Lhaeo smiled again. “Stir the stew, will you?” he asked innocently. Then, before the old mage’s fury could erupt beyond a rising growl, he said, “I’m noting down the limits of Shandril’s power, as observed by you and the knights. The information may prove useful some day,” he added very quietly, “if she must ever be stopped.”
Elminster stared at him a moment and then nodded, looking very old. “Aye, aye, you have the right of it, as usual.” He sighed. “But not that little girl. Not Shandril. Why, she’s but a little wisp of a thing, all laughter and kindness and bright eyes-”
“Aye. Like Lansharra,” Lhaeo answered simply. Elminster nodded, very slowly, and said nothing. There was silence for a long time. Lhaeo finished his work, blew upon the page, and got up. The sage sat like a statue, his eyes on the fire. Lhaeo reached over him, slid a scrap of paper from under the jam-jar, and laid it before Elminster. He turned away to see to food, without a word. Perhaps four breaths later, he heard the old mage’s voice behind him, and he smiled to himself. Put a recipe for fried sand snake in front of Elminster and he’d be reading it in a trice.
“ ‘Spellfire will rise, and a sword of power, to cleave shadow and evil and master art.’ “ Elminster read it as though it was a curious bard’s rhyme or a bad attempt at a joke. Lhaeo waited. Elminster spoke again. “ ‘Master art? What did Alaundo mean by that? She’s to become a mage? She has not the slightest aptitude for it-and I’m not completely new to teaching art, ye know!”
“I have found that Alaundo’s sayings make perfect sense after they have happened, for the most part,” Lhaeo said, “but they help precious little beforehand.”
“Ahhh… stir the stew!” Elminster grunted. “I’m going out for a pipe.” The door banged behind him. Lhaeo grinned.
The stairs creaked as Storm came down them barefoot, silver hair shining in the firelight.
“Leave the stew,” she said softly to Lhaeo. “It’s probably been thrashed into soup by now, between the both of you.”
Lhaeo smiled and put strong arms around her. “Let us go back upstairs,” he said gently, “before he returns for a flame to light his pipe. Haste, now!”
The bed creaked as they sat upon it, a scant instant before the door, below, banged open again. Outside, Elminster chuckled and then hummed his favorite of the tunes Storm had devised. One didn’t get to be five hundred winters old without noticing a thing or two.
They rode steadily south all that day on a road busy with wagons rumbling north out of Sembia. Hawk-eyed outriders and shrewd, watchful merchants looked them over often, and the scrutiny always made Narm and Shandril uncomfortable.
Torm had acquired a moustache from somewhere about his person, as well as some brown powder of the sort used as cosmetics in the Inner Sea lands. Skillfully he rubbed it about his eyes and jaw and cheekbones, until his face seemed subtly different. He rode in silence for the most part-a mercy upon his companions-and affected a soft, growling voice when he did speak. He remained to the rear as they rode.
Looking back, Narm could see the glistening whites of his eyes darting this way and that in the shadowy gloom of a cap that hid his face. The conjurer gathered that Torm was a little too well known in Sembia or nearby to ride openly on the high road this far south without his fellow knights around him.
Rathan, however, paid such cautions no mind. He rode easily before Shandril, speaking loudly of the kindnesses and spectacular cruelties of the Great Lady Tymora, and occasionally pointing out a far-off landmark or the approaching colors of a merchant house or company of the Inner Sea lands. But he seemed to be addressing her as Lady Nelchave, and occasionally comparing things to ‘your hold, Roaringcrest.’ Shandril answered him with vague murmurs, trying to sound bored. In fact, she was enjoying riding in the comfortable security of Rathan and Torm’s presence, with a guided tour of the countryside.
Torm and Rathan preferred to lunch in the saddle without halting, Shandril found it fascinating to watch them fill nosebags with skins of water and lean forward to hang them carefully about the necks of their mounts and mules, after first letting each animal taste and smell the contents of such a bag. They deftly passed bread, cheese, and small chased metal flasks of wine about. Torm even produced four large, iced sugar rolls (probably pilfered from some passing cart or other) from somewhere about his person. Shandril began to wonder if he had endless pockets, like those of Longfingers the Magician in the bards’ tales.
A light rain squall came out of the west in the afternoon and lashed them briefly as it passed overhead. Torm nearly lost his moustache, but he regained his high, sly spirits. He danced about on his dripping horse, firing jests, rolling his eyes, and mimicking the absent knights.
The day passed and the road fell away steadily behind them, until in high eventide they came to Blackfeather Bridge, where the road between the Standing Stone and Sembia crosses the River Ashaba. There Sembia maintained a small guardpost of bored-looking, hardened men armed with ready crossbows and long pikes bearing the Raven and Silver banner of Sembia.
The guards looked long and coldly at the four travelers. Narm noticed a cleric of Tempus and a silent man in robes standing off to one side with two veteran warriors, watching them steadily. His throat went dry, but he tried to keep his face unconcerned and impassive. Dragon Cult and Zhentarim agents could be anywhere-and everywhere. Narm was certain Rathan was recognized, but nothing was said and no one barred their way.
Two hills later, as the sun sank lower, Narm looked back, but he could not see any pursuit. An uneasy feeling persisted, however, and he was not surprised when at sunset Rathan led them wordlessly westward, well off the road, until it grew too dim to ride safely on.
“This seems as good a place as any,” Rathan said gruffly, waiting for Torm’s soft-spoken assent. “Heady watch tonight,” the cleric added. “If you must go off to relieve yourself, Shandril,” he added, “go not alone.”
