The pain wracked him in waves of red agony, like a man struggling through the breakers upon a beach. Ilthond crawled forward between waves, seeking the cabinet where he kept his potions. He wondered dully if he'd make it in time.
'That's quite enough of this foolishness,' Elminster said peevishly. 'I leave ye and within half a dozen breaths ye're fighting yet another mage trying to steal spellfire for himself! Well, then, I'll not leave ye again… ye'll stay in my tower, ye two, with my scribe Lhaeo and myself.
'To draw off all who are snooping about hoping to seize spellfire for themselves, Illistyl and Torm will impersonate ye, and will stay in a tent with Rathan upon Harpers' Hill. Merith, ye and Lanseril will keep a watch upon them. Now pass that wine ye're curled so lovingly about, Rathan, and let's have no argument or endless clacking of tongues; the matter's settled.'
'I'm glad of that,' Florin said dryly. 'Have you no task for Jhessail or myself?'
'Eh? Gods' watch, man! Someone has to watch over the dale, and fight the armies of Zhentil Keep if they come calling! You two ought to be able to manage that!'
There were dry chuckles, and then a yawn. Shandril's eyes were nearly closed. 'Love,' Narm said gently, shaking her. 'Are you sleepy?'
'Of course I am,' she replied faintly. 'We were going to bed when this uproar started, remember?'
'To bed, then!' Elminster said gruffly. 'All of us will go over to my tower together-and then mind the lot of ye all return here, except ye two. I don't want to be falling over a lot of snoring knights in the morning!'
'At this rate,' Lanseril replied, 'you're safe on that score. You'll be falling over a lot of snoring knights at highsun, instead.' Amid chuckles they went out into the night.
'Keeping you awake, Rold?' one of his fellows grunted jovially at dawnfry that morning. The guardroom was strewn with gloves, helms, and scabbarded blades, as their owners lingered over the last of fried bread, tomatoes, and bacon. The old veteran yawned again.
'Glad I am, indeed,' he said, 'that the young lord and lady are out of the tower. No offense to them, mind you. It's just that I'll be more likely to sleep when I'm off duty.'
'Less of sinister mages and assassins skulking in every hall and chamber and peeking in at all the windows, you mean,' another, sharp-voiced guard agreed, buckling on his sword.
'Aye, Kelan. Less art we cannot hope to fight… and less treachery from within.' A little silence fell at the veteran's words. Then Kelan spoke softly to them all.
'Who d'you think got to Culthar? What did they offer him to chance such a reckless grab at one who could cook him to the bones in an instant?'
'Who can know another man's price?' Rold replied, as quietly. Several of the guards nodded. The veteran added, 'I doubt that he needed much persuading. I think he was already loyal to someone or some group outside of the dale, and they merely told him to do this thing for them.'
'What group?' came the blunt question, as swords were readied in sheaths, and belts settled about hips. Rold shrugged.
'That, I know not-or I'd be at Lord Mourngrym to let me go after them. Nay, do not laugh. It is always easier on one's temper, if not one's hide, to be moving and attacking, instead of growing weary and cold at a guardpost, never knowing where and when strikes a blade-or worse, art you cannot avoid or counter.'
'Where did they go, then?' one of the younger guards asked; a late riser, still heavy about the eyes, dawnfry on a plate in his hand. Rold chuckled.
'Mind you aren't late for your own funeral, some morn, Raeth,' he said. 'The young lord and lady will be camping out by Harpers' Hill with Rathan Thentraver. Practicing hurling this spellfire where Lord Mourngrym's fine rugs won't be scorched. Most of the knights will be going off about the dale and elsewhere about the Dalelands at Elminster's bidding.'
'Ah, things'll get a mite quieter for a few days, then,' Raeth said with some satisfaction. Many of the older guards chuckled.
'Think you so?' Kelan asked him. 'It's a long run through the forest, in full armor, to Harpers' Hill!' Rold was still chuckling as the bell rang and they hastened out to their posts. Raeth, mouth full of bacon, wasn't.
