Rold struck Culthar from behind without mercy, war-hammer crashing down upon his helm even as he demanded, 'Are you mad? You are sworn to protect her!'
Culthar, slumping limply aside with blood running from nose and mouth, said nothing. He crumpled against the wall and was forgotten as Rold scrambled over him to reach Shandril. He recalled that her touch was said to be death when she hurled spellfire, but his hands did not hesitate as he drew off a gauntlet and gently felt her temple.
He wiped away the blood there, then got up with a curse to fling his gauntlet at the nearest alarm. Wrapping her shoulders in his half-cloak, he held her close and drew a silver disc on a fine chain from his belt.
'Lady Tymora,' he prayed hoarsely as the hollow singing of the gong died away, 'if you favor those cursed to be different from most folk, aid this poor lass now. She has done no wrong within these walls, and needs your blessing now most dearly. Hear me, Lady, I beseech you! Turn your bright face upon Shandril. Tymora, Bright Lady, please hear!' And the old soldier held Shandril in his arms and waited for the sound of running feet, and prayed on.
In a turret that curved out from the inner wall of Zhentil Keep, there was a small, circular room without a window, and in that room, Ilthond waited with scant patience. The time was come; Manshoon still did not come back to the city of the Zhentilar. If Ilthond held spellfire in his hands and knew how to wield it, such a return would not have to be feared overmuch.
The young magic-user paced before his crystal. The eagle that had to be Elminster was even now coming to earth by the door of the little tower wherein the old mage dwelt. In another instant, the eagle became Elminster, pipe, battered old hat, and all, and went into the old, slightly leaning tower of crumbling stone. Ilthond waited an instant more, and then drew forth a scroll from a tube fashioned from the hollow wing-bone of a great dragon. A teleport spell, set down by the mage Haklisstyr of Selgaunt. Since his bony back had met with a dagger, thoughtfully poisoned by the ambitious Ilthond, he wouldn't be needing it anymore.
The mage rolled out the scroll on the table beside the crystal and set coins, a dagger, a candlestick, and a skull at the corners to hold it open. He fixed in his mind a clear picture of a certain blanket room on the third floor of the tower of Ashaba in Shadowdale, and began to cast the spell.
From below him, from another room of the turret, came the faint piping of a glaurist blowing the mournful melody of an old ballad:
Good fortune comes, fleeting, and then it is gone
But the heart heavy with weeping must carry on
Ill luck comes and stays like winter's cold snow
Always you must weather more than one blow…
Ilthond spread his hands in a grand flourish to finish the spellcasting and vanished. The floating, disembodied eyeball of a wizard eye spell that had been watching him from beneath the table winked out and was also gone.
'Of course she'll live, if ye get out of my way for a breath or two!' Rathan roared, 'Lanseril, stay here to work healing magic! Rold, ye saved her; ye stay by her, too. Florin, bring Narm over here… be he awake yet? All others, get ye hence! Below stairs, the lot of ye! Mourngrym, ye and Shaerl may stay, of course. The rest-clear out! Get ye gone!'
'Narm stirs,' Jhessail reported tersely. 'We shall take this guardsman, if Rold has not quite slain him, and learn the whys of this.' She gestured with her head to the gathered guards to move Culthar's body, and then added, 'All others-back to your posts, please. Our thanks for your haste in coming.' The guards saluted her and left.
A group of gawking servants and pages drifted back a pace or two at Rathan's words, but remained to watch. Florin laid Narm down gently upon a hastily found sleeping-fur, letting his bruised head down with care, and looked up at the onlookers. After a few moments of his silent, steady gaze, the gawkers began to shuffle away.
'How is she?' he asked, looking at Shandril's still face.
'Well enough,' Rathan replied, 'considering the blow to the wits she got. I only hope that it has not somehow harmed her ability to wield spellfire, now that half of Faerun seems to be attacking her to gain it.' He and Florin exchanged a sober glance.
'Why would just one guard attack her?' Mourngrym muttered, frowning.
'One seemed to do well enough,' Shaerl replied, gesturing at the two still forms at their feet.
'No, love; I meant I would expect to find other attackers near at hand.'
The Lord of Shadowdale turned. 'Rold, I want this tower searched, forthwith, this floor first. Jhessail, will you rouse Illistyl and stand guard over our two guests, here? I shall remain also.' He drew his slim, jeweled sword, set it point down before him, and leaned upon it. Shaerl nodded and knelt by Narm, who had begun to moan faintly.
Florin knelt on one knee beside him, and was ready with gravely strong arms when the young conjurer suddenly surged up, arms flailing. 'Where's-? Shandril! Danger! Beware! Danger!'
'Aye… aye,' Florin agreed gently, holding him. 'Danger it was, indeed. Stay still now, and we can see to your lady.'
'Shandril? How-'
'Quiet and still, please. If you will heed, you will learn. She lies behind you; Rathan and Lanseril tend her.'
'I-yes, I shall.' Narm sank back, wincing as his head came to rest again upon the furs. 'What happened?'
'Narm lay quiet and still as he was bid, that's what happened,' the Lady Shaerl said severely.
Narm grimaced, and then he heard Shandril say softly, 'I thank you. Narm was hurt; have you seen to him?' His heart knew peace and he was asleep within a breath, not even hearing Rathan's reply.
It was dark in the blanket room and close, smelling of pomander and moth-mix. Ilthond stifled a sneeze, nodded in satisfaction at his accurate teleporting, and listened. He could hear nothing. Well enough. To work, then.
The mage worked invisibility upon himself, then cautiously eased the door open a crack. The corridor beyond seemed empty. He stole forth and looked about.
Better and better, he thought. Ilthond muttered a spell of flight and rose high to drift unseen along the corridor and search. No guards… why? Was Shadowdale truly so lax and careless a place as all that? No, there must be some strife or alarm…
Around the corner came a dozen guards with drawn swords and forbidding, intent glares. Ilthond moved over and past them in careful silence. Where might the young maid be? The tower's mortar was mixed with substances to prevent scrying, but he was sure he'd find her anyway.
Perhaps she was up in the plainer but more secure rooms of the levels above, or down below, as befitted a guest of importance. The greater risk probably lay downward-but so, too, did almost all chances of learning who was where, and doing what. Ah well, a short, risky road leads fastest to the top, they say…
Ilthond reached the stairs and headed down, keeping near the sloping stone ceiling. Carefully and quietly he went, like a silent shadow. He searched, nosing through rooms and along halls, flitting back and forth with patient care not to be brushed against or seen by those who might be able to detect him.
He had come down a long hall where the torches burned every twenty paces, and there at one end humans in rich garb stood or knelt near two who lay side by side on the ground. Ilthond came closer slowly, silently, straining to hear from afar.
'How d'ye feel?' Rathan growled. 'Better, I trust?'
Shandril nodded, slowly. 'My head still aches. But my thanks, indeed, good Rathan. Again I am in your debt for healing me when I lay stricken.'
'Not in my debt,' Rathan corrected. 'The Lady it is whom ye owe.' He traced a circle about the disc upon his breast with the middle finger of his right hand.
'Yes, I shall not forget the Lady's favor,' Shandril replied. 'How is Narm?'
Rathan looked over at Narm. 'He sleeps. Best to let him sleep on. But you must try your spellfire,' he said gently.