The knights seemed to share Narm’s feeling of trouble ahead. Narm and Torm had barely drifted off to sleep, long after an exhausted Shandril, when there was a thudding noise, as someone tripped amid the webwork of black silk cords Torm had strung in an arc behind where Rathan sat watch. Rathan lifted the mace from his knees as he whirled and let out a warning bellow.
The attacker was already coming to his feet, cursing softly, sword drawn-and there were others behind. Narm rolled upright with frightened speed. Torm was up and away into the night like a vengeful shadow before he could even draw breath.
“Defend thy lady, lad!” Rathan bellowed back over one shoulder, as his mace struck aside attacking steel with a shrill clatter. Two faced him, with a third rushing up.
Narm saw a man fall as he looked all around for danger on his way to stand over Shandril, who was rolling over drowsily. More men with blades were coming out of the night. Narm saw another fall, and this time he saw the glint of steel as Torm leaped onward to deal death again. Then a man rushed right at Narm, steel gleaming in the firelight.
Coolly, Narm cast a magic missile spell. Then he drew his dagger and braced himself. The glowing pulses of his art swooped and struck. The man, who wore dark leathers and wielded a hooked sabre, staggered and fell. Narm set his teeth and leaned over to finish the job. Blood wet his fingers, and he felt sick as he looked up and around again for new dangers approaching.
There were none. Torm dispatched another from behind-Narm saw the man stiffen and groan-and Rathan was chatting jovially to those he slew.
“Do you not realize what moral pain-nay, spiritual agony-striking thee down causes me? Hast no consideration for my feelings?” The heavy mace fell again, crushing. “More than this, aye, ye-uhh!- grrh!-wound me. Instead, of challenging me in-ahhhh-the bright light of day, before men of worth to bear witness, with a stated-hahhh!- grievance, ye seek to do the dishonor upon my poor holy bones in the dark of the night! At a time when all good and- ahhh!-lucky men are abed, with better- unghh!- things to be doing than cracking skulls asunder! Don’t ye agree- ahh!-now?” Rathan’s last opponent fell, twitching, jaw shattered and bloody.
Torm looked up. “The horses don’t like this. We’d best move them, and us, in case there are others lurking. Narm, is your lady awake?”
Shandril answered him herself. “Yes.” She shuddered involuntarily at the sight of his bloody dagger. “Must you enjoy it so much?”
Torm looked at her in silence for a time. “I do not enjoy it at all” he said quietly. “But I prefer it to getting a knife.in the ribs myself.” He bent down and wiped his blade on something that Shandril mercifully couldn’t see in the darkness, but he did not sheathe it. “Shall we ride?”
“Walk, pigeon-brain,” Rathan rumbled, “and lead the horses. Who knows what we’ll stumble over or down into if we try to ride in this? See to these, will ye? I want none alive to tell thy names and route, and this mace is not as sure as a blade.”
“At once, Exalted One,” Torm said with sarcastic sweetness. “Mind you don’t forget any of your baggage. I’ll see if our late friends were carrying anything of value with them.”
Rathan nodded in the light of the dying fire. “Mind more don’t come upon thee while ye’re slavering and giggling over the gold. See to the campfire, will ye?”
In quiet haste, they gathered their gear and led their mounts and mules into the night. Westward Narm and Shandril followed Rathan, pace by careful pace, over rolling ground.
Torm caught them up before long. “The fire’s scattered and out. I can find no one else following, but listen sharp everyone.”
“It seems I’ll be doing that the rest of my life,” Shandril said in a bitter whisper.
Torm put his head close to hers. The faint light of Selune caught his teeth as he grinned. “You might even get used to it. Who knows?”
“Who indeed,” she replied, pulling a reluctant Shield up an uneven slope in the dark.
“Not much farther now” Rathan said soothingly from up ahead. Loose stones clacked underfoot, and then Rathan said in quiet satisfaction, “Here. This place will do.”
Shandril fell into sleep as if it were a great black pit, and she never stopped falling. She awoke with the smell of frying boar in her nostrils. Narm had just kissed her. Shandril murmured contentment and embraced him sleepily as she stretched. He smelled good.
Close at hand, a merry voice said, “Works like a charm, it does. Can I try it? Shandril, will you go back to sleep for a moment?”
Shandril sighed. “Torm, do you never stop?”
“Not until I’m dead, good lady. Irritating I may be, but Tm never dull.”
“Aye,” Rathan rumbled. “Thou art many things, but never dull.”
“Fair morning to you both,” Shandril laughed.
“Well met, lady,” Rathan answered her. “Thy dawnfry awaits thee… simple fare, I fear, but enough to ride on. We were not bothered again in the night, but ye had best watch sharp today. It will not be long before those bodies are found.”
Narm looked around at the grassy hills. “Where exactly are we?”
“West of the road, in the hills west of Featherdale,” Rathan supplied. “Turn about. Do ye see that gray shadow-like smoke-on the horizon? That is Arch Wood. Between here and there lies an old, broad valley with no river to speak of anymore. That’s Tasseldale. I would not go down into the valley. Though it’s a pleasant place, indeed, with many fine shops and friendly folk, it is also full of people ye want to avoid. Nay, keep to the heights along the valley’s northern edge.
“There, ye’ll meet with no more than a shepherd or two and perhaps a Mairshar patrol. Tell them-they police the dale and always ride twelve strong-that ye’re from Highmoon, going home, Shandril, with this mage ye met in Hillsfar. Call thyself ‘Gothal,’ or something, Narm. Stick to the truth about Gorstag and the inn, lady, and ye’ll fare the better. Give no information to any others until ye meet with the elves of Deepingdale.”