The spell flickered, fading noticeably-but not enough to obscure the scene its caster was intent upon.
A lone lady in a dark gown smilingly traded jests one last time with a overloud and rather tipsy Derovan Skatterhawk, then gracefully descended the wide flight of steps toward the long line of coaches gathered under the mansion lamps.
“Another highly successful feast, I see,” the watcher murmured, toying with a favorite-and loose-unicorn- head ring.
The scrying-spell was wavering on the verge of collapse; only by the bright favor of the gods had it lasted this long, through all the wards and watchspells laid on Skatterhawk House by Laspeera and her enthusiastic underlings: the young, avid dregs of the Wizards of War.
The watching wizard hissed in anger, thinking of them-then shrugged, smiled, and waved the unicorn ring- adorned hand dismissively. “Ah, but set aside such harshness. I must never forget I was one myself, once.”
The lady was handed into a coach. She waved airily to Derovan-who almost fell on his face on the steps, waving back as he leered through mustache and monacle-as her conveyance rumbled away.
“So Horaundoon of the Zhentarim is taking she-shape and courting randy elder nobles of Cormyr now, is he? Why, I wonder?”
’Twould be an elaborate scheme, unless Horaundoon had changed greatly in two summers…
“More importantly,” the watching wizard mused aloud, as the spell collapsed into a cascade of winking sparks, “can he be convincingly blamed for what I’ll do, when I strike at last?”
“Jhess? You’re sure you want to try this?”
Jhessail gave Doust a withering look. “I didn’t drag you all the way out here at this time of night to dare nothing. Douse the lantern.”
Her friend frowned. “Why? ’Tis hooded well enough-”
“I don’t want it interfering with my spell,” she hissed, holding her cloak wide to form a shield over him.
Doust blew the lamp out quickly, without leaking overmuch light into the darkness around them. Backing carefully away from it on his knees to avoid toppling it, he turned, patted Jhessail’s arm, and whispered, “Do it.”
She nodded, handed him her cloak, and on hands and knees crept to the edge of the dell.
As she’d expected, it was flooded with moonlight-and, sure enough, two nightbeaks were down there, tugging and tearing at the huddled bony heap that had been one of Hlorn Estle’s fattest sheep before it had stupidly strayed over the cliff.
Her lip curled back in disgust; the vultures of the Stonelands were cruel, rapacious things that hunted day and night. Doust had brought a cudgel, but she hoped it would not be needed. A nightbeak could easily kill a person, and they shed maggots and lice even more copiously than they voided.
Shuddering at the thought of fighting one fists to talons, Jhessail backed carefully away from the cliff edge-’twas a killing fall for her as surely as for a sheep-and found her feet again. Drawing a deep breath, she started to pick her way along the lip of the dell, Doust trailing her. She had to get to where she could see the nightbeaks, for the spell to work.
If she could make it work.
Here. This spot would do.
She could see them picking at the carcass. Big and dusty black, their heads like fire-scorched helms, their beaks like… like…
She shuddered again, and shut her eyes to banish such thoughts. Breathing deeply, she tried to settle her mind on the image of blue fire roiling vigorously in darkness.
My first big spell. My first battle spell, that deals harm to others.
Blue fire, seething and leaping…
If I can’t cast this, I am no spell-worker.
By Lady Mystra and Lord Azuth, the working was simple enough. So if this Art was beyond her, then all Art was.
She swept that thought away, seeing blue fire in her mind and plunging into it.
When she had its image bright and strong in her mind, she opened her eyes again to give Doust a quick smile and nod. He stepped carefully back, getting well away from her.
Jhessail looked up at the stars, brought the blue fire foremost in her mind, and when she was gazing at it and feeling a part of it, she looked quickly down into the dell, glared at a nightbeak, flicked her fingers in a swift circle, and with that hand pointed at the vulture.
Blue fire trembling inside her, she snapped, “Alavaer!”
Unleashed, something wonderful raced along her arm, coiling and surging arrow-swift, thrilling her though it left emptiness behind. It burst forth from her pointing finger as a deep blue bolt that streaked down into the darkness with the faintest of whispers.
One nightbeak looked up at the sudden flare of light. Approaching light, streaking Alarmed, it tried to flap its wings to leap into the air And died before it could even unfurl them, snatched off its talons and blasted, fire that wasn’t fire scorching through it, to bounce and flop among the cliff-bottom weeds and stones in loose-necked silence. Dead silence.
The other nightbeak looked up and squawked questioningly, expecting an answer that would never come.
“Yes!” Jhessail cried exultantly, shaking her fists in the air. “I did it!”
The sound of her cry sent the surviving nightbeak into the air, flapping heavily out of the dell in search of quieter meals.
Laughing, the delighted Silvertree lass raced to Doust and embraced him, whirling him around and around in the night shadows.
“I believe,” he observed with a grin, “it’s considered bad form to sound surprised that your spell worked. Wherefore: of course you did it. Well done!”
Ecstatic and drenched with sweat, Jhessail hugged him, relieved and delighted laughter bubbling over him in a flood. Nose buried in her bosom, Doust managed to say gruffly, “Careful, now. You’ll start giving me unholy ideas.”
“Hah,” she laughed, clutching him even tighter, “and you’d dare to do something about them, when I can blast you with magic? Hey?”
“A compelling point,” he said to her stomach, as her wild mirth made him slide downward, his voice muffled by warm and smooth Jhessail.
An instant later, his chin struck her knee, which was very hard, bouncing him back up to behold the stars for a crazed and whirling moment-before his chin met the stony ground, which proved even harder.
“Oww,” he said. “Aye, most compelling.”
“What was that?” Narantha hissed, as the strange hooting call came again.
“Owl,” Florin said, his voice just a murmur above a whisper. “Successful in its hunting.”
The noblewoman rolled onto her side to look up from the rough pillow of his pack. The forester — her forester-was sitting just as before, back to a tree and drawn sword across knees, staring into the night. Stars glimmered over his shoulder.
“Are you going to sit there all night?”
“Yes.”
She waited for him to say more. Waited for breath after breath, until the chirping night insects started up again. Then she sighed in exasperation. “But when will you sleep?”
“On the morrow.”
“But you said we’re going to walk through the forest all day. So when?”
“I’ll find plenty of time to slumber,” he replied, “while you’re talking.”
“What?” she sputtered, nettled.
“You talked more than half the sunlit day just past,” the forester observed serenely. “Don’t you ever get tired of talking?”
“You,” she hissed back at him, “are impossible! Such rudeness!”
“The curse of our generation, I’m told,” Florin told the night. “Wherefore Cormyr sinks sadly from what it was in the golden days of our grandsires.”
