“I shall not tell it,” Shandril said. “What can I help you with, here?”
Lhaeo looked at her. “Cook what you like, and teach me as you go,” he said. “Please?” They smiled at each other across a bag of onions. “And my thanks,” he added.
“For keeping your secret?”
“Aye. It may not seem much, but each secret you carry has a weight all its own. They add up, secrets, to a burden you must carry all your days.”
Shandril looked up from selecting onions, knife in hand. “You carry many?”
“Aye. But my load is nothing to Elminster’s.”
Shandril nodded, then looked down. “Whose gown is it that I wear?” she asked quietly. Lhaeo smiled.
“That is one of the secrets,” he said. “I would tell you, but it is his to tell, not mine.”
“Well enough. Do you have an old apron I might wear to cover it?”
“Aye, behind you, on the peg. Tell me of The Rising Moon.”
She did. They serve others most who ask the right question, and then listen. The day passed, and they marked not the time.
The day passed, and Narm grew weary. He had grown used to the clear and careful teaching of Jhessail, and the practical tutelage of Illistyl. Elminster’s methods were a rude shock, indeed.
The old mage badgered and derided and made testily impatient comments. The simplest query of him on this or that small detail of casting brought a scholarly flood of information in reply-a voluminous barrage that never seemed to include a direct answer. Elminster had worked on Narm’s new spell, the flaming sphere, until Narm could have screamed.
Weary hours of study to impress the difficult runes upon Narm’s mind, and then a sharp lecture on precisely how to cast the spell in view of the obvious shortcomings he had displayed last time were the grinding irritants. They were followed by a few moments of spellcasting, a ball of scorching flame rushing away-a thrill the first few times, but now Narm saw each one as a failure even before Elminster spoke-and then Elminster’s scathing critique. The clumsiness or slowness of the casting, the lazy and inattentive formation of the sphere, and worst of all, the lack of precision in its direction, once formed, were all regular topics.
“Have ye not seen your lady hurl spellfire?” Elminster demanded, in acid tones. “Have ye not noticed how she can shape the flames-a broad fan or a thin, dexterous tongue-bend it around corners, pulse short spurts of flame to avoid setting her surroundings ablaze? I suppose ye couldn’t tell me now the hue of her eyes, either!”
“ Ahh, they’re…” Narm hastened to reply, and found to his horror that an image of Shandril wouldn’t come to his mind at the moment. Confused and badgered, he hurled fire angrily before Elminster hid him, tossing the ball of flames twenty feet before it landed and rolled.
“Temper, boy,” Elminster admonished, watching it. “Too easily it can be thy death. Mages cannot afford it-not if it affects the precision of their casting. Here ye are, furious with me, and we’ve spent merely a morning together. Not good! Oh, that’s all good enough for the lesser talents who swagger about throwing a few fireballs and bullying honest farm folk. I had hoped you would look for something more, in the service of Mystra.
“Ye can be a great mage, Narm, if ye develop just two things: precision in control of spell effects and imagination in applying your art. The latter ye will need more later on, when ye reach past most mages with whom ye would wish to associate in both experience and knowledge. The precision ye must master now, else thine every spell will have some waste about it. Thy art will lack that edge of shrewd phrasing and maximum effect that may mean the difference between defeat and victory, some day.
“As ye advance, ye will become a target for those who gain spells by preying upon other mages. If ye lack precision in a duel of art, ye will be utterly destroyed-then it will be too late for my lessons.”
“But I cannot hope to win a duel now. How will spending all day throwing balls of flame about make any difference to that? If I win a duel, one day, surely it will be because I have stronger spells and more of them.”
“Perhaps. Yet, know ye, a mage can do more with a few simple spells he knows back-to-front, and can use shrewdly, than with an arsenal hastily memorized and poorly understood from any spellbook he may look at. Do ye follow me?”
Narm nodded, slowly. “Good, then” the sage said. “I shall leave ye to thyself, if ye promise me to study and cast your flaming sphere at least four times more, here in this field, before ye rest for the day. Think on moving the sphere just where ye want it, and making it form in just the place ye choose. Think too on how ye can use such a weapon against, say, a running group of goblins who will scamper in all directions when they see it coming, but always try to get past it toward ye.
“Don’t forget that only foolish and arrogant mages stand still after they have cast to admire the view. Move, or a simple arrow will soon make ye a dead mage, no matter how impressive ye were in life. Oh, and worry not about the stubble; ye’re doing the farmer who owns this a favor by burning it off. Try not to take the fencing with it. It is harder to term that ‘friendly help.’ Do I have thy promise?”
Narm nodded. “Yes, and my thanks.”
“Thanks? It is impatient ye are again, Narm! The task’s not done yet. Save thy thanks until ye be master of this spell, at the least. Then thank yourself first. I can talk all day and only waste breath if ye do not heed, and work, and master the art.”
