Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [140]
On the table between Rathan and the tiny, stern-faced Preceptress were six dice.
Storm nodded to them. "Well met, both of you.
Games of chance?"
"What else in the service of Tymora?" Eressea replied. "It is sacrilege, mind you, to work upon odds, or cheat, or otherwise affect pure chance."
Storm nodded. "You know why we've come,
Rathan?"
"Aye," he said, and rose. "Ye may go down to the doors, for we must now discuss holy things," he said simply to the men-at-arms. After a moment, they turned away with nods and murmurs and salutes.
Rathan gestured to the acolyte to follow them, but left the door open. He turned to Narm and Shandril.
"Ye wish to be wed before the bright face of Tymora," he said simply. "When?"
"As soon as possible, by your leave," Shandril said hesitantly.
"The day after tomorrow," Storm insisted. "I shall sponsor."
"Nay, lady," Rathan said with a grin. "The Lord Mourngrym hath already claimed that honor. All has been made ready, but for the asking of Her Grace, Eressea."
He turned to Eressea, who had risen. Her stern face was alight. She smiled happily, and said, "I will give Tymora's blessing with pleasure. Is it to be here, or in the tower, or-?"
"Outdoors, Preceptress," Storm said softly, surprising them all. "Upon the site of my sister Sylune's hut, which is burned and gone now." There was a little silence. Shandril realized that Eressea was looking to her for her approval.
"Agreed," she said simply, unaware of what she should say. But Narm quietly echoed her, and made it somehow formal by doing so. Then Rathan spoke.
"Agreed," was all he said, and Eressea bowed.
"After dawnfry, then, the day after tomorrow," the Perceptress said. "Let the word go out." Rathan bowed, and went out and down the stairs before them.
"The young lord and lady to be wed? Gods' good wishes to them! I tell you, Baerth, I saw flames come from her very hand! 'Spellfire' they're calling it-but it was no spell like I ever saw cast! No dancing about or chanting, she just frowned a little, like Delmath does before he lifts a full barrel, and there it was!
Aye, you wouldn't want to be marryin' that, now would you?"
Malark, in the shape of an owl on a branch overhead, grinned sourly to himself amid the coarse laughter, and thought on how to slay Shandril. All this skulking infuriated him. At every moment, the girl and her mageling were together, and at every moment, they were flanked by at least one accomplished in art, or one of the knights armed with powerful items of art-with others close at hand.
Malark would not soon forget the desolation of Rauglothgor's lair. A mistake in this matter could be his last. He turned tired eyes toward the Twisted Tower. She was guarded even now. Especially now.
The wedding ceremony would be one chance to get at Shandril-of-the-Spellfire, but not a good one. All of the most powerful protectors of Shadowdale would be gathered there. Perhaps later… these two had to leave the dale sometime. Malark had the uncomfortable feeling that others were waiting for just that to happen, and he might have to battle rival bids for spellfire, perhaps even Oumrath.
Malark growled to himself, and took flight restlessly, heading south across the road. Soon, Shandril of Highmoon, he thought. You'll feel my art soon…
The day dawned cool and misty. Shandril and Narm had slept apart as custom demanded, Shandril in the Temple of Tymora with Eressea, and Narm in the Twisted Tower with Rathan. Both were up and awake before dawn to be bathed in holy water and blessed. Word had spread throughout the dale, and folk began to gather early by the banks of the Ashaba.
Rathan filled a glass from a crystal decanter and held it high. "To the Lady," he said, and emptied it into the bath. Then he turned his head to look down at Narm and grinned. "That's all the wine I'll touch this day."
Narm rose, dripping. "You mean you'll miss all the festive tippling, later?"
Rathan shrugged. "How else can I make this a special occasion? Eressea and I will go off together somewhere