Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [0]
Shandril's Saga 01 -
Spellfire
This one's for all who have brought the Realms to life over the years: To Jenny, Andrew, Victor, John, Ian, Jim, Anita, Cathy, Dave, Ken, Tim, and Kim.
And to new-found friends who have joined the ride:
Jeff, Mary, and Bruce; well met!
It hasn’t always been easy being Elminster, but it's been worth it.
1: At the Sign of The Rising Moon
Neglect not small things, for all ruling and war and magecraft are naught but small things, one built upon another. Begin then with the small, and look close, and you will see it all.
Seroun of Calimport
Tales of Far Travels
Year of the Rock
It was a good inn, but sometimes Shandril hated it.
She was crying at the pain in her scalded hands, the tears running down her chin and arms into the suds, as she washed a small mountain of dishes.
It was a hot Flamerule noon. Sweat stood out all over her like oil, making her slim arms slippery and glistening. She wore only her old gray tunic, once Gorstag's. It stuck to her here and there, but only the cook, Korvan, would see her, and he would slap and pinch even if she were bundled up in furs like some northern princess. She blew, sharply, and the lank blonde hair falling from her forehead parted reluctantly in front of her eyes. Tossing her head to fling her hair aside, Shandril narrowly surveyed the stack beside her and concluded with a sigh that there were at least three hours' worth of dishes left.
Not enough time. Korvan was starting the roasts in the hearth already. He'd be wanting herbs cut and water brought soon. He was a good cook, Shandril allowed grudgingly, even if he was fat and he stank and his hands were always hot and sticky. Some folk came to The Rising Moon just because of Korvan's cooking.
Shandril had heard the story about how Korvan- younger and slimmer then-had once been a cook in the Royal Palace of Cormyr, in the fair city of Suzail.
There had been some trouble (probably over a girl, Shandril thought darkly, perhaps even one of the princesses of Cormyr), and he'd had to leave Cormyr in some haste, banished there from upon pain of death.
Shandril wondered, as she eyed a soapy platter critically, what would happen if she ever managed to get Korvan drunk senseless or knocked cold with a skillet and somehow could drag him through the Thunder Gap and over the border into Cormyr.
Perhaps King Azoun himself would appear out of thin air and say to the Cormyrean border guards,
"Here he is!" and without hesitating they'd draw their swords and hack off Korvan's head. She smiled at the thought. Perhaps he'd plead for mercy or cry in fear.
Shandril snorted. Great chance, indeed, of that ever happening! He was here, now, and too lazy to ever go anywhere-and too fat for most horses to carry him, if it came to that. No, he was trapped here, and she was trapped with him. She scrubbed a fork fiercely until its two tines gleamed in the sunlight.
Yes, trapped.
It had been a long time before she'd realized it. She had no parents, no kin-and no one would even admit to knowing where she'd come from. She had always been here, it seemed, doing the dirty work in the old roadside inn among the trees. It was a good inn, everyone said. Other places must be worse, Shandril reasoned, but she had never seen them. She could not remember ever having been inside any other building, ever. After sixteen summers, all she knew of her town of Highmoon was what she could see from the inn-yard. She'd never more than thought of running away or just slipping off to have a look.
She was always too busy, too behind with her work, or too tired.
There was always work to be done. Each spring she even washed the ceilings of all the bedchambers while tied to a ladder so she wouldn't fall off.
Sharp-eyed old Tezza did the windows, all those tiny panes of mica and a few panels of blown glass from Selgaunt and Hillsfar, which were far too valuable for Shandril to be trusted to wash.
Shandril didn't mind most of the work, really. She just hated getting extra tired or hurt while the others did little or,