Narm grinned. “You do,” he replied. Elminster grinned back, only for an instant. The twinkle in his eye remained, though, as he became a falcon and flew away.
Narm stood in the field and watched him go, sighed, and reached for his spellbook. The sun was bright on the Old Skull. He sighed again and bent his head to the book.
When he stood up, much later, to cast his first flaming sphere, Narm drew a deep breath of satisfaction. At least he was alone and could work art without wisely watching eyes and a lot of sharp comments. He turned to look around at the stubble, enjoying the choosing of what he could burn at whim. It was then that he noticed a small boy had appeared from somewhere and was hanging upon the fence-rails watching him.
“Go away!” Narm said crossly. “This your field?” the boy replied laconically. “You could get hurt!” Narm said. “I’ll be casting spells here!”
“Aye. I’ve been watching. But I won’t be hurt unless you cast spells at me. You won’t do that; there are no evil magic-workers in Shadowdale. Ma says Elminster wont permit it.” “I see,” said Narm, and set his jaw. “Excuse me.” He turned away to hurl fire again.
The boy watched fire roll away once and stayed glued to the fence. All day long he stayed, as Narm hurled fire, sat down to study, got up and threw fire carefully again, and then went back to his books.
Narm was weary when he finally went to the gate at evening, and very thirsty. The boy climbed down from the fence then, and fell into step beside Narm. “I wish I could be a great mage, like you,” he said, almost shyly.
Narm looked at him and laughed. “I wish I could be a great mage,” he said ruefully. “I know so little. I feel so useless.”
The boy stared. “You?” He shook his head. “I saw you cast big balls of fire. You point them where to go, and they move at your bidding! You must be powerful!”
Narm shook his head, as they went on down the road. “Being a mage is a lot more than just hurling balls of fire about.” The boy nodded at him, slowly, and then waved a sudden good-bye, ducked through a gap in a hedge off to one side of the road, and was gone. Narm shrugged and walked on. Ahead he could see a patrol of guardsmen on horseback, trotting toward him with lances raised. It must be nice to call a place like this home.
Elminster was sitting out on a boulder near his front step, smoking, when Narm came up the path. He put aside his pipe and regarded Narm thoughtfully. “Well?” he asked. “Can ye put a sphere where ye want to?” Narm nodded. “So are ye a mage, then?”
Narm shrugged. “I have a long road to go,” he said, “before I am strong in art. But I can stand in most company, now, and know my art will serve me.” He added proudly, “There will always be others more powerful, but I’ve truly mastered what I do know.”
“Oh?” Elminster asked softly. “Think ye so?” His features suddenly blurred and shifted beneath the battered old hat, flowing and changing in a fascinating, rather frightening manner. Narm stared at the shrinking sage, and suddenly found himself facing the young boy who had watched his spell practice from the fence. The little face grinned; the little mouth moved, and in a perfect imitation of Narm’s own voice said solemnly, “Being a mage is a lot more than just hurling balls of fire about.”
Narm stared at him in anger, then resignation, and then sheepish amusement. “Elminster won’t permit it, indeed,” he said. “I can see that I’ll have to rise early in the day indeed to get ahead of you.”
Elminster smiled. “Ah, but I have five hundred years’ start on ye. Come. Dinner is ready. Thy lady is a cook of rare skill. Ye have chosen correctly. See that ye serve her as well, boy, as she serves ye.” With this last sage advice he knocked his pipe out on the doorstep and went in. Narm looked once at the stars, beginning to sparkle as the sky darkened, and followed him inside.
To Walk Unseen
The bards soon forget a warrior falling without a great feat of arms. Would you be forgotten?
Face each battle, each foe, as though it is your last. One day it will be.
Dathlance of Selgaunt
An Old Warrior’s Way
Year of the Blade
The morning sun laid bright fingers upon the table where they sat in the audience chamber of the Twisted Tower. Shandril watched stray dust motes sparkle above the table as she and Narm waited for Elminster to come in from dawnfry in the great hall. Narm’s hand found hers, and they sat together in contented silence, alone with the fading tapestries of Shadowdale’s past and the empty throne. “I was brought here by Illistyl before we met in Rauglothgor’s lair,” Narm said quietly, “and spoke with Mourngrym. It seems an age ago, now.”
Shandril nodded. “It seems long ago that I left Deepingdale, yet it is a matter of tendays, not months.” She looked at the great painted map of the Dragonreach upon the wall. “I wonder where we shall be in a year?” she asked.
Narm never replied, for upon her words the doors opened and Elminster came in. Shandril had thought Mourngrym would be with him, but the sage was alone. He came toward them, slowly, and for the first time, Shandril thought, he really looked old. He sat down in a chair beside them, not on the throne, and fixed them with bright eyes.