Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [118]
"How is she?" he asked, looking at Shandril's still face.
"Well enough," Rathan replied, "considering the blow to the wits she got. I only hope that it has not somehow harmed her ability to wield spellfire, now that half of Faerun seems to be attacking her to gain it." He and Florin exchanged a sober glance.
"Why would just one guard attack her?"
Mourngrym muttered, frowning.
"One seemed to do well enough," Shaeri replied, gesturing at the two still forms at their feet.
"No, love; I meant I would expect to find other attackers near at hand."
The Lord of Shadowdale turned. "Rold, I want this tower searched, forthwith, this floor first. Jhessail, will you rouse Illistyl and stand guard over our two guests, here? I shall remain also." He drew his slim, jeweled sword, set it point down before him, and leaned upon it. Shaeri nodded and knelt by Narm, who had begun to moan faintly.
Florin knelt on one knee beside him, and was ready with gravely strong arms when the young conjurer suddenly surged up, arms flailing. "Where's-?
Shandril! Danger! Beware! Danger!"
"Aye… aye," Florin agreed gently, holding him.
"Danger it was, indeed. Stay still now, and we can see to your lady."
"Shandril? How-"
"Quiet and still, please. If you will heed, you will learn. She lies behind you; Rathan and Lanseril tend her."
"I-yes, I shall." Narm sank back, wincing as his head came to rest again upon the furs. "What happened?"
"Narm lay quiet and still as he was bid, that's what happened," the Lady Shaeri said severely.
Narm grimaced, and then he heard Shandril say softly, "I thank you. Narm was hurt; have you seen to him?" His heart knew peace and he was asleep within a breath, not even hearing Rathan's reply.
It was dark in the blanket room and close, smelling of pomander and moth-mix. Ilthond stifled a sneeze, nodded in satisfaction at his accurate teleporting, and listened. He could hear nothing. Well enough. To work, then.
The mage worked invisibility upon himself, then cautiously eased the door open a crack. The corridor beyond seemed empty. He stole forth and looked about.
Better and better, he thought. Ilthond muttered a spell of flight and rose high to drift unseen along the corridor and search. No guards… why? Was Shadowdale truly so lax and careless a place as all that? No, there must be some strife or alarm…
Around the corner came a dozen guards with drawn swords and forbidding, intent glares. Ilthond moved over and past them in careful silence. Where might the young maid be? The tower's mortar was mixed with substances to prevent scrying, but he was sure he'd find her anyway.
Perhaps she was up in the plainer but more secure rooms of the levels above, or down below, as befitted a guest of importance. The greater risk probably lay downward- but so, too, did almost all chances of learning who was where, and doing what. Ah well, a short, risky road leads fastest to the top, they say…, Ilthond reached the stairs and headed down, keeping near the sloping stone ceiling. Carefully and quietly he went, like a silent shadow. He searched, nosing through rooms and along halls, flitting back and forth with patient care not to be brushed against or seen by those who might be able to detect him.
He had come down a long hall where the torches burned every twenty paces, and there at one end humans in rich garb stood or knelt near two who lay side by side on the ground. Ilthond came closer slowly, silently, straining to hear from afar.
"How d'ye feel?" Rathan growled. "Better, I trust?"
Shandril nodded, slowly. "My head still aches. But my thanks, indeed, good Rathan. Again I am in your debt for healing me when I lay stricken."
"Not in my debt," Rathan corrected. "The Lady it is whom ye owe." He traced a circle about the disc upon his breast with the middle finger of his right hand.
"Yes, I shall not forget the Lady's favor," Shandril replied. "How is Narm?"
Rathan looked over at Narm. "He sleeps. Best to let him sleep on. But you must try your spellfire," he said gently.
Shandril had come up to