between them. The Simbul closed her eyes, shuddered again, and began to gather her will. As before, the room seemed to grow dim. 'Think,' she muttered, 'of Sharantyr. Picture her face, her voice, what she looks like when she moves. We must focus on her, for Elminster is cloaked to all seeking magic.'
Obediently they thought of the lady Knight. Storm's eyes were closed, her face calm. Lhaeo and Jhessail both frowned, their faces creased in concentration. This time, linked to the Simbul, they could feel her drawing in her power, feeding on their thoughts, emotions, and yearnings.
Power swirled around the kitchen. Then the Simbul hurled her questing, searching thought out a long way. She fell, like a fisher's hook plunging into dark waters, somewhere into a void of seeking where those linked to her could not follow.
After a long, tense silence of tight breathing and gathering weariness, the Simbul suddenly shook herself like a dog coming up out of water and said brusquely, 'We need more. The Art twisted wild. Sylune… please?'
Two pairs of wondering eyes saw Storm's fingers and the Simbul's separate where they had been linked. Out of empty, smoky air between them, two slim, faintly glowing hands seemed to grow, gaining substance in ghostly silence. Each of these hands clasped a living one. A gentle whisper said, 'I am here. Try now, sister.'
Lhaeo and Jhessail stared at the half-seen, ghostly figure between Storm and the Simbul. Then they exchanged one quick glance and, as one, closed their eyes and threw themselves again into seeking Sharantyr.
An eternity passed. The candles burned lower. They breathed as one, low and deep. Toril, with awesome slowness, rolled steadily beneath them.
Then someone whimpered, and the circle was broken.
Storm held only empty air, and the Simbul fell heavily facedown on the table, upsetting one of the decanters.
'Storm?' Lhaeo asked anxiously, half rising. 'Is she-?'
'Exhausted,' the Bard of Shadowdale said faintly, leaning back in her chair. 'As am I. It's a magic few know- thankfully, or there'd be mindless mages across half of Faerun in short order.'
Jhessail rescued the fallen decanter and silently held it out to Storm. The bard stared at it dully for a breath or two, then deliberately grasped it, unstoppered it, and took a long pull. When she replaced the stopper and handed the bottle back, it was almost empty.
'Storm,' Lhaeo asked quietly, his voice almost steady, 'was that-?'
'Our sister Sylune,' Storm answered as quietly. 'Yes, and what we tried did more harm to her than to either of us.' She turned dark eyes up to theirs and added, 'So now you know. Take up the weight of another secret, for the good of the dale.'
Two intent faces nodded silently.
Then the Simbul stirred and said into the table, 'Is any of that firequench swill left?'
After the laughter had died away, Lhaeo dared to lay tender hands on perhaps the most powerful sorceress alive in Faerun, raising her and wiping her sweat-soaked brow. The Simbul smiled silent thanks up at him and said, 'Well, you know we failed. Know more; there's worse news.'
Lhaeo and Jhessail both looked at her sharply. 'Tell,' Elminster's scribe bade her simply.
'All Art in the Realms is going rogue,' the Simbul answered, 'for all who wield it, everywhere. We can unleash it, but our control slips and fades, and most of the time is lacking entirely. Magic has gone wild, and we can do nothing, it seems, to stop that. El and Shar are truly beyond our reach and aid.'
Dread came and went on her white face, and she reached thoughtfully for the decanter again. 'Across Faerun,' she added softly but firmly, 'not a single mage, archmage, or hedge-wizard can rely on spells anymore.'
Lhaeo and Jhessail exchanged looks and then spoke together, framing the same question as one. 'In the name of all the gods, why?'
Storm answered softly, eyes on the flame of the nearest candle. 'That's just why. All the gods have been cast down into the Realms to contend among us, struggling and striving as we do. With Mystra gone, there's none to control magic. It's why Elminster's gone away.'
'Cast down?' Lhaeo almost whispered. 'By whom? Who has such power?'
Storm spread her hands. 'In the oldest writings he was called the Overgod. Nowadays, to those who know of him at all, he is the 'One Who Is Hidden.'' She smiled. 'If you meet him, you might ask his truename and aims. There are a lot of souls, mortal and divine alike, who'd like to know.'
Jhessail drew a deep, ragged breath and smiled. 'I'll get straight to work on it,' she jested, and shook her head in rueful disbelief. Her hands trembled as they reached for the second decanter. When she put it down, it held far less than when she had taken it up.
Storm shook her head. 'Easy, lass,' she murmured, 'or we'll have to carry you back to the tower.'
Jhessail crooked an eyebrow. 'Who, wench,' she said readily, 'will be carrying whom?'
Lhaeo sighed and rose. 'Come, Jhess,' he said. 'Elminster and Sharantyr are on their own, and we've done enough harm this night. Storm needs her sleep, even if we do not.'
Storm thanked the scribe with her eyes. Jhessail read that look and blew them all a kiss before taking Lhaeo's arm and slipping swiftly out into the night.
A long time passed. As the candles died, one by one, the two sisters sat at the table unmoving, eyes far away.
At last Storm moved unwilling lips. 'Did you see or feel anything when you reached for Shar? Anything at all?'
'No,' the Simbul said shortly, staring down at her empty hands. 'Nothing. I was like the worst apprentice I've ever had-alone, wavering, helpless in the dark.'
'I saw three things, sister,' came the eerie voice they had feared not to hear again. 'Fire and tears and stars, overhead it seemed, though they were all mixed together. Our stars.'
Storm raised her head, and there were tears in her eyes. 'Sylune,' she said softly, 'my thanks. They're not dead, then.'
'Yet,' came the voice of Sylune's ghost dryly. 'Yet.'
It was dark in Dagger Wood, save for an upright oval of amber light, an unsleeping eye staring into the night. Overhead, glittering stars watched what the eye's glow illuminated: two blades that glimmered, leapt, and sang as they dealt death.
The two men who held the blades said nothing as they danced and ducked. Both knew they must keep the seven black-armored guards-well, only three guards now-from fleeing through the oval radiance to raise the alarm.
The men in full armor were strong, hardened veterans, efficient experts at dealing death with cold steel by night or day, in alleys or high streets, in open battle or in crowds.
The two men in dusty leathers, however, were Harpers and men who'd just spent some goodly time crossing blades with Storm Silverhand. They knew who'd win this battle.
As frantic moments passed, their opponents came to know it too, with the cold, sinking certainty of death. The Harpers caught each other's eyes once, in the skirling dance of steel, and laughed together. A few panting breaths later it was over.
Belkram and Itharr faced each other across the black-clad fallen, looked all about with trained wariness, and nodded to each other, signaling that they were both unharmed. Then they turned together in silence to look at the flickering, man-high oval of light. It glowed silently back at them, waiting.
Belkram's eyes descended to a corpse that lay in front of the gate. He bent forward. 'What's this?'
'Harper signs?'
'Aye.' He leaned closer get a better look at the slashes on the corpse's leather tunic. ' 'Trap ahead,' it says. 'Keep low.' ' Belkram hefted his bloodstained blade. 'Well? Ready?'
Itharr chuckled, and stroked the wispy beginnings of a moustache in a gesture Belkram had seen before. 'Remember, adventure is where you find it,' he replied, waving with his own blade at the light to indicate that Belkram should go first.
'Why, thank you,' Belkram replied in exaggerated, courtly tones, and stepped through, keeping low.
