“The Wearers of the Purple are met. For the glory of the dead dragons!” Naergoth Bladelord said. The leader of the Cult of the Dragon was, as always, coldly calm.
“For their dominion;’ the ritual reply answered him, more or less in unison. Naergoth looked about the large, plain, underground chamber. All were present save the mage Malark. Well enough. To tongue-work, then, the faster to feast in some fine festhall of Ordulin, above, and then bed and then sleep. The ruling Council of the Cult waited expectantly.
“Brothers,” he said, “we are gathered to hear of an affair that preoccupies your mages: this matter of spellfire and all that is drawn into it. Brother Zilvreen, what say you?”
“Brothers,” Master Thief Zilvreen said with soft, sinister grace. “I have learned little from your loyal followers of the fates of the dracolich Rauglothgor and the mage Maruel. But it appears likely that Rauglothgor, its treasure, the she-mage, and even another sacred night dragon, the wyrm Aghazstamn, whom Maruel called on for aid and rode upon back to Rauglothgor’s lair, have all been destroyed. Destroyed by the accursed archmage of Shadowdale, Elminster, a group of adventurers who call themselves the Knights of Myth Drannor, and by this young girl we have heard of, this Shandril Shessair, who can cast spellfire!”
“All?” rumbled Dargoth of the Perlar merchant fleet. “I can scarce believe they can all have been destroyed. What is so powerful, save an army of a size that we could see gathering for many days?”
“No such swords have been raised,” Commarth, the bearded general of the Sembian border forces, added dryly.
“Men sent back by Malark have described the site of Rauglothgor’s lair as a pit of freshly strewn rubble,” Zilvreen answered. “Draw your own conclusions.”
“So just what is this spellfire,” Dargoth asked, “that it can destroy great mages and great wyrms alike?”
Naergoth shrugged. “A fire that burns and can be hurled as a mage casts bolts of lightning,” he said, “and that affects magical items and spells as well as things not of art. More than that we do not know-which is why we sent Malark.”
“What of him?” Commarth asked. “Has he spoken to you more recently than we know?”
Naergoth shook his head. “No, I have heard no more than I have told you. He is in or about Shadowdale now, as far as we know, seeking a time and a way to get at the girl.”
“Shessair,” one of the others mused.” Wasn’t that the name of the mage that your brothers of art who preceded Malark slew at the Bridge of Fallen Men, in the battle that bought them their deaths?”
“Aye, it was,” Naergoth said, “but no connection is yet apparent. We have at least three eyes in Sword Coast cities who have the last name of ‘Suld’ that I know of… and none are blood-related or even know of each other!’
“What boots it?” Dargoth said. “Ancient history only warms long tongues-it can have no bearing on what we decide to do in this matter!”
“It certainly won’t, if we do nothing,” Commarth agreed in dry tones. “Have you any plans in mind, brothers?” Naergoth and Zilvreen shrugged.
“You first, brother,” Zilvreen prompted.
Naergoth nodded and spoke. “The price of getting our hands on this spellfire seems far too high, and others-the Zhentarim, and the priests of Bane outside Zhentil Keep, for two-are known to seek it. Yet it is we who have already paid a price, and I am loath to turn away empty-handed. The price may seem too high to you… and yet we cannot afford not to gain spellfire for our own. No one can. I expect much bloodshed yet.” He looked around the table. “How we go about getting it, I leave to you, brothers.”
“Let the mages win it for us” said Zilvreen smoothly. “Waste no more swords-and especially no more of your bone dragons-on this.”
“Well enough,” Dargoth agreed. “But spellfire or no, we must not let this girl, or the knights, go unpunished for what they have done. We must never forget that we have lost much treasure, two dracoliches, and The Shadowsil over this. The girl must pay. Even if she becomes an ally, she must die after we have gained her secrets and her power. This must ride over all.”
“Well said, brother;1 Naergoth agreed. There was a murmur of agreement around the table. “We are agreed, then- for now, we let your brother mages handle this affair?”
“Aye, it is his field,” came one reply.
“Aye, it would be folly to do otherwise,” said another.
“Aye-and if he comes not back, we can always raise other mages to the Purple.”
“Aye to that, too!”
“Aye,” the others all put in, in their turn. So it was agreed, and they all rose and left that place.
It was late in Shadowdale, and in the Twisted lower the candles burned low. In an inner room of Lord Mourngrym’s chambers off the great bedroom, there was much discussion over the remains of dinner-in low tones, as Lady Shaeril slept in her chair at one end of the table, and Rathan Thentraver dozed over one arm of his chair.
