Hand of Fire - Ed Greenwood [6]
Narm and Shandril looked at each other.
"Well," the kitchenmaid from Highmoon said brightly, after a moment of silence, "It's just the two of us, again. Well met, Thaerla of Chauntea."
"Fair day and fair harvest, Olarla of Chauntea,"
Narm replied.
Shandril winced and shook her head. "You sound like Narm," she told him. "Like a male. Try to squeak a little more… or growl and be surly."
After two attempts at squeaking that left Shandril doubled up in helpless laughter, Narm practiced growling and being surly as they peered around the hilltop.
Old, shattered tombs stood on all sides, overgrown by tall grasses. Here and there the grass had been trampled by feet that had been here before them, but there were no gnawed bones or stink of death – and thankfully, no yawning graves or cracks opening into fell darkness. However, someone had painted "Beware: The Dead Walk" on one tall, leaning marker-stone. Thaerla and Olarla of Chauntea looked at that recent message, exchanged glances, and with one silent accord strode together down off the hilltop, following the brook Tessaril had suggested.
Shandril looked sidelong at Narm as they went, trying to see her husband in the fat, trudging priestess – his quick grin, the glossy wave of his shoulder-length dark brown hair, his slender good looks. No, there was none of that in these jowls and thick lips and amiable cheeks. She was looking at a kindly, fat, and already wheezing woman, stumbling along as – she looked down – she must be, herself.
Well, they were two, and no doubt those who could see the glows of spells would know they were disguised – but they did not look like a graceful little imp of a scullery lass with a long, unruly mane of curling blonde hair, and her slim young mage of a mate.
"So Arauntar and Beldimarr in Orthil's guard are Harpers," Narm muttered, "and will be watching for us.
What about this Orthil himself? Did Tess say -?"
"She called him a good man," Shandril said thoughtfully. "She did not say he was a Harper or knew anything about us – or that he could be trusted with… our secret."
She glanced around and back behind them, knowing that Narm had already done so but wanting to be sure for herself. The little valley opened up before them, and it might have snakes or even something as large as a fox skulking in its grasses… but of ores or brigands or stalking dead tomb-things there was no sign.
The maid of Highmoon gazed at the hills ahead and the glorious deep blue sky above, flecked with just a few lazily drifting wisps of white cloud, and sighed.
"Tired of all this running?" Narm asked quietly.
"Yes," Shandril told him quietly. "Very tired of it."
She looked north again, as far as she could see, to where distant mountain peaks rose – a few to seaward, just north of Waterdeep, but most over to the north and east, in the northern backlands. "You'd think, in all the wide Realms," she said wistfully,
"there'd be a place for Narm and Shandril to dwell in happiness, free of the hundreds of evil, greedy folk who want the spellfire wench dead."
Narm nodded grimly and said nothing, but his hand went out to hers and squeezed it comfortingly.
Shandril sighed again. "Zhentarim, a few Red Wizards of Thay, Dragon Cultists, the odd ambitious wizard, these shape shifters, too – is there no end to folk who want to snatch my spellfire, and me with it?" she asked bitterly.
"We could stay priestesses of Chauntea for the rest of our days," Narm said quietly. "I'd do that without a moment's regret, if you'd be happy. We could find a farm somewhere…” "Yes, and die there the moment our disguises slipped or someone took a good look at us," Shandril said wearily. "No, I want to get to Silverymoon, hear whatever wise counsel High Lady Alustriel sees fit to impart to us… and join the Harpers. Join because I've earned it, and they want me, and my – powers – can be of use to them. I can't hide from myself any better than I can hide from all the