'A thief, she said she was-or at least, she joined the Company of the Bright Spear as a thief.'
Elminster snorted again. 'Thief? She's as much a thief as you are. If we had a few more thieves like that girl, the Realms would be so safe we'd not need locks! Swords, aye, but no more locks. Which reminds me… locks, and locked-away books, that is-Candlekeep-Alaundo. What did old Alaundo say about spellfire? We must be getting fairly close to that prophecy now, too, so it's no doubt Shandril he's talking about.'
Lhaeo smiled. 'As it happens, I looked up the words and sayings of Alaundo the last night they spent here. To your left, under the jam jar, on the uppermost scrap of paper, I've copied the relevant saying. If a certain 'war among wizards' has already begun in Faerun, it is next to be fulfilled.'
Elminster halted his flailing about in the vicinity of the jam-jar to fix Lhaeo with a hard glance, but the scribe went on with his writing.
'What're you doing?' Elminster demanded. 'There you sit, scribbling, while the stew thickens and burns. What is it?'
Lhaeo smiled again. 'Stir the stew, will you?' he asked innocently. Then, before the old mage's fury could erupt beyond a rising growl, he said, 'I'm noting down the limits of Shandril's power, as observed by you and the knights. The information may prove useful some day,' he added very quietly, 'if she must ever be stopped.'
Elminster stared at him a moment and then nodded, looking very old. 'Aye, aye, you have the right of it, as usual.' He sighed. 'But not that little girl. Not Shandril. Why, she's but a little wisp of a thing, all laughter and kindness and bright eyes-'
'Aye. Like Lansharra,' Lhaeo answered simply. Elminster nodded, very slowly, and said nothing. There was silence for a long time. Lhaeo finished his work, blew upon the page, and got up. The sage sat like a statue, his eyes on the fire. Lhaeo reached over him, slid a scrap of paper from under the jam-jar, and laid it before Elminster. He turned away to see to food, without a word. Perhaps four breaths later, he heard the old mage's voice behind him, and he smiled to himself. Put a recipe for fried sand snake in front of Elminster and he'd be reading it in a trice.
''Spellfire will rise, and a sword of power, to cleave shadow and evil and master art.'' Elminster read it as though it was a curious bard's rhyme or a bad attempt at a joke. Lhaeo waited. Elminster spoke again. ''Master art'? What did Alaundo mean by that? She's to become a mage? She has not the slightest aptitude for it-and I'm not completely new to teaching art, ye know!'
'I have found that Alaundo's sayings make perfect sense after they have happened, for the most part,' Lhaeo said, 'but they help precious little beforehand.'
'Ahhh… stir the stew!' Elminster grunted. 'I'm going out for a pipe.' The door banged behind him. Lhaeo grinned.
The stairs creaked as Storm came down them barefoot, silver hair shining in the firelight.
'Leave the stew,' she said softly to Lhaeo. 'It's probably been thrashed into soup by now, between the both of you.'
Lhaeo smiled and put strong arms around her. 'Let us go back upstairs,' he said gently, 'before he returns for a flame to light his pipe. Haste, now!'
The bed creaked as they sat upon it, a scant instant before the door, below, banged open again. Outside, Elminster chuckled and then hummed his favorite of the tunes Storm had devised. One didn't get to be five hundred winters old without noticing a thing or two.
They rode steadily south all that day on a road busy with wagons rumbling north out of Sembia. Hawk-eyed outriders and shrewd, watchful merchants looked them over often, and the scrutiny always made Narm and Shandril uncomfortable.
Torm had acquired a moustache from somewhere about his person, as well as some brown powder of the sort used as cosmetics in the Inner Sea lands. Skillfully he rubbed it about his eyes and jaw and cheekbones, until his face seemed subtly different. He rode in silence for the most part-a mercy upon his companions-and affected a soft, growling voice when he did speak. He remained to the rear as they rode.
Looking back, Narm could see the glistening whites of his eyes darting this way and that in the shadowy gloom of a cap that hid his face. The conjurer gathered that Torm was a little too well known in Sembia or nearby to ride openly on the high road this far south without his fellow knights around him.
