Spellfire - Ed Greenwood [161]
" 'Spellfire will rise, and a sword of power, to cleave shadow and evil and master art.' " Elminster read it as though it was a curious bard's rhyme or a bad attempt at a joke. Lhaeo waited. Elminster spoke again. " 'Master art? What did Alaundo mean by that?
She's to become a mage? She has not the slightest aptitude for it-and I'm not completely new to teaching art, ye know!"
"I have found that Alaundo's sayings make perfect sense after they have happened, for the most part,"
Lhaeo said, "but they help precious little beforehand."
"Ahhh… stir the stew!" Elminster grunted. "I'm going out for a pipe." The door banged behind him.
Lhaeo grinned.
The stairs creaked as Storm came down them barefoot, silver hair shining in the firelight.
"Leave the stew," she said softly to Lhaeo. "It's probably been thrashed into soup by now, between the both of you."
Lhaeo smiled and put strong arms around her. "Let us go back upstairs," he said gently, "before he returns for a flame to light his pipe. Haste, now!"
The bed creaked as they sat upon it, a scant instant before the door, below, banged open again. Outside, Elminster chuckled and then hummed his favorite of the tunes Storm had devised. One didn't get to be live hundred winters old without noticing a thing or two.
They rode steadily south all that day on a road busy with wagons rumbling north out of Sembia.
Hawk-eyed outriders and shrewd, watchful merchants looked them over often, and the scrutiny always made Narm and Shandril uncomfortable.
Torm had acquired a moustache from somewhere about his person, as well as some brown powder of the sort used as cosmetics in the Inner Sea lands.
Skillfully he rubbed it about his eyes and jaw and cheekbones, until his face seemed subtly different.
He rode in silence for the most part-a mercy upon his companions-and affected a soft, growling voice when he did speak. He remained to the rear as they rode.
Looking back, Narm could see the glistening whites of his eyes darting this way and that in the shadowy gloom of a cap that hid his face. The conjurer gathered that Torm was a little too well known in Sembia or nearby to ride openly on the high road this far south without his fellow knights around him.
Rathan, however, paid such cautions no mind. He rode easily before Shandril, speaking loudly of the kindnesses and spectacular cruelties of the Great Lady Tymora, and occasionally pointing out a far-off landmark or the approaching colors of a merchant house or company of the Inner Sea lands. But he seemed to be addressing her as Lady Nelchave, and occasionally comparing things to 'your hold, Roaringcrest.' Shandril answered him with vague murmurs, trying to sound bored. In fact, she was enjoying riding in the comfortable security of Rathan and Torm's presence, with a guided tour of the countryside.
Torm and Rathan preferred to lunch in the saddle without halting, Shandril found it fascinating to watch them fill nosebags with skins of water and lean forward to hang them carefully about the necks of their mounts and mules, after first letting each animal taste and smell the contents of such a bag.
They deftly passed bread, cheese, and small chased metal flasks of wine about. Torm even produced four large, iced sugar rolls (probably pilfered from some passing cart or other) from somewhere about his person. Shandril began to wonder if he had endless pockets, like those of Longfingers the Magician in the bards' tales.
A light rain squall came out of the west in the afternoon and lashed them briefly as it passed overhead. Torm nearly lost his moustache, but he regained his high, sly spirits. He danced about on his dripping horse, firing jests, rolling his eyes, and mimicking the absent knights.
The day passed and the road fell away steadily behind them, until in high eventide