Spellfire

Tamaraith has advanced his art considerably since first he came among us. He lacked not aptitude or dedication, but merely suffered from poor and insufficient prior training.' She smiled, and to Narm's intense surprise continued, 'He was a joy to train. Illistyl and I have no hesitation in presenting Narm before this company as an accomplished conjurer. It is my understanding that Elminster wishes to examine and train Narm yet, to further him for the special task of art required in supporting the unique power of his betrothed. I yield to my master.'

Elminster rose, even as she sat smoothly, and said, 'Aye. I will talk to Narm of that before long. But I am here tonight in answer to Mourngrym's request'-His subtle emphasis on the last word brought a smile to the edges of the Lord of Shadowdale's mouth. 'I will report to ye on what I have learned of the powers of Shandril Shessair, specifically that unique ability we call 'spellfire.' The power to wield spellfire has been known in the Realms in the past-'

'It is my duty this time, I fear,' Florin interrupted, standing with a polite bow to Mourngrym and to the old sage. 'Elminster-the short version, please. No disrespect intended, but we have not your interest nor patience.'

Elminster eyed him sourly. 'Patience seems in short supply these days. It is a lamentable state of affairs when things happen at such a pace that folk can scarce talk things over and grumble before the face of the land is changed again. Woeful days, indeed-' Here he forestalled several knights who had opened their mouths to speak. 'But I digress. To the matter directly at hand: the Lady Shandril, betrothed to Lord Narm Tamaraith, both of whom sit among us.

'Shandril can now, without the presence of the balhiir that apparently began her use of spellfire, draw in spell energy without much personal harm-although some harm appears to be involved with some magic-and store it, for an unknown length of time and without apparent ill effects. She can subsequently send it forth, upon command and with some precise control, as a fire that burns despite most magical defenses, and affects all things and beings I have been able to observe it against thus far.

'Shandril has a finite capacity for such absorbed spell energy, but we are presently not entirely certain what it is. We know neither the precise effects of the spellfire upon Shandril, nor the limitations of the spellfire she wields.

'I can tell you what spellfire is: the raw energy that all workings of art are really composed of, broken down by Shandril's body in some unknown manner from a given magical effect-of spell or item-into the force necessary to create and enact such an effect.

'As The Simbul, distinguished ruler of Aglarond, pointed out at the testing, such a power is dangerous- dangerous to Shandril personally, and to those nearby. When Shandril's body holds so much energy that her eyes flash spellfire, her very touch can harm those around her with an unintentional discharge. She is also a threat to those who work magic everywhere in this world. Those who see this last threat will act to destroy Shandril, or to possess her to use her power against others.

'Certain fell powers undoubtedly already know of her abilities, and will act soon, if they have not begun already. There is much more to be said, but-hem-ye asked for the short version.' The old archmage sat down again and reached for his pipe.

'So you are saying, then, that war will come to the dale again, because the source of spellfire is here?' the Lady Shaerl asked.

'Aye,' Elminster replied, 'and we must be ready. To arms and alert! We must defend Shandril's person with our swords, and raise the art at our command to defend against the many mages who will come for Shandril's spellfire. She cannot be everywhere to battle all of them, were she the most willing slayer in the world. Our spells we must also cast to Shandril, to feed her spellfire-it is this her man Narm does best. Days of blood, I fear, are upon us.'

Mourngrym spoke then in challenge, rising to look at all there assembled, and said, 'It is hardly fair, you powerful and experienced adventurers, to drag these young folks into a battle that will almost certainly mean their deaths, just to use them as weapons against those who come here.'

'They are in such a battle as we breathe now,' Elminster said sharply. 'We delivered them out of it once, as a knight drags a weary fellow out of the fray for a time to catch his breath, quell his pain, and set to again. It is the price of adventuring, such conflict. And don't tell me that they are not adventurers. One ran off with a chartered company of adventurers, while the other willingly returned to Myth Drannor, alone and unarmed, to 'seek his fortune' after the death of his master at the hands of the devils. We do not, lord, intend to 'use them as weapons,' but to see they know their powers fully.'

The old sage glanced around at the knights, and added, 'Why invite such peril? Why see a young maid become a threat to one's own powers? Why build her strength, and that of her consort, to make them an even greater menace? Because… because, after all these years, it still feels good to have helped someone, and accomplished something. This first fight, it is part of that, and we cannot avoid it. When it is done, it is our duty to let them go where they will, and not compel them or make their choices for them.'

A large green glass bottle that stood upon the table, full of wine and as yet unopened, like many of its fellows, began to change shape. As all watched in astonishment, it grew and became The Simbul, kneeling atop the table with proud and lonely eyes. The witch-queen nodded to Narm and Shandril, and then looked to Elminster.

'You will let these two walk freely?' she asked. 'Truly?'

The archmage nodded. 'Aye. I will. We all here will.'

'Then you have my blessing,' she added softly. She turned into a bird and, with a whir of wings, she darted up the chimney and was gone.

The knights relaxed, visibly. 'One day I suppose I'll be used to that,' Torm remarked. 'Old mage, can't you tell by art when she's near?'

Elminster shook his head. 'Unless she actively uses art of her own, nay. Her cloak-of-art is as good as any greater archmage's-which is to say, well nigh perfect.'

'Such as yours, perhaps?' Torm pressed him. Elminster smiled broadly, and suddenly he wasn't there. His chair was empty, without flash or sound. Only the faint smell of his pipe smoke hung in the air to say he had been present at all. Jhessail sighed and cast a spell to detect magic. She looked all about, keenly, and then shook her head.

'Faint magic, all about,' she said, 'and those things I know to be enchanted that we carry. But no sage.'

'You see?' Elminster said, appearing at her elbow and kissing her swiftly on the cheek. 'It is not as easy as it might seem, but it works.'

'Now that's a trick I'd give much to learn,' Torm said delightedly.

'Much it will cost ye,' Elminster replied. 'But enough of such tricks. Be thankful, all of ye, that The Simbul favors our desires in this matter. If she did not, all of my time would be spent thwarting her and my art would be lost to you. Who knows what foes we may yet face in this matter? Ye may have need of me.'

'We always need you, old mage,' Mourngrym answered, a twinkle in his eye. 'Is there anyone else who would now speak on this? Narm and Shandril, you need not make speeches if you do not desire to do so, nor are you expected to answer any queries put to you.' There was a brief silence.

'I would speak, Lord of the Dale,' said Storm Silverhand softly. She rose, silver hair swirling gently about the dark leather that clad her shoulders. She looked directly at Narm and Shandril. 'We who harp are interested in you,' she said. 'Think on whether you might want to walk our way.'

Eyebrows lifted in silence all around the table. Rathan looked all about, then asked noisily, 'Is all the formal tongue-work done, then? Can we enjoy ourselves now, and let all the others back in? Lord?'

Mourngrym grinned. 'I think you have cut to the heart of the boar, chosen of Tymora. Open the doors! Let us feast! Elminster, do not go, I pray you!'

The old sage had already risen. 'I am old for all the babbling and flirting that goes on at your feasts. I keep looking down at all the comely lasses, and see only the faces of those I met at feasts long ago, in cities now dust- truly, Mourngrym, I enjoy it not. Besides, I have work to do. My art stands not still, and more things unfold under the eyes of Selune than just this matter of spellfire, ye know. Fare ye well, all.' He strode forward and crouched before the fire. Suddenly Elminster became a great, gray-feathered eagle, and was gone up the chimney, as The Simbul had gone.

'Show-off,' Jhessail said affectionately, watching him go.

Shandril looked at Rathan, who held a bottle in either hand, as she leaned across the board to speak to