Rathan, however, paid such cautions no mind. He rode easily before Shandril, speaking loudly of the kindnesses and spectacular cruelties of the Great Lady Tymora, and occasionally pointing out a far-off landmark or the approaching colors of a merchant house or company of the Inner Sea lands. But he seemed to be addressing her as Lady Nelchave, and occasionally comparing things to 'your hold, Roaringcrest.' Shandril answered him with vague murmurs, trying to sound bored. In fact, she was enjoying riding in the comfortable security of Rathan and Torm's presence, with a guided tour of the countryside.
Torm and Rathan preferred to lunch in the saddle without halting, Shandril found it fascinating to watch them fill nosebags with skins of water and lean forward to hang them carefully about the necks of their mounts and mules, after first letting each animal taste and smell the contents of such a bag. They deftly passed bread, cheese, and small chased metal flasks of wine about. Torm even produced four large, iced sugar rolls (probably pilfered from some passing cart or other) from somewhere about his person. Shandril began to wonder if he had endless pockets, like those of Longfingers the Magician in the bards' tales.
A light rain squall came out of the west in the afternoon and lashed them briefly as it passed overhead. Torm nearly lost his moustache, but he regained his high, sly spirits. He danced about on his dripping horse, firing jests, rolling his eyes, and mimicking the absent knights.
The day passed and the road fell away steadily behind them, until in high eventide they came to Blackfeather Bridge, where the road between the Standing Stone and Sembia crosses the River Ashaba. There Sembia maintained a small guardpost of bored-looking, hardened men armed with ready crossbows and long pikes bearing the Raven and Silver banner of Sembia.
The guards looked long and coldly at the four travelers. Narm noticed a cleric of Tempus and a silent man in robes standing off to one side with two veteran warriors, watching them steadily. His throat went dry, but he tried to keep his face unconcerned and impassive. Dragon Cult and Zhentarim agents could be anywhere-and everywhere. Narm was certain Rathan was recognized, but nothing was said and no one barred their way.
Two hills later, as the sun sank lower, Narm looked back, but he could not see any pursuit. An uneasy feeling persisted, however, and he was not surprised when at sunset Rathan led them wordlessly westward, well off the road, until it grew too dim to ride safely on.
'This seems as good a place as any,' Rathan said gruffly, waiting for Torm's soft-spoken assent. 'Ready watch tonight,' the cleric added. 'If you must go off to relieve yourself, Shandril,' he added, 'go not alone.'
The knights seemed to share Narm's feeling of trouble ahead. Narm and Torm had barely drifted off to sleep, long after an exhausted Shandril, when there was a thudding noise, as someone tripped amid the webwork of black silk cords Torm had strung in an arc behind where Rathan sat watch. Rathan lifted the mace from his knees as he whirled and let out a warning bellow.
The attacker was already coming to his feet, cursing softly, sword drawn-and there were others behind. Narm rolled upright with frightened speed. Torm was up and away into the night like a vengeful shadow before he could even draw breath.
'Defend thy lady, lad!' Rathan bellowed back over one shoulder, as his mace struck aside attacking steel with a shrill clatter. Two faced him, with a third rushing up.
Narm saw a man fall as he looked all around for danger on his way to stand over Shandril, who was rolling over drowsily. More men with blades were coming out of the night. Narm saw another fall, and this time he saw the glint of steel as Torm leaped onward to deal death again. Then a man rushed right at Narm, steel gleaming in the firelight.
Coolly, Narm cast a magic missile spell. Then he drew his dagger and braced himself. The glowing pulses of his art swooped and struck. The man, who wore dark leathers and wielded a hooked sabre, staggered and fell. Narm set his teeth and leaned over to finish the job. Blood wet his fingers, and he felt sick as he looked up and around again for new dangers approaching.
There were none. Torm dispatched another from behind-Narm saw the man stiffen and groan-and Rathan was chatting jovially to those he slew.
'Do you not realize what moral pain-nay, spiritual agony-striking thee down causes me? Hast no consideration for my feelings?' The heavy mace fell again, crushing. 'More than this, aye, ye-uhh! — grrh! —
