From below him, from another room of the turret, came the faint piping of a flautist blowing the mournful melody of an old ballad:
Good fortune comes, fleeting, and then it is gone But the heart heavy with weeping must carry on thick comes and stays like winter’s cold snow Always you must weather more than one blow… Ilthond spread his hands in a grand flourish to finish the spellcasting and vanished. The floating, disembodied eyeball of a wizard eye spell that had been watching him from beneath the table winked out and was also gone.
“Of course she’ll live, if ye get out of my way for a breath or two!” Rathan roared, “Lanseril, stay here to work healing magic Rold, ye saved her; ye stay by her, too. Florin, bring Narm over here… be he awake yet? All others, get ye hence! Below stairs, the lot of ye! Mourngrym, ye and Shaeri may stay, of course. The rest-clear out! Get ye gone!”
“Narm stirs,” Jhessail reported tersely. “We shall take this guardsman, if Rold has not quite slain him, and learn the whys of this.” She gestured with her head to the gathered guards to move Culthar’s body, and then added, “All others-back to your posts, please. Our thanks for your haste in coming.” The guards saluted her and left.
A group of gawking servants and pages drifted back a pace or two at Rathan’s words, but remained to watch. Florin laid Narm down gently upon a hastily found sleeping-fur, letting his bruised head down with care, and looked up at the onlookers. After a few moments of his silent, steady gaze, the gawkers began to shuffle away.
“How is she?” he asked, looking at Shandril’s still face.
“Well enough,” Rathan replied, “considering the blow to the wits she got. I only hope that it has not somehow harmed her ability to wield spellfire, now that half of Faerun seems to be attacking her to gain it.” He and Florin exchanged a sober glance.
“Why would just one guard attack her?” Mourngrym muttered, frowning.
“One seemed to do well enough,” Shaeri replied, gesturing at the two still forms at their feet.
“No, love; I meant I would expect to find other attackers near at hand.”
The Lord of Shadowdale turned. “Rold, I want this tower searched, forthwith, this floor first. Jhessail, will you rouse Olistyl and stand guard over our two guests, here? I shall remain also.” He drew his slim, jeweled sword, set it point down before him, and leaned upon it. Shaeri nodded and knelt by Narm, who had begun to moan faintly.
Florin knelt on one knee beside him, and was ready with gravely strong arms when the young conjurer suddenly surged up, arms flailing. “Where’s-? Shandril! Danger! Beware! Danger!”
“Aye… aye,” Florin agreed gently, holding him. “Danger it was, indeed. Stay still now, and we can see to your lady.”
“Shandril? How-”
“Quiet and still, please. If you will heed, you will learn. She lies behind you; Rathan and Lanseril tend her.”
“I-yes, I shall.” Narm sank back, wincing as his head came to rest again upon the furs. “What happened?”
“Narm lay quiet and still as he was bid, that’s what happened,” the Lady Shaeri said severely.
Narm grimaced, and then he heard Shandril say softly, “I thank you. Narm was hurt; have you seen to him?” His heart knew peace and he was asleep within a breath, not even hearing Hainan’s reply.
It was dark in the blanket room and close, smelling of pomander and moth-mix. Ilthond stifled a sneeze, nodded in satisfaction at his accurate teleporting, and listened. He could hear nothing. Well enough. To work, then.
The mage worked invisibility upon himself, then cautiously eased the door open a crack. The corridor beyond seemed empty. He stole forth and looked about.
Better and better, he thought. Ilthond muttered a spell of flight and rose high to drift unseen along the corridor and search. No guards… why? Was Shadowdale truly so lax and careless a place as all that? No, there must be some strife or alarm…
Around the corner came a dozen guards with drawn swords and forbidding, intent glares. Ilthond moved over and past them in careful silence. Where might the young maid be? The tower’s mortar was mixed with substances to prevent scrying, but he was sure he’d find her anyway.
Perhaps she was up in the plainer but more secure rooms of the levels above, or down below, as befitted a guest of importance. The greater risk probably lay downward- but so, too, did almost all chances of learning who was where, and doing what. Ah well, a short, risky road leads fastest to the top, they say…,
Ilthond reached the stairs and headed down, keeping near the sloping stone ceiling. Carefully and quietly he went, like a silent shadow. He searched, nosing through rooms and along halls, flitting back and forth with patient care not to be brushed against or seen by those who might be able to detect him.
He had come down a long hall where the torches burned every twenty paces, and there at one end humans in rich garb stood or knelt near two who lay side by side on the ground. Ilthond came closer slowly, silently, straining to hear from afar.
