“Oh-yes. Yes, please,” Shandril said, still gazing around at the beautiful bedchamber, with its hangings of elven warriors riding stags through the forest-the High Hunt of the Elven Court, a unicorn glowing in the trees far off at its head-and its round, canopied bed.
Shandril’s gown, too, was a beautiful thing of Calishite silk overlaid with a finework tabard for warmth in the stone halls of the north. The tabard’s beading was of interwoven crescent moons and silver horns and unicorns. On her arm she wore proudly her joined ring and bracelet of electrum and sapphires. It awed Shandril to see herself in the great burnished metal mirror.
Then in came Narm, in a grand great-sleeved tunic of wine-purple velvet, matching silk hose, and boots trimmed with fur. Hanging from his belt was the lion-headed dagger. His hair had been washed and trimmed and doused with perfume-water, and his eyes outshone the rings on his fingers.
He came in eagerly, mouth opening in a smile to speak- and stopped in awe. Eyes shining, he took a hesitant step forward. “My lady?” he asked. “Shandril?” His voice was very quiet. “You are beautiful,” he added slowly. “As graceful as any high lady I have ever seen.”
“And how many such ladies have you seen?” Shandril teased him. “It’s still the same me, if I’m in plain gray robes or a man’s tunic and breeches, hair washed or unwashed.”
“Yes,” Narm said. “But I fear even to touch you, when you are clad so-I could only mar perfect beauty.” His voice was husky and serious. His eyes shone.
“Shameless flatterer” Shandril said reprovingly. “But if that is so, I’ll have them all off, at once, and go down in my thieves’ garb. I would much rather go on your arm in rags, than walk grandly clad and alone.”
“No, no,” Narm said, taking her arm. “I can conquer my fears-see?-only promise me you’ll talk with me after all the hurly-burly, and in good light. I would not soon forget how you look now.”
“Talk, and in good light? Let us go down to table, my lord. Your hunger is weakening your wits,” Shandril teased, and led him to the door. Thus it was in the hallway outside, under the politely averted eyes of a guard, that the young mage turned Shandril about and kissed her. The soft horn fanfare that summoned all to first table sounded twice before they parted and went down the stairs. The guard kept his face carefully expressionless.
“Thank you, but no, Lord. Truly, I can eat no more,” Shandril protested, holding up a hand in front of a planer of steaming boar in gravy. Mourngrym laughed.
“Well enough,” he warned, “but the more you eat, the longer you can drink. When none of these here can eat a crumb more, you will find that they can yet find room to drink. It’s a mystery to me why some who come to my table say they are come to a ‘feast,1 when what they do is eat a few bites and then hoist flagons all the night through.”
“I-I should be sick if I tried, Lord” Shandril said simply. Mourngrym smiled again.
“Good, then. I am similarly affected. If the two of you can spare us a few words before retiring, my Lady Shaeril and I would be very happy to have your company in the bower upstairs. I believe you have met Storm Silverhand and Sharantyr. We will have other guests: Jhessail and Elminster, and possibly Illistyl. Go up when you cannot hear each other any more-oh, yes, it grows much noisier than this. If you will forgive me, I must walk among my people. When their tongues are wet and loose, I learn their true grievances and concerns.” He nodded to them both and rose. Shandril and Narm exchanged glances.
All around them was tumult. Softly glowing luminescent globes of glass, enspelled earlier by Illistyl, lit the hall. At one end, a gigantic fire blazed merrily beneath spits of boar and ox, filling the room with aromatic smoke. The long board was crammed with platters of food and decanters and skins of wine. A harpist and a flautist played almost unheard amid the din of sixty-odd people laughing and talking all at once.
