down again beside him. 'Never change, will you? Promise me that'
'Ah, lass,' he said sadly. 'That's one of the promises none of us can keep.'
He lay there in silence until she slept, holding her hand tightly. When her slumber was deep, he waved his free hand, and a spellbook floated silently out of the night to hang above his nose. Spellfire was but one of Elminster's little secrets; another was the fact that he no longer needed to sleep.
The old, familiar symbols and phrases filled his mind again as they had so many times before, but he did not let go of Storm’s hand, even for a moment. Throughout life, one does not miss any chance to hold onto the things that are really precious, if one is truly wise.
A cool wind whipped around the mages and howled off east, along the old and broken rock ridges of the Stonelands. It brought faint, far-off howls with it.
Ramath involuntarily looked over his shoulder, but the black-robed wizard beside him only smiled.
'Whatever it is would have to travel much of the night. to reach us, mageling, even if it knew we stood on this spot. My Art will turn it away if it tries. So stand easy.'
Ramath shook his head. 'I've tried, Dread Master but whenever I look where it's dark, I see her.'
'Who?' The question was sharp.
Ramath swallowed. 'A light-haired girl… shrouded in flames.'
'What? She's here, and moving about, hidden from all but you by magic? Or can you see rocks and trees through her; do you see something from your dreams?'
'A dream image I suppose, Master-yet I'm not asleep. I see her walking amid trees, with a dwarf, a wizard of about my age, and a fat man in floppy old boots. They're just walking, not seeing me or anything-but they're always heading this way, straight toward us… 1 walked to the cliff over there-you saw me-and it seemed the same; straight toward me. It's-I've never known anything like this before.'
Dread Master Ghaubhan Szaurr regarded him coldly for a moment, and then said very softly, 'Who has spoken to you of such a band of travelers?'
Ramath looked startled. 'No one, Dread Master. I've not heard of or seen any of these folk before-I was hoping you'd know what spell or ghost was affecting me.'
'I think I do,' the Dread Master replied. 'Go down to the Zhentilar swordmaster by the fire and tell him to come up to me. And pay close heed to these images you see. When you return, I shall want a full and detailed account of anything new that you 've seen. Hasten.'
Obediently his apprentice scrambled away along the path. Stroking his sharp-pointed chin thoughtfully, Ghaubhan Szaurr watched him go.
The wind flung the wizard's cloak out behind him like a black sail. Ghaubhan stood on the rocky height feeling its tug and listening to it flapping as excitement rose within him: Ramath had some sort of magesight, the gift of Mystra or Bane or some other dark power-and Shandril of Highmoon was coming this way.
Spellfire would be his soon; Ghaubhan could almost taste it. He thought how best to place the warriors- stupid brutes all, but useful against the maiden's companions for the battle to come. It was even more crucial to use his magelings so they stood no chance of tricking or turning on their Dread Master. Best if they all died at the maid's hands-men turned to ashes by spellfire could tell no tales to seeking magic, and could not whisper against him. If one ashen corpse wore Ghaubhan's cloak and ring, in fact, they d think Ghaubhan Szaurr fallen.
And given time to master spellfire while in hiding, this lowly tutor of magelings would become a Dread Master indeed! Then the high lords of the Keep had best look to their Art, for the Zhentarim would soon have a new master… If that book he'd found in old Asklannan's spell library spoke truth, any man whose blood joined with one who wielded spellfire stood a chance of gaining it himself. that joining, moreover, would be a pleasure…
Ghaubhan grinned wolfishly in the dark, and waited for the hurrying steps of Ramath to announce the magelings return. He'd bear watching, that one… such sight does not come from empty air; how came he by it? Fzoul and his upperpriests thought Ghaubhan Szaurr served the Cult of the Dragon; Only Manshoon and a few senior wizards knew lie in truth worked for the Zhentarim… Was this Ramath a spy for Fzoul, then? Was he sent by someone in the Cult who'd become suspicious of Ghaubhan's loyalty? What fell and mysterious power moved the young fool? None known to a lowly Dread Master, for sure…
''Fell and mysterious power!' I like that,' Gathlarue said softly in the night-gloom. 'It has a certain ring…' 'It does,' Mairara agreed. 'This Dread Master is an engaging half-wit all around. Such twisted cruelty… such lame deceits.'
'Lame they may be,' Gathlarue said, 'but it is my hope he does gain the spellfire. Not only will he be straw in our hands, but it will be entertaining to the utmost, watching him destroying most of the Brotherhood as he seeks to master it.'
'Fun watching, to be sure,' came the reply, 'so long as he holds the Zhentarim together long enough to destroy Elminster of Shadowdale first. If we feed this Ramath visions for long enough, our ambitious Dread Master will not dare to start the foolishness too early. I would see Elminster perish soon, and the Brotherhood is the only blade we can wield that seems strong enough to slay him.'
'There are others,' Gathlarue said softly. 'If we could turn the one called the Simbul against him…'
'They love each other strongly now.'
'Precisely,' Gathlarue said. The slow smile that stole onto her face then made Mairara shiver despite herself. 'Precisely… '
Nine
Time is the thief that knows no locks.
'Fare thee well, too, Baera,' Mirt said roughly, and then his arms were tightly wrapped around her, squeezing as though by mere strength he could hold onto some part of her afterwards. The fat Harper, looking somehow sleek and striking this morning after her bath, gripped him back just as hard, and they stood locked like two wrestling bears for a long moment.
'Go, then,' Baergasra said finally and pushed him away. Her voice was suddenly husky, and her eyes glimmered like the morning dew. 'I fear I'll not see you again, Old Wolf.' She waved him away sadly. 'So go- quickly, all of you; I hate tears. Let me be lonely again.'
'Well,' Delg said gruffly, 'if you took a bath more often, mayhap you'd be lonely less often…'
He ducked under her wild and immediate grab and came running back to his companions, grinning from ear to ear.
'Next time, little man,' Baergasra called after him, hands on hips, 'I'll have a cake of soap ready for a certain dwarf. Begone, the lot of you!' She snorted, and then waved farewell.
Mirt, shaking his head at Delg, led them over a hill that hid the Wyvern from view behind them, and hid Baergasra with it.
The fat old merchant's shaggy head swung to and fro as they walked on. They all went slowly under the weight of much new-bought food as Mirt peered watchfully at every tree and rise around them. At length his gaze came to rest on Narm. striding along beside Shandril in his customary silence. 'Are you well enough?' lie rumbled anxiously. 'Any pain?'
Narm grinned. 'I'm… well, it seems. Worry not! It's in the past and done.'
'As you were nearly in the past and done yestereve,' Delg added meaningfully.
Narm sighed, then raised an eyebrow carefully. 'Are you always this cheerful,' he asked the dwarf, 'or is this sonic sort of special occasion?'
The dwarf shrugged. 'I-something's amiss; I feel it in my bones. I’m a little… bladesharp, this morn.' He
