Spellfire

The green dimness of the woods was all about them now. Shandril leaned over to Narm and asked in a low voice, 'How far away is Myth Drannor?' They traded sober glances, and Jhessail turned in her saddle and said, 'Due east of us, several days distant. The river Ashaba lies between us and Myth Drannor at all times, this trip. That gate The Shadowsil took you through in the ruined city took you across half the Dalelands to the dracolich's lair.'

The couple's involuntary shared sigh of relief was cut short by Torm's dry, sharp voice saying from where he rode watchfully behind them, 'Ah, yes. We can head that way if you'd like. I hear one can have a devil of a time there, heh-heh…'

He smiled benignly at the chorus of dirty looks flung his way. Someone has to provide entertainment, after all.

It was late. The golden light of approaching sunset glinted on leaves ahead of and above them. Vet the knights pressed on. Riding beside each other except where trees in the trail forced them into single file, Narm and Shandril clasped hands reassuringly. Whatever happened, they were together. When it grew suddenly much darker, Jhessail and Merith conjured glowing motes of light that drifted along in midair with them, bobbing and floating about, occasionally darting to one side to illuminate this or that tangle of brush or dark thicket.

They rode on slowly amid the giant trees and smaller saplings alike, the soft singing of crickets all about them. The chorus would die away in front of them and begin again behind them. Off to one side or the other, particularly to the right, eerie gray-green and blue radiances-small and scattered glows that did not move-could be seen occasionally.

'What's that?' Narm asked, pointing. 'Is it witchfire?'

Merith nodded. 'Glow moss, witchfire, and the other fungi of the forest that shine at night. The elven name for all of them is, in Common, 'nightshine'.' The elf lounged in his saddle, helm hung from its horn, very much at his ease. Of course, Shandril thought, feeling suddenly less awed and much safer, to Merith this endless wood is home. She relaxed, and very soon sank low in her saddle.

Jhessail saw her, and quietly worked a spell of sleep upon her and upon Narm, who rode, nodding himself, beside her. Merith took charge of the mules as his lady cast another floating disc. Torm chuckled softly as he boosted the sleepers from saddle to disc, and then yawned himself.

'Oh, no, you don't!' Jhessail warned him. 'Get back on your mule.'

Torm spread his hands in injured and very feigned innocence. 'Why you think all these terrible things of me I don't know-I am grievously wronged, indeed, and-'

He staggered forward a step under the unexpected impact of a solid nudge in the back from his mule, and his friends burst into laughter all around him.

'Be an adventurer,' he grumbled as he settled himself in his saddle again. 'Become rich and famous, they said. Hmph.'

'Famous, anyway,' Merith assured him. 'Why, I've even seen notices with your picture on them posted here and there. And of course all these men with knives keep calling on you…'

Torm made a rude noise. It was returned, with spirit, from where Elminster rode in stately dignity ahead of them all, startling everyone into silence. It all made no difference to the mules.

The sun was bright and high again when Narm and Shandril came slowly awake. Their arms had crept about each other in slumber, and they were drowsy and deep-rested. Narm looked up at the sun-dappled leaves overhead, heard the familiar creak of leather and soft thud of the mules' hooves, and relaxed, Shandril's warmth and weight on his left side. His left hand tingled. He wiggled his fingers to bring feeling and strength back and felt her stir. Then he realized he was flat on his back, moving, with no mule bumping and shifting beneath him. He sat up in alarm.

He and Shandril were floating serenely along on a disc of firm nothingness, with Jhessail just behind them and Merith just ahead. Far ahead, over Elminster's shoulder, he could see Lanseril leading the way toward a brightening in the trees. Jhessail smiled reassuringly at him. 'Well met, this morn,' she said. 'We are almost in Shadowdale.'

As she spoke, and Shandril sleepily pulled herself up Narm's shoulder to see, they came out of the trees into a high-walled passage between two redoubts of heaped stones. The silver and blue banners of Shadowdale, showing the spiral tower and crescent moon, stirred in the faint morning breezes, and men in armor with Shadowdale's arms on their surcoats stood with pikes and crossbows.

