“The sage did not tell you?” Gorstag asked, gaping at her in his turn. “Why, your mother was a companion-at-arms of mine. We were adventurers together, long ago: Dammasae the Incantatrix. If she had a last name, I never knew it. She was born in the Sword Coast lands. She would not talk of herself.”
“Are you-my father?” Shandril asked softly. Gorstag chuckled. “No, lass. No, though we were good friends, Damm and I, and often held each other by the campfire. Your father was Garthond. A sorcerer he was, by the time he died, Garthond Snessair. I never knew where he was born either, but in his youth, he became apprentice to the mage Jhavanter of Highmoon.”
“A moment, if you will,” Lureene said gently. “This grows confusing. Let me go to the kitchen. Gorstag, pour ale, and tell your story as a story. If you ask question upon question, Shan, it grows as tangled as a ball of wool.
Shandril nodded. “You have told me the two things I wanted most to know. Unfold the rest as you see best, and I’ll try not to break in. By the gods, master, why did you not tell me all of this before? Years I’ve wondered and worried and dreamed. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Easy, lass. And I am not your ‘master.’ You are your own master, now.” Gorstag was solemn. “There were good reasons. Folk were looking for you, even then, and asking me where you came from. I never wanted to tell you a He, girl, not since I first brought you here. Oh, you had wise eyes from the first. I could not say false to you. I knew that these same prying folk asked you and the other girls questions when I was not about. If you knew the truth, they’d have tricked or drawn it out of you.
“So I said nothing of it to you, and let the rumors of my fathering you pass unchallenged, and waited for you to be old enough to tell. You are that, now, and past time. I’m sorry you had to run away to find your adventure. The fault was mine, not to have seen your need sooner, and made you happier.”
“No, Gorstag;” Shandril said. “I’ve had nothing but good from you, as the gods witness all, and I blame you not. But tell me the tale of my parents, please. I’ve waited many a year for such news.”
“Aye. Well, then. Enough of dates, and all. We can puzzle that out later. Here’s the backbone of the tale. Garthond, your father, was an apprentice of the mage Jhavanter.
“Jhavanter, and Garthond with him, fought several times against the Cult of the Dragon in Sembia hereabouts. Jhavanter held an old tower on the eastern flanks of the Thunder Peaks, which he called the Tower Tranquil. Garthond dwelt there with Jhavanter until mages of the cult destroyed Jhavanter in a fight. After that, Garthond continued his studies-and his feud with the cult.
“At every turn he would work against them, destroy their lesser mages, and terrorize any among them not protected by art. He grew in power, Garthond did, and survived many attempts on his life by the cult. Eventually he rescued the incantatrix Dammasae from cult captivity-they had her drugged, bound, and gagged, in a caravan heading to one of their strongholds.
“Dammasae had adventured with me and others before this. She had become known for a natural power she had-a power she wanted to develop, by practice and experiment. She could absorb spells and use their force of art as raw energy, held within her. She could use her power to heal, or to harm in the form of fiery blasts. The cult took her to learn the secrets of spellfire for their own use, or at least control her use of it to further their own schemes. No doubt, if they seek you now, it is for the same reasons.”
“That,” Shandril agreed softly, “or my destruction. But please, Gorstag, say on!” To know her life at last! Her eyes were moist as Narm put his arms around her shoulders comfortingly.
Gorstag took down his axe from behind the bar and lowered himself into a chair facing hers, laying the axe near at hand on a table beside him. He turned his chair so as to better see the front door. Outside, moon-dappled mist drifted past the windows.
“Well,” the innkeeper continued, “Garthond rescued Dammasae and protected her and worked magic with her… and they came to love each other. They traveled much, seeking adventure as many of we fools do, and pledged their troth before the altar of Mystra in Baldur’s Gate.
“Here I must leave what I know occurred and relate to you some guesswork-of my own, of the sage Elminster, and of some others. We believe that a cult mage, one Erimmator- none know where his bones lie now to question him-cursed Garthond in an earlier battle of art. The curse bound a strange creature called a balhiir from another plane of existence”-Shandril gasped, and Narm nodded grimly-”in symbiosis with Garthond. Perhaps it was a cult experiment to find the possible powers of any offspring of a spellfire wielding incantatrix’s union with a mage ‘ridden’ by a balhiir.”