Most of the knights were there. Torm was almost unrecognizable in dazzling, almost foppish finery of slit and puffed sleeves, fur-trimmed silks set with winking gems, and many fine chains of gold studded with large rubies and emeralds. A single giant king’s tear hung in silky-smooth clarity upon his bared breast, encupped in a webwork of polished strips of electrum, the first that either Narm or Shandril had ever seen. The thief outshone Mourngrym and, indeed, all the bejeweled ladies in the room, and strode grandly about drinking from a massive chased silver tankard as tall as his forearm was long.
He caught Shandril’s eye as she stared. He winked, reached into one sleeve, plucked out a silver-hilted dagger whose blade was needle-thin and dull black, tossed it casually into the air, caught it a breath later, winked again, and put it away as smoothly. Rathan, ruddy-faced and amiable, also looked resplendent in green velvet, the silver symbol of Tymora upon his breast.
Many of the diners were standing, now, and a few had begun to dance. Far across the room Narm caught sight of the commanding height and broad shoulders of Florin, looking every inch a king. Beside him stood a lady Narm had last seen on a forest trail near Myth Drannor, and before that in the taproom of The Rising Moon inn in Deepingdale, sword drawn and ready: Storm Silverhand. She wore a simple gown of gray silk, with only a broad black cummerbund and a silver-hiked dagger for ornament, but she looked so regal and beautiful that Shandril forgot all thoughts of what a fine gown and tabard did for herself.
“Look,” she breathed, grasping Narm’s hand and pointing with a nod of her head.
“Yes. I see” he replied, and turned to Lanseril, who stood near at hand talking to a burly, bearded man in amber and russet. The druid wore a simple brown woolen robe. Narm touched his hand. “Pray excuse my interruption, friend Lanseril.”
“No excuse needed, Narm-it’s what everyone does. My life is a series of interruptions,” Lanseril replied with a warm smile. He bent his head near. “What is it?”
“The Lord Florin-is the Lady Storm his-ah, handfast to him, or-?”
Lanseril chuckled. “Florin is married to Storm’s sister, the ranger Dove, who is soon to bear his child, and is for her safety presently elsewhere. Storm’s man, Maxam, was killed this past summer. She does not speak of that, mind. Florin and Storm are friends who keep each other from being too lonely at dance and at table. Despite what Torm may slyly hint, they are no more than that.”
The druid turned and touched the sleeve of the man he had been speaking with.
“May I introduce Thurbal, Captain-of-Arms and Warden of Shadowdale?” he asked politely. Thurbal, a man of weatherbeaten and plain features whose eyes were at once shrewd and kindly, bowed to them both.
“Lady Shandril and Lord Narm,” he said, “I bid you my own welcome. Have you enjoyed the feast thus far?”
“I-I, yes, greatly,” Narm replied, noting the great plain-scabbarded broadsword Thurbal wore at his side, despite his high-booted finery.
“It’s the first feast I’ve ever been invited to, Lord,” Shandril replied. “M am no high lady, I fear.”
Thurbal frowned slightly. “My pardon,” he said, “I assumed-ah, but no harm done if you will forgive me, for I am no lord, either. Lord Lanseril told me something of your importance. I hope you will not take offence if I seem to watch you closely while you’re here; it seems my brawn is on the block, so to speak, if you are endangered when I might have prevented it.”
“Endangered?” Narm asked, as Shandril paled. “Here?”
Thurbal spread broad, heavy hands. “We live in a world of magic, Lord. There are no safe defenses. AD the might I can muster to hold steel to your lady’s defense and your own cannot stop magic that finds a way through. I sometimes wonder what it would be like if all men had to stand or fall by their actions at the end of a sword, and there was no magic about. But then again, such a world might be in a worse mess than this one.”
“But we have enemies?” Narm asked soberly.
Lanseril shrugged and replied, “Shandril, or the two of you together, can create and hurl spellfire, something known only in the histories of art; something very powerful indeed. Many would like to be the only one to control and wield it. You must watch the shadows, and expect trouble, even here.”
