She looked around at them with joy and wonder.
All the hardened veterans of the knights stood and watched in silence, the flames flickering in ruddy reflections upon their armor and ready swords.
In utter silence the image of a youthful Symgharyl Maruel worked a bluefinger cantrip before them all. When the blue radiance sparkled into being at her fingertips, she laughed in sheer delight and held it up in one hand to show it. She then tossed her hair back to see it the better, waved at them, and was gone. Elminster stood looking into the last of the flames, his old face expressionless.
“You did that, did you not?” Torm asked, awed. “That wasn’t… her/’
“Aye, I did it, though not alone, and aye, it was her. So she was one summer before any of ye here but Merith was born. Her spirit lingered. I shaped an illusion, and she came into it to bid me-all of you-good-bye.” The mage turned to Rathan. “Thy holy water, good brother?”
Rathan nodded and stepped forward, unclasping a flask from his belt reverently. A scorched smell from The Shadowsil’s fireball hung about his clothing and he moved with the careful stiffness of the newly healed. At the mage’s gesture, the flames of the pyre sank and died, and Rathan doused the charred bones from head to foot. Gray smoke rose and slowly drifted away.
Then Elminster removed his cloak, and Florin and Lanseril stepped forward to lay the bones upon it as soon as they were cool. Jhessail joined her voice with the old mage’s in a prayer to Mystra. When it was done, Elminster caught his cloak up in a bundle and said, “All well, friends? Rathan? Torm? Ye took it the worst, if memory serves.”
“Well enough,” the cleric replied, and Torm agreed with a terse, “Yes.” Elminster nodded.
“Well, get thy treasure and let us see to Shandril. I would be gone from here as soon as she can safely travel-wyrms who are not as dead as they should be seem to have a distressing habit of showing up here to visit.” With that, the old mage rose with his bundle and went over to Shandril, puffing on his pipe thoughtfully. “I wonder just who shall call upon us next?” he said aloud, looked down at the bundle be bore, and shook his head suddenly.
Outside, the afternoon sun was bright upon the towers and parapets of Zhentil Keep. Within the Tower High of Manshoon, lord of that city, all was dark save for a circle of glass-globed candles in a corner of the high-paneled feasting hall. No grand company had feasted there for twenty winters.
Beneath the tinted, flickering light was a small circular table and about it the high lords of the Keep sat in council. Lord Kalthas, general of the armies of Zhentil Keep north of the Moonsea, spoke at ease, purring from beneath his sandy moustache, flagon of amber wine comfortably by his hand.
“Defending the empty wastes of Thar is not the problem,” he said smugly, “now that the lich Arkhigoul is no more. The Citadel is strong, and I see no need to weaken our forces by placing small garrisons here and there on various frozen rocks in the east. If something comes over the mountains from Vaasa, let it come. We can move in strength when any such foe has committed itself to a long journey and a particular target, and crush any invasion at our leisure. The riders of Melvaunt can slow down any major assault long enough for us to muster patrols in from all Daggerdale and the Teshen lands. Why defend a week’s cold ride of barren rocks and snow? Any fool…” The deep boom of a bell echoed somewhere in the darkness above them.
There was a sudden squeal of wood as the dark-robed figure of Manshoon, first Lord of the Keep, who had been sitting in languid boredom on one side of the table, rose suddenly. Table, papers, ink and quills, crystal decanters, and ornate metal flagons all crashed together to the floor. More than one noble lord, chair and all, went to the flagstones with them.
“My Lord!” gasped Lord Kalthas in protest, wiping wine from his fur-trimmed doublet. His words fell into tense silence and died away as their speaker realized his peril. “What means this?”
But Manshoon was not even looking at him. White-faced, he stared into the air, his voice quavered. “Symgharyl Maruel,” he whispered, blinking away a tear. Lord Chess gasped aloud; more prudent nobles gaped in silence. None had ever before seen Manshoon cry or show any sign of weakness (or as one lord had once put it, “humanity”).
Then the moment passed, and a coldly furious Manshoon snapped, “Zellathorass!” At his command, a globe of crystal swooped into view on the stairs, danced sideways in the air like a questing bat, and darted over to spin in the air before him. Manshoon seized it and peered into its depths, where a light kindled and grew.
He was silent for a moment, and his handsome face grew as cold and hard as drawn steel as he saw something that the other lords could only guess at. Then he released the globe, which began to spin slowly, said “Alvathair” softly, and watched it vanish back the way it had come. His mouth tightened.
He turned to face them all. “Sirs” he said curtly, “this meeting is at an end. For your safety, leave at once.” He crooked a finger, and horribly grinning gargoyles, hitherto motionless on stone buttresses overhead, flexed their slate-gray wings. The high lords of Zhentil Keep hastened to find their feet, and then their cloaks and swords and plumed hats, babbled and stammered their thanks and good-byes all together, and found the exit with comical haste. A patient golem closed the door they left standing open.
Manshoon then spoke to the gargoyles in a harsh hissing and croaking tongue, and they began to glide about the tower on their leathery wings, watching in terrible silence for intruders. Their lord stood in the dark hail and spoke. The candles sank and died. They had scarce guttered into acrid smoke before he spoke again, and at his words this time a stone golem as tall as six men strode ponderously toward him from one corner of the hall. It waited there in the darkness to greet any visitors foolish enough to enter unannounced in his absence. Manshoon looked about and then raced up the stairs in the darkness. His ragged shout of rage and loss echoed back down the stairs behind him.” Shadowsil!”
As he stepped out into the chill air atop the Tower High, he spoke a certain word. There came a stirring, and part of the tower beneath him moved. A great bulge of stone shifted and humped. Vast wings opened out over the courtyard of the tower and the minarets of the walls. A great neck arched out and glimmering eyes regarded Manshoon with eagerness and quickening interest, and fear.
The massive bulk rose up the tower wall as huge claws caught and pulled. Somewhere a stone broke loose and clattered, unseen, far below. Then the wings beat in a lazy clap that echoed back from the rooftops of the city. Frightened faces appeared in the windows of temple spires and noblemen’s towers, and vanished again in haste. Manshoon smiled without mirth at the sight and coldly locked eyes with the huge black dragon he had freed. Cold eyes looked back at him.
Few men, indeed, can retain sanity and will in the face of the full gaze of a dragon. The wyrm regarded him with vast age, and knowledge, and amusement. Manshoon merely smiled and held its eyes with his own deep gaze. The fear in the dragon’s eyes grew. Then Manshoon hissed in the tongue of black dragons, “Up, Orlgaun. I have need of you.” The great neck arched over the parapet for him to mount.
With a bound and flurry of beating wings the black dragon soared aloft from the city of cold stone and ready swords. Manshoon came with fire and fury to destroy the slayer of his beloved. Many have done so before, in more worlds than Faerun, and will again in days to come.
The Battle Ne’er Done
The worst trouble with most mages is that they think they can change the world. The worst mistake the gods make is to let a few of them get away with it.