Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [114]
A large green glass bottle that stood upon the table, full of wine and as yet unopened, like many of its fellows, began to change shape. As all watched in astonishment, it grew and became The Simbul, kneeling atop the table with proud and lonely eyes.
The witch-queen nodded to Narm and Shandril, and then looked to Elminster.
"You will let these two walk freely?" she asked.
"Truly?"
The archmage nodded. "Aye. I will. We all here will."
"Then you have my blessing," she added softly. She turned into a bird and, with a whir of wings, she darted up the chimney and was gone.
The knights relaxed, visibly. "One day I suppose I'll be used to that," Torm remarked. "Old mage, can't you tell by art when she's near?"
Elminster shook his head. "Unless she actively uses art of her own, nay. Her cloak-of-art is as good as any greater archmage's-which is to say, well nigh perfect."
"Such as yours, perhaps?" Torm pressed him.
Elminster smiled broadly, and suddenly he wasn't there. His chair was empty, without flash or sound.
Only the faint smell of his pipe smoke hung in the air to say he had been present at all. Jhessail sighed and cast a spell to detect magic. She looked all about, keenly, and then shook her head.
"Faint magic, all about," she said, "and those things I know to be enchanted that we carry. But no sage."
"You see?" Elminster said, appearing at her elbow and kissing her swiftly on the cheek. "It is not as easy as it might seem, but it works."
"Now that's a trick I'd give much to learn," Torm said delightedly.
"Much it will cost ye," Elminster replied. "But enough of such tricks. Be thankful, all of ye, that The Simbul favors our desires in this matter. If she did not, ad of my time would be spent thwarting her and my art would be lost to you. Who knows what foes we may yet face in this matter? Ye may have need of me."
"We always need you, old mage," Mourngrym answered, a twinkle in his eye. "Is there anyone else who would now speak on this? Narm and Shandril, you need not make speeches if you do not desire to do so, nor are you expected to answer any queries put to you." There was a brief silence.
"I would speak, Lord of the Dale," said Storm Silverhand softly. She rose, silver hair swirling gently about the dark leather that clad her shoulders.
She looked directly at Narm and Shandril. "We who harp are interested in you," she said. "Think on whether you might want to walk our way."
Eyebrows lifted in silence all around the table.
Rathan looked all about, then asked noisily, "Is all the formal tongue-work done, then? Can we enjoy ourselves now, and let all the others back in? Lord?"
Mourngrym grinned. "I think you have cut to the heart of the boar, chosen of Tymora. Open the doors!
Let us feast! Elminster, do not go, I pray you!"
The old sage had already risen. "I am old for all the babbling and flirting that goes on at your feasts. I keep looking down at all the comely lasses, and see only the faces of those I met at feasts long ago, in cities now dust-truly, Mourngrym, I enjoy it not.
Besides, I have work to do. My art stands not still, and more things unfold under the eyes of Selune than just this matter of spellfire, ye know. Fare ye well, all." He strode forward and crouched before the fire.
Suddenly Elminster became a great, gray-feathered eagle, and was gone up the chimney, as The Simbul had gone.
"Show-off," Jhessail said affectionately, watching him go.
Shandril looked at Rathan, who held a bottle in either hand, as she leaned across the board to speak to Jhessail. Her tutor bent her head obligingly, hair falling almost into a dish of cheese-filled mushroom caps.