“And get used to being ‘lord’ and ‘lady’,” Thurbal said with a grin. “All of the knights hold that title, and you stand with them until you declare and choose otherwise. My men will obey and aid you the better if they continue to think you are Lord and Lady of the Dale.” He paused, and then added, “By the way, Lady Shandril. I have heard from the Lord Florin and the Lady Jhessail of how you put Manshoon of Zhentil Keep to flight. I bow to you. Even with art that the rest of us lack, that is no light thing to have done.”
“Have you enemies, indeed?” Lanseril added. “Manshoon is no little one-I don’t doubt that he yet lives.” Shandril shuddered, and he patted her shoulder immediately. “But think no more of this. Enjoy this night, and let tomorrow look to tomorrow’s problems.”
“Hmmph-easy enough to say” Narm told him. “Not so easy to school one’s mind not to think of something.”
Lanseril nodded. “True, and I’m sorry I brought both your thoughts to this now. On the other hand-and think on this, mind; it is the most important training you can have for magecraft. You must be able to control your thoughts as an acrobat controls hands if you are to survive spell against spell. If you ever meet Manshoon to speak to at leisure, you will find him as cold and controlled as Elminster seems whimsical-but is not, underneath. If one is not controlled, one does not live to reach such power, unless one’s art is never challenged.” And then he smiled. “But enough. I must watch over these fools, while you speak with the more sober upstairs.”
“You?” Shandril asked in surprise.
Lanseril looked at her. “Of course. Are these”-he spread both hands to indicate the revelers all around-”not creatures under my care here in the dale, even as the chipmunks and the farmwives’ cats are?”
He left Shandril staring thoughtfully after him and strode over to where Torm stood laughing, each arm around a local beauty. Narm shook his head. “I don’t know these people, really, yet,” he said in her ear, “but they are good people-as good as any I’ve ever known.”
“I know,” Shandril whispered back. “That’s why I’m so afraid we’ll bring death upon them by being here.”
Narm looked at her somberly for a long time. At last he said in a low voice, “We have to, Shandril. We will die without their protection-you know that.”
Shandril nodded. “Yes. So I am here.” Her eyes sought out Mourngrym and saw him walking slowly with Storm and Florin toward the doors. “We should follow on-they are going up now, I think.”
Narm nodded amid the dancing and the deafening talk and laughter. Shandril noticed that Thurbal moved quietly to follow them, staying distant, eyes moving constantly.
Torchlight filled the hallway outside with light, reflecting off flagons and goblets all around. Many richly clad men and women, drinks in hand, leaned against the walls laughing and talking. Shandril heard a snatch of one story that was. considered old even in The Rising Moon as she passed, on Narm’s arm. They followed a regal lady in shimmering blue-green who wore a twinkling diadem up the stairs. When she turned at the top, they saw that it was Jhessail. She smiled.
“Such long faces,” she said tenderly. “Do you like feasts so little?”
“No, it’s not that,” Shandril whispered back. “We fear to bring danger upon you all.”
Jhessail shook her head as they walked on together. “Is that all? Do you not know that we here stand in danger at all times? Zhentil Keep attacks us every summer, at the least. The Cult of the Dragon and the dark elves beneath us are constant menaces… Myth Drannor’s devils are a worry to us, as is the lawlessness in Daggerdale. Adventurers may move on, or even run from such problems-but we cannot move the dale. Once we accepted Shadowdale, we became targets, and remain so. Why else live so high as we have been tonight, as those below”-she gestured to the noise- “still do?”
She traded glances with the young couple. “I could be slain tomorrow… should I therefore be miserable today? Why not make the best of it?” She took Narm’s free hand, and drew them both into the bower. “Come, let us talk of other things.” Behind them, Thurbal came watchfully up the stairs.
Within, it was much quieter than below. Florin greeted them both with a firm armclasp, as one warrior to another. Storm smiled and kissed them both, saying, “It is seldom these days that I see two who have entered Myth Drannor leave again, alive.”