''Ware!' called the guard formally, barring the way to the bridge beyond. The sight of the lords and lady of the dale had them bowing and standing aside in the next breath. The sight of Elminster made them more silent than usual, and Narm and Shandril passed over the mill bridge and into the dale without a word of query or challenge.

No escort rode with them as they passed by lush green fields. The dale opened out before them, the forest rising on either side like great green walls. Shandril looked about her happily. Narm, who had seen it before, asked Jhessail, 'Lady, may we ride? I would feel-less the fool, I suppose. My thanks for the traveling bed, mistake me not-it's a trick I must learn one day, if you will. It moves where you will it to go?'

'It does,' Jhessail said gravely, 'although if you mind it not, it will follow twenty paces or so behind-and if you leave it where it cannot follow, it speedily passes away and is no more.' She grinned. 'But of course you shall ride- it would not do for you to look different fools than the rest of us.'

They all rode up to the Twisted Tower together and were made welcome. Mourngrym came striding out with his cloak slapping around him, and said to Narm, 'So here you are back, and I find that not only must you stick your neck into clear danger again and again, you must drag all my protectors and companions with you, even Elminster, and leave the dale undefended.' His eyes twinkled. 'And do I look upon the reason for your return to peril? Lady, I am Mourngrym, the lord who is left behind to sit the seat in the dale while his elders take the air, see sights, and enjoy their journeys. Welcome! How may I call you?'

'Lord Mourngrym, I am Shandril Shessair,' Shandril said firmly, blushing only faintly in her shyness. 'I am handfast to Narm.' Her voice lowered in curiosity. 'These are your comrades? You have ridden to battle together?'

Mourngrym laughed. 'Indeed,' he said, handing her down onto a stool one of the guards had just whirled into place. 'No doubt you can tell from what you've known of them already how wild the tales of our adventures are.' Merith clapped him on the shoulder in passing. Mourngrym grinned. 'I'm afraid you'll have to wait until too much drink has flowed before I start telling any tales, though others here'-he looked meaningfully at Torm-'are weaker.'

They went into the tower. 'And how was your journey, Narm?' Mourngrym asked as they entered a feasting hall where the mingled smell of cooking bacon and a great spiced stew made mouths water.

'Oh,' Narm replied mildly, steadying Shandril as they came to the table, 'eventful.'

'You are called to feast, lady,' said the serving maid with a smile. Through the open door Shandril could hear soft harping. 'One waits without to take you down. Shall I send him in?'

'Oh-yes. Yes, please,' Shandril said, still gazing around at the beautiful bedchamber, with its hangings of elven warriors riding stags through the forest-the High Hunt of the Elven Court, a unicorn glowing in the trees far off at its head-and its round, canopied bed.

Shandril's gown, too, was a beautiful thing of Calishite silk overlaid with a finework tabard for warmth in the stone halls of the north. The tabard's beading was of interwoven crescent moons and silver horns and unicorns. On her arm she wore proudly her joined ring and bracelet of electrum and sapphires. It awed Shandril to see herself in the great burnished metal mirror.

Then in came Narm, in a grand great-sleeved tunic of wine-purple velvet, matching silk hose, and boots trimmed with fur. Hanging from his belt was the lion-headed dagger. His hair had been washed and trimmed and doused with perfume-water, and his eyes outshone the rings on his fingers.

He came in eagerly, mouth opening in a smile to speak-and stopped in awe. Eyes shining, he took a hesitant step forward. 'My lady?' he asked. 'Shandril?' His voice was very quiet. 'You are beautiful,' he added slowly. 'As graceful as any high lady I have ever seen.'

'And how many such ladies have you seen?' Shandril teased him. 'It's still the same me, if I'm in plain gray robes or a man's tunic and breeches, hair washed or unwashed.'

'Yes,' Narm said. 'But I fear even to touch you, when you are clad so-I could only mar perfect beauty.' His voice was husky and serious. His eyes shone.