“We must leave,” Shandril said, close to tears.
“Leave? Of course… how can you know yourselves and become strong if you are always in the midst of our hurly-burly?” Florin agreed. “But come back one day to see us, mind,” he added softly.
“Have you a place in mind?” Jhessail asked, as she leaned drowsily upon Merith’s shoulder. The elf s eyes gleamed in the candlelight. Tonight he had said little and listened much.
Narm shrugged. “We go to seek our fortune. The Harpers said to seek High Lady Alustriel in Silverymoon.”
“Would you have some of us ride with you?” Lanseril asked. “There are greater evils in this world by far than those you have fought.”
“With all respect, lord,” Shandril answered him, “no. Too long you have watched over us and spilled much blood on our account. We must make our own way in the world and fight our own battles-or in the end, we will have done nothing.”
“ ‘Nothing,’ she says,” Torm said to Illistyl. “Two dracoliches and a mountaintop and a good piece of Manshoon of Zhentil Keep, yet, and ‘nothing; she calls it! It’s scary. What if she tries ‘something’?”
“Hush you,” Illistyl said, stopping his mouth with a kiss. “You’re a worse windbag than the old mage himself.”
“Why, thank ye,” said a familiar voice wryly from the far darkness of the room. Narm saw the battered old hat first, perched atop the staff that Elminster bore, as the sage’s bearded old face came forward into the light and regarded them all. He looked last at Narm and Shandril.
“Ye might,” he said dryly, “go to The Rising Moon for a night, at least. It would be a kindness to Gorstag. He has been worried about ye.”
Shandril met his gaze in silence, and a breath had passed before Narm realized that she was crying. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks and dripped from her chin. He turned to her and took her in his arms, but her tears still fell.
“Don’t cry, beloved,” Narm soothed her. “You’re among-”
“Shush her not,” Merith said gently. “It is no shame to weep. Only one who cares not, cries not. I have seen what happens to those-Florin and Torm, at this table-who cry inside and try to hide it from others. It sears the soul”
Jhessail nodded. “Merith is right,” she said. “Tears don’t upset us, only the reasons for them “
“Cry here, lord,” murmured Shaeril in her sleep, patting her own shoulder. “It is soft and listens to you.” Mourngrym looked faintly embarrassed. Torm grinned.
“You see?” he said to Illistyl “You could do that for me… You have the shoulders for it.” She slapped him fondly.
Shaeril stirred and frowned. “Oh, it is that game tonight, is it?” she murmured. “Well, my lord, you’ll have to catch me first, I assure you.” Chuckles arose from around the room. Mourngrym leaned forward and lifted his lady gently from the chair. Sleepily she clung to his neck and drew her legs up across his chest, settling herself with murmurs of contentment.
Mourngrym turned to them all with Shaeril cradled in his arms. “Good even, all,” he said with a smile. “Shaeril should be in bed-and so should all of us.”
“Now where were we?” Elminster asked, settling himself into a chair that looked as old, shabby, and well-worn as he did. “Oh, aye… your plans for the future, Narm and Shandril.” Groans, silence, and faint snores answered him from elsewhere, as the newly healed knights lay sleeping upon couches and blankets. Jhessail looked at him and smiled ruefully, but she said nothing. Narm also kept silence, but the slow, disbelieving shake of his head was eloquent.
Shandril fixed the sage with her own tired eyes. “I suppose you’ll tell us to steer clear of fights, or we’ll be dead within a day, eh?”
“Nay.” Very clear blue eyes looked deep into hers. “You two will be given no such choice. You must fight or die. But think: one mistake is enough when you’re dealing with those who wield art. Remember that.” His gaze shifted to Narm. “Ye too, Lion of Mystra.”
Elminster cleared his throat, then continued. “If ye find thyself facing a mage, stand not to trade spells with him. Throw rocks, and run right at him unless he’s much too far away to reach. Then run away and find a place to hide where ye can grab rocks to throw. Simple, eh? Recall how thy lady first struck down Symgharyl Maruel before ye laugh.” “Five hundred-odd winters, eh?” was all Narm said.
The sun rose again over a very quiet tower of Ashaba. The Lord and Lady of Shadowdale, in the company of the sage Elminster, the young married lad and lass, and the knights all remained on an upper floor within a great, blinding sphere of shimmering colors, a prismatic sphere cast by Elminster. Bold warned everyone not to approach.