Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [149]
Shandril fixed the sage with her own tired eyes. "I suppose you'll tell us to steer clear of fights, or we'll be dead within a day, eh?"
"Nay." Very clear blue eyes looked deep into hers.
"You two will be given no such choice. You must fight or die. But think: one mistake is enough when you're dealing with those who wield art. Remember that." His gaze shifted to Narm. "Ye too, Lion of Mystra."
Elminster cleared his throat, then continued. "If ye find thyself facing a mage, stand not to trade spells with him. Throw rocks, and run right at him unless he's much too far away to reach. Then run away and find a place to hide where ye can grab rocks to throw.
Simple, eh? Recall how thy lady first struck down Symgharyl Maruel before ye laugh." "Live hundred-odd winters, eh?" was all Narm said.
The sun rose again over a very quiet tower of Ashaba. The Lord and Lady of Shadowdale, in the company of the sage Elminster, the young married lad and lass, and the knights all remained on an upper floor within a great, blinding sphere of shimmering colors, a prismatic sphere cast by Elminster. Bold warned everyone not to approach.
Several times the prismatic sphere melted away and was replaced by the art of the old mage. During one cessation of the sphere, a simpering Lhaeo was waiting. With the aid of several strong guards, he brought tea, a great cauldron of hot stew, bowls and a monstrous ladle, and two fat spellbooks for the old mage. The scribe then went away again and advised everyone else except the guards to do the same.
The envoys waited in their guest chambers, and the merchants went away from the forecourt again, for the lord and lady and all in the sphere rested that day and into the night. Once, in the dark hours, Elminster used a sending spell to deliver a message to a certain eye tyrant in a certain cold stone city, a message that left the tyrant black and seething with anger. But then, Elminster had live hundred years-worth of impudence saved up. He sat humming to himself in the tent he and Florin (who were both immune to the sphere's blinding effects) had erected to shield the eyes of their companions from the sphere's swirling colors.
"Elminster," Shandril asked hesitantly, "may I ask you something?"
"Aye," Elminster prompted her, waving a cooling hand over his bowl of stew. "Ask, then."
"Why is it that my spellfire was turned aside by a wall of force spell you created while testing me, and yet this prismatic sphere-a much more powerful spell, Jhessail tells me-can be destroyed by a mere wisp of spellfire?"
Elminster regarded her thoughtfully. "Like much else about thy spellfire, young lady, I know not. I could tell thee airy theories about the anti-spell nature of the wall and the many-layered and inherently less stable nature of the sphere, which focuses its energies more toward preventing attack from without than from within. Such words, however, would be just that-airy theories."
Elminster shifted uncomfortably. "The truth is, I know not, nor does any mage ye will ever face in Faerun, unless or until some new lore comes to light or ye are tested further. I do not care to test thee further myself, for such tests are dangerous to the one being tested. I have no desire to assure thy corpse-and Narm-that I have learned the precise limits of thy powers."
"My thanks for that," Narm said dryly.
"Many is the mage who would not scruple a moment, lad," Elminster told him gently. "The pursuit of an edge in art is all, for most. Some who care nothing for glory and battle-strength delight in learning what none have learned before. They'd not hesitate.
Consider that, ye who hope to be a master of the art, and govern thyself accordingly.
"1 do not want to hear news someday of how ye've turned thy bride into a weapon against rival mages, or burned her powers out in striving to further them or win them for thyself. Aye, aye… I know