More Sparks For The Rising Fire
I've always had a particular hatred far foes who attack by night. Don't they know a Realms-rescuing hero needs his sleep?
Shandril came awake knowing they were no longer alone. She was aware of a presence, of being watched from very close by… even before Narm's hand clutched her thigh in a clawlike warning under the sleeping- furs.
Tessaril had promised that this chamber at least, of all the Hidden House, was safe, warded with the strongest spells she could muster. That meant someone had broken the power-and probably ended the life-of the lady mage who'd been so kind to them.
The Lord of Eveningstar must be dead.
Dead… or less a loyal friend than she'd seemed.
Without moving or opening her eyes properly, Shandril tried to peer through lowered lashes at all of the small, cozy, tapestry-hung bedchamber around her.
Someone was standing at the foot of the bed. No, two someones.
'Shan,' came a low, gentle voice she knew, from one of them. 'Shan, I know you're awake. Please do nothing hasty-let there yet be peace between us.'
Tessaril! Treachery!
With a wild shriek Shandril flung herself into the air, using spellfire to propel herself aloft out of a tangle of the sleeping-furs blazing up in flames. Narm cursed as he ducked and twisted away from them.
A wizard had been glaring down at Shan as she slept. He was shorter and much stouter than Elminster, with a high, wrinkled forehead, knowing eyes, and a beard streaked with black, gray, and white hairs, doing battle together on his chin. He had a jowly face, bristling eyebrows, many years on his shoulders, rich garments, and an imperious look. Shandril hated him on sight. Tessaril Winter was standing at his side, a drawn sword in her hand, its slender blade glowing with awakened magic.
'Traitor!' Shandril spat at her, pointing with a finger that flamed with spellfire. The palm of her other hand filled with searing flames, ready to hurl, as she turned to the wizard and snarled, 'Mutter one word of a spell-just one-and I'll blast you to ashes, whoever you are!'
The old wizard nodded very slightly and said nothing.
The Lady Lord of Eveningstar shook her head sadly. 'Did I not tell you I'd never betray you, Shan? I meant it. I always mean what I say.'
'How can I trust that, when one spell from him and we could be dead?' Shandril growled, wrestling her fury down so no more of the room around would be burned.
Narm had kicked the smoldering furs onto bare flagstones and now crouched uneasily beside the bed, naked and too far from his clothes to even snatch up his belt-knife-but very much wanting to.
Shan let herself sink down until her bare feet were planted on the bed once more, spellfire still raging ready around her hands. Narm hastily scrambled up to stand beside her, raising his own hands to cast-he frowned- whatever paltry magic might be most useful.
'Be easy, both of you,' the wizard grunted. 'I've not come to do you harm. We've spoken before-when the King gave you his royal blessing, remember? I'm Vangerdahast, Court Wizard and Royal Magician of Cormyr, and a chamber-load of other titles besides… and I'd like to see the pair of you safely out of Cormyr before you turn into another problem for me. I collect problems and find I have more than enough on my hands just now without the little lass some amused god gave spellfire to-and an overswift temper, it seems.'
'Oh?' Narm asked, his tone half a challenge and half-curious. 'So why creep in here? And, Lady Lord, why the ready steel and risen magic on it?'
Tessaril shrugged. 'We had an… interesting journey hither through the Hidden House. Things dwell here that, ah, respond to the Royal Magician's presence.'
Vangerdahast grunted wordless agreement to the Lady Lord's words and strode around the bed toward Shandril, clasping his hands behind his back and peering at the two naked folk standing on the tangled bed like a slaver surveying wares he's thinking of buying.
'So you're here to-?' Shandril asked sharply, crouching to point both her hands at his face like loaded crossbows, her spellfire flaring warningly.
'Cast a magical disguise on you both,' he replied, ignoring the menacing flames dancing not all that far from his nose.
Calmly he gazed past them, studying Narm until the young mage blushed.
Vangerdahast promptly waved at Narm in an imperious 'turn around' gesture and nodded when the young mage hesitantly complied. 'No personal marks or brands or the like. Good. Now you, lass.'
Shandril gave him an angry look. 'Must every wizard I meet gloat over my bare flesh?'
'No,' Vangerdahast replied-a little wearily, Shan thought. 'Just the ones who have to see the body they're trying to disguise, to weave a good spell and not merely a swift and easy one. And this lucky lad of yours, too, I suppose. Gods above, girl, how many unclad women d'you think I've seen, in all the years of serving the king?'
'Ah,' Narm said, eager to find something to say that wasn't cold word-dueling or menace, 'so all the tales are true!'
'Those tales and a lot more besides,' Vangerdahast told him gravely, 'but if it keeps the Dragon of Cormyr from being a tyrant to the good folk of his kingdom and away from his war-saddle and all the graves that follow in the wake of such ridings, he can craft a dozen new tales every night with my full blessing!'
He came back around the bed to look at Narm directly 'You'll learn, lad, to count lives wasted and stalking fear and blood spilled and broken trust as far greater sins than a little rutting, if you live long enough to use your eyes. Now, turn around again. I need a good look at your scrawny backside if I'm to spin a good false seeming for you.'
'You were followed?'
'Of course. This is Scornubel, Thoadrin.'
'And so?'
'And so,' the slender man in dark leather replied with a crooked smile, holding up a wicked little knife that Thoadrin hadn't seen him draw from a sheath anywhere, 'this drank thrice. The last one was merely an opportunist who hoped to catch me in a vulnerable moment, during a fight. His hopes were met; he did.'
'You're hurt?' Thoadrin asked sharply.
The slender man flipped long black hair back out of his eyes with a languid toss of his head and smiled more brightly. 'One mask, sliced to ribbons. It pains me-my old foe had three quara in his purse, and even a crude replacement will cost me at least five.'
Thoadrin sighed. 'Marlel, can't you ever be serious?'
'Oh, now, Thoadrin,' Marlel said softly, 'don't make that dangerous mistake. I'm always serious.' Somehow the little knife had vanished again, though the Cult warrior hadn't seen it go.
Thoadrin frowned. 'The masks, the skulking, all these grand passwords and scrawled warning messages on doors-that's tavern-tale stuff. We of the Scaly Way-'
'— Prefer grim sinister silence, when you're not on your knees in front of dragons made of dancing bones. Each to his own style, Thoadrin. Mine amuses many folk, makes most of them underestimate me, and affords me some passing entertainment. 'Tis good heralding, too. As far away as Sembia, folk have heard of Marlel, the Dark Blade of Doom!'
Thoadrin winced. 'Aye, so they have, as a mincing dandy or a crazed-wits, I fear. Doubting such gabble could properly apply to a man of your profession who flourished for more than five seasons before this, I preferred to trust Scornubrian sources-persons I've dealt with in confidence and to mutual benefit for years.'