“I fear so,” Narm replied. “But your tale, Gorstag… what happened after they were wed?”
“Why, the usual thing betwixt man and maid,” Gorstag said gruffly. “In Elturel they dwelt, then, in quiet. In due time a babe-a girl, one Shandril Shessair-was born. They did not return to the Tower Tranquil and the dales, where the cult waited in strength and the danger to their babe was greater, until she was old enough to travel. Eight months, that wait was.”
Gorstag shifted in his chair, eyes distant, seeing things long ago. “They rode with me. East, overland, we went, and the cult was waiting for us, indeed.” The innkeeper sighed. “Somehow-by art, likely-they knew, and saw through our disguises. They attacked us at the Bridge of Fallen Men on the road west of Cormyr.
“Garthond was thrown down and utterly destroyed, but he won victory for his wife and daughter, and for me. That day he took nine mages of the cult with him, and another three swordsmen. He did not die cheaply.
“He was something splendid to see that day, Shan. I’ve not seen a mage work art so well and so long, from that day to this, nor ever expect to. He shone before he fell.” The old warrior’s eyes were wet again, as he stared into dim night and saw memories the others could not.
“Dammasae and I were wounded-I the worse, but she could bear hurt less well. She carried less meat to lose and twice the grief and worry, for she feared most, Shan, for you. The cultists were all slain or fled from that place, and we rode as fast as we could to High Horn for healing. We made it there, and Dammasae had some doctoring. She needed the hands and wisdom of Sylune, though, and we could not reach Shadowdale in time.
“Your mother is buried west of the dale, on a little knoll on the north side of the road, the first one close to the road west of Toad Knoll. A place holy to Mystra, for she appeared there to a magister once, long ago.”
Gorstag looked down at the flagstones before his chair. “I could not save her?’ he added simply, old anguish raw in his voice. Shandril leaned toward him, but she said nothing.
“But I could save you,” the warrior added with iron determination. “I did that.” He caught up his axe and hefted it.
“I took you on my back and went by way of the woods from Shadowdale south to Deepingdale. It was in my mind to leave you with elves I knew and try to get into the Tower Tranquil to get something of Garthond’s art and writings for you, but I was still on my way south when elves I met brought word that the cult had broken into the tower and plundered it, blasting their way into its cellars. Then they used the great caverns they’d created as a lair for a dracolich-Raugkrthgor the Proud- whose hoard had outgrown his own lair.
“So I counted on my obscurity in the eyes of the cult-that few who had seen me riding with Dammasae and Garthond yet lived to tell the tale-and came openly to Deepingdale, where I used some gems Td amassed on my travels to buy a run-down inn and retire.
“I was getting too old for rough nights spent on cold ground, anyway. Few of my former companions-at-arms were alive and hale, and an old warrior who must join or gather a new band of younger blades is but asking for a dagger in the ribs at first argument.
“I brought you up as a servant here, Shan, for I dared not attract attention to you. Folk talk if an old retired warrior lives alone with a beautiful girl-child, you know. 1 had to hide your lineage-and, as long as I could, your last name- for I knew the cult would be after you if they guessed.
“That fight at the bridge, you see-they could have slain us all by art from afar without exposing themselves to our blades and spells for anything near so high a cost, if all they’d wanted was us dead. No, they wanted you, girl, you or your mother. I let them have neither! It was the greatest feat I ever managed, down all those years of acting and watching my tongue and yet trying to see you brought up proper. “For they’ve kept nosing, all these years, the cult and others. I suspected your Marimmar, Narm, of being yet another spying mage-who knows, now? Some, I think, were fairly sure, but they did not want to fight rivals for you unless you were the prize, so they watched closely to see if you’d show some of your mother’s powers. I dreaded the day you would. If it were too public a show, I might not have time to get you to the elves or the Harpers or Elminster.