“How d’ye feel?” Rathan growled. “Better, I trust?”
Shandril nodded, slowly. “My head still aches. But my thanks, indeed, good Rathan. Again I am in your debt for healing me when I lay stricken.”
“Not in my debt,” Rathan corrected. “The Lady it is whom ye owe.” He traced a circle about the disc upon his breast with the middle finger of his right hand.
“Yes, I shall not forget the Lady’s favor,” Shandril replied. “How is Narm?”
Rathan looked over at Narm. “He sleeps. Best to let him sleep on. But you must try your spellfire,” he said gently.
Shandril had come up to her elbows. She now drew her legs under her and extended her hand. From her spread fingers spellfire spat, crackling down the hall in a long tongue of flame. She ended it almost immediately, and it died away, curling into air. “As before,” she said briefly. “I can still-”
A pain-wracked groan came out of empty air down the hall. Florin and Mourngrym drew blades instantly and stepped in front of Shandril to shield her. Shaerl drew her dagger and reached out with its pommel to pound a gong close at hand.
Its echoes had barely died away before the form of a robed man with hawkish features and glossy black hair came into view in midair. His face was twisted with pain, his robe still smoldered, his shoulder and breast were burned bare. He hissed the word that unleashed the power of the wand in his hand.
Lightning sprang into being and a forked bolt struck both Florin and Mourngrym. The Lord of Shadowdale staggered aside and fell heavily, blade clattering. Shaerl cried out and ran to him. Florin, too, fell, driven to his knees by the energy hurled against him, but he was struggling up into a weak charge, face black with pain and effort. Shandril stood up and lashed out in heartsick anger with spellfire.
“Wherever I go!” she said bitterly, on the verge of tears. “Always, beset! Always friends and companions hurt! You come seeking spellfire? Well, then-have it!” Spellfire roared out of her in a tumbling inferno that lasted for but a breath but raged down the hallway in a blistering wall that swept over the flying mage like a wave crashing over rocks in a storm.
Narm had awoken, looking dazed. He struggled to his knees to work art, to protect his lady from this new menace. His hands halted in midair as he gazed at the blackened, crippled thing that the spellfire left behind on the scorched rugs of the hall.
Shandril raised a hand again as the man moved weakly and twisted cooked lips in hissing words of art, but she did not unleash her flames. The head sank down between smoking shoulders that shook with pain. The mage vanished, gone as though he had never been. Only the smoldering of rugs showed where he had lain.
“Wherever we go,” Shandril said wearily, turning to Rathan, “your healing services are needed. I hope you will not grow tired of it all before this comes to an end.”
“Lady” Rathan said as he hastened to where Mourngrym lay. “This never ends, I fear. Worry not about my patience-it is what I walk these Realms for.” He knelt by the Lord of Shadowdale, and looked back at her over one shoulder. “You do a most impressive job, I must say,” he added with the barest trace of a grin.
Jhessail arrived then, robes held high as she sprinted along in the forefront of a large group of guards. “Shandril?” she cried. “Florin? Mourngrym?” Merith was at her side, blade out.
“Healing, we need,” Rathan said. “The time for blasting and all that is past.” He looked up. “Send ye four guardsmen for Eressea at the temple… I have no more power to heal now, and Mourngrym yet needs it.” Jhessail spun about to relay his orders and then back to face them all.
“What happened?” she asked.
“Another mage. Flying about, this one was, and invisible. Shandril touched him with spellfire purely by chance when I asked her to test her powers. He struck Florin and Mourngrym with lightning from a wand. Shandril burned him but did not slay him. He teleported away,” Rathan explained. Jhessail looked at Shandril and then sighed.
“You stew him not?” she asked.
Shandril nodded, eyes on hers. “I could not,” she said. “It was… horrible. Who knows? He may have meant me no harm at all.”
Jhessail nodded. “I cannot fault you,” she said slowly. “Yet I bid you remember this: when you fight, art to art, seek to slay-and mind you finish the job. An enemy who escapes will return for revenge.”
“Aye,” said Shaerl, eyes hot. “A man who dared to strike down my lord lives yet! I blame you not, Shandril. It must be terrible to hold such death within you, always knowing you can slay. Yet, if that man were within my grasp right now, I would not hesitate to strike and slay. One who would harm my Mourngrym does not deserve to live.”
As she spoke, they heard the sounds of running feet. A guardsman reached the head of the stairs, yelling, “Lord Mourngrym! Lady Shaerl!”
Shaerl turned. “Say on.”