Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [17]
Sharantyr caught it and told Rathan, "I wish, just for once, he'd let someone else's will prevail. When he awakens, tell him I'm sorry for doing this… but this matters much to me: not just the doing of it, but undertaking it by myself. The days and months and years pass, and I wither in his shadow."
The priest nodded. "I understand just what you mean," he said, "and will tell him. Tymora and all the other benevolent gods watch over thee, Sharantyr – and come back safe to us."
The lady ranger put the skull into her belt pouch, adjusted the slender long sword that rode on her hip, and looked up at him with a sigh, then a rueful grin.
"Well," she replied, "I suppose there's always a first time."
*******
"Better?" Narm asked, as he tightened the ropes around her arms again.
"Much," Shandril said, and kissed his cheek as he bent past her. Narm gave her a grin – it made Thaerla of Chauntea's face wrinkle up like a benevolent toad – and said, "I'm not sure how you're going to like sitting there watching me eat and drink when you can't have anything."
Shandril stiffened. "I'd forgotten that," she said slowly. "Narm, I've got to eat. I – won't they bring food up to us, here?"
"I'll go see."
"No, we'll go see. I'm not parting from you, not even for a moment. This is Scornubel – anything can happen."
Thaerla of Chauntea's smile was decidedly wry this time. "Try that last sentence of yours again, and put the word 'Highmoon' in place of 'Scornubel.' Then try it with 'Shadowdale.' 'Waterdeep' has a nice ring to it, too."
"Hush! That's not funny!" The penitent priestess wriggled her arms, testing the ropes around her and added in a smaller voice, "True, though. I'm not happy to say it, but… 'tis true." The Sun was a good inn and a popular one. In Scornubel, that meant it was something of a fortress, uneasily cloaked in small touches of luxury. Room doors in the Sun came with their own lock-props, to be set by patrons on the inside when being intruded upon was not highly desirable. Narm shot the bolt, lifted the prop aside, and indicated the door with a flourish.
"Penitents first?"
Cautiously Shandril pulled on the door-ring, and even more cautiously peered out. The passage beyond was empty. It ended in a short flight of steps leading down onto a landing that overlooked the forehall of the inn – a landing that sported a lounge Seat for the use of patrons, and two smaller, harder seats flanking the passage. On one sat a uniformed servant, and the other was occupied by a hard-faced, openly armed guard. Thaerla of Chauntea exchanged a few polite words with the servant and towed her silent penitent back to their room.
"That was simple enough," Narm said, going straight to the window to test its frame of iron bars – old and rusty, but solid. "I'd rather stay right here until late morning on the morrow, and go seeking the Tankard and our caravan-master then."
A short, choked-off scream came in the window, and he gestured ruefully in its direction. "The local sights seem – well, a trifle too exciting."
"I hate this place," Shandril said softly. "A whole city full of folk being brutal to each other, cheating and threatening and coercing…"
Narm shrugged. "So we get away from here as soon as Orthil Voldovan will take us – and go straight to Waterdeep, another den of harmony, fresh air, and public safety."
"Stop it," his lady whispered fiercely. "I'm serious, Narm. What if someone drugs or poisons our food? 'Twouldn't surprise me!"
Thaerla of Chauntea raised one chubby but triumphant finger. "Ah, there I can be of some service. Jhessail taught me a very rare spell that reveals taints and poisons to a mage – as purple glows."
"And if you cast it, there goes your disguise, just as my spellfire shattered mine," Shandril muttered into his