Crown of Fire - Ed Greenwood [7]
"Well, then," Narm said mildly, "you will understand how we feel, doing our best with what the gods have given us, beset by foes and wandering lost in the wilderness, far from aid and wise advice. Uh, save yours."
Shandril laughed helplessly. Delg turned back to look at her, sighed theatrically, rolled his eyes for good measure, and said, "Right. I stand corrected. Thy panfry awaits, great lord." He bowed to Narm, waving with the pan at a nearby rock. "If you'll be seated, herewith we two can sate our hunger and discuss how best to feed your lady without having her spewing it all back at us."
The morning sun shone down bright and clear through the trees of Shadowdale, leaf-shadows dappling the rocks on the rising flanks of Harpers' Hill. Storm's blade flashed back its brightness as she slid the steel edge along the whetting stone. The Bard of Shadowdale sat thoughtfully under a tree, putting a better edge on her old and battered long sword. She kept silent, for that was the way Elminster seemed to want it, this morn.
The Old Mage stood looking east, whence a cool breeze was rising. His eyes flashed as blue as the sky as he raised the plain wooden staff he bore, and the staff seemed to glow for a moment in answer. The wind rose, and the wizard's long white beard and mane stirred with the rustle and dance of the leaves all around. Elminster was muttering things under his breath, using his old and deep voice, and Storm knew that her sister, on her throne in far-off Aglarond, heard them and was whispering words back.
None other was meant to hear them. Storm took care that she did not, for that was the way she was.
Elminster stopped speaking and smiled. The wind died away again, and birds rose from the trees around, twittering. The Old Mage stared eastward, unmoving. Storm watched him, frowning a little.
She knew him well enough to see the sadness hidden behind his eyes. The Old Mage stood silent and motionless for long minutes.
When Storm began to grow stiff and the edge on her sword threatened to become brittle and oversharp, she slid her shining blade softly into its sheath and went to him.
Elminster turned to her thoughtfully. "I thought," he said slowly, his eyes very blue, "I'd put such love behind me, long ago. Why do I keep finding it again? It makes the times apart from her" – he turned away to stare into the green shadows under the trees – "lonely indeed."
Storm put a hand on his arm. "I know. It's a long walk back from Harpers' Hill. That's why I came."
In silence one old, long-fingered hand closed over hers and squeezed his thanks, and together they went down the twisting trail through the trees.
"Ready? We'd best be off, then. Even with spellfire to fell our foes, it's a long way to Silverymoon, an' we're not out of the Zhents' reach yet." As he spoke, Delg hoisted a pack that bulged with food, pots, and pans onto his shoulders.
Shandril put on her own pack, but said softly as she came up beside the dwarf. "No… we haven't any spellfire to fell our foes. I'm not going to use it again."
Delg's head jerked around to look up at her, but it was Narm who spoke, astonished. "Shan? Are you crazed? What – why?
His lady's eyes were moist when she looked up at him, but her voice was flat with determination.
"I'm not going to go through my life killing people. Even Zhents and others who wish me ill. It's… not right. What would the Realms be like if Elminster walked around just blasting anyone he chose to?"
"Very much as it is now for you – if everyone he met tried to kill or capture him," Narm said with sudden heat. "Folk have more sense than to attack the mightiest archmage in all the Heartlands."
"But not enough to leave alone one maid who happens to have spellfire – "the gift of the gods.'"
Shandril's tone made a cruel mockery of that quotation. She looked away into the distance – "I… hateall this. Having folk hate me… fear me… and always feeling the fire surging inside…"
"You're not the first maid who's been afraid of things, you know," Delg said.