“I was more wary of the old mage, for it is great mages who fear and want spellfire the most and will do the greatest ill to get it. Even if I had the time to run, then, I might not have the time to get Lureene and the others safe away. The cult might well burn this house to the ground and slay all within, if they came to take and found me gone.”
He shook his head, remembering. “Some days, I was like a skulking miser, looking for those coming to plunder under every stone in the yard and behind every tree of the woods and in the face of every guest.”
Chuckling, he shook his head. “Now you are wed, and I am to be wed, and you went to find yourself because I would not tell you who you were. And you’ve come back, with all my enemies and more besides upon your trail, and you wield spellfire. And I am too old to defend you.”
“Gorstag,” said Narm quietly. “You have defended her. All the time she needed it, you kept her safe. Now all the Knights of Myth Drannor must scramble to defend her! She drove off Manshoon of Zhentil Keep and wounded him perhaps unto death! My Shandril needs friends, food, and a warm bed, and a guard while she sleeps. But if others give her those, it is not she who needs defending now when she goes to war!”
Shandril chuckled ruefully. “There you hear love talking,” she said, wearily pushing her hair out of her eyes. “I need you more than ever, now. Did you not see how lonely The Simbul was, Narm? I would not be as she is, alone with her terrible power, unable to trust anyone enough to truly relax among friends and let down her defenses.”
“The Simbul?” Lureene gasped. “The Witch-Queen of Aglarond?” Gorstag, too, looked awed.
“Aye,” Shandril said simply. “She gave me her blessing. I wish I could have known her better. She is so lonely, it hurts me to see her. She has only her pride and her great art to carry her on.”
In a far place, in a small stone tower beneath the Old Skull, The Simbul sat up in the bed where Elminster lay snoring, and tears came into her eyes. “How true, young Shandril How right you were. But no more!” she said softly. Elminster was awake, instantly, and his hand went out to touch her bare back. “Lady?” he asked anxiously.
“Worry not, old mage,” she said gently, turning to him with eyes full. “I am but listening to Shandril speak of me.” “Shandril? Are you linked to her?” “Nay, I would not pry so. 1 have a magic that I worked long ago, that lets me hear when someone speaks my name and what they say after, for three breaths, each time-if they are near enough. Shandril is speaking of me, and my loneliness, and how she wished to know me better as a friend. A sweet girt I wish her well.” “I wish her well, too. She is at ease, then, and unhurt, would you judge?”
“Aye, as much as one can judge.” The Simbul regarded him impishly. “But you, lord! You are at ease and unhurt. Shall we see to changing your sloth into something more-interesting?’’
“Aaargh,” Elminster replied eloquently, as she began to tickle him, and he tried feebly to defend himself. “Have you no dignity, woman?”
“Nay-only my pride, and my great art, I’m told,” The Simbul said, skin gleaming silver in the moonlight.
“I’ll show you great art!” Elminster said gruffly, just before he fell out of the bed in a wild tangle of covers and discarded garments.
Downstairs, Lhaeo chuckled at the ensuing laughter, and began to warm another kettle. Either they’d forgotten him, or thought he’d grown quite deaf-or, at long last, his master had ceased to care for the proprieties. About time, too.
He began to sing softly, “Oh, For the Love of a Mage,” because he was fairly confident that Storm was busy, far down the dale, and would not hear how badly he sang.
These are the sacrifices we make for love, he thought.
Upstairs, there was laughter again.
“It grows early, not late,” Gorstag said, as he saw Shandril’s head nodding into her soup. “You should to bed, forthwith- and then it is in my mind, Narm, that you both stay and sleep as long as your bodies need, before you set off on a journey that is long indeed, with no safe havens anywhere.”
“We have not told you all yet, Gorstag,” Narm said quietly. “We have joined the Harpers-for now, at least-and we go to Silverymoon, to the High Lady Alustriel, for refuge and training.”
“To Silverymoon!” Gorstag gasped. “That’s a fair journey, indeed, for two so young, without adventurers to aid you! Ah, if I was but twenty winters younger! Still, it’d be a perilous thing, even then. Mind you stay with caravans for protection. Two alone can’t survive the wilderness west of Cormyr for long, no matter how much art they command!”