'This is a fool's plan,' Rathan grunted. 'One only Elminster could have come up with.' The chosen of Tymora surveyed the tents sourly. 'Lady, aid me,' he prayed. 'I am surely going to need all thy help.'
'Cheerful, aren't you?' Torm answered him. 'I'm enjoying this.'
'Ye have weird enthusiasms,' Rathan grunted. 'Ye can't even enjoy thy lady when she must wear the form of Shandril every instant.'
Torm grinned. 'Oh? That's going to hamper me? How so?' He raised dark eyebrows. 'Besides, I look like Narm for the the present.'
'Shameless philanderer,' Rathan growled. He looked at the trees all about them. 'I wonder when the first attack will come?'
'While you're standing there,' Torm replied, 'if you keep yapping sourly about Elminster's wisdom and the danger you have so foolishly plunged headlong into. Go in, then, and pray to the Lady for healing art. No doubt we'll need it soon enough.'
'Aye, there ye speak truth, I doubt not,' Rathan replied darkly. 'Is there no wine about?' He peered into the tents. Illistyl grinned back out of the depths of one, looking as if she were Shandril. She moved with the smooth innocence of Shandril, abandoning her own defiant strut.
'No,' Torm answered the cleric brightly. 'We seem to have left it behind at the tower. A tragedy, I agree.'
'Indeed… well, one of the guards will just have to go back for it,' Rathan concluded. 'I can feel my thirst growing already,' he added, squinting at the sun.
'Here, then.' Torm passed him a flask. Rathan unstoppered it and sniffed suspiciously.
'What is it? I smell nothing.'
'Water of the Gods,' Torm replied. 'Pale ale. Tymora's Tipple.'
'Eh?' the cleric frowned at him suspiciously. 'Ye blaspheme?'
'No,' said Torm. 'I offer you a drink, sot. Your thirst, remember?'
'Aye,' Rathan agreed, mollified, and took a swig. 'Aaagh!' he said, spitting most of it out. 'It is water!'
'Yes, as I told you,' Torm replied smoothly, and then leaped nimbly out of reach as the cleric reached for him.
The chosen of Tymora pursued his sly tormentor across the rocky hilltop, while Illistyl looked out of the tent and shook her head.
'Playing already, I see,' she remarked, just loudly enough for Torm to hear. He turned and waved at her, grinning-and promptly fell over a stone, with Rathan on top of him. Illistyl burst into laughter before she realized that she couldn't recall what Shandril's laugh sounded like.
The little stone tower rose, leaning slightly, out of a grassy meadow beside a small pond. It was made of old, massive stones, and had no gate or fence or outbuildings. Flagstones led right up to a plain wooden door. It looked small and drab in comparison with the Twisted Tower, which rose large against the sky across the meadow. But it seemed somehow a place of power, too-and more welcoming.
Inside, it was very dark. Dust lay thick upon books and papers that were stacked untidily everywhere. The smell of aging parchment was strong in the air. Out of the forest of paper pillars rose a rickety curving stair, on up to unseen heights. A bag of onions hung over the doorway. Beyond an arch, faint footsteps could be heard.
'Lhaeo,' Elminster called. 'Guests!'
An expressionless face appeared in the doorway. 'You need not do your simpering act,' the old mage added. At that the face smiled and nodded. It was that of a pleasant, green-eyed man with pale brown hair and delicate features. He was about as tall as the elf Merith, very slim, and wore an old, patched leather apron over plain tunic and hose.
'Welcome,' Lhaeo said then, in a soft, clear voice. 'If you're hungry, there's stew warm over the fire now. Highsunfeast will be herbed hare cooked in red wine… that Sembian red Mourngrym gave us. I deem it good for little else. I fear I have no dawnfry ready.'
Elminster chuckled. 'Ye would have been wasted on a throne, Lhaeo. I've eaten no better fare since Myth Drannor fell than what ye cook. But I forget my manners, such as they are… Lhaeo, these be Narm Tamaraith, a conjurer who flourishes these past days under the tutelage of Jhessail and Illistyl; and his betrothed, Shandril
